Chapter 23
“Are we no to bide here after all?” asked Polly.
She and Nell had been waiting in the entrance hall while Helena found her brother in the orangerie.
Poor, tired Nell was bouncing up and down on her toes in a desperate effort to get little Samuel to fall asleep on her shoulder.
Polly, who had just instructed a footman to bring her mistress’s trunk upstairs, listened attentively for the verdict.
“We are not,” said Helena, “but never fear. I will find somewhere better for us.”
“Somewhere better?” The two domestics echoed her pronouncement as they looked around the opulent entryway with its marble floor and crystal chandelier.
It was a palace compared to the Carham Hall guest house or the inns they had frequented along the road.
They exchanged a doubtful glance with each other.
“We will go to Maurice’s,” said Helena, trying to imbue her voice with the same sort of confidence that her brother or her husband always seemed to possess.
Of all the hotels in London, she had only dined at Maurice’s and at the Pulteney.
Both were hotels that catered to the cream of society.
Both were hotels that charged a premium for lodging.
She was afraid the sum of money Ralph had left her would not stretch so far as a suite of rooms at either place, but she had no idea what inns of lesser quality existed.
“I’m sorry, Nell. Just a little further till we find a bed for your babe. ”
Polly, no more than eighteen years old herself, squared her shoulders and approached the footman standing by the door.
“Ah’ll thank ye to haul that trunk back downstairs again.
” Turning to the other footman who stood mirroring him on the other side of the doorway, she gave another order.
“Tell Auld Donald out front t’hitch the horses back up, for the mistress has another stop to make. ”
Surprised, Helena watched both of her brother’s footmen leap to do Polly’s bidding.
Her maid was a marvelous motivator of men.
The second footman’s errand, as it turned out, was superfluous.
Auld Donald had been busy speaking to a slight, red-haired fellow in the street, and he had not yet taken the time to unhitch the horses.
“What’s this?” he exclaimed, jamming his tricorn hat onto his head without a care for its shape. “Ye want to leave again already?”
“Yes,” said Helena. “We must find a snug little house to let, but for tonight, we will go to Maurice’s.”
The footman secured the trunk to the back of the creaky coach, and the women boarded it once more.
Geoffrey, apparently having dealt with Maud’s distress, now came outside to deal with Helena’s.
He stepped onto the porch just in time to see Helena climb into the carriage.
“Now, see here, Helena, where do you think you are going?”
“To find friendlier accommodations,” said Helena.
She could see she had exasperated him beyond all bearing.
No doubt with Ralph in prison, he felt responsible for her once more, the way he had when their parents had passed away far too young.
But Helena was not the same wide-eyed debutante who had joined the ranks of the ton last year.
Experience had changed her. Suffering had molded her.
And responsibility for her devoted servants, her unborn child, and her absent husband sat on her shoulders like a yoke, a yoke she had finally grown strong enough to bear.
Auld Donald was speaking once again to the stranger in the road, a slight fellow in a dark suit of clothes with red hair and clear eyes.
With a curt nod to the coachman, the fellow came up to the window on the other side of the carriage where he was screened from the view of the house. “Jacob Pevensey, at your service.”
“Get along with ye,” said Polly. She was a country girl who knew enough to be suspicious of strangers in town who sought an audience without a proper introduction.
“Wait a moment.” Helena motioned for Polly on the opposite side of the carriage to open the window so that she might speak to the interloper more freely. “You look familiar, sir.”
“I work for the magistrates at Bow Street. I visited your brother’s house several times at the beginning of the year.”
Helena cast her mind back to the New Year and recalled hearing Geoffrey and Miss Cecil talking in hushed voices about a Bow Street Runner who was trying to obtain an audience with her, an audience that would not be allowed in her grief-stricken state.
“There’s a reason you’re in front of my brother’s house again,” said Helena, with a flash of insight.
The red-haired man gave a little bow. “Indeed, my lady. I was looking for you.”
