Sheri Cobb South (17 page)

“Aye, so should we all, but he’s not in yet.” He looked her up and down appreciatively. “The name’s Foote. Perhaps I might be of assistance, Mrs.—?”

“My Lady Fieldhurst, I presume.” A white-haired man arose from the magistrate’s bench and stepped down to meet her. “Mr. Pickett is not here at the moment, but I expect he will arrive at any time. If you would care to wait—”

At that very moment, the door opened behind her and John Pickett entered the room, looking rather better for the recent use of a razor and a change of clothes. One glimpse of his unexpected caller, however, was sufficient to reduce him to stammering idiocy.

“My—my lady!” he exclaimed. “What are you—what brings you—?”

She pushed back her veil, and the sight of the flower-like face lifted to Pickett’s brought knowing grins to the faces of his peers, and a look of pained understanding to the magistrate.

“I received a letter by this morning’s post,” she said, withdrawing it from her reticule. “I thought you should see it.”

Mr. Colquhoun, seeing that the crowd of appreciative Runners showed no inclination to disperse, thought it politic to intervene. “Perhaps you should take her ladyship into my office, where you may be private.”

“Yes, sir—thank you, sir.”

The group reluctantly broke up with much shuffling of feet and more than one whispered remark, followed by ribald laughter. Pickett, his ears turning slightly pink, led the viscountess into a tiny, cluttered room behind the magistrate’s bench. In the privacy of this chamber, she handed him the letter. He carried it to the single window, through which pale sunlight streamed, and studied it for a long moment before looking up at her.

“I don’t like it, my lady.”

“Nor do I, Mr. Pickett, but I like the idea of perishing on the gallows even less.”

“The courts hold a very low opinion of purchased testimony.”

“Even so small a sum? Surely twenty-five shillings is little enough to offer in exchange for one’s life.”

Useless, he supposed, to tell her that the denizens of the East End docks, where the Sailor’s Rest was located, might well live their entire lives without ever possessing such a sum.

“ ‘Ask for Jane,’ ” he read aloud, consulting the letter once more. “I think we’ve found Lady Herrington’s maid, in any case.”

“But of course!” exclaimed Lady Fieldhurst, much struck by this deduction. “It all fits: the poor girl is no doubt sorely in need of funds, having lost her position, and sees a way in which we both might benefit.”

“Nevertheless, paying her to establish your alibi would do you a great deal more harm than good. Notice that she never says that she actually saw you, only that she is willing to ‘help’ you for a price. It would be assumed that you paid her to present a false testimony.”

“I see your point,” she conceded, crestfallen. “I fear I fail to understand the workings of the criminal mind.”

“And a very good thing, too, or you should likely be in Newgate by now.”

He succeeded in surprising a smile out of her. “Touché, Mr. Pickett. So what are we to do now?”

He slapped at the letter in his hand. “We go to this Sailor’s Rest in Upper Well Alley, and we ask for Jane.”

Upon hearing these words, Lady Fieldhurst was at first gratified that Pickett made no attempt to dissuade her from accompanying him. Later, however, when a hired hackney set them down at the foot of Upper Well Alley (she had sent her own carriage back to its Mayfair mews, correctly assuming that what was too conspicuous for Bow Street must be doubly so for the East End waterfront), she began to wish he had insisted she return to Berkeley Square. Branching at a right angle off Wapping Street, which ran parallel to the river, Upper Well Alley was a dank, narrow passage smelling strongly of fish, along with other odors perhaps better left unidentified. It appeared to cater to stevedores and others in the seafaring trade, lined as it was with rundown pubs, residences of the meaner sort, and cheap boardinghouses where a sailor might find a room in which to tumble a willing wench while he was in port. Directly opposite Wapping Street, along the riverfront, a ship bearing the name of Dolphin strained at its moorings, as if impatient to put back out to sea. Lady Fieldhurst could readily understand its eagerness; she felt no inclination to linger in the area herself. Edging a bit closer to Pickett, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

Pickett, feeling a slight pressure on his sleeve, glanced down to discover her ladyship’s black-gloved hand resting in the curve of his elbow, and for a moment heard all heaven’s bells bursting forth in glorious melody. He was slightly embarrassed to realize that it was only the bells of the Dolphin and her sister ships, in combination with the church bells of St. John at Wapping, marking the hour.

