Page 18 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder
CHAPTER 17
The Pickled Dog
Most of the day, Henrietta had walked her horse to keep it from exhaustion, but now she travelled as swiftly as the narrow country lane allowed. On top of the impending necessity for shelter, she needed exercise to sort her mind and emotions.
At first, tears prickled her eyes. She’d been frightened and unsure of the act itself, but she had wanted Theo. Now humiliation burned within her, mingling with frustrated desire. Moreover, if Theo didn’t help her fulfil her last duty to Edmund, who would? As a fugitive with a limited time to get with child, where would she meet another man as handsome, intelligent and (generally) kind? Her current circumstances hardly offered a wealth of choice.
But the more distance she put between herself and the pond, the more her mind cleared, and she grew disappointed in her behaviour. She’d lashed out in hurt when he was acting nobly, and she hated that she’d done so. Contrary to her bitter words by the pond, she did like Theo. It was becoming ever clearer that she hadn’t truly hated him for a long time. Perhaps ever since he’d saved her from the beer barrel, she’d developed, well, a bit of a soft spot for him.
As the first thatched cottages of Millford came into view, Henrietta’s confusing feelings for Theo and Edmund’s last task remained unresolved. The rights and wrongs of it still tangled in her mind, but further travel was impossible.
Storm clouds swirled overhead and the whipping wind carried the loamy scent of rain, so Henrietta looked about for the tavern Theo had mentioned. The hamlet consisted of buildings clustered around a small green, including an ancient mill straddling a sizeable Thames tributary, the likely source of the town’s name. The tavern was the most prominent building and possessed small leaded windows, a sloping slate roof and a chequer-work facade of alternating white stone and dark flint.
All in all, Millford possessed some storybook charm, for it looked much as it would have four hundred years earlier. Yet poverty had struck hard at some point in its history. Exhausted cottages seemed ready to topple in the current strong wind. Their roofs were sway-backed, their painted doors weathered to grey. The mill wheel wobbled, in need of repair but still spinning in the fast-moving river. And over the smell of impending rain, another scent wafted from the mill’s direction. Henrietta scrunched her nose. It was sweet, but with an acrid undertone, like souring fruit.
‘That was once a fulling mill,’ Theo said, arriving at her side, one hand on his hat to keep it from blowing away. If he was still upset over what had happened at the pond, it didn’t show, and Henrietta admired his temperance. ‘Until about two hundred years ago, this area of Surrey produced large quantities of woven woollen cloth and Millford was a place of some prosperity.’
‘What is the mill used for now, to produce such an unpleasant smell?’
‘Cloth dyeing. Millford produces a specific shade of pale purple known as Millford Blue. You see it all over this corner of Surrey. Amongst poor folks, anyway.’
Henrietta tilted her head. ‘How in heavens do you know all this about a tiny village on a country lane?’
‘Several years ago, investigative work led me to this area. I only passed through Millford, but I learnt bits and pieces of its history. Not that much, really, as local industry wasn’t the focus of my research.’ He nodded at the tavern. Its creaking sign displayed a mongrel holding a pewter tankard under the faded words The Pickled Dog . ‘Shall we wait out the storm there?’
‘I think it’s best. Not only because of the storm,’ Henrietta said ruefully, ‘but also because I still don’t have a plan for how to approach Perceval.’
Theo studied the tavern a moment longer. ‘Best if I do the talking here,’ he said firmly, and rode off towards the court as if it was not a matter for discussion.
Despite Henrietta’s remorse about her behaviour at the pond, an old irritation flared. She scowled at Theo’s back. She despised it when men dismissed her, saying they would take care of matters. Why! She could invent a false name and story as well as the next person.
The heavens unleashed their fury shortly after she relinquished her horse to a groom. Theo grabbed his satchel, hitching its strap over his shoulder, and threw his arm around her. Grudgingly, she felt gratitude for the gesture, which offered some shelter from the rain as they dashed towards the tavern door.
