Death and the Visitors, page 25
I tightened my lips. “I see that this is how it looks, but the ring was here in the house. Tell me, Mary, would you have taken it to the Pulteney Hotel?”
“Yes,” she said, very earnestly. “I’d have used it to curry favor with Princess Maria, before we learned about their dastardly plans. She could have been a literary patron for the Juvenile Library, or even my future works. We didn’t know back then that they weren’t exactly in funds.”
I hung my head over my plate, my dark curls obscuring my vision. “I see why your approach would have been sensible.”
“We cannot let any of this get out,” Shelley said. “Lord Byron is much too important a person, even if his mistress is not.”
“We aren’t going to be able to retrieve the money or ring from greedy Mr. Cannon’s house, if the items are still there.” Mary set her plate on top of mine.
“There is no way to connect them to Jane,” Shelley said. “As long as the three of us never admit anything. Is there any other evidence?”
“Destroyed last night,” Mary said, adding utensils to her pile. “There is nothing else we can do.”
“I’m not worried,” Shelley said. “We can’t admit her thieving ways or Jane will be arrested and hanged or transported. Jane’s secret must be kept at all costs.”
“We agreed about that.” I looked between them, both with deep resolution in their expressions. I felt guilty but knew we had to hide the truth. Instinctively, I jumped up and hugged Mary, then ran around the table to do the same to Shelley.
The door opened, hitting Mamma’s precious Greek-inspired wallpaper with a bang. Charles entered, dispelling the mood.
“Is this all there is to eat?” he said with a frown as he looked at the limited spread on the table.
“You are lucky to get that, with the house in an uproar,” Mary said, then stood up, gathered the pile of empty dishes, and walked out, leaving us to stare after her.
“It’s a good thing Mamma isn’t here to see you hugging a married man,” Charles said, pulling the remaining platters toward himself. “Get me a cup of tea, Jane.”
“Shelley is a better brother to me than you are,” I said, feeling better for the comfort of those hugs, even though I had offered them. I released Shelley.
“Any thoughts on what is to be done about your mother?” Shelley asked, winking at me before directing his attention to Charles.
“She has the wit to think of someone else to hang the crime on,” Charles said carelessly, sliding the rest of the food onto the sausage platter. “They’ll probably arrest Polly next, leaving Mary and Jane to do all the work around here. Will do them good. Keep them out of trouble.”
“I can well believe that, though I think Polly is a difficult case to make,” Shelley said. “She’s a rather slim creature, is she not?”
“She’s strong,” I said. “Have you ever noticed her forearms? Turning spits and the housework has developed her musculature. She’s better at carrying buckets than Mary or me.”
“Do you think she’s involved?” Shelley asked me.
I tossed my head and laughed. “I’m just trying to think like Mamma would. I cannot imagine she will accept her unearned fate lightly.”
“Then let us go to the coroner,” Shelley said. “I want to suggest he attempt to tie Mr. Cannon’s death to the Naryshkin murder. We can explain the Godwin connections to both situations and Mr. Cannon’s greed, along with the missing diamonds.”
“It’s Saturday,” I said. “The inquest happened yesterday. Why didn’t you testify to all this?”
“I don’t think the coroner understood the points I attempted to make,” Shelley said. “There was a great deal of noise, and he might have been half-sprung, anyway. Focus, Jane. We have to free your mother.”
* * *
“There he is. Finally!” Shelley exclaimed later that morning. He pointed out George Hodgson, the coroner for Middlesex, seated at a table with several cronies, in the third Covent Garden-area tavern Shelley had looked into.
An unexceptional middle-aged man clutched a tankard. Mary looked expectantly at our poet companion.
“I hope that this early in the day, he isn’t too deep into his cups,” Shelley said. “Wait here, ladies.”
We left the doorway as he entered and leaned against the wall to protect our backs.