The Sailor’s Rest, when they found it, proved to be one of the better boardinghouses, “better” being, in this case, a relative term. Although the paint on its façade had long since peeled away, cheap lace curtains hung in its windows, and a pot of brave, red geraniums adorned the front stoop. Pickett ushered the viscountess inside, and together they approached the matron.

“I should like to see Jane, if you please,” Lady Fieldhurst addressed this worthy. “She said I might find her here.”

The woman regarded her with suspicion not unmixed with awe. Clearly, it was not every day her house entertained veiled ladies of obviously genteel birth. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she barked an order to a small, barefooted girl in a worn and patched apron, and the child scampered up the stairs in search of the establishment’s newest tenant.

Jane herself descended the stairs a moment later, twisting her apron in restless hands. She eyed Pickett warily, but addressed herself to Lady Fieldhurst. “Did your ladyship bring what I asked for?”

It was Pickett who answered her. “Miss Mudge—it is Miss Mudge, is it not?—you must know that her ladyship cannot pay you to testify on her behalf. To do so would only make her look guilty.”

Jane’s wary gaze grew belligerent. “And who might you be? The boy-friend? Didn’t let any grass grow beneath your feet, now, did you?”

“This is Mr. Pickett, the Bow Street Runner who is investigating my husband’s murder,” Lady Fieldhurst said in a frigid tone calculated to put the insolent maid in her place.

It worked only too well. At the mention of Bow Street, Jane sucked in her breath and took a quick step backward, as if poised for flight.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” Pickett hastened to reassure her.

“Not me—my Davey,” Jane stammered. “When he got the boot from my lady, he pinched my lord’s snuffbox to hock—something to live on, he says, until we can get back on our feet.”

“I assure you, I am not interested in petty thievery,” Pickett said. “An innocent woman’s life is at stake. Surely it is the duty of every citizen to do whatever he can to prevent such a miscarriage of justice.”

Jane’s gaze shifted to the viscountess behind her black veil and back to Pickett. “What do you want me to do?”

“I believe you did some sewing for Lady Fieldhurst on the night of the Herrington ball. Is that correct?”

The maid’s eyes narrowed in mistrust. “And what if it is?”

“I would like you to come back to Bow Street with me and sign a statement specifying when, precisely, Lady Fieldhurst was with you on the night of the Herrington ball.”

“I’ll not have to appear in court?”

“If her presence in Portman Square at the crucial time could be established, I doubt her ladyship could be brought to trial at all.”

“And you’ll not arrest my Davey?”

“Not unless Lord Herrington reports the theft of his snuffbox and prefers charges.”

Jane appeared to weigh her options for a long moment, then said, “Let me go upstairs and put on my bonnet.”

She climbed the stairs back up to the floor above, while Pickett and Lady Fieldhurst waited below.

“Well!” said her ladyship, with a sigh of relief. “That was not so very difficult, after all.”

“No,” Pickett concurred with a thoughtful frown. “In fact, it was almost too easy.”

The minutes ticked by but, although various boarders came and went, there was no sign of Jane. At last Pickett, with growing unease, turned to the viscountess. “I wouldn’t know, having never worn one, but does it really take that long to put on a bonnet?”

He could not see her face, concealed as it was by yards of black netting, but her shoulders stiffened as his own suspicions communicated themselves to her. “Mr. Pickett, you don’t suppose—?”

“Oh yes, I do!”

With one mind, they hurried up the stairs, footsteps pounding on the uncarpeted boards. A door halfway down the corridor stood ajar, and Pickett ran down the narrow passage and burst into the room, Lady Fieldhurst following hard on his heels. As he had expected, the room was unoccupied. Signs of hasty flight were evident in the gaping drawers of a scarred bureau and, most telling of all, the raised sash of a single, grimy window overlooking the back of the building. He muttered something under his breath (which Lady Fieldhurst wisely refrained from asking him to repeat), then crossed the tiny room in two strides and thrust his head and shoulders out the window.

“Here, now!” panted the matron, red-faced and breathless, from the doorway. “I run an honest house here, and I’ll not have any havey-cavey doings under my roof!”

Pickett ignored her and addressed himself to Lady Fieldhurst instead. “She’s flown. There’s a drainpipe outside the window; no doubt she climbed down it.”

