Death at Whitechapel (10 page)

“Thank you, Gentry,” Jennie said, sitting up in bed. She sipped her coffee, reviewing in her mind the day ahead. “For this morning, please put out something simple—the lavender taffeta waist with the chemisette front, I think, and the gray wool skirt with the lavender velvet piping. Before tea, I shall change to the green tea-gown. And for dinner tonight, the yellow silk. The local vicar is coming, I understand.”

Thinking out the several changes of costume that the day's social activities required was a habit Jennie had fallen into long ago—a useful habit, too, making for less confusion both at home and when traveling from one country-house to another, as she did very often. It was so hard these days to find a maid like Gentry, who could manage both one's clothing and one's hair. The young women all seemed to want to go into trade, which held a greater promise of advancement.

As Gentry picked up the dress her mistress had worn the night before and went into the dressing room, Jennie reached for the telegram on the tray. It must be from Winston, for she had told no one else that she would be spending the next few days with the Sheridans. She particularly had not told George, for she was disturbed by the obsessive demands he made on her and by the frightening thought that he might have—

With an involuntary shudder, she pushed the idea away. Whatever else George might do to ensure his claim on her, he could not have gone
that
far. She must have been mistaken when she thought she saw him in the barber's doorway, across from the lodgings in Cleveland Street. In any event, it would do the boy good to cool his heels—and curb his insatiable appetite—for a few days. A tiny smile tugged at her mouth as she thought of George's appetites. It was good to know that she was still desired and desirable, at her age.

She reached for the telegram, but it was not from Winston. Manfred Raeburn had wired to say that as he was on his way to Ipswich to visit a friend, he should like to stop off for a few minutes with the samples of the leather bindings that she was considering for
Maggie.
Jennie frowned. Manfred was another one of those possessive young men—not romantically so, of course, but anxious to possess her time and jealous of her other interests. Still, it was a good thing that he was so energetic on behalf of the journal, and on her behalf, as well. For instance, persuading Winston to tell him where she had gone, interrupting his holiday with the business about the bindings, which another, less dedicated managing editor might have held over until her return. No, on balance she was glad that Manfred was making himself so useful. It gave her more time to boost Winston's political career—and in the long run, that would likely prove more important than the journal.

At the thought of Winston, Jennie's face darkened. The other terrible business had been gnawing at her ever since that awful moment in Cleveland Street when she—Her blood seemed to chill, and she shook the ugly memory out of her mind. If the affair was not resolved quickly, Winston's career would be ended before it began. She was not going to let that happen! She turned back the covers and got out of bed to begin her morning toilette. She would have to spend an hour with Charles, making sure that he understood how swiftly he needed to act and what exactly he had to do—without telling him how precarious her situation really was. She had already made two mistakes in this wretched business. She could not afford to make a third.

 

When Kate inherited Bishop's Keep from her aunts, she had decreed that breakfast would be a simple affair. In this insistence, she knew she was going counter to custom, but the staff had enough work to do without fretting over an elaborate breakfast. So a dish of seasonable fruit and a dish of hot porridge were set out on the sideboard, and the dining table was laid with preserves and butter, sugar, and a pitcher of fresh cream. When the diners appeared, the footman (a young man named Pocket who had been with Kate's aunts since he was a boy) brought up from the kitchen a large tray of boiled and scrambled eggs, sausages and rashers of bacon, and hot toast. Mr. Hodge, the butler, asked each person what was wanted and served it from Pocket's tray. Kate poured tea or coffee. When all were served, Mr. Hodge and Pocket placed the hot dishes over spirit-lamp warmers on the sideboard and withdrew. Guests who slept late helped themselves when they arose.

This morning, Charles had already eaten and excused himself from the table. Kate was finishing the last of her coffee and reading
The Times
when Jennie came in, carrying a large brown envelope.

Kate looked up, thinking that her guest looked a little pale and out of sorts. “Please help yourself at the sideboard,” she said with a smile. “Charles is in the library—he'll be pleased to talk with you whenever you like.” She picked up a cup. “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.” The envelope under her arm, Jennie filled a plate at the sideboard and sat down. “I fear I must see Mr. Raeburn this morning,” she said shortly. “He telegraphed to say that he would be bringing samples of the leather bindings for my approval. Each issue of the journal is going to be bound like an antique book, you know. I prevailed upon Cyril Davenport of the British Museum to show me some of the best old bindings, which we are going to copy. Mr. Raeburn's visit shouldn't take long, though. He's on his way to Ipswich.”

