Page 4 of Ghost in the Garden (Murder in Moonlight #3)

L eaving Janey in charge of the office once more, Solomon walked round to the site of the collapsed building in St. Giles. Unsure what he expected to learn, he found only rubble. The rest had already been picked over by the desperate and the vultures who always descended on disaster areas.

Gazing at the devastation, he felt the resurgence of anger. This had been a wholly preventable disaster. Negligence by Gregg and his predecessors going back decades was to blame. Along with the overcrowding that had made the building so hard to escape from.

“Going to build a palace out of that, guv?” asked an old woman with a cackle.

Solomon turned to face her. She was carrying a large sack of washing over her bent back. “What on earth happened here?” he asked, in the hope of learning more from local opinion.

She shrugged. “Roof collapsed, didn’t it? Everything was rotten, including the bloody landlord.” She spat on the ground. “Eighteen dead, more crippled. Some reckon they’ll try Huxley Gregg, but he’ll get off—his sort always do. Even if they bang him up, won’t bring the dead back, will it? Won’t stop it happening again, neither. Bad enough dying of cholera without the roof falling in on you to make sure.”

“What happened to those who survived? Where did they go?”

She nodded at the next tenement along. “Some squashed in there. Same landlord. Some didn’t risk it and went elsewhere if they could.”

“Thank you,” Solomon said politely.

“Coo!” She cackled again. “Ain’t you posh.” She went off on her way, and Solomon risked going on to the next doorway. The building looked curiously vulnerable, as if it too might slide to the ground in a heap now that it didn’t have its neighbor to lean against.

A bunch of small, ragged children rushed inside in front of him. One shouted, “Sorry, mister!”

“Here,” Solomon called after them. “You got a caretaker here?”

Either they didn’t hear him or didn’t know or care. Certainly, no one answered. He sighed and turned toward the first door off the passage, where he found a young woman with a shawl over her straw-like hair, regarding him with sardonic amusement in her otherwise dull eyes.

He smiled at her. “Silly question?”

“He don’t take no care, if that’s what you mean. He’s more of a rent collector, but he does live here. Him and his wife.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Lena!” yelled a voice from within. “Where’s my dinner? I got to die of hunger in this dump?”

“Coming, Granddad,” the girl said. She nodded to the door directly opposite and went inside her own place, though not before Solomon had seen the number of people, mattresses, and beds slung all over the floor, some with makeshift curtains strung up to give privacy. How many families were living in that one room?

He walked across the grimy passage, trying not to think what might be crunching under his shoes.

His knock was answered rather abruptly by a youngish, scowling man in his shirt sleeves with yesterday’s stubble darkening his jaw and his hair uncombed. He might have been thirty years old.

Though his mouth was already open to speak, he shut it again in apparent surprise at the sight of Solomon. “Yes?”

“I understand you are the caretaker of the building? Or at least the rent collector.”

“I am,” the man said, bridling as though he expected criticism. “What’s it to you?” He looked Solomon up and down with growing unease. Solomon wore secondhand clothes he had bought specially to blend in with most societies, but judging by the man’s expression, that wasn’t really working. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m interested,” Solomon said, giving up on subtlety, “in the accident next door.” He stuck his hand in his coat pocket and jingled the coins there.

The rent collector’s gaze dropped to the pocket and rose quickly to Solomon’s face. There was calculation in his eyes now, nervous calculation as he glanced over Solomon’s shoulder toward the stairs, from where strident voices and footsteps could be heard.

“Come in,” he said, all but grabbing Solomon’s arm to drag him inside and close the door.

The room was clean, and it was warm enough for its occupant to be comfortable in shirt sleeves in winter. The heat source was a stove burning merrily in the corner. Clearly, there were no leaks or drafts in this room, which was a good size and well proportioned, furnished with a proper kitchen next to the stove, a couple of upholstered armchairs. A table and two hard chairs occupied the middle of the room, with a large bed and chest at the other end.

“You live here alone?” Solomon asked in surprise.

“With my wife,” the man said. “What is it you want to know?”

“Begin with your name and your position here,” Solomon said.

“Fraser,” the man said reluctantly. “Frank Fraser. I pass on problems to the landlord and make sure the rents are in on time.”

“Are they?” Solomon asked mildly.

“Not so bad here. Next door…” He trailed off, biting his lip.

“You performed the same service for the building that collapsed.”

“Yes,” Fraser said. “Not my fault it fell. I told Mr. Gregg all the problems. Up to him to do something about it, isn’t it? I ain’t got the money or the authority. I just live here cheap for collecting all the rents.” His face twisted into a grimace. “You’d think I pulled the bloody building down myself for all the abuse I get now.”

