Page 10 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
Chapter Five
“How did you explain this trip to Town to Atticus?” Hyperia asked as the coach inched through a crowded intersection.
“I did not explain. I announced.” That strategy had taken some thought on my part.
“I told him I’d be making a quick journey.
That Leander is ready for some properly tailored company attire, his first pair of tall boots, and so forth.
The seamstresses at the Hall can mend the wardrobe the boy’s mother made for him, but he’s growing like topsy and could do with some fresh garments. ”
“Atticus accepted that?”
The coach picked up speed, though the horses were still walking.
“I don’t know. He remains quite enamored of the stable, Perry, and in my absence, he will exercise Atlas every day.
That’s his idea of a fine way to spend a morning.
He’s dead set against spending time in the schoolroom with Leander.
Atticus’s reading has nonetheless improved, and I hold out hope for his spelling. ”
Hope was a far cry from optimism .
Hyperia bumped me with her shoulder. “You’ll have to take Leander along to Bond Street, then.”
Well, drat. “Suppose I will.” The tailors wouldn’t simply record the boy’s measurements. They would insist on showing me dozens of fabric samples and explaining various cuts and styles until I wanted to run howling across London Bridge.
“And Hoby’s,” Hyperia went on, “if he’s truly to have his first pair of tall boots.”
Double drat. “I can do that after lunch.”
Harry would have loved attending to these little rites of passage, would have loved showing his son London from Lord Harry Caldicott’s singular point of view.
Harry had been keen on fashion. I was utterly indifferent to it, provided my linen was clean and my clothing fit.
I’d been the better hand at disguises, though, while Harry had made it a point to know which gemstones symbolized what virtues.
An asinine little hobby.
Dwelling on Harry was seldom cause for joy. I swiveled my mental cannon to what the interview with Postlethwaite had told us.
“We aren’t ahead by much, are we?” Hyperia asked. “Mr. Downing falls under suspicion, but only as a vague possibility.”
One suspect was better than none, and Downing was back in England. “We know the gold wasn’t part of Hannah’s dowry. Does that matter?” What looked like just another pebble of information could turn out to be the essential pea under the mattress. Hard to know the difference except in hindsight.
“You’re right that the gold wasn’t listed as part of Hannah’s dowry,” Hyperia said, “but that might mean it was already liquidated to launch Hannah’s sisters or to secure Strother’s inheritance.
I have renewed appreciation for why you do so much to-ing and fro-ing at the beginning of an investigation, Jules. It’s all an ever-widening darkness.”
“Perhaps the good headmaster will have some answers for us regarding our Atticus.”
Mr. Devilbiss could have been Postlethwaite’s shorter cousin, right down to the merry, shrewd blue eyes. Devilbiss had a heartier manner and a slightly more generous paunch.
The way his eyes slid over Hyperia made me want to backhand him into the Thames.
He subjected her to a flicking appraisal that took in her person—healthy, female—and her station.
My sense was, he was at once assessing her as a male animal evaluated a female—and being obvious about it—and considering her possibilities as a charitable donor or committee member.
I was inclined to hate him, but then, if he sought resources to provide for the poor, his ruthlessness must be excused. His rudeness was beyond forgiveness.
“My lord, miss, this is an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to our humble establishment?”
Humble the poorhouse might be, but its facade was majestic.
The edifice no doubt dated from the last century, before London began to gobble up the surrounding countryside, and Bloomsbury was nearly rural.
Devilbiss’s charitable operation rose to three full stories plus an attic and spanned half the length between street corners.
Tall windows graced the two upper stories, each one topped with a tidy Adams pediment.
The building material was granite, the blue front door adorned with symmetrical pots of red geraniums.
The sashes and shutters were painted white—an extravagance given London’s foul air—and the whole presented with an understated air of civic virtue. A wealthy family had likely built this establishment as their quasi-London abode, and heating it properly would require a small fortune.
“We’re seeking information about a child,” Hyperia said, taking off her gloves and stashing them in her reticule. “A small boy, first name Thomas, possibly a twin and definitely a sibling to another boy, Atticus. They would have been here about five years ago.”
Devilbiss affected a thoughtful expression. “Thomas is a very common name, miss.”
