Chapter 34 #2
“Have you complained to Mr. Myott about his harassment?” Kendra asked.
“Are ye touched in the head? Mr. Mylott would tan our hides good if we started complaining. Don’t matter anyways. Me knife does the trick.”
Kendra had to smile. “I’ll bet it does.”
“Guess your little pistol does the same. Would ye have shot the bugger?”
“I guess we’ll never know.”
Kendra was aware of Penelope studying her out of the corner of her eyes as they walked down the shadowy corridor. “Ye’re not like most ladies,” the actress finally remarked. “Must be because ye’re a Yank. English ladies treat us like we’re dirt on their dainty slippers.”
Penelope stopped to knock at a door. She didn’t wait for an answer, twisting the knob and pushing open the panel. “Old Beatrice,” she said, “I gotta lady ter see you.”
Old Beatrice was an appropriate appellation, Kendra decided.
She had to be in her nineties. Gray hair stuck out like barbed wire from beneath the beige mobcap she wore.
She had lashless brown eyes behind round spectacles.
Her skin was creped, sagged, and spotted.
But her hands were quick and steady as she stitched the hem of a crimson satin gown that shimmered across her lap while she rocked in a chair.
The room was small, almost claustrophobic, thanks to the fabric shoved into every nook and cranny: bolts against the wall, swatches scattered across a cabinet, stacked in shelves.
A table held dressmaker tools—scissors, tape measures, spools of thread, pincushions stuck with pins, and muslin pattern pieces—while another cupboard held baskets brimming with buttons, trimmings, and other odds and ends.
Four wicker dressmaker dummies stood like headless sentries in a corner.
“Lady Sutcliffe, this is Old Beatrice,” Penelope introduced.
Old Beatrice didn’t stop her sewing as she looked at Kendra. “Come ter ask me about Edwina, then?”
A little surprised by the old woman’s bluntness, Kendra nodded. “Mostly. Do you mind?”
“Nothing’s stopping you from asking.”
“I’ll leave ye to talk, then.” Penelope’s silk robe fluttered as she made her exit.
“There’s a chair under those gowns and breeches,” Beatrice said.
Kendra took that to mean she could remove them, so she scooped up the mounds of clothes, then stood there, not really sure what to do with the armload.
“Just drop them,” Beatrice instructed.
Kendra obeyed, then sat down across from the seamstress. The old woman had the composure of someone who’d lived long enough to have heard and seen it all.
“Do actresses talk to you when they’re being fitted?” Kendra asked.
If Beatrice was surprised that Kendra didn’t bring up Edwina, she didn’t show it. “Some are chattier than others.”
“What about Clarice and Isabella? Were they chatty?”
“Sometimes.”
Old Beatrice was clearly not chatty. “Did they tell you that they were ill?”
The old woman didn’t answer immediately. Her silence was contemplative as she hemmed. The thimble on her thumb glinted gold in the candlelight as she pushed the needle in and out of the satin material in a gentle rhythm.
Finally, she huffed out a sigh. “Aye. They both had the pox. I told them to use the condom, but these girls . . . . They come here young and pretty, thinking they’ll be the next Sarah Siddons.
” The old woman deftly knotted the thread and snipped it with tiny silver scissors.
“They have such dreams, and are wooed by every manner of man. They never think they’ll grow old or fall out of favor. Too many end up as Haymarket Wares.”
Haymarket Wares, Kendra knew, were streetwalkers, considered the lowest in the sex worker trade.
“Did Clarice or Isabella tell you that they were receiving treatment for the pox?” she asked.
“Aye.” The seamstress removed the remaining thread from the needle, then slid the needle into her pincushion before hunting through the wicker basket next to her for another spool.
“Isabella said that she’d learned of a cure.
Silly cow.” She found a spool of gold thread and measured what she needed before cutting it.
“Then she was gone. Dead, most likely. But not before she filled Clarice’s head with her tomfoolery. ”
Beatrice’s tongue flicked out to wet the thread’s tip, then she drew it through the needle’s eye.
“Now Clarice is gone,” she continued. “Probably dead too.”
“She is. But not because of her illness. She was found in the Thames, no blood in her veins.”
Beatrice picked up another dress and inspected the torn seam. The old woman’s weathered face remained impassive.
“Did they tell you who was helping them?” Kendra asked.
“Nay. They didn’t say and I didn’t ask.” She raised her gaze to Kendra. “Sometimes it’s best to mind your own business, my lady.”
Was that a warning? Kendra wondered. She asked, “What did Edwina know?”
“Why do you think she knew anything?”
