A Broken Vessel (33 page)

“Listen to me, madame. I’m going to leave you now, because I have to find that child and make certain she doesn’t run into any more benefactors like you. Otherwise, it would give me great pleasure to turn you over to the law—or pitch you into the river. I advise you to stay here and not attempt to follow me. I’m not in the habit of striking women, but for you, madame, I would make an exception.
Vous comprenez
?”

She shook with rage, but she nodded.

“
Au revoir
, madame.” He bowed and left her.

He found Emily waiting for him at the corner of Windmill Street. She was shivering violently in her light muslin frock, and he draped his coat around her.

“Are they coming after us?” she asked, looking fearfully down Windmill Street.

“No. But all the same, we’d best get out of this neighbourhood directly.”

He hailed a hackney coach and gave his address in Clarges Street. “I’m taking you to the house where I live. I shall ask my landlady to let you stay with her. She’s very kind, and likes children.”

“Can’t I go home?”

“You will, very soon. But in the meantime we’ve got to find a place for you to sleep tonight. Tomorrow we’ll make arrangements for you to go back to your parents.”

“Oh.” Tears welled up in her eyes. She had had “arrangements” made for her before.

“Can you trust me this one night, Emily? Can you believe I mean well by you, and I won’t let anyone hurt you—not tonight, not ever?”

She lifted beseeching eyes. “I want my mother.”

Damnation, he thought. This is preposterous. I can’t put her on a coach to Wiltshire and send her off like a parcel after everything she’s been through. And I can’t simply drop the investigation and go rattling off to the West Country. Besides, she may be needed in London to give evidence. Perhaps her people could come and fetch her—

She was still looking at him with those eyes. Oh, the devil, he thought. He stopped the hackney and told the driver to take them to the Golden Cross.

Emily looked bewildered. He explained, “That’s a large coaching inn near Charing Cross.”

“Why are we going there?”

He sighed. “Because we should get very tired, walking all the way to Wiltshire.”

At the booking-office, Julian debated over whether to take the stagecoach or hire a private chaise. Emily might feel safer in a group of people. But seeing her yawn and rub her eyes, he decided she needed sleep more than anything else, and sleeping on a stagecoach, even for the inside passengers, was anything but easy. Moreover, he and Emily made a curious pair and might attract unwelcome attention. Even the bored booking-office clerks stared at him in his satin-lined black cloak, and at Emily trailing his tailcoat along the floor.

He ordered a post-chaise to be ready in an hour. Fortunately he had plenty of money, having brought the fifty pounds demanded by Smith and Company, in case he needed to pay it. But Emily could not travel some seventy or eighty miles without
warm clothes. He wrote a note to Dipper, explaining briefly what had happened and bidding him bring some woolen garments for Emily, and a dressing-case and change of clothes for himself. He did not propose to be away more than a night and a day, but he had no intention of travelling all the way to Wiltshire and back in evening dress.

Even at this hour, there were urchins hanging about the coachyard, eager to run errands for the passengers. Julian gave the note to one of them to deliver. Then he took Emily inside and ordered her a plate of roast beef and a posset of hot milk and treacle. She fell on the food ravenously. Either she had not had much appetite since she came to London, or Mme. Leclerc had starved her to make her more compliant. For himself, he ordered a case-bottle of brandy to take on the journey. It would provide a little relief from the cold and discomfort of long-distance coaching.

Dipper arrived as Emily was finishing her meal. He had everything in hand, as usual. He brought a woolen cloak and stockings for Emily—borrowed from Sally, he explained— together with a carriage rug, a caped greatcoat and portmanteau for Julian, and a small carpet-bag for himself.

“You mean to come with us?” said Julian.

“’Course I do, sir. I has to give you countenance.”

Julian’s brows went up in amusement. “Really?”

“Yes, sir. On account of at the cribs where you stops along the road, you has to show you’re a nob, or they won’t tip you the best grub and lodging. And for that, you has to travel with a slavey.”

“Of course. I can’t think what possessed me. But what about Sally?”

“She’ll be all right, sir. She can stay at Mrs. M.’s till we gets back. She don’t like it above half, our piking off without her, but I said it don’t make sense for us all to go.”

“No, hardly. We can’t come trooping into Emily’s village like a deputation. By the way, that’s a very useful trick you taught me, the one you call the sneezing-racket.”

“It’s a prime dodge, sir,” Dipper agreed.

Their carriage was waiting in the coachyard. Like most post-chaises, it only fit two inside, but there was an open seat at the back for servants. Dipper was happy to ride there, since it allowed him to watch for what he called peter-hunters: thieves who slashed through the boots of carriages and stole the luggage. Julian wondered, not for the first time, how other gentlemen muddled through life without a former thief for a servant.

Emily was practically asleep on her feet. Julian handed her into the carriage and climbed in after her. The post-boy sprang on the left-hand horse, the ostler cried, “All right, put ’em along!” and the chaise sped away.

Emily nodded off at once. Julian tucked the carriage rug around her. His thoughts turned to Sally. He had forebodings about leaving her alone. It was hard to see how she could get into trouble in the short time he and Dipper would be gone. But if there were a way, he felt sure she would find it.

