A Lady in Hiding (28 page)

“Yes, but—”

“Mr. Sanderson!” a shrill female voice interrupted.

“Ah, there you are, Miss Hawkins,” Sarah said in a jaunty tone. “I was just discussing a business proposition with Mr. Bingham. He was kind enough to visit Clapham and suggested that we take advantage of this opportunity to expand the Hawkins Company to the Isle of Wight.”

“Oh,” Miss Hawkins said, casting a curious glance at Mr. Bingham. He blushed before she returned her gaze to Sarah. “I suppose father sent you down from London to check on me.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Sarah said. “Actually, I was just making arrangements with Mr. Bingham pursuant to your upcoming nuptials in Gretna Green.”

“Gretna Green! What do you mean? We’re to marry right here in Clapham, as you well know!”

“Oh, but I’m afraid my tender heart could not stand the thought of your suffering, knowing that your affections belong to another,” Sarah replied, placing a hand over her heart. It was all she could do not to laugh. Or break into tears at the thought of never seeing William again.

“Another?” Miss Hawkins repeated, her blue eyes wide. She incautiously glanced again at Mr. Bingham who was still busy torturing the hem of his jacket.

“Yes. Mr. Bingham has revealed all, I’m afraid,” Sarah said.

“Oh, Neddy, what did you say?”

“I’m sorry, Kitty, but he knew,” Mr. Bingham paled in abject horror. He gazed from Miss Hawkins to Sarah, his brown eyes clouded with confusion. “I don’t know how he found out, but he knew already.”

“Oh, but father shall be so angry with us!” Miss Hawkins said in pulsing, dramatic accents.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sarah replied. “I’ll explain everything to him. And in fact, I think he’ll see the advantages of it immediately. He’s been wanting to expand. What could be better than for a bricklayer’s daughter to marry a brickmaker’s son? He can then build his business in both London and the Isle of Wight.”

“Do you really think so?” Kitty asked.

“Absolutely. But you’d better leave. Now. No sense in delaying. There’s a gig outside waiting, and it’s a long drive. Oh, by the way, the gig must be returned in three weeks.”

“Three weeks!” Mr. Bingham exclaimed. “Why how are we to get to Gretna Green and back in three weeks?”

“I haven’t the slightest notion.” Sarah buttered the second roll. “But that’s all I paid for. And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t ruin my reputation by bringing it back late.”

“But, I—”

“Hadn’t you best hurry if you’re going to get to Gretna Green and back in three weeks?”

With sudden decisiveness, Mr. Bingham let go of his abused jacket and grabbed Kitty Hawkins. He picked her up by the waist and dragged her, feet kicking daintily, out of the room amidst her confused, but happy, protests. Sarah watched with relief. At least spoiled Kitty would be marrying someone who was unlikely to let her get away with too much. Unless he was even stupider than he looked, which was nearly impossible.

That done, Sarah finished her supper. Then, she grabbed her bundle and left. She picked her way across the field in the darkness, following the quicker “crow's path” to the inn instead of the winding road.

Her spur-of-the-moment plan to accept the Bingham’s offer of employment on the Isle of Wight seemed the perfect solution. No one knew she was heading there, and she would be safe. And it would take a month or more before Mr. Hawkins found out where she was.

That should give William Trenchard enough time to discover the murderer of Major Pickering. In the meantime, she would have a source of income, regardless of Mr. Hawkins’s reaction to his daughter’s impromptu marriage to Mr. Bingham. Most likely, he would be a little upset at first to discover his own marriage arrangements for his daughter lay in tatters, but he would soon see the advantages.

And yet despite her plans, she felt curiously adrift and alone, cut off from everyone she had known.

Well, they would all be relieved, particularly the Archers. They had thought her dead for thirteen years. It must have been a horrid shock to have her turn up again, pretending to be a man and working as a common bricklayer. In their eyes, she was better off dead than a ruined woman.

Again, she reminded herself bitterly that Lady Victoria had not even seen the need to supply her with a chaperone. Obviously, Sarah was too far gone to worry about. And William hadn’t even be bothered to compromise her.