“For me?” Just as Helena uttered those words, she felt the baby kick. Startled, she pressed a hand against her belly. “Whatever for?”
“Are you aware your husband approached me three months ago to investigate a matter?”
“N-no.”
“Perhaps there’s a better place to discuss this than in the street,” said the man apologetically. “May I join you in your carriage?”
Helena was more taken aback than ever. But still, this man knew something about Ralph. She could not ignore the opportunity to learn more. She nodded to Polly, and the maid opened the door. The agile fellow climbed inside and took a seat opposite Helena.
He pulled out his notebook and a pencil, and began to make marks in it, large swooping marks as if his writing was half a page tall.
“What can you tell me about my husband?”
Mr. Pevensey looked up. “As I said, Mr. Aldine approached me three months ago. But perhaps there’s a place we can discuss this with more privacy.
” He looked at Polly and Nell with a gesture of apology.
Helena swallowed. Of course, he could not say what he had to say in front of her servants.
“I overheard that you are looking for a house to let. Your friends, the Cecils, let a house in Baker Street the last time they were here. I have the address if you would care to look it up. I passed it on the way, and it seemed to be currently unoccupied.”
Helena’s brow furrowed. It was strange to have such a helpful soul materialize out of nowhere. But why was he being so assiduous for her comfort?
Nell’s baby, who had endured a whole day of carriage travel already, began to wail, forcing Helena to make her decision. “Show us the house on Baker Street, Mr. Pevensey, and if it is suitable, I shall lease it for the next two months.”
Sir Philip Phipps gripped a heavily scented handkerchief, holding it close to his nose.
Ralph found himself almost annoyed at the affectation.
The smell in Newgate had bothered him for the first three days, but he had grown accustomed to it now.
It was the damp that bothered him more, the damp that kept a constant ooze in his lungs and a cough in his throat.
“Could you state again what you did after returning to your flat, Mr. Aldine?”
“I told you already—I went to bed.”
“And was there a servant, perhaps, who could corroborate this?”
“No. I have no live-in servants at my flat.”
Sir Philip looked taken aback. “Perhaps your wife then? I have dined with the lovely Lady Helena before, and her testimony would doubtless carry weight on the witness stand.”
“My wife is currently in residence near the Scottish border. I came to London alone.”
Sir Philip groaned. “Oh dear, Mr. Aldine. That truly is a sticky wicket. I suppose no one in the street saw you enter the flat and can give the time.”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“And you are certain that you did not return to the theater later?”
“I’ve told you so several times.”
“Hmm.” Sir Philip looked dubious. “I stopped in at Bow Street and demanded that they share whatever they had discovered in the case. Sir Richard Ford is a friend, of course, so I need not assure you that they complied. The investigator has found your letter to Miss Clifford demanding proof of her claims before you provide her with money. It is all too clear she was blackmailing you. This looks bad, Mr. Aldine. Very bad.”
Ralph shifted his seat on the hard pallet that constituted a luxury mattress in this fetid prison. “Well, then, I’m sorry, Sir Philip, if you don’t think you can successfully defend my case. Perhaps I can find a different barrister who—”
“Oh, I didn’t say that.” Sir Philip adjusted the handkerchief near his nostrils. “I am simply noting the difficulty of the matter. Your brother-in-law is paying a handsome retainer for my services, and I shall orate your innocence to the best of my ability. Pathos over logos, eh?”
Ralph made no answer to that. It was an erudite way of saying that his defender believed him guilty but might be able to manage the jury with some skillful sophistry. “I believe my ethos could also be taken into account. The partners at my former firm can give me a sound character.”
“I’m sure they can,” said Sir Philip condescendingly. He cleared his throat. “One thing the fine fellows at Bow Street didn’t mention—how exactly did the actress die?”
Ralph looked at him in surprise. That had been the strangest part of the whole inquest. “The coroner gave two causes of death. She was poisoned. There was cyanide in the glass in front of her, and the smell of it on her lips. But she was also stabbed. A knife had pierced her right below the breastbone.”
