Page 18 of A Silence in Belgrave Square (Below Stairs #8)

Zachariah Grimes beamed at me from his great height, his blue eyes in his rather squashed face filled with unfeigned delight.

He wrung my hands, jiggling my now-empty basket, and I gasped for breath. “I am happy to see you as well, Mr.Grimes,” I managed. “Your grip is rather tight.”

Instantly, Mr.Grimes released me. “Beg pardon, missus. I forget me own strength when I’m chuffed. You look well. Danny’s worried about you, but you’re as hearty as ever.”

In fashionable society, a lady’s beauty depended on how delicate she was, and calling a woman hearty would be seen as an insult. I often thanked the Lord I wasn’t a fashionable lady—I’d be useless if I reclined on a chaise pretending I couldn’t lift a teacup on my own.

The beggars had dispersed, and I felt able to speak freely. “I am quite well, Mr.Grimes. It is Daniel I’m worried about.”

“Aye, that’s why I’ve come. I hear it’s in the newspapers that a secretary to the toff in Belgrave Square was done over, and I wanted to tell you it weren’t our Danny. Rest assured. I saw him this morning.”

I sagged, thankful the house’s railings were behind me. Mr.Grimes was quickly beside me, his strong hand under my elbow.

I’d already concluded from Hannah’s note and the lack of a grief-stricken James on my doorstep that the murdered man could not be Daniel. Also Constable Greene would by now have told me, or at least Tess, if the body had been Daniel’s.

But reasoning and believing were not the same as knowing.

“Thank you, Mr.Grimes,” I said, my voice faint. “I had deduced this.”

Mr.Grimes nodded at me. “You’re a sharp one, you are. But I thought I’d reassure you. Newspapers say all sorts.”

He did not release my elbow, bless the man. He was a large, frightening, South London tough, but I’d come to learn he had a warm heart and would do anything for a friend.

“You say you saw Daniel this morning?” I longed for news of him, longed for a sight of him.

“Aye. He goes out on occasion, and he told me to be nigh, in case he needed me. He went to a newsagents on the Brompton Road, and I pretended to happen to be there looking for a newspaper. Not that I could read it.” He guffawed.

“Danny didn’t give me no particulars on what he was doing in that house.

He just told me to tell you he was well, and to look after you. ”

“I am glad.” I’d wondered why Mr.Grimes hadn’t come to me after I’d asked James to look out for him, but if he was hanging about waiting to see if Daniel needed him, I understood. I was happy now for the wait. “I am grateful to you for guarding him, as much as you can,” I said in all sincerity.

“I can’t get as near as I’d wish, in that part of London,” Mr.Grimes answered. “A constable is always ready to run off the likes of me. But if Danny needs me, I’m there with me fists. Let anyone try to hurt ’im.” He released me to pound one meaty hand into an open palm.

“I do feel better, knowing you are prowling,” I assured him.

Mr.Grimes boomed his big laugh, the sound cheering. “Not many would, would they? Oh, Danny also told me to tell you he knows about the maid.”

“What?” I regarded Mr.Grimes in pure dismay. “How could he possibly know?”

Mr.Grimes shrugged. “He’s Danny.”

“Drat him.” I doubted Hannah had told him her true identity. She was very good at deception, but then, so was Daniel. “He didn’t send her away, did he?”

“He didn’t say. But I think he’d have told me if he had done.”

I exhaled an exasperated breath. “Well, I hope he makes use of her instead of shutting her out. Blast the man.”

Mr.Grimes clearly had no idea what maid I was talking about, but he nodded along thoughtfully. “Danny does what’s best.”

“Do you know anything about what he’s facing?” I asked, my worries mounting. “Was the dead man the secretary he replaced?”

Mr.Grimes went somber. “Danny says so, though he don’t know who killed him. Mr.Howard, secretary’s name was. Gent from Northamptonshire, youngest son to a toff, come to London to make a living, poor chap.”

Mr.Howard had accepted the wrong offer of employment, it seemed. Had it been chance that he’d found work with Viscount Peyton? Or had he been a supporter of the Fenians, an anarchist himself? Or, more troubling, had he been an envoy of this secret police the letters mentioned?

If Mr.Howard had been a police spy, he’d been readily dispatched. Which meant that if Daniel’s true identity was revealed, they would not hesitate to dispatch him as well.

As much as I wished Monaghan and his cronies would act, I thought I understood why they hadn’t simply carted everyone inside Lord Peyton’s house to the nearest magistrate.

Lord Peyton and his friends would have to stand trial, and if the police did not have enough of the right evidence, and Lord Peyton had a good barrister on his side, the judge might throw the case out or acquit him.

Lord Peyton also could be powerful enough to have judges dancing to his tune.

Besides, he would face the House of Lords or a tribunal of some sort for treason—I wasn’t certain about how such things worked—but he’d never kick his heels in Newgate and then be dragged through the tunnel to stand in the dock at the Old Bailey.

Monaghan and Daniel had to be careful to catch these people in the act of whatever they planned. To bring forth enough proof to outrage the Crown and end the danger of them once and for all.

Others would follow, a dim voice in the back of my mind told me.

There had been bomb attacks before, and there would be again, until Ireland had its grievances addressed.

Some of the stories I’d heard about the suffering in Irish villages were sad and horrible, and I sympathized with the people there.

But again, it was my child in danger from their fellow countrymen’s explosives.

Last October, bombs had gone off in Paddington Street Station, on the Underground, which had done nothing to endear me to that form of travel. I’d been careful to keep Grace from trains lately, especially after another incendiary device had detonated in Victoria Station only three months ago.