“Atticus,” she replied, “is unusual. Moreover, we know that Atticus was sent to work at Makepeace, home of the Viscount Longacre, in Kent, upon the occasion of his fifth birthday.”
“Now that gives us something to work with. Please do have a seat, and I will provide these details to the matron best suited to consulting our records. Shall I ring for tea?”
His office was as well appointed as Postlethwaite’s, if a bit less scholarly.
Fresh hydrangeas occupied a brass bowl on the windowsill, the andirons in the swept hearth had been recently blackened, and the carpet was thick Axminster of understated floral design.
His furniture tended to solid lines and generous upholstery, and the walls were hung in dark green silk.
“No tea for me,” Hyperia said. “My lord?”
“I’ll pass as well.”
“Then excuse me for a moment.” Postlethwaite bustled out, a man determined to accommodate his guests.
“He would tell you,” Hyperia said, perching on a wing chair, her back very straight, “that when his donors call upon him and when potential donors are good enough to meet with him, he must provide a setting in which they are comfortable. Wealthy widows cannot be expected to entrust sums to an establishment that offers them hard benches and stale bread.”
“Silk on the walls, Perry?”
“He’ll claim it was donated. Perhaps it was.”
She was angry, and for that, I loved her. “Did you notice that the windows are all closed on the upper floors? A day growing hotter by the hour, and not a single window cracked.”
The only thing worse than a schoolroom full of reluctant scholars was a sweltering or freezing schoolroom full of reluctant scholars.
Devilbiss’s office had a French door that opened onto a small brick patio ringed by privet hedges. A hint of a breeze came through the partly opened door, and more geraniums added a splash of color between wrought-iron chairs.
“You would notice the windows,” Hyperia said, smiling slightly. “Devilbiss will claim the high ceilings ensure the children are quite comfortable on warmer days. Moreover, closed windows are safer than the open variety. Unless, of course, you’d like to donate a sum sufficient to bar the windows?”
I prowled along the bookcase behind Devilbiss’s desk, which was sparsely decorated with improving tomes.
Fordyce’s Sermons , Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations , Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress .
The books were propped to face out, a display for the benefit of guests.
I wanted to pitch the lot through the French door.
“Julian, a poorhouse is better than nothing. For some, it’s enough. For others, it’s a step up from debtors’ prison.”
“For children… I hate to think of Atticus here.”
“He would probably have died but for this place. Try to think of it that way.” Hyperia spoke from an informed, even jaded perspective.
“Do you and Devilbiss have a prior acquaintance, Perry?”
“I know his type. He will see to it that the children are adequately provided for, and his definition of ‘adequate’ will be parsimonious but defensible, given how many children are in his care. He doesn’t want them getting too comfortable, you see, because hardship inspires them to overcome obstacles. ”
“So we starve children for their own benefit. How enlightened of us. I want to kick something.”
Her smile became a grin. “You want to beat the stuffing out of Devilbiss. So do I, provided I could wear gloves lest I actually touch him. They do keep records, though, Julian. We can be encouraged by that.”
I felt instead dis couraged. “I can’t hear any children, Perry. This building is supposedly full of well-kept, thriving children, and I hear no thunder of unruly feet, no laughter, no protests presaging the need for a nap.”
“Julian, don’t.”
She was right. The poor laws were outdated, everyone agreed on that much, and the poor were growing in number.
Given the passage of the Corn Laws, with their relentless import tariffs, those numbers would doubtless grow yet faster in years to come, and the people most likely to face starvation had no voice in Parliament to guard their interests.
I was estimating the value of Devilbiss’s ornate cherrywood desk when he finally returned.
“Success, miss, my lord. Success of a sort!” He held a file bound in a blue ribbon.
“The child Atticus bided with us for less than a year before we were able to find him a post suited to his tender years and limited abilities. The notes I consulted say the boy was slow of speech and wit and only moderately disobedient, but easily led by his sibling.”
“We are most interested in the sibling,” Hyperia said. “Tom or Thomas.”
“A twin, you are right about that, miss. The boys were identical, and the matrons despaired of telling them apart. For the sake of the general peace and because Thomas was a bad influence on Atticus, we arranged for Thomas to go to a private situation in Chelsea.”
He beamed as if he’d found a piece of the true cross just for us.