The thought made it difficult to breath, but she could only forge ahead.

All of their problems would soon be solved. William would bring the murderer to justice. And knowing William, she rather thought it would happen quickly. Then, the entire affair could be forgotten.

Her plans sounded reasonable, but they couldn’t ease the bitterness squeezing her heart into a cold lump of coal. She wished she could have seen William one more time. She loved the way his mouth twisted when he was trying not to laugh after one of her remarks. And she always felt safe with his heavy arm draped over her shoulders.

Something burned her eyes. She squeezed the lids shut, rubbing them with her thumb and forefinger. She must be tired. Exhausted from traveling so late.

By morning, everything would be fine.

Time cured all things, even love.

To his surprise, William was lucky enough to find Sergeant Howard at a nearby pub, frequented by ex-soldiers. It was the second such tavern he had visited, and he felt extraordinarily lucky. In a good mood, he bought two pints of ale and joined Howard at his table.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Sergeant.”

“Aye,” the grizzled man picked his teeth with a sliver of wood and studied William.

“You were Major Pickering’s sergeant?”

“Aye.” He picked up his pint and sucked down most of the contents. Wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand, he set the mug down with a sharp snap.

“I don’t suppose you’re aware that Major Pickering recently passed away.”

“He was murdered, you mean. Some street ruffian out to pick his pockets.”

“Perhaps.”

“Mayhap you knows differently?” the sergeant said, his voice soft despite the edge of scorn.

“Mayhap I do. He was on his way to meet a client of mine.”

“Aye?”

“With information about the fire at Elderwood in 1806. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“The Elderwood fire? Terrible tragedy, that.”

William nodded and leaned back, idly glancing around. “Any notion what Major Pickering might have wanted to say about Elderwood?”

The old soldier shrugged. “How should I know? I ain’t seen the major going on six years, now.”

“Then you were still with him at the time of the fire? Listen to me, man, for a girl’s life is at stake. She was to meet your major. But he was killed before they could speak. Now, she’s in danger.”

“And why should I care about some chit?”

“Your major was concerned enough to contact her, to warn her. He died trying. If you’ve any loyalty to him, any sense of honor, assist me in finding the man who killed him.” He pulled the packet out of his pocket and spread the papers out on the table. “Your major may have been concerned about these documents. Do you recognize them?”

The sergeant drained his second pint and stared into the depths of the empty tankard. William waved over the barmaid to refill their mugs. He waited and watched the sergeant consider the pile of documents lying on the table between them.

Finally, Howard stretched out a grubby finger. He turned the top sheet around to glance at it. It was the list of names. His eyes scanned it before he took another sip of ale. Then he brushed the first sheet aside and read those beneath.

“Damn them, bloody bastards.” He spat onto the gritty floor and then took another long swallow of ale. “Salt pork and corn. Like as not, those be the rotten rations we got—
food
—bah. They called it rations, but even the rat turds in it was tastier than those portions they gave us.”

“They prosecuted the men responsible, didn’t they?”

“Aye. Most of ‘em. These invoices was from that duke’s lands.
He
were never prosecuted.”

“So you think that was it? That he profited from the war by selling spoiled meat and grain?”

“What else?”

“Surely, if that was all, it would have been discovered. What about the list of names?”

“Dead.”

“All of them?”

“Those I knowed. Easy enough to check if yer wanting the truth and not too yellow to face it.”

“Why would there be a list of the dead with these small amounts next to their names?”

“Payment to the widows? How should I know?” He chuckled wetly, wiping his upper lip. His eyes flicked around the room, betraying his nervousness. “Mayhap ye should ask the resurrection men. They know all about the dead, now, don’t they?”

“Resurrection men” dug up corpses to sell the bodies to physician colleges. William eyed the sergeant’s scornful, knowing expression. “Why resurrection men?”

“Their bodies be missing, ain’t they?”