“I suppose you’re the face of the landlord they never see. Or do they?”

“Not now, they don’t. Nobody sees Mr. Gregg anymore.”

“Then how do you deliver the rents? Or haven’t you had to yet?”

“Weekly ones, I have. They were all weekly next door. One or two here are monthly. I take them to Mr. Gregg’s office.”

“To Mr. Lambert?” Solomon asked.

A shadow passed over Fraser’s face. He looked away toward the window as though something had caught his attention. “Don’t know any Lambert.”

Solomon sighed. “Please. I don’t pay for lies.”

Fraser swore. “If he knew I talked to you or to anyone else, I’d be dead. What’ll my wife do then?”

“What do the wives of all those injured men from next door do now?”

“That ain’t my fault!”

“I gather it’s Mr. Gregg’s fault, and the law will punish him for it. Maybe. Who’ll be your landlord then?”

Fraser shrugged. “How should I know?”

“Isn’t it Lambert? In fact, isn’t he your joint landlord now?”

“I only ever dealt with Gregg,” Fraser said.

Solomon took a guess. “But Lambert’s promised you can stay on here doing what you do if you keep your mouth shut.”

“A man’s got to live. I got a wife.”

“And you’re to keep taking the rents to Gregg’s old office.”

Fraser nodded sullenly.

Solomon took some coins from his pocket, but didn’t yet pass them on. Fraser’s eyes were glued to them. “I understand some of the surviving tenants from next door live here now.”

“Reduced rent for a couple of weeks.”

“Mr. Gregg is all compassion,” Solomon murmured.

“Rooms are bigger, less leaks,” Fraser said. “Bit of a squash, maybe, but these people got nowhere else to go.”

“Where will I find these survivors?”

Fraser pointed at the ceiling. “Upstairs. First room on the left, or the one across the hall. Some of ’em ain’t well. Don’t go getting them in trouble with—” He broke off abruptly.

“With Mr. Lambert?” Solomon suggested.

“Don’t put words in my mouth. Who’d you say you were again?”

“I didn’t,” Solomon said, holding out the coins.

Fraser snatched them on his way to the door, which he blocked until footsteps had passed and the outside door closed. Then he stood aside without a word and Solomon left.

He had no real need to speak to the survivors upstairs. Neither pity nor charity would solve their problems in the short term. And yet he went.

He found them easily enough. A woman with four children whose husband lay dying of his injuries. A young girl who couldn’t move. Despair and grief and sheer hopelessness were everywhere.

“Has she seen a doctor?” Solomon asked the mother of the girl.

The woman looked at him as if he’d grown horns. Despite the nation’s outrage, no one had paid for medical attention. And no one, it seemed, had offered any, perhaps because they all assumed someone else was dealing with such an infamous case.

Solomon slid a handful of coins under the girl’s pillow. She didn’t stir.

“Thank you, sir,” her mother said tonelessly, mechanically. Money would not cure her daughter.

“I know a good doctor who gives his services free,” Solomon said. “I’ll send him to you. If you can find out everyone who needs his help, that will make his job quicker.”

A tiny spark lit her eye and faded. “Thank you,” she said again in the same mechanical voice. All her attention was on her daughter.

Solomon moved toward the door. A young man sitting on the floor, staring at nothing, caught his eye, even among the rest of the desperate cases. He did not appear to be injured, though his shoulders were hunched and pain dulled his lost eyes.

“Were you hurt in the accident?” Solomon asked. He had to repeat the question before the man looked up, regarding him without interest.

“No.”

“But you were there,” Solomon said.

The man shook his head. “Working.”

“His wife and babe were there,” a woman said aggressively, thrusting a mug of thin, unappetizing soup into the young man’s hand. “They died.”

“I’m sorry,” Solomon said, appalled by the sheer uselessness of the words. He could not even give money to this man. It would be an insult.

“Finally shut him up, didn’t it?” the woman said bitterly.

“What do you mean?” Solomon asked.

“You mean you don’t know?” she said in disbelief. “He’s Lenny Knox, what kicked up the fuss for your bosses, telling everyone what was going on, threatening to withhold rent till the building was fixed. And now he don’t care for nothing. He was doing it for them, wasn’t he? For Cath and little Kitty.”

Knox was staring unseeingly into his soup. The middle-aged woman, as angry as she should be—as everyone should be—gently pushed the mug toward his mouth.

Solomon walked away. Everyone walked away. But he would not leave it.

*

Frank Fraser, the caretaker, knew exactly when the stranger left the tenement. He’d opened his door a crack and was listening. The man made him uneasy, though he’d paid well enough for information anyone else could have told him.