“Gone!” cried the matron, outraged. “Why, she owes me twenty-five shillings for room and board!”

“Hadn’t we better search for her?” Lady Fieldhurst asked, joining him at the window.

Pickett shook his head. “We’d never find her. The waterfront offers a thousand places for a fugitive to hide.”

“So what do we do now?”

Pickett sighed. “We’d better hope Rogers turns up soon, for we’ll not be getting any help from Jane.”

Chapter 13

The Matter of the Missing Butler

The following day, Lady Fieldhurst confronted her late husband’s solicitor in the room that had once been his study.

“Well, Mr. Crumpton? Did you bring the keys, as I requested?”

The solicitor withdrew two identical brass keys from the pocket of his waistcoat, but appeared reluctant to relinquish possession. “As his lordship’s widow, Lady Fieldhurst, your wish must be my command. Still, I cannot think it wise—”

“Never mind, I’ll announce myself!”

A reedy voice in the foyer interrupted Mr. Crumpton’s protestations, and a moment later the study door burst open. Mr. George Bertram stood on the threshold in a state of deep perturbation, his brow damp with perspiration and his color high. Lady Fieldhurst’s heart sank. She had not wanted an audience for this interview, and she had no doubt as to what circumstance she owed this unwelcome visit from her cousin by marriage. Indeed, the folded newspaper under his arm confirmed her worst suspicions.

“ ‘There you are!” Without waiting for an invitation, he strode into the room and flung the newspaper onto the viscount’s desk. “What, pray, is the meaning of this, Cousin Julia?”

She did not have to look at the newspaper to understand his inquiry, for she knew the words from memory. Indeed, she had composed the lines herself:

Help wanted, mature man of good character and sober habits to serve as butler to widowed lady. Experience necessary, references requested. Apply in person between the hours of 2 and 4 of the clock, 11 Queens Gardens, Kensington.

“I should think it would be obvious,” she replied with some asperity. “I cannot be expected to occupy a house without adequate staff. You need not fear I shall be a burden to you, George. I am quite capable of paying his wages myself, as Mr. Crumpton can attest.”

The solicitor coughed discreetly, and Mr. Bertram, suddenly conscious of the presence of a third party, had the grace to look embarrassed.

“You could never be considered a burden, my dear cousin. But surely the dowager Lady Fieldhurst’s staff is sufficient to the needs of two widowed ladies, while as for her ladyship’s butler, she would be highly offended should you attempt to replace Phelps.”

“I am sure she would be,” conceded the viscountess. “Fortunately for her peace of mind, I have no such intention. I mean to hire a butler of my own.”

Mr. Bertram scowled. “Two butlers for the same household? Now, Cousin Julia—”

“Pray disabuse yourself of the notion that I am to make my home with Frederick’s mama. I am quite certain we should make one another miserable.”

“Not reside with—but it is all settled!”

“Then it is a great pity no one thought to consult me in the matter.”

“But the dowager—what will she do for companionship? One cannot but fear for her, living all alone—”

“She is not alone at all, for she has Phelps.”

“An elderly retainer can hardly take the place of a beloved daughter-in-law,” protested Mr. Bertram.

Privately, the viscountess doubted the “beloved” part, but had no doubt the dowager would welcome the presence of an unpaid drudge whom she could browbeat.

“If she requires a woman for companionship, why should she not hire one? Or,” she added in the tone of one inspired, “since you are worried about her, perhaps you would feel better if you hired one for her.”

This shaft struck home, for Mr. Bertram’s face grew mottled, and he muttered something about the difficulty and expense of hiring good servants.

“Very true, which is why I am advertising in the Times.” Some demon of mischief prompted Lady Fieldhurst to add, “Would you like for me to draft a notice? I am sure money must be no object with you, for anyone who can afford to erect a Gothic ruin in the rose garden will not wish to be niggardly where the dowager’s well-being is concerned.”

“But where will you live? Caroline spoke of your coming to us, but I fear it would be painful for you to live in the same house you once shared with my cousin.”

“Most painful,” agreed Julia. “I shall take Mr. Crumpton’s advice and remove to the house Frederick left me in Kensington. Indeed, that is the purpose of his visit today. He has brought me the keys, and I intend to take possession of the house today. You did say you had brought the keys, did you not, Mr. Crumpton?”