Kate turned her head, hearing the crunch of wheels on gravel. It proved to be the pony cart from the station at Colchester, bringing their visitor. In a few moments Mr. Raeburn had joined them, refused Kate's offer of breakfast but accepted coffee, and sat down at the table.

“I apologize for the bother, your ladyships,” he said humbly, inclining his head. “I should not have intruded, but I thought that Lady Randolph would like to see—”

“Oh, it's no bother,” Kate said quickly.

Jennie pushed her plate away. “Show me what you've brought.”

Kate watched as the young man opened a portfolio of leather engravings and placed it on the table in front of Jennie. She had not seen Manfred Raebum since the dinner party at Sibley House some weeks before, and she thought he did not look as well as he had. He was a thin-lipped young man with an arched nose and gold-rimmed spectacles, his chin stiffly elevated over a high starched collar. Kate thought she remembered Charles saying that he had left the Fourth Hussars under some sort of cloud. He did not look the military sort—too slender, with an almost feminine grace, and nervous. His nails were bitten to the quick. Probably his work in Fleet Street had suited him better than life in a regiment. From things that Jennie had said, he certainly seemed to know how to go about publishing a journal.

Jennie did not take long to make up her mind about the bindings. “This is the one we shall have for the first number,” she said, pointing. “Tell Mr. Conroy that I like the gold embossing very much and think his price quite fair.”

“Very well, your ladyship,” Mr. Raeburn replied, and closed the portfolio. “I stopped by Great Cumberland Place early this morning and took the liberty of collecting the post for you. I thought it might require your attention before your return.” He placed five or six letters on the table and cleared his throat. “May I ask when that might be?”

“I'm not sure, Manfred,” Jennie said. “I am enjoying this respite from Society.” She tossed her head with a little laugh. “Perhaps I may never come back.”

“Just remember that you can count on me to do whatever you want done,” Mr. Raeburn said. He rose. “I must be on my way. The train for Ipswich leaves on the hour.” And with that, he bowed himself out.

Jennie sorted rapidly through the envelopes. She tore one open and read it quickly, her lips tightening. “What audacity!” she exclaimed. “Why, this is nothing but blackmail!” She looked up, dark brows drawn together. “Winston writes from Manchester that the Tories have demanded a thousand pounds to guarantee him a safe seat! And after all Randolph did for the party!”

“It does seem a rather steep tariff,” Kate agreed.

“I shall write to Lord Cecil at once,” Jennie said, picking up another envelope and beginning to open it. “The party must understand that Randolph's son is not to be dismissed as if he were simply an ordinary—”

A clipping fell from the envelope onto the tablecloth and Jennie picked it up. Reading it, her eyes widened, the color drained from her face, and she gave an inarticulate cry.

“Jennie!” Kate exclaimed, half-rising. “What is the matter ! Has someone been injured? What—?”

Jennie sat still for a moment, as if frozen. Then slowly, she drew a folded paper from the envelope, and read it. Her hand trembling, she extended both the paper and the scrap of newsprint to Kate. “Read,” she whispered.

Kate sank back in her chair, looking first at the sheet of plain notepaper on which four words had been typed: “You are not free.” It was unsigned. Puzzled, she turned to the clipping. “Bloody Murder,” she read silently, her lips moving with the words. “Man discovered stabbed.” She looked up wonderingly. “A murder? What does this have to do with
you,
Jennie?”

Jennie drew in a savage, shuddery breath. “Go on,” she whispered. “Read the whole. Then tell me what you guess.”

Kate scanned the newspaper story quickly. A certain Tom Finch had been found by his landlady, stabbed to death with a knife, in his lodgings at Number 2 Cleveland Street. A veiled lady had been-seen entering his rooms that afternoon. Her identity was still unknown, although it was expected that she would be identified shortly.

