Page 34 of A Silence in Belgrave Square (Below Stairs #8)

“What is his name?” I asked in curiosity. “He told me it was Adam.”

“It never is, the little imp. It’s Sean. That’s Scottish. Or Irish. I don’t know. I just liked the name.”

Was it perhaps his father’s name? I wondered, but decided not to ask. “Where does Sean live, with you gone from home now? If I’d known you had a lad, I wouldn’t have asked you to be a live-in maid.”

“He stays at my place,” Hannah said over the rim of her teacup. “Where’d ye think?”

“He was wandering about very late last night.”

Hannah’s amusement faded into annoyance. “He’s a sturdy tyke and can take care of himself.”

“I apologize,” I said. “I wasn’t implying you were lacking as a mum. I’m merely worried for the boy. I can find someone to look in on him if you wish.”

“No.” The word was sharp. “I let him run about and do as he likes, because if I’m too strict with him, he’ll leg it, and I know it. He’s already gone off a few times when I tried to put me foot down. I don’t mind giving him his freedom, Kat. He’s all I’ve got.”

The fact that she addressed me by my correct name while her eyes moistened told me she was sincere. I made a soothing gesture.

“I would never interfere,” I told her. “But if you ever need help, you come to me. All right?”

“Cease being so bleedin’ kind. You’ll turn on the waterworks.” Hannah wiped her eyes. “Can I tell her ladyship you’ll be there to ask the spirits what became of her brother?”

I debated another moment then heaved a sigh. “Yes, I will do it. I can come on Thursday afternoon, no sooner.”

“Night’s better. The sitters will already be spooked by the darkness and more inclined to believe you.”

I shook my head. “It’s much more difficult for me to slip away at night. If I’m caught, I’ll get the sack. Nothing is worth that.”

Hannah regarded me impatiently. “I’ve never understood why you willingly slave for a living. You’re better than that.”

I answered with equal heat. “Because I need the money to keep my daughter fed and clothed. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with honest work.”

“So you’ve told me. I’ll wager if you set up with a stall like mine and sell them cakes and tarts you do, you’d make a fortune.”

My retort died on my tongue as she put forth this tempting idea. My dream was my own tea shop, of course—one much nicer than the one in which we sat—but a stall in a market could be a start.

However, I made myself be practical. “Such an endeavor would mean purchasing my own supplies. I cook fine cakes now because the kitchen I work for pays for the ingredients. If I had to compromise on quality to save money, I’d sell nothing for long.”

“We’d find some way around that,” Hannah assured me. “Very well. Thursday afternoon it will be. Don’t drape yourself in scarves and whatnot. Mediums only do that on the stage. A plain and sensible frock will be fine.”

“As I only have the one, it will have to do.” I drained my cup and set it down. “Now I must go, or I will be out a place sooner than I think.”

“Give it up,” Hannah advised me. “Have your little girl help you with your stall and sleep under it if you have to. Worth it.”

I wanted more for my girl than hawking wares in a cold and windy market, but I didn’t want to hurt Hannah’s feelings by explaining that to her. She understood, I believed, because she only raised her brows and went back to her tea.

We parted cordially, and I skimmed to the greengrocers to pick out the best of what he had before hurrying back home, my thoughts troubled.

* * *

I continued to argue with myself for the next few days about turning up in Belgrave Square, pretending to be a medium.

On the one hand, it might be my only opportunity to enter the house and have a good look around. Daniel wouldn’t have missed much when he’d been employed there, but as someone trying to get in touch with Lord Peyton’s spirit, I could wander into rooms he’d been shut out of.

It was important to find out how and why Lord Peyton had died, which might provide a valuable clue about whatever the anarchists were planning. If I could offer any information to the police, I would.

Then I’d tell myself I was mad to even consider Hannah’s scheme. Lady Fontaine, if she was as interested in spiritualism as Hannah claimed, would immediately spot me as a fake. This worried me so much I came up with several plans for how to escape from her house if I were caught out.

