Chapter 11
“And you are convincedthat this is the location?” Marcus asked, glancing at the brick buildings lining the narrow street.
The grocer shop on the corner appeared prosperous enough, with a bin of withered apples from last fall out front, a few cabbages, and a tempting sign promising fresh peas if one enquired within. However, they had gone down too many blind alleys in the last hour for Marcus to feel more than a smoldering ash of hope. The child could be anywhere.
Gaunt glanced around, his face too well controlled to reveal his thoughts. “Yes,” he said at last. “This grocer is said to receive his goods from his brother, and their family name is Cavell. The other Cavell was a Navy man.”
“The surname appears to be more common than one would have supposed.” Marcus adjusted his hat to relieve some of the pressure tightening around his temples.
“Yes. However, this one seems most likely. Mr. Cavell’s brother apparently lives in Ashford, which I believe is the location of Lady Arundell’s childhood home.”
“Very well.” Marcus climbed down from the carriage and strode to the mouth of the alley next to the grocer.
The shadowed, dank passage was empty. He could see no evidence of any child hanging about, waiting for a chance to steal an apple. At least the alley was clean of refuse, although the cobbles were damp and a few clumps of moss clung to the base of the brick walls. With a nod to Gaunt, he walked through the passageway. The alley terminated in a small enclosed area, bordered by the back of the grocer’s shop, a tavern, and a block of inexpensive flats.
A sharp pang pierced him at the thought of Cynthia, trying to survive on whatever scraps she could beg or steal from those living here. Why hadn’t she asked for assistance from the local Watch? Why hadn’t she tried to come home? Didn’t she trust him enough to seek him out?
The only answers were too ugly to consider, and he thrust them away.
“Sir!” a woman’s voice called.
He turned to find a plump woman standing in the open doorway behind the grocer’s store. Her apron was damp and graying blond curls escaped from her cap, which was askew on her round head. She wiped her chapped, reddened hands on her apron as she studied him with sharp eyes.
“I beg your pardon.” Marcus stepped closer. “Are you Mrs. Cavell, by any chance? Mrs. Frank Cavell?”
She nodded, her round cheeks glowing, though whether from pleasure at being Mrs. Cavell or embarrassment was indecipherable. She wiped her forehead with the crook of her arm. “That I am. You should have gone through the shop, sir. No need to come back here. My husband is inside and would be pleased to assist you.”
“I was hoping to locate a child—”
Laughing, she shook her head. “Not you, too. That child is certainly getting a great deal of attention today. More than he deserves, if you ask me.”
“Attention?” He straightened. “What sort of attention?”
“All manner of folk are searching for him. One would think he was one of them poor little lost princes in the tower.” She chuckled at the thought and wiped her forehead with her wrist.
He started to ask for information about the other searchers before he realized that the question would merely send him down a rabbit hole unnecessarily. “The child—can you describe her?”
“Him.” She smiled. “Or a female if you’d prefer. Can’t say as a body can tell with that one. Indeed, who could tell when a child is that grubby and quick? Fair disappears in the blink of an eye, he does.”
“Did she—or he—have one blue eye and one amber?”
Mrs. Cavell nodded. “Most peculiar. ‘Tis really the only notable thing about him, if you ask me. Which of course, you are. Asking me, that is. Otherwise, he looked much as any other urchin, hoping to steal an apple or two when Mr. Cavell’s back is turned.”
Excitement tightened his shoulders. Studying her round face, he rotated his shoulders and decided to go down the rabbit hole, after all. “Who else was searching for her?”
“Him. I do truly believe the child was a boy, though be it as it may be… Well, boy or girl, a young lady visited us not more than an hour ago, searching for the poor child,” Mrs. Cavell said. Then she shrugged and wiped her hands down the front of her apron. “Thought it was her Christian duty to give the child a home. As if we would not be doing our Christian duty if it were at all possible! I should like anyone to try to take hold of that child!”
“Christian duty…” He stifled a groan. He could only hope one of the reformers growing so prevalent in London had not decided to take the hapless urchin to a workhouse. While some might consider the houses to be better than living on the street, Marcus wasn’t entirely convinced that the victims of this treatment would agree. “This Christian lady, did you know her?”
“Why, yes, and I must say I was surprised to see her return. Not to visit, mind you, but for that child.” Mrs. Cavell stared at him with wide, surprised eyes. “Well, perhaps she will come back sometime for a cup of tea. You can never tell with these young ladies, can you?”
