The Sleeping Partner (20 page)

Mrs. Harris was cagy. “I don’ think so,” she said at last. “Prob’ly not. It was mighty busy.”

Miss Tolerance suspected that the abortionist was not considering the truth so much as weighing what was her most believable lie. “Well,” she said briskly. “I will have to talk to this apothecary. I must find this girl, and the note—and the man who gave it you—are my best links to her.”

The older woman muttered something.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“Why d’you even care? Not like she’s your sister or your daughter. Nor, for all the gentry talk of ruin and fate-worse’n-death, ain’t so bad like to ‘appen to ‘er that ain’t ‘appened to a ‘undred before.”

“I cannot rescue that hundred, ma’am, but I do intend to rescue this one. And I gave my reason when we first met, Mrs. Harris. I have been hired to find her.”

“Money.” Mrs. Harris nodded sloppily. “That’s the thing, ain’t it. They’d as well to keep their sil’er, though. Do they think she’ll be returned to them in the same condition she left?”

Miss Tolerance felt a cold prickle of dismay. “You know something of her condition, ma’am?”

Mrs. Harris was still very drunk, and the gin seemed to have renewed its pull upon her. She shrugged. “Stands to reason they’d ‘ave ‘ad the use of ‘er. Nor kidnappers ‘d ‘ave reason to treat her gentle. She’ll go ‘ome knowin’ a few new tricks. Mayhap her family will think better of bringing ‘er ‘ome.”

“I will take that chance. “ Miss Tolerance turned to go.

“Wait! Ain’t I goin’ to get something for me trouble?”

Miss Tolerance thought briefly but powerfully of how she would like to reward Mrs. Harris for her trouble. “There’s still a little drink in that bottle,” she said. “Good afternoon.”

She retreated down the dark corridor, aware of shouted insults behind her, and emerged gratefully into the light. One of the two drunkards on the step had fallen asleep, mouth agape and face turned to the sun. He reeked of piss and beer. Miss Tolerance stepped over him and hailed a hackney coach to take her to Throgmorton Street.

Jos. Halford and Sons, Apothecary, had a storefront with fresh black paint and a recently cleaned window. The shop occupied the ground floor of a less well-kept wooden structure, very like its fellows in the street. The street was busy with wagons, carriages, and pedestrians. Miss Tolerance, let down from her hackney on the corner where Throgmorton met Bartholomew Lane, took a turn up and down the street before entering the apothecary’s. The shop smelled pleasantly musty and green; the interior was as well kept as the outside. It was a small space and crowded; on either side rows of small drawers reached to the rear of the shop and up to the ceiling; the back wall was lined with shelves of brown-glass jars and decanters, each neatly labeled in spidery Latin. A counter to the left held a scale and tools for the making of remedies: a mortar, pestle, pill-forms, and a stack of clean white paper ready to be folded into packets. The counter straight ahead held the same objects as well as a ledger, inkstands, and pens. One of the drawers from the wall had been pulled down and rested, empty, on the counter. The label said
Cinchona pubescens:
a placard had been placed inside the drawer which said, in large red letters,
Sorry. No Bark.
Miss Tolerance thought with pity of Mr. Boddick’s brother.

Behind the counter a young man in a fresh apron and gartered sleeves smiled expectantly.

“G-good afternoon, miss.”

“Mr. Halford?”

“S-second of that n-name, miss.” The man was perhaps Miss Tolerance’s age, fair haired, plump and amiable. “H-how may I h-h-help you?” The stutter was evidently a permanent affliction.

Miss Tolerance stepped to the counter. “I am afraid I do not need any pills today, sir. Just a moment of your time, and some information.”

Halford nodded encouragingly.

“Is a Mrs. Harris known to you, sir? An older woman, often with her grandson?”

Halford frowned. “I kn-now her, yes.” His expression suggested he took no pleasure in the acquaintance.

“Was Mrs. Harris here this morning?”

The apothecary’s frown deepened. “She w-was. Might I inquire w-why you ask?” His manner had cooled with the mention of the abortionist’s name.

