Page 16 of A Silence in Belgrave Square (Below Stairs #8)

“Mrs.Holloway?” Tess chafed my wrists, her voice full of fear, while Mr.Davis wafted a handkerchief in front of my face.

I was folded up so that my stays cut into my abdomen, preventing me from drawing a long breath, or so I supposed. There should be no other reason I was gasping.

Daniel had a nicely tailored suit and shoes from Bond Street, which he used when he portrayed an upper-class gent. He had new ensembles made each season so he’d always be in the height of fashion, no matter how subtle the changes in men’s dress were that year.

Had they found Daniel out? Taken him aside to kill him and heaved his body into the river?

“You’ve had a turn, Mrs.Holloway,” Mr.Davis was saying. “Was it the gruesome tale? Or was the chutney bad? Pears out of season can be unhealthy, I always say.”

“It was not the pears,” I wheezed. “Help me stand, please.”

Tess and Mr.Davis each gripped me under an arm and hauled me to my feet. My knees buckled as soon as they let me go, and I quickly found a chair to collapse into. My hands fell to my sides, black spots dancing before my eyes.

The memory rose of me sitting here in the dark of night only a week ago, with Daniel across from me as he shoveled down my meal and smiled at me.

Dear God, he could not be gone. Once before in my life, I’d thought Daniel dead, and only a visit to the morgue had confirmed he’d not been the victim. Would I have to repeat that awful journey, with a different result this time?

It weren’t him.

The words of Hannah’s note floated through my agitated thoughts.

Was this what she’d meant? Hannah would have been present when news of the death was brought to Viscount Peyton—if he was indeed the lordship referred to in the rather flippant newspaper story.

She’d realize that I’d hear the tale or read of the murder myself. Hence the hastily sent note with her messenger, which would mean nothing to anyone who intercepted it.

Had she been reassuring me that Daniel was alive and well? Or was I wildly misinterpreting Hannah’s purpose? I’d like to have both her and Daniel here before me, so I could shout at them and relieve my anxiousness.

Mr.Davis and Tess had drawn back in some relief, so my color must have returned to normal.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, trying to calm my breathing. “I did not sleep well.”

By their expressions, neither Tess nor Mr.Davis believed this explanation, but they didn’t press me.

“You sit still, Mrs.H.,” Tess said. “I’ll fetch you a cuppa.”

“That would be kind, thank you.” My words still didn’t sound right, but Tess trotted away without question. “Carry on with the story, Mr.Davis. How did they know the poor man was someone’s secretary?”

Mr.Davis sent me another skeptical look but returned to his chair and the newspaper. He ran his finger over the lines he’d already read until he reached the place he’d left off.

We have made inquiries, but the police are content to say very little about this poor soul.

He washed up near Blackfriars Bridge after a journey in the water of some days.

We suppose the physicians and detectives of Scotland Yard will draw conclusions of where he went in and how long ago from the wetness of his clothes and the condition of the body and so forth.

We can only send our sympathies to his family, whoever they are.

“His family will not thank the journalists for that disrespectful description,” I said in disapproval.

“The more impertinent a story, the more likely it will be read,” Mr.Davis said. “Especially in a rag like this.” He turned to the front page, whose banner was from one of the many newspapers sold cheaply on any street. “Probably why the master only reads the financial and sporting news.”

From the article, I concluded that the police had decided not to release the dead man’s name. I wondered why they were being cryptic. Had Lord Peyton asked them to be?

Tess returned to me with my cup of tea. She’d added a piece of lemon shortbread, which I really did not need, but I munched it anyway. The repast did make me feel better.

Hannah had said that the former secretary had been a Mr.Howard. This gent had packed his bags one morning and disappeared.

Had he actually walked out of his own accord? Or had he already been dead, the housekeeper instructed to send his bags on somewhere? I itched to make a note of all of this.

Even more, I longed to see Daniel in the flesh. To touch his face and make certain that I wasn’t terribly wrong about Hannah’s note.

I knew of someone who could tell me everything, a person I would not need to be surreptitious in order to approach. I was certain he’d not want to see me, but he would answer my questions or face my wrath.

Thinking of that scenario returned my spirits to me. I finished the tea and biscuit, rose from my seat, and continued the luncheon preparations with some of my usual robustness.

* * *

I could not leave the house that day to rush about London asking questions, so I put my own resources to work.