“I suppose not,” Marcus murmured. “So, you knew her?”
“Met her once, not so long ago, when my brother-in-law brought her to London. Miss Stainton, of course. Said she had done nothing but worry about the poor child since she’d seen him here and finally had decided to do something about it. Though why she should put herself out for such a child is a wonder. Still, she did say as she hadn’t been able to forget the poor mite, as I may have already said. Good heart, that girl, just like my brother-in-law always said. Those Stainton girls always had good hearts, all three of them.”
“Stainton? Miss Dorothy Stainton?” Had his wife already taken the child back to Arundell House?
“No, no. The younger one. I cannot for the life of me remember that girl’s name.” She flushed and rubbed her nose. “Shameful, is it not? I ought to remember such a thing, but it has gone clear out of my head.”
“I shouldn’t worry about it, Mrs. Clavell. I’m sure your memory is fine. To be certain, however, did she actually find the child or was she simply searching for her?” He resisted the urge to stride forward and give the grocer’s wife a shake. “Did Miss Stainton actually take the child along with her?”
Mrs. Cavell threw back her head and laughed. Her cheeks shook with the jolly sound, and her pleasure was so contagious that he grinned in response.
“You do right to ask—it was no easy task. Couldn’t find a trace of the child at first,” she admitted at last.
“Not at first—but she did? Eventually?”
“Oh, yes. Quite clever, she was…” Mrs. Cavell snapped her fingers. “Grace! That is her name, our dear Miss Grace. She had us roll out a barrel—well, we were going to get rid of it, in any event. Half the staves were rotten, and the hoops were coming loose, you see. Couldn’t hold a thing. Be that as it may, the child heard the clatter it made, rolling over the cobbles. Of course, he had to come to see if there might be an opportunity to steal a bit, as anyone would. Miss Grace hid in the shadows over there—by the door.” She pointed to the door through which she’d come. “That boy was as bold as brass, I must say. He strolled right out as if he belonged there. She caught him with his hand in the barrel, as it were.”
“And you’re sure it was a boy?” There had been so many useless rumors and inquiries in the past. It was difficult to believe that this one might actually lead to Cynthia. Only the fact that the unknown child had one blue eye and one amber forced him to continue.
Mrs. Cavell’s eyes danced with merriment. “Him or her—there’s little difference when you’re that age.”
“What happened to the child?”
“Why, she took him away with her!”
“Where?” He thrust his fisted hands into his pockets. “Where did they go? The orphanage? Did Miss Stainton say?”
“No,” Mrs. Cavell admitted. “I am sorry, sir, but she didn’t see fit to tell me what she intended to do with the mite.” She shrugged, frowning. “Might have taken him to the workhouse, for all I know, though I wouldn’t have expected her to be so cruel.” Her mouth tightened. “Should have left him alone if that’s what she intended. He was doing well enough here and not harming anyone. No need to drag him away and lock him up someplace where they’d work his fingers until they bled and expect him to be grateful for the privilege.”
“I’m sure that was not her intention,” Marcus remarked absently as he considered the information.
Where would she have taken him, then? Back to the Polkinghorne townhouse? Somehow, he couldn’t see the Polkinghornes being pleased with that development. But where else would Miss Stainton go in London?
Time was slipping away from him, as slippery as an eel. Smiling at Mrs. Cavell, he nodded. “Thank you.”
Before she could reply, he turned on his heel and strode back to the carriage. With a wave, he climbed in.
Gaunt’s eyebrows rose in silent question when Marcus took a seat across from him. He was about to repeat Mrs. Cavell’s story in a slightly abbreviated form when some of the puzzle pieces surrounding his brother’s death arranged themselves into a clear and terrifying picture.
“I must go to the Polkinghorne townhouse. Immediately,” he stated. “Would you mind terribly getting out and going to Mr. Eburne’s apartments? It is possible that I am wrong, and I do not wish to discover that he is rolling my niece in one of his carpets while I am galloping down the wrong alley.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Gaunt climbed out and stood aside. “Good luck.”
“Let us hope that one of us is blessed by fortune and takes the right road.” Marcus nodded and shut the door.
He might be wrong, but he had the feeling that he was finally turning down the right road. Unfortunately, the workhouse might not have been the worst place for Cynthia, after all. In fact, it might be the very safest.
The coachman flicked his whip in the air above the heads of the horses with a snap. The carriage surged forward, clattering over the cobblestones.
Marcus sat back, praying that he was wrong.
Or rather, finally right.