Murder in the East End Read online

I glanced at Daniel, who was rigid with anger, but he kept that anger in check. Buried it a long way beneath a cool façade, one that pretended he didn’t care one whit what his brother got up to.

  I understood, though I might not if I hadn’t seen Mr. Fielding today. If Daniel became protective of me, let on that he cared, Mr. Fielding might find a way to use that caring against him. I’d sensed a rivalry when I’d first seen the two together, one I suspected had begun the long-ago day they’d met in the house of Mr. Carter.

  Mr. Thanos was the one who grew indignant on my behalf. “I say, steady on,” he said to Mr. Fielding. “Do not insult Mrs. Holloway, who is a dear friend and a good lady. I will not have it in my house.”

  Mr. Fielding opened his mouth—possibly to make some jibe, such as perhaps Mr. Thanos would be fine if he insulted me on the street. But Mr. Fielding caught the angry gazes of Miss Townsend and Lady Cynthia, took in Daniel’s motionless stance, and rose to his feet.

  He bowed to me. “You are correct, Mr. Thanos. I am a blackguard, and always have been. Mrs. Holloway has done me nothing but good turns, and I had no call to speak to her in such a base fashion. My apologies, madam.”

  “I took no offense.” I gave him a nod to show my willingness to forget it. “Never mind, Mr. Thanos. You are very kind to speak for me.”

  The tension in the room eased. Mr. Fielding did look contrite, but I believed I had the measure of him.

  Miss Townsend applauded with her gloved hands. “You are excellent at dissembling, Mr. Fielding. As am I. I will go with you and help you shake out the truth. Gently, of course.”

  “Probably best you do come along,” Lady Cynthia said to her. “I might not be able to contain my own temper.”

  “It’s settled then,” I said. “The four of you will make appointments with these people and visit them. Meanwhile, Daniel and I will confer on what else we can do.”

  “A sound idea,” Mr. Fielding said. “Don’t keep us in suspense, good fellow,” he said to Mr. Thanos. “Who are we visiting?”

  Mr. Thanos, flustered, returned to sorting through his notes. He fished a paper to the top of the stack and read out two names.

  They meant absolutely nothing to me. I’d never heard of the people he named and had never encountered their servants, which meant they were not highborn enough or wealthy enough for my agency to send me to them or to their neighbors. Nor did they live in Mayfair, where everyone knew everyone. If they’d been philanthropists, I’d have heard of them somewhere, if only from the newspaper. The world of charitable London was surprisingly small, with many in the same circles sitting on the boards of several different charities.

  “I don’t know them,” Cynthia said, echoing my thoughts.

  “I do,” Miss Townsend said. “At least, know of them.” We turned to her, but somehow, I wasn’t very surprised. She was proving to be an unusual young woman.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Florey are patrons of the arts,” Miss Townsend said. “They’ve never commissioned me, but have commissioned friends. Not for very much money, but some artists will paint for anyone who pays them in order to make names for themselves. I’ve never heard the Floreys were unsavory, but as I say, I know little about them. At the do’s in which I’ve encountered them, Mr. Florey drinks moderately, and they leave at a sensible hour.” She threw out her hands as though apologizing she could not tell us anything more scandalous. “The other couple I’ve not heard of at all.”

  “At least you will have an excuse to visit the art-lovers,” Daniel told her. “Thanos, you’ll have to use your brief acquaintanceship at the Foundling Hospital for the other.”

  “I’ll do that,” Cynthia said quickly. “Sometimes being the daughter of an earl has advantages.”

  Miss Townsend gave her a nod. “Then we should come up with a plan of action.”

  I rose. “Meanwhile, I have errands to run. I only have a half day today.”

  “Ah yes.” Cynthia got to her feet with me, but said nothing about what those errands would be, keeping my secrets.

  “I will see you out,” Daniel said to me.