“I am seeking a man with whom Mrs. Harris spoke while in this shop. I do not think she is a very reliable witness—” Miss Tolerance permitted her opinion of the woman to color her tone, and Halford relaxed in response. “As it is very important I find the man, I knew I must speak to you. She said the shop was busy and you might have been too occupied to notice him, but—”

Halford waved his hand. “I k-keep a close eye on my shop, miss. Mrs. Harris came for alum and oil of p-p-pennyroyal. I was d-decanting the oil when a man approached her. They sp-oke a few minutes. By the time I had d-done he was gone.”

“Thank you, sir. Do you recall what he looked like?”

“B-big fellow. Young. N-not a gentleman. Ill-shaved. He g-gave her something.”

Miss Tolerance sighed. It was not much more than Mrs. Harris had told her—save for the physical description. “You can tell me nothing else about him?”

The apothecary shook his head. “He was the sort I’d k-keep an eye on: a shifty look about him, if you t-take my m-eaning.”

“I see. Thank you, sir.” She took her pocket-book from her reticule. “Will you permit me to show my thanks—”

“N-no.” Halford was quite definite. “There is n-no n-need for th—” he stopped. “Wh-when you need a remedy—”

Miss Tolerance smiled and returned the pocket-book to her reticule. “I shall come to you straightaway. Thank you, Mr. Halford.” She inclined her head. For a moment the shopkeeper seemed uncertain whether to accept the courtesy as his due from a woman of peculiar status, or return it as to an equal. Finally Halford bowed to her. It appeared that he was ready to give her the benefit of the doubt, despite her connection to Mrs. Harris.

When she left the shop Miss Tolerance walked for a few minutes, thinking. Mrs. Harris had told the truth, in that she had been approached in the store by a man who had given her something—presumably the note to be delivered to Lady Brereton. But her description of the man had varied from Halford’s. Miss Tolerance was inclined to trust the apothecary—but his description had left her, once more, at a dead-end.

She turned down Broad Street to Threadneedle Street, seeking to avoid the crowds around the looming Bank of England. There was still a good deal of traffic both on foot and by vehicle. She stepped past a knot of aproned tradesmen who were engaged in noisy consultation over an open barrel, and waited in a crowd at the corner of Bishopsgate for a wagon to pass. Sir Walter Mandif’s house was a little to the south, she knew. She had not spoken to him since their visit to Covent Garden, the memory of which was a pleasant distraction for a moment. To her right three massive women, very fine in satin dresses totally unsuited to the weather, the hour, or a stroll along city streets, were discussing hats. To her left, an elderly man was fiddling with his cane, impatient for the chance to cross the street. A group of boys, too well dressed to be sweeps or other working children, ran along the street making mischief. One of them dodged around the old man and swept his hand up to knock Miss Tolerance’s bonnet forward over her eyes. She put her hand up to right the bonnet and in a moment found herself lifted off her feet and pitching forward.

It happened with such suddenness that for a moment, even as pain blinded her, she wondered what had happened. She did not lose consciousness, but briefly lost the ability to do anything but fall. Her arms would not extend to catch her; she fell toward the fat women, whose squawks of dismay were much magnified and distorted by the ringing in Miss Tolerance’s head. The woman nearest her pushed her away and she fell to the ground, catching the side of her jaw heavily on the curbstone. She lay there for a moment trying to catch her breath and make her arms and legs obey the commands of her mind; the smell of the muck in the gutter, inches from her nose, was as good as a vinaigrette in clearing the fog from her brain.

Something was poking her in the side. Miss Tolerance moved her head enough to see the elderly man prodding at her with his cane.
He has found a use for the thing, at least,
she thought. She recognized the thought as a product of shock and knew she must pull herself together. She wriggled her fingers and was pleased, in a detached way, to find that they moved. When she opened her eyes again she saw her bonnet in the gutter, floating half-full on the muck there.

“Damn,” she murmured. She closed her eyes again.

“Well, lady, shall we get you to your feet?” She felt a large hand grasp her wrist and pull. “Tripped, did ye?” Another hand moved to her shoulder and tugged upward. The jar this gave to her head nearly caused darkness to swallow her. She managed to stay conscious, and to open her eyes.

“You old chub, she’s hurt!” A woman’s voice, perhaps one of the satin-clad women. “See there on her spencer? That’s blood!”

This caused a considerable stir, and more echoing inside Miss Tolerance’s head. “I will be—if someone will only help me to stand—” she began.