The entryway, a centuries-old affair with a typically low lintel, forced Henrietta to duck her head as she crossed the threshold into a dark vestibule. Conversation and fiddle music drifted from behind heavy wool drapes hanging over an interior doorway, accompanied by a powerful smell of smoke, tallow and ale.
Theo tugged at the main door, struggling to close it. ‘Wait for me. The hinge is broken.’
Henrietta dismissed his orders. Rain lashed into the vestibule, soaking her thin frock and bare arms, causing her to shiver. Intending to request a private parlour with a roaring fire while Theo managed the door, she pushed aside the dusty drapes, nibbled at by moths and mice, and exposed the taproom. Thick beams crossed a low ceiling above a crowd of burly men who smoked and drank, many wearing at least one purplish-blue item of clothing. A fire burned in a wide hearth, around which hung political caricatures in the style of Cruikshank and Rowlandson. In a place of honour above the wooden mantelpiece hung a fine etching of Edmund, its frame draped in black cloth.
With her husband’s portrait so prominently displayed, Henrietta grew hesitant about proceeding, but, just as she decided to return to Theo after all, the fiddle player dragged his bow to a halt, every man in the room looked boldly in her direction, and, for one horrifying second, she assumed she’d been recognised.
But then someone gave a low whistle and a general murmur of approval followed. The men were simply surprised by the appearance of a woman in their midst – and judging by their admiring gazes, they found her pretty. Perhaps it was silly, but after Theo’s rejection their appreciation soothed her wounded pride. Yet she lingered in the door, now wary about approaching the bar counter alone with so many men calling out for her companionship.
An authoritative man with greying hair stood, straightened his waistcoat and cast a disapproving eye over the room until everyone fell silent. Pulling a vacant chair next to his, he addressed Henrietta. ‘Women visit this tavern so rarely that these men forget themselves. Please, be seated, miss. Name’s Jim King, and I’ll bring you refreshment.’
A younger man with a puckering scar across his cheek and lip voiced his disapproval. ‘She don’t want to sit by an old man, Jim. You want to sit here with Sam, don’t you, beauty?’
‘She’s with me ,’ Theo’s voice said suddenly, and, with a rush of damp air, he pushed through the drapes to glare at Sam, Jim and every other man in turn.
Henrietta pulled a face. So now he claimed her? ‘With you , am I?’ she muttered. ‘Yet at the pond—’
He threw his soggy arm around her shoulder and stopped further words by hissing through closed teeth, ‘ Don’t speak. ’
Most of the men averted their eyes, evidently accepting his prior claim, but not the one who’d called himself Sam. He hooked his thumbs into the armholes of his purple waistcoat and looked Theo up and down. ‘Seems to me she ain’t with you, if she’s entering taverns alone.’
Theo tugged her closer. ‘Well, she has a mind of her own.’
Sam sucked his teeth. ‘If you don’t know how to keep your woman at your side, London boy, you’d best hand her over to someone who does.’ He gave Henrietta a lusty look. ‘I’ll teach you to mind, love.’
‘Hold your tongue, Sam Walker,’ Jim snapped. ‘A woman has a voice same as a man and if you don’t understand that, you can tip your tankard elsewhere.’
Tired of being treated like a silent plaything to be fought over, Henrietta removed Theo’s arm from her shoulder. ‘Quite right, Mr King. I’ve always made my own decisions and so shall I continue.’
That wasn’t strictly true of the Duchess of Severn, but the sentiment fit the feisty-country-girl persona Henrietta was adopting. She was so busy inventing a name for herself in case anyone asked – Etta Edwards, since Etta had been her brother Edward’s pet name for her when they were little – that she didn’t notice the tavern had again grown as silent as death.
By the time awareness dawned, everyone was staring at her with dark and suspicious eyes.
Sam spoke. ‘How is it you talk like a gentry mort?’