  I said my farewells to the others and allowed Daniel to escort me down the stairs and outside, but it seemed he had no intention of leaving me there. He thrust his hands into his coat pockets and began to walk beside me down Regent Street.

  “What will you do next?” I asked as we went along in the cold.

  “Investigate the death of Nurse Betts. Or at least prod Inspector McGregor to and to tell me everything he finds.”

  “Is he likely to inform you?”

  Daniel adjusted his hat against the wind. “I can make it an order from higher up if I have to. McGregor, though, is a practical man. If he believes I can give him information, he might give me a measure in return.”

  I was skeptical, knowing the bad-tempered Inspector McGregor, though I also knew he was an intelligent man, not easily misled.

  “How safe are Lady Cynthia, Mr. Thanos, and Miss Townsend investigating with Mr. Fielding?” I asked.

  Daniel looked pained. “I’d guess safe enough. He is so adamant to discover the connection between Nurse Betts and the missing children that he will consider the three his partners for now. He is good at using people to his own advantage.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “Miss Townsend will keep him tamed if the other two cannot,” Daniel said with conviction.

  “The mysterious Miss Townsend.” I knew he’d tell me the circumstances in which he’d known her when he was ready, but could not stop myself needling him a little.

  “The secrets are not only mine, but hers,” Daniel said. “And those of others. I would take yours to my grave if you commanded me.”

  I halted, risking the wrath of those who pressed by us. “Now you are making me feel awful. I am twitting you about having integrity, only because my curiosity is piqued.” I paused awkwardly. “And, if you must know, my jealousy.”

  Daniel bent on me a look of amazement. “Jealousy?”

  “Of course. The gentleman I care for has spent a sojourn in Paris with a young lady of talent, sense, and rare beauty. And then he can tell me nothing of what went on there.”

  Daniel’s shock began to wear off, and his smile widened. “Not what you are supposing.”

  I’d learned from Cynthia that Miss Townsend and Bobby had an understanding, but I also knew that some people did not care which sex their lovers happened to be.

  “I find nothing amusing in it,” I said stiffly.

  Daniel linked his arm through mine and pulled me close to him, continuing our walk. “The fact that you worry I had an affaire de coeur with Miss Townsend gives me hope.”

  “Why should it? Jealousy is a terrible emotion, and a dangerous one.” When I’d discovered my husband had been betraying me—for years—I’d been eaten through by rage and resentment. I regretted now the time I’d wasted on that hurt and anguish, though naturally I’d been upset. It had taken me years to realize that time spent on thoughts of my perfidious husband was time squandered.

  Daniel continued to look delighted. “I will take it to mean you have feelings for me.”

  “Of course I have feelings for you. I’d never let you into my kitchen if I did not.”

  We’d reached Piccadilly Circus. An omnibus creaked to a halt on the other side of the circle, the horses weary, the advertising placards on the wagon bright against the gray weather. I’d have to run to reach it before it started again.

  Daniel kept hold of my arm. “You are a fine and wonderful woman, Kat Holloway. Someday, I will make myself worthy of your trust.”

  I longed to stand and bask in his praise, his smile, the light in his eyes, but the omnibus had already started moving, the wind was sharp, and Grace awaited.

  “You do talk a lot of nonsense.” I extracted myself from his grip and hurried for the omnibus.

&nbs
p; I heard his laughter behind me, before it was swallowed by the rumble of wheels on stone and the rising wind.

  * * *

  * * *

  I reached the Millburns’ house off Cheapside and spent time hugging my daughter. She was full of chatter about her lessons and games she and Jane, Joanna’s older daughter, had played.

  “Have you found the poor children yet?” she asked me when she had a chance to speak to me alone.

  “I’m afraid not,” I had to tell her. “But we are looking hard.”

  “You’ll find them.” Grace patted my hand. “You and Mr. McAdam and Lady Cynthia.”

  Her confidence was touching.

  Darkness fell early in February, and lamps had been lit by the time I departed, though it was not yet five in the evening. I kissed Grace good-bye, and she made her usual promise to be good until we saw each other again on Thursday.