Kate shivered, feeling suddenly cold. A chorus of questions echoed through her mind. Had Jennie simply found the dead body? Or had she wielded the knife? The idea seemed almost unthinkable, but she knew her friend to be a woman of extraordinary determination and iron will. If Mr. Tom Finch had threatened someone or something she loved, Jennie was entirely capable of killing him. And the note—
You are not free
. Who else but a blackmailer could have sent it? Was it the same person who sent the note Jennie had shown them yesterday, the note signed “A. Byrd”? Then, glancing at the clipping, she noticed something else: was A. Byrd a pseudonym for Mr. Tom Finch?

Kate did not ask these questions. She merely said: “I should guess that you were the veiled woman, and that whoever sent this note means you to know that he knows you visited the murder scene.”

“You are clever,” Jennie said in a thin, metallic voice. “Come. We must see Charles at once.”

Carefully, Kate placed the clipping, the note, and the envelope on a small tray. “Charles will want to examine these items. But are you sure you don't want to see him alone? There may be certain things you must tell him but would rather not share with me.”

Jennie's mouth softened. “I fear,” she said more gently, “that I shall soon need a friend who stands beside me without judging or reservation.” She picked up the large brown envelope she had brought to the table and stood, holding out her hand. “Please come, Kate. I need you.”

 

W
ith the dining-room breakfast sent up, a guest in the house, and the vicar expected in the evening, Sarah Pratt should have been occupied with the galantine she had planned for luncheon and the fruit jelly her ladyship had requested for dinner. But on this particular morning, Sarah's attention was distracted from her kitchen chores by Pratt's impossible demand, which hung like a sword over her head, and by the fearful dream that had visited her when she finally fell asleep the night before. In the dream, she had turned herself into a true widow and rid herself of Pratt for all eternity by the easy expedient of seasoning the man's roast chicken with rat poison. The dream, in fact, had been so real that Sarah was half convinced that she had
already
poisoned Pratt and that Constable Laken should soon appear on the kitchen doorstep to take her off to jail. With this half-real, half-imagined misdeed weighing heavily on her mind, it was no wonder that she dropped the pitcher of cream on the floor and when she turned for the mop, knocked a jam pot into the mess.

Sarah had no more finished cleaning up when Mary Plumm tripped lightly into the room, carrying a trayful of dirty dishes from upstairs. She set the tray on the table with a rattle of crockery.

By this time, Sarah was completely out of patience. “Wash up an' be quick about it,” she snapped. “We've a galantine t' make fer luncheon, an' a pot o' pea soup t' strain, an—”

But Mary Plumm was not rolling up her sleeves in preparation for the scullery chores. “I don't b‘lieve,” she said with a sharp sniff, “that I wishes t' do the washin' up this mornin'. I prefers t' go in the garden an' get the veg'tables instead.” She adjusted her cap to a becoming angle and picked up a basket from the shelf.

“Ye
prefers
t' go t' th' garden!” Sarah Pratt cried, scarcely believing her ears. “What kind o' nonsense is that, I want t' know! Fer such sauciness, me girl, ye'll be in the scullery the ‘ole blessed mornin', an' when ye're done, ye'll be scrubbin' the flagstones an' blackin' the stove. Now git on wi' it!”

But Mary Plumm did not get on with it. “I don't think so, Mrs. Pratt,” she said coolly.

“Ye don't
think
so!” gasped Sarah Pratt, one hand going to her heart. In all her life, she had never heard such impertinence from a lower servant to her elder and better. Why the very thought of it was enough to make the blood boil!

But there was more. Mary Plumm narrowed her eyes, lifted her chin, and said, softly but distinctly, “Wot's sauce fer the cook is sauce fer the maid, Mrs. Pratt. If ye kin ‘and over a basket o' wine an' vittles an' a pair o' the master's trousers to yer 'usband,
I
kin pick ‘n' choose me chores. I prefers t' take the air in the garden this mornin'. An' if that don't suit ye, ye kin complain t' Mr. ‘Odge.” She gave a light laugh. “I'm sure both 'ee an' the mistress wud be terr'ble sad t' know about them trousers. They wud hate worse t' see ye took off t' jail. But that's as may be. Them that plays wi' fire is bound t' be burnt, as me mother allus sez.”