Page 12 of A Gentleman in Possession of Secrets (The Lord Julian Mysteries #10)
Chapter Six
“Leander even chose a cinnamon ice,” I said, guiding the phaeton around a pair of swells on horseback who were conferring right in the middle of the street. “Cinnamon was Harry’s favorite.”
Hyperia made a pretty picture in the early morning Town bustle.
We’d reached Knightsbridge, at present thronged with young fellows returning from either a dawn hack in Hyde Park or a night of dissipation.
Most would wander through Tatts’s stable yard, as much for the company to be found there as for any interest in buying another equine.
“How was Leander for the tailor and the cobbler?” Hyperia asked as we made our way south toward the Thames.
“A model of good behavior. Polite. Patient. Respectful. He’s a good boy.”
“When he wants to be?”
Leander was always on good behavior around Hyperia, much like Atticus and myself.
“You know, Perry, I would have said that about Harry—he was a good fellow when he wanted to be, though he could also be sarcastic, bitter, and self-indulgent. I need to stop comparing Leander to his father. The two have never met, more’s the pity.
Leander is his own person, and I must see him as such rather than exclusively as Harry’s son. ”
I halted the gelding pulling our conveyance while a farm wagon heaped with steaming manure lumbered through the intersection.
“Leander likes you, Julian. He looks up to you, and he’s on his best behavior so you will take him with you the next time you leave the Hall. How was he at Gunter’s?”
“Ecstatic but biddable.” I clucked to the horse, who toddled on like the London veteran he was. “The boy deliberated at length over the choice of flavors and informed me that next time, he will try the vanilla.” Harry’s second-favorite flavor. “Have you considered returning to the Hall with me?”
“If you can give me until noon to pack, I will accompany you. Healy will come down within the week, or so he claims.”
My hands were on the ribbons. Otherwise, I would have hugged her for all of London to see. “Well done, Miss West. We will pick you up shortly after noon.” My relief at her decision was enormous, and if the celestial powers were merciful, Healy would never bestir himself to leave Town for the Hall.
Hyperia would winkle details from MacNamara that he’d no idea he knew, she’d charm Mrs. Gwinnett into irresistibly delicious menus, and she’d brighten my mother’s otherwise placid summer days.
To say nothing of the effect her presence had on my own spirits.
“Was Gunter’s an ordeal for you, Jules?”
I was so happy to contemplate her company at the Hall that I didn’t even try to prevaricate. “A minor ordeal, but yes. Fashionable Society is still congregating beneath Berkeley Square’s maples, and I wasn’t prepared for that.”
We navigated a narrow path between two cursing fishmongers, and then I told Hyperia the rest of it.
“Two men I served with, a pair of captains who I thought held me in some regard, pretended not to recognize me. A lady who danced a quadrille with me at her come-out ball whispered to her companion and then crossed the street three yards away from where I would have tipped my hat to her. Leander was oblivious, but I didn’t anticipate that sort of reception. The rudeness grows tedious.”
And some year soon, Leander would notice the whispers and sidelong glances and think he had caused them.
“Do you suppose they thought Leander was your son?”
“In which case, their behavior was beyond ill-bred. He’s just a boy, and the circumstances of his birth are certainly no fault of his.”
Hyperia treated me to a silence for the length of three streets.
“Perry, I’m sorry. I know how polite society is, and perhaps an outing to Gunter’s was badly done on my part, but the boy earned his treat.
” Then too, illegitimate aristocratic offspring, boys in particular, were politely tolerated by Mayfair Society, so long as their fathers provided for and acknowledged them.
Leander wasn’t the issue.
“London is sprawling,” Hyperia said as we tooled on toward Chelsea. “The fields are disappearing, the houses sprouting like weeds.”
We passed a fancy stone mason’s emporium with granite monuments displayed along the roadside.
Any number of livery establishments sat cheek by jowl with taverns, a cheesemonger’s, butcher’s…
The houses were mostly new, with an occasional denizen of the previous century standing taller and grander than its younger neighbors.
So much change, and yet, I remained in disgrace with some.
“Where will you start our inquiries?” Hyperia asked as we reached the village of Chelsea proper. The stink of the river was stronger here, though the air was free of coal smoke.
“We begin at the livery. I’ll try the nearest parson next, or his wife. Tavern owners hear a lot of gossip that becomes local history.”