Henrietta realised her dangerous mistake. Her accent had betrayed her. If rumours of the Duchess of Severn’s flight had circulated, one of these men – who clearly admired Edmund enough to drape his portrait in black cloth – might make a lucky guess. She and Theo could never overpower this many adversaries, and the pouring rain forbade a mad dash to safety. All would end now and Edmund would never have justice.
So, Henrietta held her head high and spun what she hoped was a plausible story. ‘I was in service. A chambermaid at a big house.’
The answer evidently satisfied most of the men. The tension eased; many returned to their conversations and the fiddler took up his instrument again, commencing a folk song, accompanied by a tuneful singer.
But Jim’s eyes trailed her as she and Theo walked to the counter. While the barman pulled the tap for Theo’s pint, the older man approached. ‘Where were you a maid at, miss? Not up the hill at Enberry Abbey, I hope?’
Theo edged protectively close, his beer in one hand, his other hand coming to rest on the small of her back. ‘Not there.’
‘Let her speak for herself, boy,’ Jim said, though not unkindly. He smiled encouragingly at Henrietta.
Enberry Abbey was a familiar name, but Henrietta couldn’t place it and after her brush with danger she hoped to avoid giving any specifics. ‘I worked elsewhere, like my friend said.’
The barman laughed, his lips stretching to reveal largely toothless gums. ‘No girl as comely as her would still be a maid working for Marlow, with his wandering hands.’
Ah, yes! Enberry Abbey was Marlow’s country seat. Over the years, Henrietta had sent her regrets to a handful of invitations to strawberry-picking excursions and the like. How telling of the viscount’s character that local villagers despised him.
Jim grabbed a bottle from behind the counter, poured a small glass of clear liquid and handed it to Henrietta. ‘My treat, Miss … Forgive me, I don’t know your name, love.’
Theo tensed. ‘You don’t need to know—’
Henrietta placed a hand on his forearm and took the offered drink, glad she’d prepared for this moment. ‘My name is Etta Edwards.’
‘A name as lovely as you are,’ Jim King said. ‘D’ye know of Lord Marlow, Etta Edwards?’ When Henrietta shook her head in the negative, he continued. ‘Well, if you have a mind to stay in these parts, keep clear of him. He’s a damned dog, that’s what he is. Up in London still, but he’ll be coming down for the summer soon enough. Evisceration would be too good for the likes of him, yet here he is, lord over us all, eh, men?’
He projected his last sentence to all the assembled company, eliciting a chorus of grumbles.
‘Cato Street would’ve ended him,’ someone muttered darkly.
‘Watch your tongue, Harry Skilton.’ Jim peered closely at Theo. ‘We don’t know yet where our visitors’ sympathies lie.’
Theo froze, his ale halfway to his mouth. ‘Etta and I believe in the people’s right to a voice in Parliament, but we aren’t traitors and we aren’t looking for trouble. Only food and shelter as we wait out the rain.’
Jim tapped his fingers on the bar. ‘Well, I reckon we can do that, aright. Though more for this angel than for you.’ He looked kindly on Henrietta and she bestowed a smile in return, not entirely untaken with the man. ‘You make sure your London boy treats you right, Etta Edwards. If not, remember the names Jim King and the Pickled Dog, and come looking for me.’
The man turned away, and, looking over the company, held out his hands. ‘Let’s greet our guests with a proper Pickled Dog welcome, my friends.’
The men banged their fists on the tables. Henrietta’s hand found Theo’s. They’d stumbled into a radical enclave and worry nagged at her. How dangerous were these men?
But the fiddler merely struck up Eliza King’s march. As male voices rose in song, she and Theo wove their way to a small table in a far corner, distancing themselves from the other occupants.
Once settled in their seats, Henrietta lifted Jim King’s offering to her nose. She recognised the piney scent of gin, a common-enough smell in certain London quarters. As Theo downed half his ale, she took a tentative sip. Fire scorched her mouth and throat. She struggled not to gag.