CHAPTER
24

S
ally gave her pillow an exasperated thump and sat up. It was no use trying to sleep. How could they go away and leave her like this? They knew how much good work she had done in the investigation, how intrigued by it she was. Now they had packed her off to Mrs. Mabbitt’s like so much unwanted baggage, while they went off adventuring in the country. All very well for Mr. Kestrel! Have his sport with a gal and throw her away.

She folded her arms and tried to sulk, but it was no use. Badly as she wanted a grievance, that last one was too silly. She giggled, and felt much better.

She sat up, arms wrapped around her knees. That was enough feeling sorry for herself, and angry at everyone else. Mr. Kestrel (she could not call him by his Christian name; he was a gentleman, after all) had written that he expected to be back by the end of the day tomorrow. Or, rather, today, for it was past midnight. She ought to think what she could do to speed the investigation along in his absence.

He had said her idea of arranging a meeting with the three men needed fleshing out. To write a note to each man, offering information about Mary’s letter, was simple enough. But where should the rendezvous be? Some secluded spot—a park or an alley at dead of night. No, that was too dangerous. The man might really try to do them a mischief, especially when he found they did not intend to give up the letter. There had to be a way to lessen the risk—otherwise Mr. Kestrel would not let her go, and that she could not bear: Whose idea was this, after all?

A dark, deserted spot was all wrong, she decided. A public place would be much safer. What could the man do to them, surrounded by a throng of people? They could parley with him about the letter, and sound him about Mary’s life and death. Then, when they had got all they could out of him, they would simply morris off. How could he stop them?

Of course, if it were Avondale who came to the meeting, he would know who Mr. Kestrel was and where he lived, and might make trouble later. And if it were Rawdon, he would recognize Mr. Kestrel as the man who rescued that little girl, which would put him in a savage temper from the start. It would really be much better if Mr. Kestrel kept out of this. But she knew he would be no more willing to miss the rendezvous than she was.

Where could they arrange to meet their man? The Cockerel, of course! Fiske and Rawdon both knew where it was, and Avondale could surely find it. There were always plenty of people in the taproom at night. Their man would have no choice but to behave himself.

She hugged her knees delightedly. They were going to find out, at long last, which man had Mary’s letter in his pocket the night before she died. As soon as Mr. Kestrel and Dipper came home, they could put her plan into action.

But why wait so long to take the first step? Why shouldn’t she set up the rendezvous while they were gone, and surprise them? She could send a note to each man in the morning, proposing a meeting that night. If she made it late enough, Mr. Kestrel and Dipper would surely be back.

She got up, threw a shawl over her nightdress, and lit a candle. Next door to her room was a back kitchen where Mrs. Mabbitt worked on her household accounts. Sally rummaged through the desk and found three sheets of paper and a pencil. She grimaced at the task before her. The thought of so much writing made her head ache. She sat down, bit hard on the pencil for a while, and finally printed laboriously on the first sheet:

Deer Mr Fisk

If you wants to no about a surtan letter com to the Cockerel tonite at ten oclock.

A frend

She sat back and read it over. It would do. At least she was sure she had spelled “Cockerel” right—she had seen the sign often enough. She copied out two identical notes, one to Avondale and one to Rawdon. Then, tired out from her labours, she crept back to bed and fell asleep.

She was up at dawn, eager to get the notes delivered as soon as possible. The twopenny post would not be quick enough. She could pay a boy to deliver them, but he might dawdle, or even throw the notes away once he got his money. It was not as if she could promise him a tip at the other end. The only way to be sure the notes arrived safely was to deliver them herself.

She set off directly after breakfast. In the front hall, she nearly bumped into the workman Mrs. Mabbitt had hired to do the whitewashing. He ought to have finished by now, but Mrs. M. was always finding bits that needed to be done over.

She went first to Bury Street, where she boldly rang and gave the note to Avondale’s servant. Then she walked to Eastcheap, remembering that Fiske’s apothecary shop was there. She had a little money, but she scorned to take a hackney. A shilling a mile, when her feet worked perfectly well? Not likely!

She found Fiske’s shop easily enough. It was not open yet. A boy of about fifteen—Fiske’s ’prentice, no doubt—was taking down the shutters. “Where’s your master?” Sally asked him, under her breath.

“In back.”

“Give this to him.” She handed him the note, with her most winsome smile. He gaped at her, poised to fall in love at the slightest encouragement. But she had no time to spare. Taking to her heels, she lost herself in the morning traffic.

One more note. A cold dread stole over her. What if she ran smack into Blinkers?—Well, she was fly to him now. If he tried to lay a finger on her, she would be ready.

She walked across London Bridge to Southwark. She had no trouble finding the Prices’ shop—Dipper had described to her just where it was. She looked up at the windows above it. The blinds were drawn. She frowned. Suppose Rawdon were not there today?

She went to the window of the shop. There was a man helping a customer at the counter, and a girl sitting in a corner, sorting cigars. Sally caught her eye and beckoned vigorously. The girl glanced toward the man at the counter, then came outside.

Sally drew her away from the window. “You must be Annie Price.”

“Yes.”

“I’m Sally Stokes. Dipper’s me brother.”

Annie’s face flamed.

You rogue, Dip! thought Sally admiringly. “I’d like to stay and get acquainted, but I can’t.
He
might see me.” She shot a glance at the first-floor windows.

“Is he up there?”

“Yes. There’s another man with him.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. I hardly got a look at him, he went in so quick I think he was in a pother about something.”