An old article in one of the newspapers he had glanced through earlier rose to mind. He studied Howard. “A vessel carrying wounded, and a few bodies, was on its way to England about that time. The French sunk it. Were these men on that ship?”

The sergeant studied William from under his shaggy brows, his rheumy eyes barely visible above the rim of his tankard as he took another sip. “So, you know about that already, do you?”

“I heard about the tragedy. From the family of one of the deceased.”

“You’ve collected a fair piece of information already, then. I don’t know as I can tell more.”

“You can tell me if the men listed here were on that ship. The one that sank.” Another terrible idea struck William. “Do you think the small payments could have been made to the families because of the loss of the remains?”

“Blood money?” Sergeant Howard snorted, chuckling into his mug. “There were a manifest, weren’t there?”

“After all these years?” Even as he said it, William realized the ship owner would have had to list the cargo if he claimed it as a loss. Records existed somewhere.

Sergeant Howard rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “The way I heard it, His Grace’s purse were a little light back then.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Now, I’ve told you all I can. I don’t see what more there be.”

“Where did you hear about the duke’s finances?”

“Gossip, most likely. Nuffin’ for sure.” He stood up. “That be the lot, then.”

From the stubborn set to the sergeant’s chin, William could see he would get nothing more from him. In fact, the man had given him so many trails of smoke to follow, that William was unsure how he would ever sort out the truth.

“Thank you for your time,” he said, flipping a sovereign onto the table before leaving.

The sergeant snorted and grumbled. But as William turned away, Sergeant Howard picked up the sovereign with his thick fingers and wedged it into his pocket.

Thinking about the sergeant’s gossip, William paused at the corner, watching the pedestrians thronging the streets. This part of town was not prosperous. The inhabitants pushed past him with rough words and sharp elbows, despair darkening their features.

Had the Duke of Rother really been in need of money thirteen years ago? He appeared prosperous. Perhaps the best way to find out would be to travel to Rother and ask the local shopkeepers. Perhaps even question the servants. Determine if the duke had paid his staff and other accounts on time.

Not that prompt payment was necessarily an indicator of healthy finances. Many of the wealthiest peers believed that paying shopkeepers when first dunned was simply foolish. William wished he could question the duke’s bank, but the chances of finding a helpful banker who would divulge anything of interest were slight.

During the remaining evening hours, William tracked down where the duke kept his investments and searched for the duke’s staff, concentrating on those who had been let go. Most of them were very interested in a few sovereigns and the chance to gossip. To his surprise, a number of clerks were also more than happy to talk.

A few hours later, William had to take Sergeant Howard’s gossip a little more seriously. The night was well advanced, however, and the complexities of the case were growing. Thus far, the random information formed no clear pattern. He needed time to consider what he had learned.

Toward midnight, he returned to Second Sons, his mind preoccupied. He leapt up the steps two at a time, thinking of Sarah. She’d undoubtedly probe and argue about how he’d proceeded. He grinned as he reached the stoop.

He was stopped at the door by Sotheby. The butler’s stern face was almost frightening as he peered into the gloom with a frown gouged deeply between his drooping jowls.

“Sir, I’m terribly sorry.”

“What?” William pushed past him, entering the dimly lit hallway. “What's happened?”

“It’s Mr. Sanderson, sir.”

“He’s gone again, isn’t he?” His breathing stopped.

“I’m sorry, sir. We did our best. Apparently, he slipped out of his room while the staff was occupied—”

“Occupied! With what?”

“There was a noise, sir, in the rear of the house. We feared it might be a person attempting to harm Mr. Sanderson. We went to investigate, however we located no such person.”

“And?”

“We returned to our duties. It was sometime before we realized, sir. He must have slipped out—”

Sarah had fooled them all. Again. William ran a hand through his carefully ordered locks. “Damn it. Don’t tell me, it was a ruse.”

“Yes, sir. We later found a missing chair in the courtyard behind the house. Apparently, Mr. Sanderson threw it through a bedroom window.”

“Good God! But his clothes—surely you weren’t foolish enough to give him clothing?”