Errand boys went everywhere, saw everything, and were willing to share their knowledge for a few coins. Hannah had given me the names of Lord Peyton’s most frequent visitors: Lord Pelsham, Mr.and Mrs.Lofthouse, and Dr.Hampton.

Lord Pelsham, an earl, lived in Hill Street, which ran west from Berkeley Square.

If Hannah meant that the doctor was one Graham Hampton, he had a home in Berkeley Square, which proclaimed how grand he was.

I had not heard of the Lofthouses, but I asked the lads who carried out tasks for me to look out for anyone of that name.

They were also to skulk about the homes of the other two, perhaps asking to do odd jobs, and tell me of anyone who came and went or any unusual behavior of the household.

Once I’d dispatched the boys, I returned to the kitchen. Mr.Davis had resumed his duties, which by the sound of it, meant haranguing the footmen for the terrible job they’d done cleaning the silver.

Tess glanced up from her chopping board when I came in. “Want me to ask Caleb about the murdered man?”

I had been about to suggest she discover if he knew anything about the case. I smoothed my apron and took up my knife. “Only if he happens to know and does not poke about in papers he has no business touching or ask too many questions.”

Tess brightened. “He’s become ever so good at finding things out without anyone knowing. He’ll make detective soon, I’m sure.”

“Unless they sack him first,” I said warningly.

I was very protective of Constable Greene, not only for Tess’s sake. He was an amiable soul, and he adored her. On the awful day Tess would announce she was leaving me to marry him, I would be comforted by the fact that Caleb was a kind, hardworking young man who would do well by her.

“I’ll ask him,” Tess said, undaunted. “You worried the bloke in the river were Mr.McAdam, didn’t you?”

I pulled an onion to me Tess had peeled and sliced off one end.

“For a moment, yes. But Daniel is resilient and a bonny fighter. I’ve watched him dispatch those who tried to hurt him in the past.” I bolstered my doubts with this recollection.

“There would have been many ruffians lying about, bruised and bleeding, if it had been Daniel who went into the river.”

“That’s a mercy,” Tess said. “Though not for the poor sod who actually died.”

I kept to myself my theories about who the murdered man was, but I puzzled over them.

Why should Lord Peyton’s former secretary have been killed?

Had he discovered too much? Or had he simply been the victim of a robbery?

London was rife with thieves who didn’t mind cutting a gent to take all he had.

Perhaps one had done so to Mr.Howard and tossed him into the river to be rid of him.

Unhappily, at the moment, I could not rush to Scotland Yard and demand answers. I was a cook, and cook I must.

I brought out my newly bought apples and turned my mind to the task at hand.

“I need a pint of cream from the larder,” I instructed Tess. “There should also be some preserved lemons leftover from Christmas—grate the rinds into the cream and also add a cinnamon stick. Put that to simmer at the back of the stove, and meanwhile, we’ll peel and chop the apples.”

Tess wiped her hands from the sweet peppers she’d been slicing and obediently trotted to the larder. When she returned, she uncomplainingly began to peel the apples and cut them as I instructed.

“Me mouth is watering already,” she said. “Can we have any of this?”

I did not look up from the apple I was paring. “We’ll have to taste a good portion to make certain it is fit to serve at table, of course.”

Tess winked at me. “Right you are, Mrs.H.”

I’d ceased bothering trying to prevent my friends from addressing me as Mrs.H., which hardly painted the respectability I wanted to portray . I now took it as a sign of affection and said no more.

After the cream had simmered a bit, I moved it to a hotter burner and added a smidgen of flour to thicken it, stirring it well. Next went in a few eggs Tess had broken into a small bowl for me. Once the mixture was custardy, I set it aside to cool.

The dish I meant to prepare was called apples à la frangipane, from a recipe a cook in Brook Street had shared with me, though that name could not be accurate.

Frangipane referred to an almond paste or cream, and this had no almonds at all in it.

But the cook had inherited the recipe from her mother, who’d sworn it had been made in the court of Queen Caroline, wife of the second King George, long ago.

As Tess and I sliced apples to place in a ceramic dish I’d buttered, one of my errand boys came to find me.

The lad would not say a word until I put fivepence in his hand. We stood near the railings outside, while a warming May breeze wafted over us. I did not try to be secretive, as a cook paying a boy who’d taken a message or brought her some greens was not an unusual sight in Mayfair.