Fraser did not believe he was a greedy man at heart, although he liked his ease as well as anyone else. But he had a decent room here and an expensive wife, and if he were to have any hope of keeping her and moving away from Gregg and Lambert, he needed all the money he could get.

Maybe he could tell the stranger a bit more, get more money, though that was a risk… Part of him wanted to land Lambert in the muck, be responsible for taking him down. The bastard deserved it, mostly for Iris, but also for the poor sods who’d died next door.

The stranger walked past Fraser’s net-curtained window. He walked and dressed like a toff—not of the first order, perhaps, but the man had money and no lack of confidence, even in these mean streets, among the kids who’d probably already picked his pockets.

Fraser jangled the coins in his own pocket. He could take Iris to the theatre with that money. Or he could save it to get out of St. Giles, get a similar situation with a better landlord—one who wasn’t liable to land him in gaol. Perhaps he should wait and see what mood Iris was in when she got back. Where in hell was she, anyway? Spending the rest of the money he’d given her on more bloody clothes, probably. Trying to pretend she was rich, or making herself beautiful for Fraser?

Or for Lambert?

Discontentedly, he threw himself into the chair and tried to plan beyond his jealousy. He needed to get her away from here.

A thought struck him. How much would Lambert pay to know about the stranger sniffing around? How much would Gregg pay? If he wasn’t dead.

If he were honest, Fraser didn’t really want to face Lambert. And yet there was a certain justice in getting money from the man in order to leave him.

*

Constance was taking a closer look at the laundry room and the array of irons, considering the possibilities of the small, high window that looked out onto the neighboring building, when Goldie—Duggin the butler’s daughter—wandered in.

Goldie was aptly named with her bright yellow curls escaping from her white cap. She could only have been sixteen years old, though she walked like a more mature, sophisticated woman, all conscious grace and femininity. A natural coquette.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said without enthusiasm. “I hear as you outrank us all except my old dad. So the missus says.”

“And what do you say?” Constance asked amiably.

“I say we never paid no attention to rank before and I ain’t about to start.”

“Good for you,” Constance said. “I like a person who can stick to their principles.”

This seemed to throw Goldie off her stride. She peered a little suspiciously at Constance, as though suspecting her of some deeper meaning.

“We’ve all got our jobs to do,” Constance added. “And since I’m the new maid and you’ve all been here some time, I’ll need to rely on your help just for a bit.”

“Makes sense,” Goldie allowed, although the wary look remained. “But we got enough to do without taking on your duties too.”

“Of course you have,” Constance said in shocked tones. “I wouldn’t dream of offloading my jobs on to you. Might ask you where things are for a bit, though, and who to steer clear of.”

“Well you don’t want to get on the wrong side of his nibs,” Goldie said.

“Mr. Lambert?”

“That’s him. Or Duggin, me dad, neither, come to that. The others is all right.”

“And the mistress is kind?”

“Strict,” Goldie said, considering. “But fair.”

Constance edged closer. “What about the footmen?”

Goldie blinked, then laughed. “Pat and Robin? They’re fine to me ’cause of who my dad is, but you don’t want to run into one of them alone in the larder. Ask Denise.”

Constance cocked an eyebrow. “Hands?”

“And the rest. Bert’s all right, though. More respect, but then, he works for the missus, so he has to. I wouldn’t worry, bit of a lark here, and the wages is good. Honest work, too.”

“Seems very respectable,” Constance said primly, then frowned. “Though I don’t like the sound of this ghost. You seen it?”

Goldie’s eyes sparkled. “I did—twice!”

Constance gave an exaggerated shiver. “Tell me! Where’d you see it? In the garden, like Mrs. Lambert?”

“Oh yes, it’s always in the garden. First time I saw it was from the kitchen window. Just floating through the mist. Scared the life out of me.”

“Where was it going?” Constance asked, wide-eyed.

“Gawd knows.”

“Toward the house, or away from it?” Constance persisted, emphasizing her unease.

“Toward. That was the first time, anyway. I saw it again from my bedroom window up in the attic, about a week later, and it was gliding away from the house. I still pulled the curtains shut and shook all night.”

“You poor thing.” Constance peered out at the wall clock in the kitchen. “What time was that? Late at night?”

“When I saw it from my bedroom it was. Must have been after midnight—I just got up to use the pot and happened to look out to see how near morning it was, and there she was flitting through the fog. By the time I squealed for Denise to look, she’d gone. It wasn’t long dark when I saw her from the kitchen door—about six or seven, maybe.”