Once her eyes stopped stinging, she leant towards Theo. ‘Do you suppose Jim King is any relation to Eliza?’
‘Possible, but more likely a coincidence.’ He nodded at her gin. ‘Would you prefer to share my ale?’
‘I’d prefer tea to either.’
He slid his tankard over the grooved wooden tabletop. ‘You’d do better with ale at a place like this. If they have tea, it will be thrice-used leaves and taste of nothing but filthy water.’
Resigned, she brought the tankard to her mouth. The ale was bitter, but milder and more refreshing than the gin, which Theo drained in one swallow, turning his back to the room so Jim King couldn’t see that Henrietta had rejected the offering.
‘How can you drink that?’ she asked, fascinated.
He grinned. ‘Mother’s milk to a Cockney like me.’
She grimaced. Knowing there were no other beverages to be had, she contented herself with a few more sips of Theo’s ale as she again pondered the coincidence of the surname. ‘Where is Eliza King from?’
Theo looked around the taproom. ‘I don’t know, but I imagine someone here could answer that question. These are radicals through and through.’
Henrietta studied the assembled company. The men had fallen back into conversation, but their discussion was quiet now, words muttered over their pints, far too low to decipher, and some of them cast dark glances her way. ‘I dislike asking anything. They are suspicious of us.’
Theo agreed. ‘Strictly speaking, I suspect this gathering is in defiance of the Six Acts. With your accent and looks, they know you aren’t what you say you are.’
‘They didn’t believe me when I said I was a housemaid?’
He gave her that funny look, half amused, half pitying. ‘Perhaps, but, all the same, they are no doubt speculating about you right now. Saying that no maid has hair like yours—’
‘My hair?’ She pulled a face. ‘What can you mean? My hair is in such a state! Tangled, ragged—’
‘And that no maid has skin like yours,’ he continued, interrupting her interruption.
She laughed, putting a hand to her cheek. ‘Now I know you jest, for I’m sunburnt.’
His eyes caressed her face. ‘Naught but a hint of rose on fine porcelain.’
‘You’re ridiculous,’ she said. But judging by the warmth of her cheeks, she’d gone a bit rosier yet.
His gaze rested on her hand, curled around the tankard. ‘Take your hands, for example. Your nails, your fingers, exquisite …’ He traced one and the touch of his calloused fingertip sent chills down her arm. ‘ Not the hands of a housemaid.’
‘Well, then, what shall we do, if my disguise is so poor that they suspect me?’ she asked, hiding his effect on her with a snappish tone. ‘We are trapped by the weather; must we wait for the magistrate himself to appear?’
‘Nay, darling. Don’t trouble yourself on that account. Your true identity won’t enter their imaginations. Perhaps one or two of the more suspicious men think we are the king’s spies, but I suspect most are creating a more salacious backstory based on your beauty and my roughness.’
‘What sort of backstory?’ she asked, doubtful.
He took a swig of ale. ‘Oh, I’ve no doubt we’re providing plenty of fodder for their imaginations. Perhaps they suppose you to be an actress, or a fine gentleman’s mistress, run off with the stable boy.’
He laughed and after a moment, Henrietta joined him, and soon they were laughing heartily, their hands clasped and heads close.
Minutes later, she was wiping tears from her eyes. ‘How lovely to laugh,’ she said, although the loveliest thing had been the warm companionship between them as they’d shared the laughter. She was glad the friction from the pond had dissipated and they’d returned to their newfound friendliness. ‘I haven’t had a proper laugh since before … well, you know.’ She sobered somewhat, but thankfully her spirits remained light and she smiled at Theo. ‘What was my fine gentleman thinking, keeping a stable boy as good-looking as you?’
His eyes glistened. ‘Good-looking, am I? I thought you’d never given a single thought to my appearance. I feel quite certain you said those exact words yesterday.’
She glanced shyly through her lashes. ‘Over the last few hours, it has occurred to me that you aren’t painful to look upon.’
