Mrs. Jeffries Stands Corrected (16 page)

Betsy stared at the small, rather dilapidated redbrick building on the corner of Conner Street. A set of three stone stairs led up to a door with peeling white paint and a cracked fanlight in the transom. She hesitated, wondering if she was at the right place. Just then the front door opened and a young man wearing a rumpled dark suit and spectacles came out.

He started in surprise. “Can I help you, miss?”

Betsy gave him her best smile. “Is this the Reverend Ballantine’s Missionary Society?”

“Yes, it is.” He smiled shyly. “Would you like to come inside?”

“Yes. I’d like to make a donation, please,” she said boldly. She’d decided the best way to get inside the place and have a go at asking a few questions was to offer them a bit of money. Not much, mind you. Just a pound or two. Betsy wasn’t by any means rich, but for the past year someone in the household at Upper Edmonton Gardens had been leaving useful and rather expensive little gifts for all of them. Because of that person—and Betsy suspected she knew good and well who it was—she could spare a quid or two in her quest for clues.

“How very kind you are, miss,” the young man said.

“I don’t have much, you see,” she said innocently. “But I’ve heard about the good work your society does and I’d like to help.”

“Do please come in,” he invited, turning and opening the door for her. “You must meet the Reverend Ballantine. He’ll be ever so grateful for your gift.”

Betsy followed him inside. They walked down a short, dingy corridor and into a small room fitted out as an office cum sitting room. There was a huge rolltop desk in one corner and the far wall was fitted with shelves and filled with books. A settee and two chairs separated by a low table stood next to the empty fireplace. The carpet was threadbare, the curtains thin enough to read a newspaper through and the wallpaper stained with water spots.

“Reverend Ballantine,” the young man said to a tall man standing in front of the bookshelves. “This young lady would like to make a donation.”

The man turned slowly.

Betsy tried not to stare, but it was absolutely impossible.
The Reverend Ballantine was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on.

His hair was blond and had a natural wave off his forehead, his cheekbones were high, his mouth beautifully shaped and his nose strong and masculine without being too big.

“That’s very kind of you, my dear,” the reverend replied, smiling at her out of the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

His voice was rich, deep and as perfect as the rest of him. But she wasn’t one to have her head turned by male beauty, she reminded herself sharply. Well, maybe a bit turned. But not for a moment would she forget why she was here. “I’ve heard about the good work you do,” she began, “and I thought I’d pop round and see if I could help a bit.”

“How did you hear of us?” Ballantine came forward and reached for her hand. He pulled her gently toward the settee. “Please, do come over to the settee and sit down.”

Betsy noticed that the young man disappeared. She sat down on the settee. Reverend Ballantine sat down next to her.

“Thank you,” she said politely, frowning as she realized he was sitting so close he was crowding her into the corner. “But I’m sure you’re a busy man and I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“I’ve plenty of time, my dear.” Reverend Ballantine edged closer, his knee almost brushing hers. “Please, do introduce yourself.”

Betsy took a deep breath. She really didn’t much like lying to clergymen, even ones that sat too close for comfort. “Amy Lumley.”

“And are you from around here, Miss Lumley?” Ballantine asked.

“No. I’m from Blackpool. I’m just down visiting my
aunt. A friend of hers is a great believer in your work. She told me all about you.” The words came out in a rush. Though she was beginning to think that handsome or not, there was something she didn’t quite like about Reverend Ballantine, Betsy simply wasn’t used to lying.

“That’s most gratifying,” Ballantine said. “Will you be staying in London long?”

“Oh no, I’m on a bit of a holiday,” Betsy replied. “But I must get back to Blackpool. I’ve a position there as a housekeeper.”

“A housekeeper.” He gave her that breathtaking smile again. “Goodness, we could certainly use you here. Reginald and I try to keep the place up, but with only a cleaner coming in once a week, we don’t do a very good job. All of our money, you see, goes into the society.” He waved his hand around the tatty-looking room. “Unfortunately, doing God’s work can often mean living in somewhat tiresome conditions.”

She stiffened as his movement had his knee brushing against hers. Betsy tried to edge away from him, but as she was already backed into the corner, there wasn’t anyplace for her to go. “I don’t have much to give. Just a pound.”

“All gifts are welcome,” he replied, shifting slightly so that his thigh was almost flush against hers. “The Lord does provide and I really shouldn’t complain. We won’t be here much longer.”

“Really?” Betsy said. She eased away from him. “Why’s that?”

“Because God has sent us a miracle. Why, only a few weeks ago I was praying that we might have the funds to continue our work, and lo, it happened.” He shifted closer to her.

“A miracle,” Betsy repeated. She was starting to panic. He didn’t act like any clergyman she’d ever come across
before. His thigh was definitely rubbing against her; she could feel it through her skirt and petticoat.

“A miracle.” Ballantine leaned closer, his mouth inches from her lips. “Of course, it was really quite dreadful how it happened. One of our staunchest supporters, a fine lady, very charitable; her husband died. I’m afraid he wasn’t as giving as his wife. But as the Lord chose to take him, the lady can now give us all the money she wants without fear of recriminations from her spouse. Rather a miracle, isn’t it? And now the Lord has sent us another miracle.”

“Another miracle?” Betsy repeated.

He reached over and laid his hand on Betsy’s. “You.”

Luty Belle Crookshank glared at her butler. “I’da been just fine if you hadn’a interferred.”

“Madam,” Hatchet said as he took his employer’s arm and practically dragged her out of the Fighting Cock Tavern, “you were almost hit over the head with a flying beer mug.” He hurried her out into the street.