“What day of the week was it?”

“Thursday,” Goldie said after a pause. “Actually, both times were a Thursday. That’s odd, isn’t it?” She giggled. “Maybe that’s her day off from heaven.”

Constance gave an appreciative smile. “How come it’s always foggy when she comes out?”

“Be reasonable. Get a lot of fogs round here. Harder to find a day when there ain’t none!”

“True,” Constance said.

Goldie was already moving back toward the main kitchen. “Here’s Pat and Robin,” she said cheerfully. “His nibs must be home.”

Constance followed her to find two burly men had filled up the kitchen, declaring they’d murder for a cup of tea and the best of the leftovers from luncheon. Goldie introduced them, and they each favored Constance with long glances of mingled curiosity and derision.

“Lady’s maid, eh?” Pat mocked. He was brown haired and bearded, with thick lips and scars vanishing into his facial hair. His knuckles, when he took off his gloves, were scarred too. “Is that a maid what’s too fine to make tea for a working man?”

“Why not?” said Constance. “You can’t deny you’re too fine to make tea for me.”

Robin, clean-shaven and fair, but no less brutal about the face, laughed. “She got you there, Patty. How’d the mistress find you, then?”

“By good luck,” Constance said.

A bell rang above the door.

“That’s the missus,” Goldie said to Constance. “She’ll be wanting you to help her change for the evening. His nibs insists on it.”

“Here,” said Pat as Constance brushed past. “What’s your name?”

“Miss Silver to you,” Constance said with exaggerated grandeur. Goldie and Ida laughed. The men didn’t, but nor did they look angry. She suspected she’d got their notice and had no idea if it was a good thing or not.

She found Angela in her bedchamber, brushing out her hair, an evening gown of burgundy silk already laid out on the bed with a wide crinoline beside it.

“Ah, Silver. Finding your way around?” Angela asked, meeting her gaze in the glass with a frown.

Interpreting the scowl to mean they could not speak freely on account of her husband being in the next room, Constance said, “Yes, thank you, ma’am. Everyone’s been most helpful. Shall I unfasten your gown now?”

The day gown was duly removed, the crinoline tied in place, and the evening gown placed carefully over Angela’s head. The skirts fell elegantly over the petticoat. The style contrasted rather attractively with Angela’s severe look, so Constance didn’t try to change the style of her hair by much, merely softened it a little by raising her braid higher and looser.

“Very good, Silver,” Angela said, while Constance brushed the odd loose hair off her neck and shoulders.

“Do you require a shawl, ma’am?”

Angela looked uncertain. “Should I?”

It was not a question about warmth—it was a question about etiquette. She was trying to be the kind of wife her ambitious husband needed. Constance felt a pang of pity—and understanding, for she too had studied the ways of her betters and aped them so that nowadays she could pass for a lady in most situations.

“It’s a cold evening,” she said, going to the drawer that she had already discovered to be full of unworn shawls of all kinds. She pulled out three to suggest, and was actually heartened when Angela chose her own favorite of fine cream wool with burgundy embroidery. Draping it first over Angela’s shoulders, Constance then let it fall to her elbows to show how good it looked either way.

Angela nodded emphatically and sailed out.

Mindful of her duties, Constance folded the scarves and put them away. Then she hung up the discarded day gown, inspecting it for stains. Only the hem needed brushing. She was tidying the dressing table when the door opened and a man sauntered in.

It could only be Caleb Lambert. Of no more than medium height, he was powerfully built and handsome in a kind of prosperous, sensual way, although his eyes were hard and his lips thin.

“So you’re the new maid, are you?” he said.

Constance straightened then dropped a curtsey while he looked her up and down unhurriedly with apparent enjoyment. “Yes, sir. I’m Silver.”

He strolled toward her. “Has Mrs. Lambert already gone down?”

“Yes, sir, just a few minutes ago.” She turned away in a bustling manner and walked up to wardrobe door where she had hung the day dress. She reached up for it and started when another larger hand got there first. Lambert stood behind her and much too close. Her flesh crawled with old memory and fresh alarm.

She had to force herself to turn to face him, to pretend she didn’t notice his nearness or his entitled and appreciative gaze, which she met directly, masking her cold fear with a small, polite smile.

“Thank you, sir. Will you excuse me? I have to clean the hem in case madam wants the gown again in the morning.”

He waited deliberately, long enough to make sure she knew he was thinking about it but didn’t have to move if he didn’t want to. And then he stepped back, and she twitched the dress and hanger from his hand and walked briskly to the door.

On the back stairs she paused, breathing deeply and waiting until she stopped shaking. She wished Solomon were here.