Page 15 of A Silence in Belgrave Square (Below Stairs #8)

I was pleased, actually, to see his concern.

When I’d first met Mr.Fielding, he’d showed annoyance that he’d had to ask for Daniel’s help and resentment toward Daniel for what Mr.Fielding had perceived was his soft life.

They’d lost touch with each other in the aftermath of their foster father’s death, both clawing their way up from the streets and both believing the other had had an easier time of it.

“I must ask you another question,” I said before Mr.Fielding could suggest we move on. “In your experience of swindlers, what can you tell me about blackmailers? Particularly those who claim to know one’s nastier secrets?”

Mr.Fielding regarded me in surprise. “Surely, no one is trying to blackmail you , my dear Kat—I mean, my dear Mrs.Holloway. You lead a blameless life.”

I had not in the past, and he knew it. “No, not me. Ladies of quality, shall we say. What sort of person writes scurrilous letters threatening to reveal all unless one pays? Is it a trickster trying his luck? If he or she sends out enough letters, they’ll come upon someone willing to settle up? Or is it a madwoman? Or madman?”

Mr.Fielding shook his head in distaste.

“An accomplished confidence man doesn’t need to use sordid letters and threats.

They can convince a mark to hand over the cash while buttering them up without penitence.

The mark usually doesn’t even know they’ve been had until too late.

Blackmailers, on the other hand, are repugnant creatures.

They play upon people’s weaknesses and fears.

A good trickster plays upon one’s deepest desires, not one’s deepest dread. ”

“Well, I am very glad there are fraudsters in the world with clear consciences,” I said with some impatience.

“Putting aside your revulsion, would it be more likely to be someone seeing blackmail as a business venture? Or a miserable wretch who wants to cause as much misery as they feel themselves?”

“I could not venture my opinion until I saw the letters,” Mr.Fielding said. “A good idea is to compare several of them—is the handwriting neat and even? Or scrawled in rage? Are they rambling? Or precise in their accusations?”

“The two I have seen look much alike. The handwriting is clear, but I could not say if it is a man’s or a woman’s. The letters indicate another will come with instructions as to where to leave the money, but so far, none have.”

“Curious.” Mr.Fielding tilted his head back to study Admiral Nelson, who calmly surveyed Charing Cross and on into Whitehall, pigeons perched happily on his shoulders.

“It could be someone wanting to foment trouble for the sake of it. There are some who enjoy that. Or they are waiting for their moment. The most dangerous time for a blackmailer is the exchange of money for the goods. The victim might bring the police. Or a pistol.” Mr.Fielding pulled his gaze to me again.

“Is there any chance I could have a look at them? I might be able to advise you better.”

“I will have to ask. The letters are not mine, you understand, and the ladies might object to a vicar reading about their sins.”

Mr.Fielding barked a laugh. “There are plenty corrupt members of the clergy in the world, I assure you. Compared to many of them, I am a saint. But I take your point. I can offer complete discretion, if they will trust me. I am only interested in uncovering a quivering, cowardly blackmailer, not exposing the ladies’ secrets.

” He paused. “Do not say that dear Lady Cynthia, the trouser-wearing, splendid young woman, has received one?”

“She has not,” I could answer. “Nor has her friend Lady Roberta.”

“No? That is interesting. But a relief. Lady Cynthia’s book-learned genius young man might try to defend her honor in some fashion and come to grief.

Not Lady Roberta, you say? No letters to her brother threatening to shame him for his sister’s behavior?

Not that Lady Roberta is very secretive about her life.

I admire her for that.” Mr.Fielding beamed his approval.

“Her brother and sister-in-law have not received any, as far as I know,” I answered. “Miss Townsend has, but her letter did not mention Lady Roberta. Miss Townsend regarded the letter she received as a tasteless joke.”

“Ah, the formidable Miss Townsend. I ever pity she has no interest in the male of the species, or I’d be tempted to offer her the position as vicar’s wife. Not that she’d hasten to trade her luxurious home in Mayfair for a cramped vicarage in the East End.”

“Quite so,” I agreed. “The letter was horrible, but Miss Townsend took it in her stride. I’ll wager, as she lives unconventionally, that she is not a stranger to them, which is sad. Several of her friends have had letters—I can ask Lady Cynthia if they’d be willing to let us compare them.”

Mr.Fielding looked thoughtful. “We must ask ourselves why Lady Cynthia and Lady Roberta have not been threatened. What do the other ladies have in common that those two do not share?”

“I have been wondering about that.” I’d made lists in my notebook, but again, I could hardly consult it here.

“Miss Townsend and the other two are connected to important men, either by marriage or other relation. Lady Roberta’s father is an earl but doesn’t do much in the way of politics.

Her brother has his own circle, but no real power, according to Lady Cynthia.

Cynthia’s father won’t go near the House of Lords—he finds it appallingly dull.

That does not explain though why her sister was sent one. ”

Mr.Fielding stared at me in some shock. “The deceased sister?”

“Yes, it is most strange.”

“I’d say that was the strangest fact of all.

” Mr.Fielding shot Lord Nelson another assessing look, then took my arm again.

“We have stood here too long. Let us get you home. You quiz Lady Cynthia on whether I can have a butcher’s at a few of the letters.