He flashed his cheeky grin but didn’t reply because the innkeeper arrived with two flat-bottomed bowls. Henrietta regretted the interruption. The flirtation had been fun and it gave her hope she might yet entice Theo into her bed.
The innkeeper plopped the bowls upon the table while the singer and fiddler began a lilting ballad about ‘Bess the Black-Eyed Beauty’. Henrietta sipped Theo’s ale, impressed by the singer’s soaring tenor, but she couldn’t quite follow the tale. It was something odd, about a woman who went about in many disguises but was identifiable by black, black eyes, which could fell her enemies with a glance.
With a shrug of her shoulders, she turned her attention to her meal. Swimming in the chipped earthenware was a watery substance with indecipherable pale chunks, poured over a thick slice of brown bread.
‘Er, what is this, Theo?’
‘Pottage.’ He shovelled a sizeable bite into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. ‘Chicken, barley and whatever the cook had to hand, I’d say.’
She sighed, remembering the fine meal she’d had at the George the night before, but she took up her spoon and sampled the broth. It was bland, cooked without salt or herbs. Further nibbles revealed that the meat was gristly, punctuated by shards of bone and the odd quill tip, but it was food and it soothed the hunger gnawing at Henrietta’s stomach. Little by little, she swallowed, washing it down with sips of ale.
Theo finished first. He pushed away his empty bowl and ordered a second ale. Then he stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles, and made pleasant conversation as she ate.
Until Sam Walker clanged an empty tankard against his chair leg. ‘Men, it’s time we discuss the rumours about the Duke of Severn’s death.’
Henrietta’s hand stilled, her spoon halfway to her mouth. Under their table, Theo’s burly hand found hers. ‘Keep eating,’ he mouthed.
She did but swallowing nearly choked her.
Jim King stared. ‘Now’s not the time, Sam,’ he said. ‘Let our guests enjoy their supper.’
Sam’s expression darkened. ‘’Tis the purpose of this meeting, Jim – and there’s more news since yesterday, just come down from London with Harry Skilton.’ He waved The Times in the air. ‘Early this morning, the maid, Libby Forman, was formally indicted for the murder of Severn. She is imprisoned now at Newgate, awaiting trial.’
Henrietta’s spoon fell from her hand, clattering upon the stone floor, and for the third time since she arrived, the room went quiet.
‘What does this news mean to you, Etta Edwards?’ Jim King asked, sitting back in his chair, his voice deceptively calm. ‘Why does it affect you so?’
Henrietta frantically attempted to invent a plausible answer; the story of Theo’s mother flashed to mind. ‘Two fears haunt housemaids: the roaming hands of our masters and unmerited blame when something goes wrong in the household.’
‘You think this Libby Forman is innocent, then?’ Jim asked.
Henrietta lied. ‘I don’t know the particulars, but I fear for her, all the same.’
Jim tapped a foot against the floor. ‘Who was it you worked for, Etta?’
Henrietta’s mouth went dry. The names of acquaintances weren’t safe to speak and she could think of no other.
Theo intervened, a warning in his voice. ‘Etta’s trials are her own. She fled that life. She needs peace now, not an inquisition.’
Jim’s steely gaze shifted to Theo. ‘I’d say it’s time for you to be on your way, but the storm’s not abating and I’m not one to turn a girl out in this weather. Best take your woman upstairs, young man, and give her that peace she craves.’ He addressed the company. ‘Men, cards out until our guests take their leave.’
‘We’ve outstayed our welcome,’ Theo said under his breath. ‘And yet, with the storm raging and the roads surely swamped with mud, we can’t continue our journey today. I’ll secure rooms for the night, then visit an apothecary and purchase ointment for your legs.’
Henrietta grabbed his forearm. ‘One room, Theo, and send someone for the ointment.’ She looked round the tavern. ‘Against a single gentleman, I can hold my own. But near this crowd of rough and suspicious men, please don’t leave my side.’
Besides, she had a secondary motive for wanting him nearby.