  I walked away with a heavy heart. The days between visits were always so long.

  I climbed aboard another omnibus, but I did not take it directly home. I decided, as I was already out, to investigate the addresses the director of the Foundling Hospital had given Mr. Fielding. Mr. Fielding had already done so, of course, with no results, but I could not shake the need to see for myself.

  The first was in a lane near High Holborn, not far from Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Not the most prosperous of addresses, but if one turned down the correct roads, one could find respectable homes.

  I walked along Red Lion Street toward the square of the same name, but the number of the house I looked for did not exist—Mr. Fielding had been quite correct. The numbers ceased long before the one he’d been given.

  The next address lay near where High Holborn segued into New Oxford Street. It was too close to St. Giles and Seven Dials for my comfort, near the church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields.

  I paused before this church, which had much the same look as the one Mr. Fielding had charge of in the East End—spare lines and a graceful steeple, a refreshing picture of calm in the busy city.

  Behind the church sprawled the slum of St. Giles. Reformers and building schemes swept the area from time to time, trying to tame the rookeries, but with limited success.

  The address Mr. Fielding investigated must have fallen victim to one of the building schemes. Houses along the street had been cleared away, and a huge new edifice was being erected—a factory or some such. Even at this hour, men crawled over the scaffolding and hammers pounded. The house number Mr. Fielding had given us, 33 Dudley Street, ought to be exactly where the new structure rose.

  I stood back and gazed at the building, lanterns swinging from the scaffolding, men shouting at one another as they worked.

  “What you want here, missus?”

  A large gentleman with a full beard and side whiskers had appeared beside me with unnerving suddenness. He was a belligerent specimen in heavy work boots and thick coat. Lantern light shone on greasy dark hair sticking out from under his cap and an equally greasy beard.

  “Just passing,” I said, pretending he did not worry me. “What are they building here?”

  “Brewery.”

  “I see.” I would have thought London had enough of those already, but ale made money. “Quite a lot of houses pulled down to make way for it.”

  “Slums.” The big man spoke with disgust. “Not worth saving.”

  “Mmm.” I wondered whether the inhabitants of those houses had agreed.

  He took a step toward me in a way I didn’t like. “Shouldn’t be here, missus. Dangerous for a lady.”

  “As I say, I am only passing.” I tried to move around him, but he stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “You will have to move,” I said crisply. “I want to go that way.” I pointed behind him.

  “No, you don’t.”

  Another large man slid off the scaffolding and joined the first. He grinned at me, but it was not a nice smile.

  “Best you do what he says and go along,” the second man said.

  It was actually immaterial whether I went onward or back—either way, I’d have to make my way to Oxford Street to catch another omnibus or find a hansom, if I didn’t simply walk all the way home. But I was curious as to why these men did not want me to continue down this street.

  “I am trying,” I said impatiently. “I want to get to St. Martin’s Lane. This is the shortest route.” I pointed again.

  “Not nowadays,” the grinning man said. He had lighter hair than the other, but it too was quite greasy. “Too much building.”

  I realized the folly of arguing with them. I’d have to return another time and discover the reason they didn’t want me down this road. Or I’d tell Daniel, who’d be less conspicuous than I was in this area.

  “Very well. Good evening.” I gave both men a civil nod, which they did not deserve, and turned to retreat the way I’d come.

  I found a third man blocking my way. The blond man, who continued to bare his teeth in a smile, gestured down a lane that opened at my right, a narrow passageway that would take me straight to Seven Dials.

  “Off you go, missus.”

  “I will return to the church, if you please,” I said in a hard voice. Though I longed to run, I knew a firm tone and a frown would do me more good among these sorts of toughs.

  “You’ll go where we say,” the large bearded man said, his voice a rumble.

  “Bugger that,” I snarled and sidestepped the third man to continue my march to the church.

