A Useful Woman (18 page)

The housekeeper, when she arrived, was not at all smiling. In fact, her face was positively thunderous as she led Harkness to the narrow front hallway, and the door.

“Bad times,” he remarked. “When something like this can disturb such a respectable house.”

“Yes indeed,” she said. “No scandal has ever been able to
attach itself to my mistress. It's a sin and a shame that the young gentleman's death should come so close.”

Harkness nodded sympathetically, and accepted his hat and coat when she brought them. He made a few additional conversational sallies, but none of them elicited any answer. The housekeeper just opened the door and waited for him to go, and not very patiently either.

Which told Harkness this woman was loyal to her mistress, and had reason to believe her mistress was loyal to her. Considering her mistress's reduced circumstances, that was worth noting.

In truth, there was a great deal about Miss Thorne worth noting. Harkness glanced back over his shoulder as he descended the steps to the street. And much he wished he hadn't noted at all, because she was beautiful, and lonesome, and intelligent, and brave.

He could not, however, ignore the fact that Miss Thorne had spoken freely of Lady Blanchard, and Lord Blanchard, of her unusual promise to Honoria Aimesworth, of Almack's lady patronesses, and even Mr. Whelks. There was one person about whom she attempted to maintain a discreet silence: Devon Winterbourne, the Duke of Casselmain.

That, to Adam Harkness, could not help but be tremendously interesting.

In All the Papers

Therefore, let us make the best of the bad matter . . .

—Thomas De Quincy,
On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts

Rosalind stood by the front hall window and watched Adam Harkness turn the collar of his blue great coat up against the wind and begin walking down the street with an unhurried pace, despite the fresh flurry of snow.

Throughout their interview, he'd been waiting for her to say something in particular, but she could not tell if he'd heard it or not. This left behind a sensation of deep disquiet. Principal Officer Adam Harkness was the sort of man who kept looking until he found what he wanted, and he had so many directions to look in.

“Mrs. Kendricks?” Her housekeeper had come into the parlor behind her.

“Yes, miss?”

“I'm going to have to ask you to finish the inventory on your own. Make a list of what I'll need to do. I've some additional letters to write, and after that, I'll be going 'round to talk with Alice Littlefield. I think it's important I find out something more about this Mr. Harkness, and she and George may be able
to help. After that . . . well, we shall have to see.” She paused, and she shivered, as if caught in a sudden draft. “Am I being too sensitive? It seems like we're standing on very thin ice, and I can't tell which way the cracks are running.”

Mrs. Kendricks did not answer at once. When she did, her tone was low and serious. “We have survived many disasters, Miss Thorne. It would be a wonder if you had not developed some sense of their approach.”

“Wonderful. Some are blessed with a weather knee. I have a weather heart.”

“There are worse things, miss.”

“I'm sure you're right, Mrs. Kendricks. I just wish mine wasn't giving me so much to keep track of just now.”

They shared a weary smile and Rosalind settled herself back at her writing desk. First, she penned a note to Lord Blanchard, asking what the betting book at White's had yielded. Then, with a wince at the hypocrisy of it, she wrote a note to Louisa Winterbourne, Devon's cousin, in which she informed the young lady she would be delighted to accept her invitation to take an outing to Taylor & Green's warehouse with her.

It was only when these had been laid on the tray with the rest of the post that Rosalind pulled on her coat, gloves, and warmest bonnet and left the house. She had to go quickly, before she changed her mind about the second letter.

*   *   *

Alice and George shared a flat in the neighborhood of Bloomsbury. Rosalind nodded to the charwoman she passed on the stairs and knocked at their unpainted door. She heard Alice's shout from the other side and let herself in.

“Good morning, Alice!” Rosalind called as she took off her coat and bonnet to hang on the pegs by the door. The flat was
clean, but it was worn, and the Littlefield siblings for the most part did for themselves. Alice even confessed that George, if called upon, could boil a passable egg over the sitting room fire.

“Good morning, Rosalind!” Alice's greeting came from the sitting room. “Find yourself a seat, will you? I've got to get this translation for the Ladies Supplement finished, or we're going to have a dev—problem making the housekeeping next month.”

