Page 29 of Molly Boys

“Not the Islington house, my lord?” Henry handed Ev’s gloves to him one at a time and watched as Ev slipped them on.

“The Islington house will remain closed for a few days.” Ev paused. “There’s been a murder,” he finally said. “The victim was one of the regular guests. It remains to be seen whether the investigation will lead the police back to the property, but it pays to be cautious.” Ev took his hat as Henry offered it, noting the small, concerned frown wrinkling his valet’s brow.

Flipping open his pocket watch, he checked the time quickly before heading out of the room and down the corridor. He’d almost reached the front door when he paused and looked back at Henry standing behind him.

“Henry.”

“My lord?”

Ev hesitated, looking for the words to phrase what he wanted to say. “Should you decide to go out seeking… company, please be vigilant. It is not yet certain how the young man came to harm, but he may not have been the only victim. I wouldn’t like anything untoward to befall you.”

“You’re too kind, my lord, but I believe I shall remain in the house for the time being.”

Everett nodded in acknowledgement. Henry’s proclivities were not something ever discussed. He was, after all, a servant. However, Ev not only trusted him implicitly but found he was rather fond of the man.

Henry handed him his favourite black cane with the silver pommel and opened the front door. Ev stepped down onto the street and the cold slapped at his face, pinking his cheeks, his breath manifesting a fine mist as he exhaled. Settling his hat over his neatly combed hair, he nodded in greeting to a passing couple.

The hackney carriage sat waiting directly ahead of him. Grateful that Henry had already issued the driver instructions as to his destination, he climbed in and settled back against the hard bench, then rapped the pommel of his cane against the roof to indicate the driver should proceed.

He forced himself to set aside all thoughts of his father and the future that seemed to be barrelling toward him like a runaway cart, choosing instead to stare out of the small window as the cab jerked sharply and began to move through the crowded early afternoon streets.

* * *

There was already a crowd jostling for the best view outside the small building in Whitechapel which was used as the coroner’s court. An inquest for murder was always met with an awful kind of glee by the locals eager for all the grim details. The press swarmed the place too, looking for a story to sensationalise for their respective papers, each of them trying to outdo the other.

Everett had thankfully never had cause to attend the coroner’s court before. Today was a different matter, however; the inquest was for Charles Wakefield. Courts were always open to the public, and Dickie and the police surgeon would be giving evidence. The new and much talked about Inspector Franklin would also be in attendance. It was an opportunity to gauge what was going on with the investigation and get the measure of the detective inspector Dickie regarded so very highly.

If anyone questioned Everett’s presence at the inquest, he’d simply play it off as morbid curiosity. He didn’t frequent the streets of Whitechapel and therefore doubted he would be recognised.

“Lord Stanley?”

Apparently, he was wrong.

Everett turned around, searching the throng assembled along the street outside the building to find the voice’s owner. His gaze landed on a middle-aged man dressed in a black cassock and a white collar. The man’s plain brown hair was thinning and he had a seriousness to his countenance, but there was also a kindness to his round face and a warmth in his eyes.

“I thought that was you.” The man stepped forward and smiled.

“I’m afraid you have the advantage, Reverend?”

“Edwin,” he introduced himself. “We met once at your family’s estates in Derby. I had accompanied Bishop Goodwin to the harvest celebrations.”

“Of course,” Ev muttered faintly. It seemed that even on the poorest streets of Whitechapel he could not escape his fate, especially when it seemed intent on haunting him, his own personal ghost. “And how are you, Reverend Edwin?” Ev asked politely.

“I am well, thank you.” He nodded toward the building. “What brings you here today?”

“Curiosity, I suppose,” Everett answered evasively. “And yourself?”

“To attend any in need of spiritual comfort,” he answered. “I am assigned to the white chapel, St Mary’s Matfelon. It’s not far from here, are you familiar with it?”

Ev shook his head as his eyes narrowed in thought. “The white chapel?” he repeated.

“You caught that, did you?” Reverend Edwin smiled. “The original chapel was built in 1320. Because of the lime whitewash, the chapel became known as The White Chapel, and over time the area took its name from it.”

Recognition dawned when Ev recalled a recent newspaper article. “I believe I know the chapel you’re referring to. It has recently been rebuilt after a fire, has it not?”

“It has,” Reverend Edwin replied. “Just a year ago, as a matter of fact. Reverend Jacob, my senior, and I were assigned here shortly before it reopened. It seems Whitechapel is in dire need of spiritual guidance.”

“I’m sure it is,” Everett muttered.