  The next instant, the bearded man seized me by the arms from behind and hauled me into the air. “No, ya don’t, love. You do what we say, or ya pay the price. That’s how it is ’round here.”

  13

  The bearded man’s friends brayed with laughter as I kicked and squirmed, frantic to get loose.

  The man had hands like bear paws, huge and strong, pinning my arms to my sides. I did not like to think where he’d carry me, or what he and his friends had a mind to do when he did.

  Unfortunately for him, I’d grown up on streets where the genteel feared to walk. I’d learned to fight for my life at an early age, not to mention defend myself against my husband when he was in a pique.

  I gave a hard kick backward, aiming my boot heel at the vulnerable spot between his legs. My captor flinched, though he blocked my kick with his very hard thigh.

  It was enough, however. Before he could recover, I wrenched myself from his grasp, gained my feet, and fled.

  I had no choice but to dash down the lane southward, which was exactly where they’d wanted me to go. I heard laughter behind me and then swift and heavy footfalls. They were giving chase.

  In those moments I learned what it was to be a fox hunted by a pack of hounds. I prayed I could be as agile as those animals, as my boots slipped and skidded, and my breath came too fast.

  But I knew how to run. I’d done it as a child on London’s cobblestones and then as a youth, and nowadays long hours on my feet kept me robust.

  It was dark here, no gas lamps to light the way, and the pavement came and went. I leapt over broken stones and bodies of sleepers, both human and canine. The smell was ripe.

  I came to Seven Dials, the circle with a pillar in its middle, with seven roads radiating from it. I’d heard that this area, once affluent, had become a slum soon after it had been built, nearly two hundred years before.

  Things had not much improved in the time between. Seven Dials was the home of gin halls, doss-houses, brothels with courtesans of both sexes, and streetwalkers for every taste. The area contained not only pickpockets but desperate thugs who would knock a person to the ground and steal all they had, right to their undergarments and the shoes on their feet. My dress and coat alone, though secondhand and nowhere near finery, could feed a household for days.

  The men from the building site had chased me here deliberately, knowing I would be p
rey.

  I cursed them at the same time I went cold with fear. My only hope was to keep running, to wend my way to a more salubrious part of the city and find a public vehicle to take me back to Mayfair.

  A gin house, brightly lit and noisy with music, spilled people into the street. A man who’d stumbled from it drunkenly grabbed my arm.

  “Come in and dance with me, missus.”

  He was only inebriated, not malicious, and I jerked from him. “No, thank you. Good evening to you.”

  He laughed and doffed his cap. “You come back any day, missus. Ask for old Jim.”

  His friends jeered at him, and old Jim vanished.

  I broke through the crowd but heard my pursuers, who’d not been content with simply driving me off. The gin hall had given me an idea, and as my would-be captors called to one another, searching for me in the growing throng, I ducked into a tavern.

  Taverns were slightly more reputable than gin halls, if only just. But while women did not go into the taprooms, we could sit and sip an ale in the snug, as I sometimes did with Daniel.

  I nipped through a short passageway beside the taproom to a snug that held only a few people. But it had no windows to the street. A person would have to barge into the tavern and through the hall to find me. If my pursuers hadn’t seen me come in, they might give up and drift away.

  I realized I was cornered in this shabby room where the whitewash had gone gray, but at least I could catch my breath.

  A waitress condescended to look in on me. “What you want?”

  “A cup of tea, please,” I said as I sat down and took out my handkerchief. “Make certain the water is clean.”

  “Ooh.” She wrinkled her nose at me. “Ain’t you the queen?”

  She sounded so like Tess I couldn’t help a breathless laugh. “The Princess Royal,” I said. “Please bring it.”

  The waitress laughed, a sunnier nature coming forth. She gave me a mock curtsy and wandered off, scooping up dirty mugs on her way.

  She brought me tea that was drinkable if bitter, although I wiped the rim of the mug with my handkerchief before lifting cup to mouth.