Page 22 of A Silence in Belgrave Square (Below Stairs #8)

Luckily for me, I knew London better than most. As a girl, my entertainment with Joanna had been to explore, evading pickpockets, constables, and any who would’ve been delighted to snatch up two young lasses for whatever purpose they put us to. We’d been fast on our feet and cunning too.

I could not move as swiftly as I used to, having spent too many years eating well, but I knew these streets.

An artery from Haymarket led to Whitcomb Street, and from there it was a step to Leicester Square.

I popped in and out of a few shops there, buying nothing, then wound through more lanes, some clean and neat, others grimy, making my way northward.

Footsteps rang behind me in a quiet alley, and I scuttled away from them to emerge into busy Oxford Street.

As I crossed back and forth on this road, pretending to do more shopping, a wagon rumbled to a stop beside me, and a small boy leapt off its back.

“Get in, missus,” he urged. “We’ll take you off.”

He might have been one of Mr.Fielding’s boys, or even have been employed by Daniel or Mr.Grimes, but I did not recognize him.

“No, thank you,” I sang, and dove into my favorite greengrocers.

The greengrocer was shutting up for the evening. “I’ve nothing left for you, Mrs.Holloway. You’re quite late tonight.”

“Never mind,” I said sweetly. “May I exit through your back door?”

Without waiting for him to answer, I dodged through crates in a tiny storeroom and out into a yard. If I was right, the row behind this yard would lead me to Castle Street, which in turn spilled into Regent Street, not far from Cavendish Square.

Before the wagon or boy, or any of my other followers, could decide what I’d done, I sped across Regent Street, down another short lane, and emerged at the back of the Polytechnic, where Mr.Thanos lectured.

I’d met one of the charwomen here before, and sure enough, she was sweeping the back steps tonight.

“Good evening, missus,” she greeted me cheerily. “Mr.Thanos has gone home, love, if that’s who you’re looking for. Between us, he’s sweet on that young lady who assists him. Wedding bells ringing soon, I’m thinking. Course, they’ll be poor as church mice.”

“Ah, well,” I said, offhand. “I thought I’d take the chance.”

The charwoman leaned on her broom. “Have time for a cuppa, dear?”

“I’d love one.” Without hesitation, I followed her down steps into the cellar, liking the sound of the heavy door swinging shut and the charwoman’s key turning in the lock.

* * *

I spent a comfortable hour chatting with the cleaner, whose name was Mrs.Harmon.

We speculated on the possibility of Mr.Thanos and Cynthia making a match— He needs someone to look after him , was Mrs.Harmon’s opinion.

The lady does her best, though she’s not as practical as a tutor’s wife ought to be. Still, they’re in love. You can see it.

I saw it too, but I agreed with Mrs.Harmon that they’d need money and an understanding of how to keep themselves clothed and fed. I’d be glad to help them, if my two dear friends could find happiness.

Mrs.Harmon also had gossip about other tutors and researchers, as very clever gentlemen tended to be a bit odd, in her opinion.

One had a mistress nearly twice his age— and he’s not a young man himself, believe me.

Another had been caught using another professor’s conclusions as his own— You’d think he’d murdered someone, the way they carried on .

Well, he’s not here any longer, that’s for certain.

It seemed that places of higher learning were as scandalous as any circles in the haut ton .

I left Mrs.Harmon after we’d polished off some rather dry cakes and too-strong tea, thanking her for the respite and the chat.

The May twilight lingered, days growing longer as summer neared. Plenty of light for me to navigate south through Hanover Square, winding through back lanes and mews until I reached Mount Street.

I plunged down the stairs there after another quick glance about. I did see one of Mr.Fielding’s lads but no one else.

Feeling better that he was there on lookout, I landed breathlessly in the kitchen. Tess greeted me with her usual cheerfulness, and I began to relax in my haven.

Cooking was a worthwhile endeavor, I decided as I started helping Tess get on with supper, one I’d always taken pride in.

For some, cooking was a necessary chore—one has to eat, after all—but it could also be a form of art, so to speak.

The melding of scents, tastes, and even how the food looked could work together to please even the most unyielding curmudgeon.

Tess and I set about creating a roast with plenty of potatoes and carrots, plus fresh asparagus I’d found this morning, lightly steamed and then sauteed in butter, with a hint of garlic and lemon.

I tossed together another apple tart by folding slices in a crust that had already been spread with butter and dusted with cinnamon. Easy enough to bake, as Tess had cut up the apples into lemon water while I’d been away.

Cooking let my worries recede into the background, though they would never quite go away while Daniel was caught in a web of dangerous men that even the stalwart Inspector McGregor feared.

Inspector McGregor had said that Mr.Monaghan had been an assassin. An interesting choice of words. An assassin of whom? And why?

Sometimes men were employed in wars to kill important people on the enemy’s side. Had that been what Inspector McGregor had meant? Or had Monaghan killed people in general, ones he thought needed to be taken down?

I shivered. If he thought Daniel needed taking down—or Inspector McGregor, or me—who would stop him?

I forced myself to push these disturbing thoughts aside and bury myself in preparing the meal and then making a start on tomorrow’s chores.

I was reminded of my dilemma not long after we’d sent up the supper when the young lad Hannah used to communicate with me appeared at the scullery door. He thrust a paper at me and held out his hand for payment.

“A moment,” I told him. I opened the note which stated, in Hannah’s plain writing: Pub. Leicester Square.