“You could ask him,” Hyperia said, tipping her chin.
An old fellow sat upon a bench outside a busy livery stable. Well, not old, exactly, but no longer young. He wore a battered infantry cap, and his jacket might once have been part of a uniform, though so much dust and mending had befallen the garment that its provenance was dubious.
He whittled without watching the progress of his knife against the chunk of wood in his hands. Blind, perhaps, or an expert whittler.
I handed the phaeton off to a groom and inquired as to the whereabouts of Burden Lane. In accents indicative of a Cornish patrimony, the groom indicated that our destination was up two streets and down a lane to the left. Turn at the oak, can’t miss it.
We found the lane easily enough. Finding somebody who’d resided in the vicinity for more than five years proved nearly impossible.
A dairymaid with empty milk cans dangling from the yoke on her shoulders told us that the biggest house on the lane had been destroyed by fire some years past, and three other dwellings now occupied the space where the former abode had been.
She indicated a lot with three cottages spaced precisely along a curved drive.
No great looming oaks, but a trio of young cherry trees already past bearing for the year shaded the front yards.
The dairymaid could not describe the house that had burned down and knew nothing of the fate of its occupants.
Neither did a pair of passing beldames who had just retired to the area with their spouses. Neither did a crossing sweeper or a sprightly gent on his way to the watchmaker’s shop.
Too much change, too quickly, and not enough in the way of reliable informants.
“We have made a start,” Hyperia said, twirling her parasol. “The neighborhood is genteel. That’s something.”
Genteel. Well, yes. Retired-sea-captain genteel and spinster-auntie genteel. A boy could land in worse situations.
“We’re for the vicarage,” I said, winging my arm.
But that, too, turned out to be an excursion of limited value, despite the fame of the local church. The vicar and his missus were at the seaside on holiday. The curate, a spotty young fellow with a bobbing Adam’s apple, was very recently arrived to his post at All Saints.
He knew nothing of a fire five years ago on Burden Lane, and such was his neophyte status that he could not refer us to any village elders who might be better informed. Perhaps if I called again in a month?
I allowed as how I just might do that. We declined his offer of a tour of his most venerable church, though I hated to disappoint him. Hyperia and I instead retreated to the livery, where I retrieved a hamper kindly packed by Arthur’s cook.
I wasn’t particularly hungry. “We ought to be getting back if you’re to have time to pack for a visit to the Hall.”
“Nonsense, Jules. When you are on the hunt, you forget to eat and sleep. We will have a quick picnic and discuss next steps.”
My commanding officer had issued my orders. I scanned the surrounds and spotted an empty bench near where the whittler sat. My choice was a few yards from the livery entrance, bordering a patch of grass that had doubtless provided many a snack for the hardworking equines on the property.
“We’ll have shade,” I said, “and you are right. We should discuss next steps now, while the morning’s disappointments are fresh in our minds.”
My blue spectacles had attracted a few curious glances, but I detected no hostility. Chelsea was awash in new faces and new shops, but still had the basic friendliness of an English village.
For now.
“I am hungry,” Hyperia said, taking the bench. “We need not tarry long. You can write to the vicar, and I’m sure he’ll reply. A Mr. Quiston.”
“At Chelsea Old Church, also known as All Saints, dating from the twelfth century. Did you want to see Sir Thomas More’s chapel?”
I took the place beside her, and she opened the hamper. “Not especially. The poor man came to a very difficult end. You?”
“The views from that bell tower are likely impressive.” Also odoriferous, the church being immediately proximate to the River Thames.
“You mean, a reconnaissance officer could see a lot from that tower?” She handed me a cheese-and-tomato sandwich and started on one for herself.
“Yes, as could a small boy or a passing traveler. The sun on the river is a challenge for my eyes, but artists would appreciate that view.”
The whittler had ceased wielding his knife.
He was, in fact, staring at me. I was not in the mood for some old gunnery sergeant to dress me down in front of Hyperia for whatever wrong I had done him, his regiment, his cousin’s uncle’s grandson, or that worthy’s favorite dog.
I’d had unreasonably high hopes for this outing, I knew that, but to turn up nothing in the way of information was still disappointing.
The whittler heaved himself off his bench and crossed to stand directly before me. I’d put his age at about forty. Not old, but not wearing well either. One eye was rheumy, the other a piercing blue. His air was truculent, and he walked with a limp.