Daniel was trying to stop that. His ultimate task was to keep more violence from happening. Lord Peyton—or someone in his house—could point the way to the culprits.

I should leave Daniel to it, but as I’d reflected before, sacrificing Daniel for the greater good was not justifiable in my eyes.

“What can we do?” I asked in some desperation.

“We can watch.” Mr.Grimes’s usually sunny face held seriousness. “We can be ready to snatch our Danny to safety at a moment’s notice. If you got one of the maids on your side, she can help, can’t she?”

“She can.” Hannah was nothing if not resourceful. She was also fast on her feet, slipping from danger like a clever fox from a snare.

Mr.Grimes pasted on his smile again. “Don’t you worry, Mrs.H. Danny won’t come to harm if I have anything to say about it.”

I believed him, and I appreciated his adamance. “His brother is helping too. Mr.Fielding’s got people watching.” His lads lounged against railings in the shadows a little way along Mount Street even now, observing us.

“Wild Errol, the vicar?” Mr.Grimes’s laugh rang out once more. “Well, he knows some who are plenty frightening. Dangerous even. They’ll let no grief come to Danny.”

“Thank you, Mr.Grimes,” I said, straightening my basket. “You have made me feel much better.”

Mr.Grimes touched his cap. “Happy to help. Danny’s like a brother to me. One what kept me out of trouble—as long as I did whatever he said.” He chuckled.

My tension eased enough to let me smile. “That sounds like our Danny. Please visit again, Mr.Grimes. And tell me about anything that happens.”

“That I will.” He winked. “Any extra tarts wouldn’t go amiss either.”

I regretfully showed him my empty basket. “I’m afraid I’ve given away everything I brought out with me. If you stay a moment, I can fetch you something else.”

“Naw.” Mr.Grimes straightened to his full height. “I ate plenty of grub already today. Save it for another time. It will be my special treat.”

“I will reward you well,” I promised. Mr.Grimes would never have an empty belly again.

“I do look forward to that.” Mr.Grimes rubbed his hands in tattered gloves together. “Good night, missus. And don’t you worry. I’ll look after him.”

“Good night, Mr.Grimes.” I knew he’d do his best to keep Daniel safe, and for that, I’d bake him a thousand tarts. “God bless you.”

“And you, missus.” Mr.Grimes tipped a grubby cap to me, sent me his brilliant grin, and ducked back into the shadows.

I waited until he’d disappeared before I gave Mr.Fielding’s boys a nod and turned back to the kitchen stairs. I was still afraid for Daniel, but as I descended to the kitchen once more, I was bolstered by the knowledge that he had allies who’d fight for him.

* * *

The week’s end passed without incident at Mount Street, with the exception of Mrs.Bywater scolding me for making so rich a dish as the apples à la frangipane. I’d give them all dyspepsia if I wasn’t careful, she said.

Mr.Davis told me sourly that such concerns hadn’t stopped Mrs.Bywater from eating an entire bowl of it.

In my annoyance, I decided it would serve her right to give her a tart that was as dry as toast, perhaps with a single smear of unsweetened jam as its filling.

I even began to rub a tiny amount of butter into a mound of flour I’d heaped upon my table. If I moistened it into a paste with water, the result would be crisp and dry, like the stalest bread.

“Are we out of butter?” Tess asked in passing as she glanced at my floury fingers. “I can run out and fetch some if you like.”

“No, no.” I snatched the cloth off the tub I had brought from the larder and cut more cubes. “If I want the dough to puff into leaves, I must add the butter a little at a time.”

In the end, I could not bring myself to make a bad pastry. It would be like a famous soprano trying to sing out of tune, or a great ballerina faltering to the time of the music. If word got out that one of my tarts was inedible, my reputation would be in tatters.

I transformed the mound of flour and bowl of butter into a sheet of dough that I folded and rolled out, folded and rolled out, over and over.

I layered the finished sheets into an oblong pan, alternating them with pears and cinnamon.

No custard this time, but the pastry would not need it.

I’d whip a cream to dollop onto the warm, finished pieces.

That sweet went up on Sunday night, and Mr.Davis proclaimed it a success. Tess and I, eating the remainder, agreed.

Monday after lunch, I donned my second-best frock and scurried away before Mrs.Bywater could come downstairs and demand I make six more of the pear tarts for tonight, as Mr.Davis had warned me she’d threatened to.

I’d nearly reached Oxford Street, when a hansom overtook me. I recognized the cabbie as one called Lewis, Daniel’s friend, and paused my steps when Lewis halted next to me.

“Get in, Mrs.H.,” Lady Cynthia drawled at me from the hansom’s interior. The upright figure of Mr.Thanos sat next to her, with as much space between the two as the small cab could possibly allow. “Thanos and I would like to ask you a few questions.”

Mr.Thanos, ever a stickler for courtesy, hauled himself from the hansom and steadied my ascent into it. Lewis, like most London cabbies, started the horse again in a hurry, and Mr.Thanos nearly got left behind.

Mr.Thanos landed breathlessly next to me, squashing me between the two.

“We are abducting you,” Cynthia informed me. “Until you tell us all we wish to know.”

“Not exactly,” Mr.Thanos said quickly and apologetically. “Lewis has instruction to let you off in Cheapside.”

“What am I to tell you?” I asked them both in curiosity.

“Why you didn’t let on that McAdam wrote the direction on some of the letters Judith has collected for us,” Cynthia stated. “Thanos recognized it straightaway, didn’t you, Thanos? So tell us why you kept us in the dark, Mrs.H.”