“Because Lady Westford was asking about Clarice on Saturday, and then she came back on Sunday. Edwina would be the only one here to meet her.”
Old Beatrice kept her eyes on her stitches. “If she did, she didn’t tell me.”
“Edwina was here,” Kendra repeated. “She witnessed Lady Westford’s murder and was seen running from the theater with a man chasing her. Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“She never talked to you about her friends? Somewhere she might seek shelter?”
Beatrice’s busy fingers stilled, and she slowly raised her eyes again to lock on Kendra. “Edwina’s a good girl. She don’t need no trouble.”
Kendra studied the old woman. “She’s in trouble, Beatrice. She witnessed a murder and can identify a killer. That killer is trying to find her. Maybe he already has.”
“He hasn’t.”
Kendra stared at her. “You sound certain of that.”
Beatrice said nothing.
“I’m not the enemy, Beatrice. If you want to help Edwina, you’ll tell me what you know.”
Beatrice tilted her head, regarding Kendra thoughtfully. “And how can you help her, my lady?”
“By catching the person who killed Lady Westford. Edwina witnessed her murder; she can provide a description of the man who did it. I’ll make sure she’s safe. I’ll protect her.”
“Seems to me that she’s been protecting herself well enough without your help, ma’am.”
“The murderer isn’t going to stop. He’s killed two more people since Lady Westford. He killed Clarice and Isabella.” And how many more? “Don’t let Edwina become another victim.”
Beatrice continued to study her. “How will you protect her, my lady?”
“I can send her to Aldridge Castle. She’ll be safe there.” Kendra waited a beat. “I promise to keep her safe. Please tell me where she is, Beatrice.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
Kendra let out a frustrated breath. “You didn’t ask her where she’s been hiding when you saw her?”
“I never saw her.”
“But . . .” Kendra frowned. “I don’t understand. Did she send you a note?”
“No. She was here—but I never saw her.”
“Then someone else saw her?”
“No.” Beatrice slipped the needle into the gown she’d been sewing, and set the bundle aside.
Slowly, she hoisted herself out of the rocking chair.
“Edwina slept in the theater,” she told Kendra as she walked to the shelves.
“Sometimes in this room, sometimes others. Like a little mouse, she was. But she kept the few things she owned in a basket. This basket.”
Beatrice brought down one of the baskets woven out of straw. “Weren’t much, but they were dear to her,” she said, lifting the lid. “Yesterday morn, I noticed the basket had been moved. When I looked inside, Edwina’s things were gone. This was left in its place.”
She reached inside, and brought out what looked like a large, copper bullet.
“What is it?” Kendra asked, puzzled, when Beatrice gave it to her. On closer examination, Kendra saw dimples, like a golf ball, hammered around the middle, and an intricate scrolled pattern carved into metal at is base. The object tapered to a smooth pointed tip and was hollow on the inside.
In answer, Beatrice took back the item and slipped it on her left thumb. She held up both hands, each thumb now covered.
“Ah. A thimble,” Kendra said.
Beatrice nodded. “Yes, but I’ve never seen the likes before. It’s old. Looks foreign.”
“May I?”
Beatrice plucked the old thimble off her thumb and dropped it into Kendra’s open palm.
“Why would she leave you a thimble?” Kendra asked, sliding her own thumb into the cylinder.
For the first time, the old woman cracked a smile.
“She knows I can always use more thimbles. Edwina and I shared this one.” She wiggled her other thumb.
“We always complained about Mr. Myott’s cheeseparing ways.
I reckon she came to collect her things, and left this behind to let me know she was all right. ”
Kendra took the thimble off. Grit coated her skin and thumbnail. She rubbed it curiously with her index finger.
“I didn’t have a chance to clean it proper,” Beatrice said, watching her. “I’m going to soak it in water and lye to get some of the crusty spots clean.”
“Do you mind if I take it with me? I promise to bring it back.”
“Why? How’s it going to help you find Edwina?”
“She got it somewhere. Given its age and the grime on it, maybe a used clothing shop. Or a pawn shop. If I take it around, maybe someone will remember it.” Though why would Edwina spend her coins on an old thimble? Most likely, she’d found it on the street.
Still, it was something.
“I’ll bring it back tomorrow,” Kendra repeated. “I promise.”
Beatrice pressed her lips together for a long moment, then nodded. “If that thing can help you find Edwina, keep it. And when you find her, I expect you to send her to your castle, where she’ll be safe. I have your word?”
“Yes,” Kendra said simply. And prayed that she wasn’t making a promise that she wouldn’t be able to keep.