Down the street, a street singer warbled a ballad about a country murder. A companion attempted to hawk song sheets, but the verses were nothing exceptional. A strawberry seller walked past us, pushing a wheelbarrow, shouting out the prices of his wares. I could smell the sweet, herbal notes of the fruit. If Mamma had been with us, coins would have been produced from somewhere in an instant, and Thérèse would have been baking her famous strawberry tart for dinner tonight.
“Do you think Mamma and Thérèse will receive the same fate?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“The innocent can be set free,” Mary said. “If we can sort out this mess, Mamma will be fine. Perhaps her experience will give her a change of heart about our cook.”
I snorted. “Mamma? I cannot imagine anything changing her opinions.”
Mary shrugged. “You asked.”
Shelley came through the door, his hand tucked under the arm of the coroner. Mr. Hodgson stumbled a bit, but it might have been the unevenness of the floor. Shelley looked both ways, then spotted Mary and towed his companion toward us.
“What is all this?” the coroner spluttered. “I have nothing to say to any of you.”
“We are trying to aid you, sir,” Shelley said. “So that you can close this Russian business before the festivities are fully underway.”
“The dignitaries are going to the opera tonight,” Mr. Hodgson said. “You are leaving it a bit late.”
“Events occur on their own timeline,” Shelley said.
“Well, man, tell me your news.” The coroner’s tone was testy. Probably because he’d been pulled from his porter.
“The Naryshkin family made contact with my father as soon as they came to London,” Mary said. “He is William Godwin, the celebrated author.”
“I know him. He’s infamous, in any case. He was part of the Pavel Naryshkin matter, and another recently, if I recall.”
Mary nodded, ignoring the insult. “The very same. We have remained in close communication with the Russians since that first meeting, visiting them both at the Pulteney Hotel and at our house in Skinner Street.”
“What of it?”
“The Naryshkins all but admitted that their footman, Fedorov, killed the secretary found in the Thames. You know, the man who was thought to be Pavel Naryshkin at first.”
“Until Mr. Shelley here found the real corpse,” the coroner said.
“Exactly,” I said earnestly. “But now, this dreadful footman, Mr. Fedorov, who attacked our cook in our own kitchen, has disappeared.”
“He shouldn’t have been released from the lockup, unlike some other people,” Mary added.
The coroner glanced at each of us in turn. “You are telling me that we had the right man all along?”
Shelley nodded. “The right killer, the wrong name for the victim, Mr. Hodgson, yes. I don’t know that you could pull a foreign count into your coroner’s court, but there you go.”
“Disappeared, eh?” The coroner’s eyelids fluttered. “Well, we can put out a flyer describing him. See if he can be picked up anywhere in the kingdom.”
“I’ll go with you and describe him for your secretary,” Shelley said. “To expedite the matter.”
“What about us?” I asked.
“Go along home,” the coroner instructed.
Mary turned without a word and marched off. I stayed close to her, holding her arm. I could feel how upset she was from the contracted muscles of her upper arm. She didn’t want to be out here without protection any more than I did, in this neighborhood where we’d been attacked before.
Chapter 19
Mary
Mary felt so perfectly dreadful that by the time they reached Skinner Street, her nerves permitted her to do nothing but make a pot of tea when she returned to the kitchen.
“We need bread,” she told Polly, who was stirring the fire. “And sausages. I’m sure Willy needs more food than we’ve been providing. I think he’s grown an inch in the past month. And there is Mr. Baxter to feed as well. Is there anyone left who will give us credit?”
“Mrs. Godwin always gave us the week’s shopping money on Saturday,” Polly said.
Mary’s stomach gurgled. “I think we paid our account with the butcher across from Smithfield recently.”
“I’ll try there,” Polly said. “I do fancy some fresh air.” She plucked her bonnet off a nail and went upstairs, still in her apron.
What were they going to do? Papa would not tolerate any change to the household routine, but they couldn’t possibly handle the laundry with two fewer pairs of hands. How could they keep the bookshop open? Who would manage the bookstore accounts with Mamma gone? As much as she disliked her stepmother, she could not deny the woman did a great deal of work. They would be in difficult circumstances indeed if she could not be extricated from the lockup.