“How bizarre! And did you, Mr. Aldine, have a store of cyanide at your flat?”
“Of course not,” said Ralph shortly. He began to cough, the spasms racking his entire body and paining the rib he had put out of joint last night.
“Well, that is some good news, I suppose. I normally would not even need to consult with the defendant but with his solicitor.” Sir Philip grimaced as he looked around the grim cell. “But I suppose one cannot expect a man who is his own solicitor to gather evidence while locked up in Newgate.”
“No, indeed,” rasped Ralph.
He was losing patience with this fellow.
It was possible that he would soon be obliged to be not only his own solicitor but also his own barrister.
But he would put up with Sir Philip Phipps for as long as he could, especially if it gave him a chance of making it out of this infernal cell and back home to his helpless wife.
With Mr. Pevensey’s assistance, Helena secured the house on Baker Street.
The owner, Mr. Cox, lived next door. He was surprised to be called upon at such a late hour, but he assured Helena that he remembered the Cecils and was only too glad to let the house to a friend of theirs.
The sheets had not been aired for several weeks and there were covers atop the furniture, but if she was willing to put up with the minor inconveniences of a house that had been shut up for the last month, he would be happy to give her the keys now and meet with her man of business tomorrow.
There were two rooms upstairs for the tenants of the house, and two rooms downstairs by the kitchen for the servants, so the three women and the baby all found places to stay, stopping only to eat the last of the food packed in the picnic hamper before falling into exhausted slumber.
The following morning, Helena, Polly, and Nell were sitting in the kitchen to have a household meeting when the knocker sounded.
“Oh dear,” said Helena, fearing that it was Mr. Cox already.
She knew that her money was safely stored at one of the banks in London, but since Geoffrey and Ralph had always handled such things, she had no idea where to go to withdraw a large enough sum for the lease of the house.
When Polly opened the door, however, a more familiar face appeared on the doorstep. “Edwina!” cried Helena, enveloping her friend in as close a hug as her pregnant belly would allow.
“Helena, how radiant you look,” said Edwina, a compliment Helena assumed was born out of kindness rather than veracity.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“Why, as to that, I was on my way to your brother’s house this morning, but Mr. Pevensey intercepted me and informed me you had taken your own lodgings.”
Both women looked back through the open door to where Mr. Pevensey was standing modestly on the pavement. He touched his forelock in a gesture of respect. Helena’s heart welled within her. Not only had he brought Helena a house, but he had brought her dearest friend to her doorstep.
“Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve come to stay with you and take care of you.”
At that, Helena burst into tears.
“Come into the parlor,” said Edwina briskly.
She began to lead Helena to the nearby door that led, indeed, to the parlor.
“You must not forget that I know my way around. Edward and I let this house for nearly two months at Christmas.” She paused.
“Do you feel well enough to invite Mr. Pevensey in for a cup of tea? I daresay he will not mind if you are a bit of a watering pot. He sees a good many tears in his profession.”
“Invite Mr. Pevensey in?” repeated Helena, looking at her friend with confusion. The Bow Street Runner had proved a godsend, yesterday, but it had never occurred to her that she might meet with him socially across a tea table. “The chairs are all covered with dust cloths, but I suppose we can.”
“Excellent,” said Edwina, seating Helena on the sheet-covered sofa and then going back to the door to usher in her escort.
In the intervening silence, Helena’s foggy brain began to clear.
Mr. Pevensey had intercepted Edwina on the way to Geoffrey’s house.
Mr. Pevensey had brought Edwina to Baker Street.
Mr. Pevensey was coming in for a cup of tea.
Blinking back tears, she stared at her beaming friend’s face with a new set of eyes.
Was it possible that this Bow Street Runner was in fact Edwina’s correspondent, “Mr. P—”?
If so, perhaps he would be willing to provide more information about the case against Ralph. And perhaps he could be trusted as implicitly as Helena trusted Edwina.