Rosalind settled herself on the slightly lopsided sofa and took up an annual that had been tossed on the table. She perused this to the quiet rhythm of Alice's scratching quill, a sound that was punctuated by madly flapping pages as she consulted her French dictionary.

“There!” Alice stabbed her quill into the final full stop. “
A Concise History of the Dutch Masters and Their Works, Told in Plain Language
, accurately and clearly translated from the French to the English by A. E. Littlefield, to the tune of five whole lovely pounds. Thank you, Sanderson Faulks, for the good word to the editors, and to Madame DuFrense of blessed memory for beating all those conjugations into my head.” Alice turned her eyes reverently toward heaven.

“Are you sure you're looking in the right direction?” asked Rosalind. “As I recall, she was quicker with a ruler than any other teacher at school.”

“Well, today, because of the good she has done my household accounts, she shall be elevated. Now.” Alice scooted her chair around. “What can I do for you, Rose?”

“Actually, it was George I needed to talk to. I was hoping we might walk 'round to the
Chronicle
together, if you're free.”

“As it happens, I am, and I shall be glad of the exercise. But why are you honoring my dear brother with a morning call?”

“Will you allow me my secret, just until we see him, Alice? It may be nothing—”

Alice cut her off with a single sharp gesture that would have done Madame DuFrense proud. “Don't even bother finishing that. It's something, and it's to do with Jasper Aimesworth's death, isn't it?”

“Why would you think that? It could be to do with Mrs. Nottingham's political party.”

“It could, but it isn't. Rose, darling, you can fool the rest of the world, but not your Alice. However, I shall allow you your moment of mystery. Let me get my hat and coat.”

*   *   *

The
London Chronicle
was of a species of paper known as the “twice-weekly.” Published on Sundays and Thursdays, it covered events from the trivial, such as speeches in Parliament (from a Whiggish perspective), to the momentous, such as which hostess's party was deemed a particular success.

The
Chronicle
's home was a modest brick warehouse on the upper slope of Fleet Street. The noise of the place could be heard right out into the streets, with the constant squeal, creak, and thud of the great presses accompanied by the rhythm of mallets pounding rows of lead type into place in their wooden frames. Once through the barnlike doors, Alice and Rosalind dodged men pushing handcarts stacked with great piles of cut paper and other men in leather aprons carrying proof sheets while boys ran to and fro with trays of unset type. The tang of ink and hot metal filled Rosalind's nose and burned the back of her throat as she followed Alice up the stairs to the marginally quieter and cleaner floor that held the desks of the writers, not to mention the private offices of the editors and publishers.

“Good afternoon, Miss Littlefield!” cried out a host of voices as the women made their way through the maze of desks and stools.

“Make way for the Queen of the Sundays!” called someone else.

Alice smiled and nodded to all and sundry, making a great show of putting her best debut-day manners on. This earned her a number of smiles and laughs from the men, most of whom were in their shirtsleeves with leather cuffs on their arms to protect their sleeves from ink stains. There was also, Rosalind noted with wry amusement, a look of puppy love from a boy who was almost hidden by the great stack of manuscript pages he carried.

George had a desk near the windows that allowed him access to what passed for fresh air during the heat of the London summer, but in the winter his little corner was flooded with an icy draft that would have done credit to the Scottish Highlands. Indeed as they approached, it was to see George clutching a muffler around his throat with one hand as he scribbled madly at the page in front of him with the other.

“Good morning, brother dear!” cried Alice merrily. It took far more than a simple draft to chill her boundless spirits. “I've brought you a visitor.”

“Miss Thorne!” George tossed his quill into the inkstand at the top of his slanting desk and stood to bow. “How very good to see you again.” He grabbed two rush-bottomed chairs from the little line by the wall and set them in front of the desk. “Won't you sit down and tell me how may I be of service?”

Rosalind did sit, and she said, “I received a visit from a Bow Street runner, a man named Adam Harkness.”

“I'd heard.” George rubbed his hands together, whether in contemplation or from cold, it was difficult to say.

“Do you know him?” prompted Rosalind.

The Littlefields exchanged a look between them that was both long and significant. “Why, brother dear,” said Alice. “I believe you and I may know something of interest to Miss Thorne.”

“It appears so, sister dear.” George nodded solemnly. “My. How shall we answer her?”

