Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
A Caller from the Mission
The next day, as the clock in the front hall chimed eleven, Honeycutt appeared at my morning room door. “Miss Martha Larkin to see you, my lady.”
As the mission worker stepped into the room, I rose to greet her. “Miss Larkin,” I said warmly, “how very pleasant to see you.”
She curtsied, not deeply, but with the awkwardness of someone unaccustomed to visiting houses where footmen opened doors. “Thank you for seeing me, my lady.”
She was a slight woman in her thirties, plainly dressed in a worn brown skirt and jacket that had been brushed to within an inch of its life. Her gloves were darned in three places, and her bonnet, though clean, bore the faded look of one that had seen too many seasons.
“Won’t you please take a seat?” I pointed to the cozy armchair I kept in my morning room for visitors.
She perched on the edge of it, hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles whitened, as though she feared to mar the upholstery merely by resting upon it.
“Would you care for some tea?” I inquired, eager to put her at ease.
A flicker of alarm crossed her features. “Oh, no. Please don’t take any trouble on my account. Thank you kindly, but I couldn’t.”
Poor thing. She must think accepting refreshment would place her under some dreadful obligation, or that the cost of a single cup would be tallied against her. As I did not wish to add to her discomfort, I did not press her but simply asked. “How may I help you?”
Miss Larkin worried the strings of her reticule with trembling hands, then drew a breath as though steadying herself for a plunge. “I hope you will pardon me for seeking you out,” she began in a low, unsteady voice.
“There is nothing to pardon,” I said gently. “I am very glad you have come. Please tell me what weighs upon you.”
“It is not a common thing for me to trouble a lady of your position,” she murmured.
“But after what happened to the girl Elsie — and the way you did not turn from it, even when others said it was no fit matter for a gentlewoman — I thought perhaps…” She trailed off, her fingers twisting in her gloves.
“Perhaps I might listen?” I finished gently. “You were right to come.”
Her eyes flickered up to mine, a flicker of relief in them.
“It’s the girls, my lady. The ones who come to us from service, or from the street, or from places best left unspoken.
We do our best to find them respectable situations—sewing work, laundries, domestic posts—but lately… lately, some have vanished.”
“Vanished?” That was the last thing I expected to hear.
She nodded. “Left the positions we’d arranged for them and were never heard from again.
At first we thought they’d simply moved on.
But then…” She hesitated, her throat working.
“One of them — a sweet child named Anna Price — was found last month, pulled from the river down by the wharf. The police called it an accident. I knew her, my lady. She feared the water. Wouldn’t go anywhere near it if she could help it. ”
The words settled between us, heavy as lead. I had seen enough of the Thames to know it was as much a grave as a river.
Miss Larkin glanced toward the door, lowering her voice further. “There have been others, I think. Girls with no family to claim them who’ve also gone missing. It’s easier to say they wandered off.” She swallowed. “But I can’t stop thinking—if someone could do for Anna what you did for Elsie…”
I leaned forward, my heart tightening. “You said nothing of this to the police?”
Her expression hardened, though her tone remained respectful. “I did, as well as some of their employers. The authorities thanked us for our trouble. And that was the end of it. They don’t care about folks like us.”
I could almost hear Inspector Dodson’s voice in those words.
“Will you give me the names of the girls?” I asked.
She hesitated only a moment before reaching into her reticule and producing a folded sheet of cheap paper. A half-dozen names were written there in the same careful hand as her letter. Beside each was a small notation about their occupations and ages, together with their last places of residence.
“I can’t say they’re all dead,” she said, her voice trembling, “but I fear they’re not where they were meant to be. And the ones who end in the river—they won’t be the last.”
I smoothed the paper once more, committing the names to memory before folding it carefully and slipping it into the pocket of my gown. The weight of it pressed against me like a vow. “Thank you, Miss Larkin. You’ve done the right thing. I’ll make enquiries.”
Miss Larkin stood, relief and lingering fear mingling in her expression. “God bless you, my lady.”
When she had gone, the room seemed emptier than it had before her arrival—as if her words had carried away the very air. I remained seated, the list of names burning a hole in my pocket.
The most obvious course was to contact Scotland Yard to inquire about the missing women.
Yet what hope was there? Too often, such cases were deemed too unimportant to command attention.
Perhaps they might stir themselves if I pressed the matter.
But what if the case fell to Inspector Dodson or some other inspector just like him?
He had not troubled himself over Elsie Leonard, and she had been murdered.
Why should he care more for Anna Price or the young women who had simply vanished?
I could almost hear his voice already, brisk and callous: Common girls throw themselves into the river or disappear more often than not. Poverty. A jilted lover. Who can say? We haven’t time to chase them all.
No. I needed someone who would listen. And, more importantly, someone who would act without broadcasting my involvement to the world—or to my family.
My thoughts turned to Caleb Finch, Steele’s enquiry agent.
I had met him during the investigation into Elsie’s murder.
He’d struck me as a man of rough manners yet possessed of a sharp intellect.
His first loyalty lay with Steele, but he had shown me a measure of respect.
A note would be the best way to approach him.
Discreet and direct, yet brief enough to rouse his curiosity without committing anything to paper that might fall into the wrong hands.
I would request an appointment in his office.
Far better to go to him than to have him call here.
The last thing I desired was for anyone at Rosehaven House remarking upon his presence.
I pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward me and dipped my pen.
Mr. Finch—
I have need of your professional assistance in a matter of some delicacy. Might I call upon you at your office tomorrow at whatever hour may be convenient?
—Lady Rosalynd
Before I could second-guess myself, I sealed it and reached for the bell. Moments later, Honeycutt appeared.
“I must beg a favor of you, Honeycutt.” I handed him the sealed note. “This correspondence is for Caleb Finch in Hatton Garden. Entrust it only to a footman you consider absolutely reliable and see that it is delivered directly. I should prefer the matter remain discreet.”
His brows rose by the faintest degree, but he answered readily enough. “It shall be done, my lady,” he replied with quiet gravity. “You may trust in our discretion.”
When the door closed behind him, I sat very still.
I didn’t wish Steele to learn of this. At least, not yet.
We had come to an understanding that I would not fling myself into peril alone.
But this was only the enquiry stage, no more dangerous than sending a note.
I wanted to know how deep the waters ran before troubling him or discovering whether there was any need to trouble him at all.
More than likely, I was lying to myself. But then, such waters were never shallow.
As I set the seal back in its drawer, I drew the folded paper from my pocket and smoothed it open upon the desk. My eyes traced the list again—seamstress, 17; laundress, 15; housemaid, 16, and three others. Not one had yet seen eighteen summers.
I did not need to imagine what might have befallen them.
In London, the fates of poor girls were too often the same—lured into brothels, forced into houses of ill repute, or pressed into the so-called trade of white slavery.
Their lives counted for so little in the eyes of the world.
But they counted in mine, as well as Miss Larkin’s.
I folded the paper once more, stored it in my desk drawer, and turned the key in the lock. The act of securing the list lent me a measure of calm. If someone was preying on these young women, I would do my best to find them and seek justice for them.