Daniel, of course, would forbid me to go if I told him.

I never had the chance to speak to him about it, in any case, because he didn’t turn up all the rest of Tuesday and not on Wednesday either.

I hoped he was lying low, as Inspector McGregor had instructed, but it was more likely he was running errands for Monaghan, dangerous ones.

I found my thoughts turning too many times to the discussion of my true feelings with Daniel in the hansom cab, and the warm kiss that had followed. I’d told him more plainly than I ever had what he meant to me, even though I don’t think he’d quite believed me.

I’d not have blamed Daniel for running out of patience with me long ago, but he hadn’t. That told me clearer than words how much he cared for me. For me , as I was, not someone to mold into the woman he wanted me to be.

That was worth more than riches, any day.

Thursday morning, I donned my brown frock and hat and left the house. I’d see Grace first, as she was the most important person in my world, and then I’d go to Belgrave Square.

I confess it was the ten-guinea fee that clinched the matter.

* * *

The front door was opened at the Belgrave Square house that afternoon by a very tall man in a black suit. I gazed up past wide shoulders to a craggy face and found red-rimmed eyes peering down at me.

Fagan, I decided. The manservant.

“I am Mrs.Crowe,” I told him. Hannah and I had decided on that name before we’d departed the tea shop. It was brief, easy to remember, and held a hint of the macabre. “Her ladyship is expecting me.”

Fagan made a polite bow and gestured me inside and to a reception room. I strolled into this chamber, pretending dignity, and tried not to flinch when Fagan closed the door behind me with a loud click.

Reception rooms were meant to awe the visitor with the house’s grandeur and yet not let them become too comfortable. Guests reposed here on hard but elegant chairs until the master or mistress of the house resolved whether or not to welcome them.

This room had furniture with modern, clean lines, eschewing the carved mahogany and overly cluttered decor of past decades.

The walls were painted a light green, which went well with the dark walnut chairs and tables.

Landscapes of a beautiful countryside hung on the walls, the skies in them an arching blue.

How lovely it would be to live in a village with flower-studded meadows and woods all around one. I told myself that in reality there would be plenty of insects and other small creatures to contend with as well as mud and damp, but the paintings made it appear so tranquil.

The door opened behind me as I contemplated one of these pictures, a heavy silence telling me Fagan had returned.

“You’re to come upstairs,” he rumbled.

His accent put him from the north, possibly Birmingham or thereabouts. No matter where he hailed from, he was clearly morose, as though Lord Peyton’s death was a blow from which he was still reeling.

Fagan was the first person who’d jumped to mind as soon as I’d heard Lord Peyton had died.

He’d accompanied Lord Peyton everywhere, at all hours, and was strong enough to heave the man out of his chair and drop him down the stairs.

Inspector McGregor had said there were no signs of anyone having pushed Lord Peyton, but as Daniel had hinted, there were other ways to make certain a man fell.

Fagan now climbed lugubriously up a polished staircase, presumably the one Lord Peyton had tumbled down. Ivory-colored paneling made the hall light, as did a large window on the landing.

This tall window reached all the way up to the next floor and looked out onto the mews, its draperies open. I’d noted the window from the other side, when I’d spied on the house several weeks ago. The curtains had been drawn then, muffled like all the windows in the back of the house.

I wondered if Lord Peyton had insisted the drapes be kept closed and now that he was gone, that rule had been relaxed. Or else the household was distracted, and the opening and closing of the curtains was the least of their worries.

Fagan hesitated at the top of the stairs, and his shoulders quivered. I caught up to him, astonished to find the man weeping.

“Now then,” I said gently. “I know it must have been a shock.”

Fagan wiped his eyes, but more tears rolled past his large nose. “It were here, missus.” He pointed at the floor beneath his feet. “The master fell right here. He died, and I wasn’t there to prevent it.” He put his hands over his face and sobbed.