Mary drank her tea with her feet propped up in front of the fireplace. Settled in with a rare moment to herself, she had queer thoughts about the members of her own household.
Did Papa frame Mamma for Mr. Cannon’s murder? Though he was the best of men, he tolerated no changes to the order of his life. As a result, would he allow Mamma’s suffering to continue in the same manner they had treated their cook? Would he consider the sacrifice of his wife acceptable to end John Cannon’s very real threat of debtors’ prison for himself? His political linchpins included the end of government, which should naturally give way before reasonable men. What would he do to stay out of the clutches of the prison system? He would never believe he deserved to go to debtors’ prison. He had a right to take money he needed from those who had it, he’d said.
Mary dropped her head into her hands. Would her father sacrifice a woman for his own freedom?
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Mary whipped around, tucking down her skirts, but it was only Jane. “I thought you were going to open the bookshop.”
“I’m freezing,” Jane whined.
Mary pointed to the teapot. “Me, too, at least in my heart.”
“What are we going to do?” Jane asked, taking a cup from the shelf.
“We cannot free Mamma if Papa is guilty,” Mary said. “This is what plagues me.”
“We need someone else to pin Mr. Cannon’s murder on.” Jane bumped the table, making Mary’s chair rattle.
“Someone who is guilty of bad things, even if not specifically this death?” Mary suggested.
Jane poured her tea. “Is there any cream?”
“Who would have time to fetch it?”
“Where is Polly?”
Mary drained her cup. “I sent her to try to get food on credit. Mamma always handed out the kitchen money on Saturdays, but I don’t know where the household money is.”
“Locked into the office, maybe?”
Mary worried at her lip. “Will Papa know? When I returned home in March, I went into training for the bookshop, not the household. That was Fanny’s department.”
“You have to ask him.”
“Ask Papa for money? Now?” Mary’s blood ran cold at the idea.
“We have to eat.” Jane wiped a stray tea leaf from the lip of her cup.
“Now I begin to wish you’d kept Miss Sandy’s stolen money for yourself,” Mary said. She had a small coin stash of her own but wasn’t ready to dip into it, not yet. The day might soon come, however.
The house shook as the front door opened and closed.
“Blast,” Jane muttered, then tossed back her tea. She went upstairs, leaving the kitchen blissfully quiet again.
Mary didn’t like any of her thoughts. She’d have to face Papa. A scolding from him would send her spirits plummeting even lower than they were, but Jane was right. They had to eat.
Polly came back with a paltry package of day-old newsprint. Inside were sausages, slightly brown instead of a healthy pink, the same vintage or worse than the newspaper. Trading sighs, they fried them up with some eggs they habitually traded with neighbors who had a small garden, who were allowed to borrow volumes from Papa’s library.
Mary carried the food up and Polly followed with the refreshed teapot, on its third use of the leaves. In the dining room, Papa sat with Jane and Shelley. Thankfully, Charles was out on business, and Willy, accompanied by Robert, had gone walking with his tutor.
Polly boldly curtsied next to Papa and said, “Sir, I ordered these sausages on credit, but I need the coins to pay for them and tomorrow’s roast or there won’t be meat for Sunday dinner.”
“Go back to the kitchen, Polly,” Papa said, not even bothering to look in her direction.
Polly’s lips pursed alarmingly. She whirled around and left the dining room.
Mary and Jane shared a glance. How long would it be until their kitchen maid fled? Mary hoped her wages weren’t in arrears. She knew nothing about the household accounts.
Even worse, not knowing Shelley would be present, she had provided nothing for him to eat. Tears welled up in her eyes. She bowed her head, begging God to have mercy on her and allow her to remain calm through all of these troubles. How much was she to bear?
The lines of exhaustion were evident on Papa’s face. Even Shelley had dark circles under his eyes. A real gentleman, though, he knew when it was time to take charge.