Her rescuer hauled her upright and set her on her feet. At once Miss Tolerance felt her knees give way, and the man caught her again. She opened her eyes to discover that he was one of the aproned men she had seen peering into the barrel.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Someone fetched you a good clout, lady. Footpads, I don’t doubt, looking to take your purse.” She realized the man was holding her carefully so as to avoid getting blood and muck upon his shirtsleeves. She could hardly blame him.

There was a general outcry against the state of affairs in London, which did Miss Tolerance no good but appeared to relieve the feelings of the crowd a little.

“Sir, if you will help me to a step where I may sit down?” Miss Tolerance asked quietly. The aproned man nodded and called for the crowd to step away. Within a moment she was seated on the stone doorstep of a chandler’s shop. The crowd closed in around her, full of questions.

“Was your purse taken? We’d ought to call the Watch.”

Miss Tolerance, at the cost of a little pain, looked down to see that her reticule still hung at her waist. She made the mistake of shaking her head. “They did not rob me. Did anyone see who struck me?”

Again there was a general murmur of dismay but no information. “You’re bleedin’ something narsty, miss,” someone said. “Might be you need us to fetch you a carriage.”

“Did anyone see who struck me?” Miss Tolerance asked again. She raised a hand to the back of her head; it was sticky, but the blood appeared to have stopped flowing. She could feel a very substantial knot growing there. “The boy—”

“What boy?” That was her rescuer, who was standing, arms akimbo, frowning at her.

“There was a group of boys chasing down the street. One of them pushed my hat off over my eyes; a moment later I was struck.”

“But they din’t take your purse.” The second man tssked. “Ain’t safe for a soul on these streets, and here ‘tis broad daylight. You need a carriage, miss?”

Miss Tolerance was nauseated; her hands shook. She did not think she could stand to ride in a hired coach back to Manchester Square, but what was her alternative?

“If you would, sir.”

“I thought them boys was just larkin’ about,” one of the women in satin announced to the crowd. “They was gone so fast.”

“It’s a scandal is what it is,” another satin-clad woman announced. “You’d ought to tell the Watch. Or Bow Street, even.”

The mention of the magistracy gave Miss Tolerance an idea. She raised her head and saw a carriage stopped by the corner with a crowd of people around it.

The aproned man put his hand out to take her elbow. “Here, I’ll put you in the coach,” he said. “I don’ know what this country is comin’ to.”

The second man, who had stepped in to support her other elbow, chimed in. “Ain’t no one ought to be struck down on the street.”

“Thank you, sir.” Miss Tolerance reached the carriage. Bile rose in her throat, and she had to work very hard not to be sick all over her rescuer’s front. When she turned to thank her rescuer it appeared, for a moment, that there were twin aproned men on her right, supporting her into the carriage.

She was stopped by a man’s voice crying, “I got ‘im! I got ‘im right ‘ere!”

Miss Tolerance leaned on the carriage for support and turned her head. A short, bandy-legged man in an old-fashioned skirted waistcoat was dragging a boy toward the carriage. The boy was not struggling, but was shouting almost as loudly as the man himself.

“All I did was knock her hat! We thought it was a lark! Let go!” From his speech and his dress the child was clearly better born than his captor, who pulled the boy up in front of Miss Tolerance. “I thought it was a game. He said I was just to knock your hat off! I didn’t think to hurt you!”

In an instant Miss Tolerance’s mind was marvelously clear. “Who told you?” she asked the boy.

“The man down there—” the boy shook off his captor’s hand and pointed down Bishopsgate. “He said he was a friend of yours, and would I knock your hat off for him. He was right behind me, I thought—”

Miss Tolerance nodded encouragingly, then regretted it as a wave of pain almost made her faint. “What did this gentleman look like?” she asked.

The boy looked puzzled. “He’s your friend. Don’t you know him, miss?”

The aproned man, who had taken a proprietary interest in the case, asked the boy what sort of friend would clout a lady on the head. The child considered.

“But he was most particular, said it would be a very good joke if I would knock your hat, that you were very fond of that hat—”

Miss Tolerance reflected that she had indeed been fond of the bonnet, and fonder still of the skull it covered. “What did the gentleman look like?” she asked again.

The boy shrugged. “He carried a stick with a handle carved like an elephant,” he offered.

And bashed my head with it.
“Thank you. Next time a stranger asks you to assault another stranger you will think better of it, won’t you?”

The boy nodded.