“Found the mister and missus you was looking for,” the little chap, who had very blue eyes, said.

“Well done, Albie,” I told him. “Are you certain you had the correct people?”

“The Lofthouses, yeah.” He gave me a confident nod.

“Funny name, that. They lease a house on Portman Square. North side, close to Upper Berkeley Street. Blue drapes in the ground-floor windows, black door. Gent has a coach with matched bays and a coachman who let me help him brush the beasts. The lady and gent go out all the time, and came out when I was there. When the coachman drove them away, another groom said they spend money like water except to their own staff, where they’re mean as anything.

Never drop a tip in your hand, the misers, says he. ”

I had the feeling they also hadn’t given Albie a coin today, even though he’d helped curry their horses. “Do you know where they were going?” I asked.

“Museum in Bloomsbury. The big one.”

“The British Museum?” I asked in surprise.

“That’s the place. Groom says they meet their highbrow friends there and talk about all sorts.”

The museum had a reading room only scholars were allowed into, but I supposed they had other areas where people of like minds could speak to each other.

Or perhaps they met in a nearby pub, as Lady Cynthia and Mr.Thanos did with their acquaintances.

In the upstairs rooms of that pub, bluestockings and other intellectuals discussed everything from suffrage for women to the properties of electricity.

“Do the Lofthouses have many friends visit?” I asked.

Albie nodded. “House can be lively, groom says. Mostly toffs from around Mayfair, but sometimes Americans come to stay.” Albie wrinkled his nose at the dubious social position of Americans.

“Anything else unusual?”

“Not really.” Albie sounded disappointed. “They sometimes send for the carriage in the middle of the night and rush off, but that’s not strange for a toff, is it? They run around to other fancy houses, some so close anybody else would walk to them.”

“Perhaps they worry about thieves,” I suggested, though I didn’t really believe that. “Even in Mayfair, wandering along in the dark can be dangerous, can’t it?” I pulled another penny from my pocket. “You’ve done excellently well, Albie. Thank you.”

Albie studied the copper coin as though hoping it would morph into a shilling, but I resisted his silent wish. I’d already given him fivepence, which would buy a small boy much sustenance if he was frugal.

“If you discover anything else, come directly to me,” I instructed him. “Of course I will reward you.”

Albie grew abruptly more cheerful. He tipped his cap, grinned, and rushed off down the street, earning a curse from a coachman he darted in front of.

I recognized the carriage that had to swerve to miss Albie, having ridden inside it myself. It belonged to Miss Townsend, and the annoyed coachman was called Dunstan.

One of our footmen rushed from the front door to let down the step of the coach and open its door, his sturdy hand out to help Miss Townsend alight. Unlike the apparently stingy Mr.and Mrs.Lofthouse, Miss Townsend pressed a glittering silver coin into the footman’s gloved palm.

Miss Townsend spied me lingering beside the railings and turned her steps to me, to the consternation of the footman.

“Mrs.Holloway, how fortunate I’ve caught you.

” Miss Townsend slid her hand into the pocket of her light spring jacket and handed me an envelope, her eyes alight with excitement.

“The next letter came,” she said, sotto voce.

“Look that over and tell me what you think. I’ll be upstairs having a sedate tea with Cynthia and her aunt.

We’ll confer when I am ready to depart.”

I had no time to answer before Miss Townsend sailed back toward the house’s front door. “Not to worry, dear boy. Here I am.” She let the footman, who doubtless hoped for another gratuity, lead her under the square portico and through the open door into the house.

I kept the letter crumpled in my hand as I hastened down the stairs to the kitchen. Once inside I shoved aside the bowl of sliced apples—in cold water so they wouldn’t brown—and unfolded what Miss Townsend had given me.

The letter was in its envelope, addressed to Miss Townsend of Upper Brook Street in a clear hand. I stared down at the envelope, my hand drifting to my parted lips as a coldness stole through me.

“Mrs.H.?” Tess asked in concern. “What is it? Not more bad news?”

It was no news at all. But I recognized the handwriting that blared up at me. I’d seen it in notes addressed to me, passed to me by James, and also from careful entries he’d made about our inquiries into my own notebook.

I knew without any sort of doubt that Daniel McAdam had written the direction on this missive.