If it’s a scheme hatched by a confidence trickster I know, I can have a word with the bastard. ”

I did not like to ponder about what state the blackmailer would be in once Mr.Fielding was finished with him.

“I will welcome your help, Mr.Fielding,” I said warmly. “But please do not get yourself arrested.”

Mr.Fielding’s laughter was filled with true mirth. “I never do, my dear Mrs.Holloway. I never do.”

* * *

I entered the kitchen of Mount Street not long later, in time to help Tess finish the supper for the Bywaters and Cynthia.

Later, when Lady Cynthia breezed out through the below-stairs entrance to join her friends, I asked whether she’d have a word with Miss Townsend about showing Mr.Fielding some of the letters.

“Fielding, eh?” Cynthia had already adopted the masculine mannerisms she’d use throughout the night. “Excellent idea—he might know a thing or two. I’ll ask Judes. Good night. Don’t wait up.”

She grinned as she swept past, her eyes alight.

“Wish I could rush about so free and easy,” Tess said as we stacked used pots in a pile in order to scrub off the work table. “I hope she won’t be too reckless.”

“We do not need Lady Cynthia in trouble with the law, no,” I agreed. “Let us set up the bread and prepare for tomorrow. I have a new dish for us to try. I found ever so many pears and apples. You will see.”

I set the fruit I’d bought from Hannah—who knew how she’d obtained it—on the dresser then collected peppers and onions in the larder and left them in a bowl for chopping the next day. Tess and I continued our labors, then I sent her up early, as she’d been working hard today on her own.

Once alone, I retrieved my notebook and opened it to my notes on Daniel’s case. I wrote the names Hannah had given me, making neat lines between them.

I jotted down Hannah’s observations, and also Mr.Fielding’s, but I would need more information.

This did not worry me. I’d lived in Mount Street for a few years now, and I’d come to know who lived in nearly every house in Mayfair, as well as north across Oxford Street and south into Belgravia.

I also knew what cooks and maids worked in which house.

They’d know what went on above stairs—who visited whom, and their views on every issue in the land.

Mr.Davis was acquainted with most of the butlers and other manservants, and I could recruit him to tell me a few things if I could not find out via the kitchens.

The servants’ gossip network in London could outdo spies for the queen any day.

I made more notes on the pages where I’d listed whom had received blackmail letters—Miss Townsend, her friends Delia and Viola, and Lady Rankin—with a query to find out more about what the victims had in common.

So far, with the exception of Lady Rankin, they all belonged to Miss Townsend’s set.

However, others in Mayfair might have received them as well, unbeknownst to Miss Townsend.

Letters like these were not ones a lady boasted to her acquaintances about.

I also wondered whether any gentlemen, who’d be even more reluctant to speak, had been gifted with such letters. Mr.Fielding, in his role of ingenuous but kindly vicar, might be of help in that regard.

Satisfied I’d done all I could for the day, I tucked my notebook into my pocket and climbed the many stairs to my chamber in the attic. I fell into bed, exhausted, but dreamed of Mr.Monaghan pursuing Grace, Daniel, and me through narrow London streets, while incendiaries rained upon us.

I woke too early, rattled, and rushed through my ablutions to return to the kitchen, hoping that hard work would take my mind off things.

As I was pinning on my cap, a knock sounded on the back door. I answered it, as I was the first one into the kitchen this morning.

The lad who’d delivered the note from Hannah last week stood on the threshold. He handed me a new note and stuck out his soot-streaked palm for a reward. When I gave him another ha’penny, he frowned his disappointment and stamped back up the stairs.

The missive was short, as Hannah’s last one had been.

It weren’t him .

That was all. I turned the paper over, but nothing was on the back. I even held it up to the gaslit sconce to see if she’d written something else faintly on it, but no.

I crumpled the paper into my pocket, wondering what on earth she meant.

It wasn’t who? Lord Peyton? Daniel? Lord Peyton’s giant manservant? And what hadn’t they done? If anything at all?

I puzzled over this as Tess and I made omelets, bread toasted on the rack and slathered with butter, sausages with a bit of cheese, and a chutney from part of the apples and pears I’d set out.

Mr.Davis came down after serving breakfast to sit at my table and relax, as he often did, before he took up his other duties. He spread out a newspaper, which contained the lurid headline Body in the Thames .

Drownings, whether accidental or deliberate, sometimes tragically did happen. I usually took a moment to feel sorry for the man or woman and their families and then carried on with my drudging.

Today, I laid down my knife and walked around the table where I could better see the paper. “What is that about, Mr.Davis?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“A lurid murder,” Mr.Davis said easily, then he read:

A waterman was startled in the small hours of the morning to find in the nets he leaves out for flotsam the dead body of a man.

His throat had been cut, and he had several bruises and other cuts along his body.

He wore a tailored suit, and the one shoe that had remained on his foot was from a firm in Bond Street.

By this, one can say that the man was a gentleman.

His name was not revealed to us, but the police have put into their report that he was the secretary to a lordship in Belgravia. We have made inquiries—

Whatever else Mr.Davis said was lost to me. I found myself sitting on the floor at his feet with a worried Tess peering down at me.