“No, sir. As you well know, the staff does not have access to the cabinet in your office.”

“Then—surely he didn’t run off just wrapped in a sheet!”

“No, sir. It appears the young man broke the lock to your cabinet while we were preoccupied.”

William strode into his office and examined his cabinet. At least Sarah had been neat. The lock had somehow been picked with only a few scratches on the brass plate. Rummaging through the drawer, he found her trousers and smock missing.

So she had left dressed as a man, not a woman.

“Where do you think he went?” he asked when Sotheby edged into the room behind him.

“Difficult to say, sir. We did send to Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house. No one there has seen him. I must say, Mrs. Pochard was very upset to hear we had apparently mislaid Mr. Sanderson again.”

“Did you try the Archers?”

Sotheby nodded, his expression pained. “Yes, sir. We sent word there. They have not seen him. Mr. Archer sent this back with the footman.” He handed a folded note to William.

Trenchard: Will investigate Newgate. Suggest you speak to Hawkins.

—
Archer

“Did you—” William stopped abruptly.

“We took the liberty of sending the footman to Mr. Hawkins, as well, sir. He has not seen him and expressed his concern. It appears Mr. Sanderson agreed to marry Mr. Hawkins’s daughter. The wedding was to occur this coming Monday.”

Sotheby’s eyes remained fixed on William’s face. The butler’s normally impassive features showed a deep concern. He appeared to be struggling to anticipate William’s question.

“You’ve been busy, I see.”

“We have attempted to recover Mr. Sanderson. We rather like the young gentleman. And we all understand the gravity of his situation, sir.”

“Too bad he didn’t realize it,” William commented. “Pack me a bag and saddle a horse. I have an urgent need to visit Clapham.”

A quick, light footstep made William turn around.

“Archer! What are you doing here?” William asked, startled to find Mr. Archer coming through the door to Second Sons.

“Lack of imagination,” Archer replied, shaking his head. “No wonder she managed to slip away from you.” Archer handed his hat and walking stick to Sotheby. “Now,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Now, we’ve got to find her before that devil does. We've visited Newgate to no avail. Tell me, did she leave a note?”

William caught Sotheby’s raised brows. “
Mr
. Sanderson?” William asked pointedly.

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten he was only
disguised
as a woman.” Archer caught on quickly, his eyes twinkling.

“No—no note.” William glanced at Sotheby, who shook his head morosely in agreement. “But he wanted to talk to Mr. Hawkins.” When Archer opened his mouth, William held up his hand. “We’ve already questioned him. He hasn’t seen Sanderson. And he’s gone out dressed as a man again, so he’ll be an easy target.”

“Of course,” Archer said with a grin. “Best way to travel, though. A lone female would face a great deal of inconvenience. So, where do we look?”

“Clapham.”

“Clapham?”

“It’s where Mr. Hawkins lives. He was engaged to marry Mr. Hawkins’s daughter.”

“And you think he’s gone to Clapham for the wedding? Excellent! Just the thing to render her—his—disguise complete.”

“For God’s sake!” William replied, repulsed by the very notion. “He’s gone there to escape London. That’s all.”

“No doubt. Although a wedding would be a superb ploy. Particularly since his employer would become her father-in-law. Shows a great deal of forward thinking, doesn’t it?”

“It’s ridiculous! He’s a
fe—
” William cut himself off, trying to remember that the servants still believed Sarah was a man.

“Precisely why it’s such an astute move. I must say he’s turned out even better than I expected.”

“There's no conceivable way he could carry off marriage to Hawkins’s daughter. What of the wedding night?”

“He’d manage, somehow. Plenty of alcohol can solve a great many problems. And after all, there must be some handy lad ready to step into the breach and provide the Hawkins with a few lusty grandchildren.”

“You must be mad,” William remarked.

“Nonsense. You simply have no appreciation for an elegant scheme. Almost as good as an Archer. Nonetheless, if he’s on his way to Clapham, we mustn’t tarry. If you’ve managed to discover his destination, I fear the man trying to kill him may have done the same.”