“Godwin,” he said, the instant Papa had cleared his plate. Shelley himself had taken nothing but wine. “You must find proof to present to Mr. Hodgson the coroner in order to save Mrs. Godwin. He is willing to listen to us. We saw him just this morning.”
Mary watched closely. Would Papa show any sign of guilt? His expression retained its customary air of mild attention, however.
“If you have any suggestions, I am ready to hear them,” Papa said, gesturing to Jane to pour him another cup of tea.
She tipped the spout over his cup, but only dribbles came out. Emblematic of the day, really.
Mary pushed her half-finished sausage to Papa. “I have sufficiently lined my stomach. I will refill the pot.”
“Wait a moment, daughter,” Papa said. “Shelley?”
“We need to return to Mr. Cannon’s house,” Shelley said. “We could not get upstairs yesterday due to the gunman.”
“Can we enter?” Papa forked up the rest of Mary’s sausage.
“Unless he had family that is securing the place, I do not see why not.”
Papa took a bit and chewed thoughtfully. “Very well.”
* * *
After they all walked to Bedford Street, the foursome discovered that even a moneylender’s home became unguarded when there was no one living to pay the security bills.
The door had an old-fashioned key plate. Shelley rattled the doorknob. “Locked,” he informed them, “but it is very similar to those at Field Place. Could you lend me a hairpin, Jane?”
Jane pulled a securing pin from one of her curls, then moved to block Shelley from passersby.
“A little to the left, Jane,” Shelley said. “I need the light.”
She shuffled until he could see. Mary linked her arm with Jane’s to further shield him. Not sixty seconds later, she heard a click. Shelley snickered in satisfaction, and the door swung open.
“Make haste,” he said, and stretched out a hand to Papa, who stepped in, not commenting on Shelley’s chicanery.
The trio followed, shutting the door behind them.
“It’s dark in here with the shades drawn,” Papa commented, moving to the back wall.
“We won’t find anything down here,” Shelley said as Papa opened the inner door, which wasn’t locked. “Let’s go upstairs.”
Mary sniffed the air, wondering if the scent of death still lingered in the closed space. It smelled of nothing but dust in the antechamber, though when they went into the office, where Mr. Cannon had lain, Jane recoiled against her.
“Come, Mary,” Jane whined, tugging at her. “It smells even worse than the Bow Street lockup in here.”
They all hesitated at the foot of the steps, but no shot rained down on them this time. Brave Shelley set his boot to the first step. Mary and Jane followed, with Papa bringing up the rear.
The stairs opened to a long passage above. On the left they found a bedroom with a luxurious coverlet and hangings in a fashionable shade of green. The bed had been torn apart, however. The mattress was half off the frame, and sheets were crumpled on the floor. A painting of a boy in Elizabethan clothes holding a lute rested on the floor, its frame broken.
Shelley walked around the bed. “Overturned tables, broken ewer.”
Papa went to the fireplace. “Ashes all over the place. I don’t know if it was the gunman or the constables who did it, but I’d say the room has been searched.”
Mary regarded the painting. The boy’s watchful eyes stared into eternity. “If it was the killer, he must have been looking for a hidden safe.”
“That’s what I would do,” Shelley agreed. “I wonder where Mr. Cannon came from, that no heirs have arrived. He had a London accent. South of the river, I’d say.”
“Surrey, probably,” Papa said. “I remember him telling me he had no sons, or brothers either.”
“Regardless, people could come at any time,” Mary said. “We should hurry.”
“Can we find something the killer didn’t?” Jane asked.
Mary didn’t like her skeptical tone. “We interrupted him, so why not?” She marched out of the room.
Across the passage, instead of the parlor one might expect to find in the home of one who entertained, was another study. A large iron safe covered half of the rear wall. Was it for show, possibly hiding the fact that a smaller hidden safe still remained in the house?
Mary went to it and tugged at the knob, but the safe kept its secrets secure. She could not begin to imagine where the key might be, and opening it would, in any case, turn her into a thief. They were looking for something to tie Cannon to Pavel Naryshkin’s murder, not money, after all.