Alice tapped one gloved finger against her chin. “I would say it depends how contrite she is about that whopper she told us regarding where and how Jasper Aimesworth was discovered in Almack's.”

“Ah,” said Rosalind. “Yes. I should apologize for that.”

The Littlefields nodded in perfect unison.

“I'm sorry. I was protecting . . .” Who? What? Rosalind found herself suddenly uncertain of how to finish her sentence.

“You have a great deal to protect,” acknowledged George simply. “But you have to admit, it's pretty poor form to ask for our help but not be willing to give us any in return.”

“Not to mention very unlike you,” said Alice.

“I am sorry,” said Rosalind, suddenly grateful for the covering sounds of boisterous men's conversation and constant industry. “Things have happened so fast, and gotten so complicated, I'm afraid I'm stumbling around in the dark. I hardly know what I am going to do next.”

“Not a good position for anyone,” said George. But Alice was looking at her in thoughtful silence, which also was not conducive to comfort.

“Well.” George sighed. “What I know is that Adam Harkness is the youngest man ever promoted to principal officer. Old John Townsend thinks the world of him, or at least of how the papers are so taken with his exploits. He made quite the name for himself on the horse patrols. Had an uncanny knack for working out where the highwaymen would strike next.” George paused, allowing himself to relish his next revelation. “So uncanny, in fact, there were some who said he was in cahoots with the gangs, or taking money from different bands to turn their rivals in.”

This was concerning, especially when Rosalind remembered
how quickly she'd warmed to Mr. Harkness's banter and solemn teasing. “Is it true?” she asked. “Was he taking bribes?”

“I've never believed it,” said George. “I've always found him honest, according to his type. He wants a man in the dock so he can collect the reward, but he also wants it to be the right man. I've known him to hand back his fee if he couldn't lay hands on the correct blaggard. There's others that'll just pick up some known housebreaker or dealer in stolen goods and swear it was them, on the grounds it's all one what a wrong ‘un gets taken up for. They've surely done
something.
”

“What is going to be said in tomorrow's paper about Almack's?”

Alice and her brother looked at each other.

“It's not going to wait until tomorrow, is it?” sighed Rosalind. “That's why it's such a madhouse downstairs. There's going to be a special edition tonight.”

George sighed. “As it happens, yes. We've several people who say they saw shady figures hanging about in the alleys, possibly French. One of the men was at Waterloo, and so ought to know.”

“That is patently ludicrous,” said Rosalind.

“Have you got something better?” inquired Alice.

“Not yet,” Rosalind admitted. “Soon, perhaps.”

“Well then, mysterious lurking Frenchmen it will have to be,” said George. “And I've got to get back to them.”

“Good luck, brother dear.” Alice gave him a kiss on his cheek. “I'll save some dinner for you.”

Outside, the wind had driven off the clouds, and for a moment, at least, the sun shone down upon the cobbles. Arm in arm, Rosalind and Alice dodged puddles, traffic, barrow men, and secondhand clothes dealers, until the traffic and noise both thinned out and they could walk more easily.

“This,” remarked Alice. “Was rather a long way to come for so little. You could have written a letter and gotten as much.”

“Perhaps.” Rosalind tucked her chin a little farther into her coat collar. The wind was still sharp and smelled of fresh snow, as well as stale London. “Alice, have you ever thought that of the two of us, you made the better choice?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered loftily. “Because having to pinch every penny until it begs for mercy, not to mention pleading with the green grocer and the milliner for just another week to pay, is so much better than staying the winters and summers in the best houses and nights at the theater and the opera.”

“Don't tell me you regret it.”

“Regret? Not exactly.” They turned a corner, only to find a crowd of men trying to free a cart that had become stuck in a mudhole. They backed up at once, and started down the other way.

“I do look around the ballrooms sometimes when I'm writing about the parties,” said Alice. “I see all the wives and daughters, and I think how that could have been me. Then I read about the latest criminal conversation trial, or I write about somebody else's profligate brother gambling away house and land and dying in a duel and I think I'm well enough off as I am.” She paused. “You could do it if you wanted to, Rosalind. I could put you in the way of some translation work. Your French is better than mine, and you have German as well. Or, oh! I know! You could write a novel.”