From inside the Fighting Cock, the argument that had broken out only moments ago was degenerating into a full-blown brawl. Luty glanced longingly at the door her stiff-necked butler had just hustled her out of. She sighed as she heard the familiar sound of chairs being tossed about and glass breaking. “Kinda reminds me of home,” she said.

“Really, madam.” Hatchet pulled her toward the corner where the carriage was waiting. “I leave you alone for two minutes and then I have to rescue you from a common tavern fight.” He clucked his tongue in disgust.

“Rescue me,” Luty snapped, outraged at the suggestion. “I’ll have you know I’m right good at takin’ care of myself. And if you hadn’t come back, stickin’ yer nose in and draggin’ me off, I’da found out what I wanted to know.”

“If I hadn’t come back,” he retorted, opening the door
of the carriage and shoving his mistress none too gently inside, “you’d have been hurt or arrested. But I suppose gratitude is too much to expect. By the way, precisely why were you in that disreputable place?”

“’Cause that’s where the man I wanted to question went and I couldn’t stand outside and shout my questions at him.”

“But I thought you were going to talk to the Dapeerses’ old housekeeper.”

“I did,” Luty explained irritably. “But she’s half-senile. Her son used to work for Dapeers too, but he spends most of his time drinkin’ at the Fighting Cock, so I went after him. I was doin’ real good too, pouring beer down his throat like it was water so his tongue was nice and loose. Then them two idiots at the next table started in on each other about politics and things got right heated.”

Hatchet banged on the roof of the carriage and the driver pulled away. Really, there were moments when he thought his mistress ought to be kept on a leash. After spending all day yesterday talking to footmen and maids about Haydon Dapeers, they’d found out absolutely nothing. A chance remark from one of his butler friends about the Dapeerses’ former housekeeper had led them to this miserable neighborhood south of the Thames. Hatchet had left Luty safely ensconced in old Mrs. Rawdon’s parlor and had gone out to buy some pastilles for his sore throat. When he’d returned, Luty was gone. Luckily, he’d spotted the bright yellow feathers on her hat as he’d passed the open door of the Fighting Cock. The truth was, he wasn’t in the least surprised to find his employer in the midst of a brawl. It certainly wasn’t the first time. “What did you find out?”

“Plenty,” Luty replied. “This fellow, Rawdon’s his name, told me that Haydon Dapeers was about the meanest snake this side of the English Channel. Do you know he
fired Mrs. Rawdon just because his sister-in-law, Sarah Hewett, was movin’ into the house. Said she could earn her keep by keepin’ his house. And her a young widow with a child.”

“Rawdon told you this?”

“Nah, old Mrs. Rawdon told me. She’s only partially gone in the mind. The minute I mentioned Dapeers she snapped right to and started talkin’ faster than a traveling showman.”

“What else did she tell you?” Hatchet asked irritably. He’d found out a thing or two himself, but the fact that he could gloat over it didn’t mollify him one bit. His mistress, annoying as she was, could easily have been hurt in that horrible tavern.

Luty grinned wickedly. “Well, seems she was doin’ a bit of snoopin’ the day that Sarah Hewett and her little girl moved into his house. Actually, she was probably listenin’ at the keyhole. Old Dapeers waited until his wife had gone out to some missionary society she belongs to, then he hustled his sister-in-law into his study.”

“Well, what did he say?”

Luty sighed. “That’s the problem. Mrs. Rawdon is goin’ deaf. She couldn’t hear all that good. But she did hear Dapeers tell Sarah Hewett that she’d better do what he said or he’d tell everyone. ’Corse, she only heard that part ’cause Dapeers was screamin’ at the girl.”

Hatchet sniffed. “Is that all?”

“Is that all?” Luty repeated. “Seems to me I found out a sight more than you have.”

“I wouldn’t say that, madam.” Hatchet smiled maliciously. “I haven’t been idle since our return from Scotland.”

“Why, you old sneak,” Luty cried. “You told me yesterday you hadn’t learned very much.”

“I’ve reassessed the information I picked up,” he informed her grandly. “And in light of what you’ve just told me, I think it might have some bearing on this case.”

“Well,” she demanded. “Tell me.”

“I think, madam”—he picked a piece of nonexistent lint off the sleeve of his immaculate black coat—“that I ought to wait until we arrive at Upper Edmonton Gardens. You know how I hate repeating myself.”

“All right, then,” Luty said tartly, “in that case, I’ll wait till we’re at the inspector’s before I tell what else I found out today.”

“Found out from who?”

“From that drunk Rawdon,” she snapped. “And believe me, it’ll put what little piddling things you learned to shame.”

“I’ve never been in a place like this before,” the young woman said softly. She glanced around the crowded Lyons Tea Shop and smiled as the waiter pushed a trolley loaded with cakes, pastries, buns and tea to their table. “It’s ever so nice of you to do this for me. Me Mam says I oughtn’t to talk to strangers, but you’re all right. I can tell, you see. You’re not at all like some.”

Smythe felt lower than a worm. He’d done some things in his life that he wasn’t proud of, but this was the first time he’d ever taken advantage of a woman’s loneliness for his own purposes. His conscience niggled at him like a bit of meat caught between his teeth. “I’m right pleased to buy you tea,” he said softly, and he meant it. She seemed like a nice girl. But she wasn’t very pretty. Her hair was frizzy and brown, her complexion bore the marks of a long-ago bout with the pox and her teeth stuck out in front. He’d approached her because he’d seen her coming out of the McNally house. As she wasn’t used to men paying attention
to her, it had been almost sinful how easy it was to strike up a conversation.