Chapter Sixteen #2
“Apparently some sort of sewing needles,” Graham said in a cautious manner that set Benjamin’s senses on alert.
“So she could not see her killer?” Benjamin asked cautiously.
“From the extent of her other wounds, I would say it was more that her attacker wanted him to be the last thing she saw.” Graham dragged the seed sack over the woman’s face just as Duncan walked up.
“Thank you for coming, sir,” Benjamin said. “I am sorry to have dragged you from your bed.”
“I was awake anyway. We are expecting something important will occur between Honfleur and Yates within the next couple of days. I have been receiving steady reports from Warwickshire of others associated with William Booth’s operations. I will require the two of you to be prepared to respond.”
“As always, sir,” Benjamin assured. That was something else he must discuss with Miss Whitchurch. The lady should be aware of his obligations to the government if he was to extend his hand to the woman.
Duncan shrugged off his exhaustion. “So why has this person piqued your interest, Graham?”
Graham lifted the seed sack again and stepped aside.
“Do we know her identity?” Duncan gestured for Graham to return the sack to its place.
Graham explained, “The watchman mentioned he has seen the woman upon several occasions. Saw her last evening just as the shops were closing. She was conversing with Miss Whitchurch. Could the needles be hers?”
“Oh, no!” Benjamin protested. “You do not think Victoria is involved with this!”
Graham swallowed his smile. “Since when did the lady become ‘Victoria’?”
“Never!” Benjamin hissed in anger, ignoring the implication. “You know there is nothing occurring between me and the lady.”
“Calm down,” Duncan cautioned as he reached out a hand to Benjamin.
“We recognize your charity. No one who has ever met Miss Whitchurch would think the lady is incapable of loving her family and friends too little. As for me, I pray for the day when you propose. I have one daughter in the form of Lady Emma, but I have room in my heart for more. Elsbeth would be thrilled to view our house full of children.” He shrugged.
“In truth, since my attack, I often find myself quickly tiring of this business. Unfortunately, until that day, have we learned the name of our victim? Her family should be notified. You may be required to ask Miss Whitchurch to identify the lady.”
“Is such truly necessary?” Benjamin pleaded.
“Unfortunately, I fear it is,” Duncan declared as he and Graham stepped to the side to speak to the waiting watchman.
While the others executed what was required of them, with a sad heart, Benjamin turned his steps towards Sustar’s shop. He worked his way along the walkway to the shop. His would be a sorry tale for Miss Whitchurch, and, like it or not, he never wished for her to know a single drop of worry.
“Ah, my lord,” Brunswick called as Benjamin approached. “Did all go well with Lord Graham?”
“I fear not. They wish to speak to our Miss Whitchurch. Is it not time for the lady to be released for the day?” Benjamin asked as he studied the back door of the drapery shop.
“It seems Mr. Sustar likes to squeeze an additional five minutes here and ten minutes there of which Miss Whitchurch is not paid. She receives the same pay as she did when she worked ten hours. Now she is here for twelve hours.”
Benjamin knew he frowned, but he could not disguise his displeasure. However, he argued, “You are paid the same salary for your services, no matter the number of hours in the day.”
“True, my lord, but I am permitted three meals and a bed where I may rest and a variety of duties, as well as a uniform and some actual time when I might hold a conversation with the coachman or even my master, as I do now. I am not expected to place small stitches in delicate cloth with only one candle to light the night. No company. Just a stack of orders to complete before I may leave my post.”
“I never thought of the lady’s work in those terms,” Benjamin admitted, while wondering if the duties Miss Whitchurch performed were commonplace for all those within Sustar’s shop. Were the male clerks not permitted regular hours and benefits such as a midday meal?
At length, the door opened, and the lady emerged. “My lord, I did not expect you,” she said with a smile, which Benjamin was grieved to destroy. “Should you not be overseeing our breakfast? You know that is one of my favorite times in the day.”
Benjamin tucked her close to his body. His words would bring her sorrow.
“I am sorry to inform you, Miss Whitchurch,” he said as he turned their steps from the shop, “that there has been an incident nearby. I have been asked to bring you around. I am hoping you are strong enough to view such a scene.”
“Cassandra?” she pleaded.
“No, but apparently someone with whom you are familiar,” he assured as he led her in the direction of where Graham and Duncan awaited him.
“Is someone harmed?” she begged as her grip on his arm tightened.
“Deceased,” he said solemnly, while bracing her as she stumbled to a stop.
“Deceased?” Her lips trembled and tears filled her eyes when she looked up at him in supplication. “Who?”
“I do not know the lady,” he said, still attempting to prepare her. He purposely kept the emotion from his tone to keep her calm. “The watchman says you spoke to the woman yesterday eve.”
She clutched his arm and swayed in place. He maneuvered her closer to the building to prop her against it. “Mrs. Taylor,” she whispered as she clung to his shoulder. “Mrs. Mildred Taylor, from my former boarding house. I spoke to her right before I entered the close.”
“Why did not Brunswick also see the woman?” he asked.
“The street was blocked by two horse carts that were tangled. I… I… I walked the last bit. Brunswick was not able to go through, and we feared the adjacent streets might also be full.” Her eyes lifted to his.
“Why would anyone harm Mrs. Taylor? She was so sweet to everyone, even Mrs. Holland. She is the one who taught me how to make pap and how to fold a nappy for the boy.”
Benjamin wished to scoop her into his arms to protect her.
He possessed a strong sense of right and wrong, sometimes, his family would say, “Too strong.” Justice versus crime.
He had known anger often, and fear more than he wished to admit.
As well as too much loss. Even now, as he stood in a protective stance before Miss Whitchurch, his own loss and guilt crept into his chest. He had been exploring a small cave when his father’s distant cousin and two others had ambushed his Uncle Louis.
He had stood witness to his uncle’s death, and he had been too frightened even to call out.
At first, he had told no one. He was not supposed to be in the cave, but he liked looking for old bones.
He used them to trace and inspect the wonder of how animals and people were similar.
How they lived and how they died. He regrettably kept his silence, foolishly thinking his father’s cousin would also kill him.
Little did he know, he was correct in one manner: The cousin would have killed him after he had killed Benjamin’s father, Mr. Ernest Thompson.
Benjamin continued to blame himself for his father’s death.
His silence had changed the tide of his life.
He would never forgive himself for his initial fear; therefore, he understood something of Miss Whitchurch’s anguish.
The lady would blame herself for not knowing the true danger following her about.
Later, with Duncan’s assistance, Benjamin had been made to testify against his own family, but, at this particular moment, he would go through it all again if he could wipe away Miss Whitchurch’s tears.
Like it or not, Benjamin’s fascination with the lady and the child were so real, he felt them already a part of him.
He wished he could put a name on his feelings.
Love? Fascination? Need? To understand whatever it was before he made some sort of mistake that would drive the lady away.
God forbid someone would snatch her away from him.
As they stood together in silence, close enough that he breathed in the breath she exhaled, he said a silent prayer for the courage and the wisdom to protect Miss Whitchurch from the realities of what she must face in the next few minutes.
“There is something else you should know,” he said softly as he crouched down to look her in the eyes.
“What?” she whispered.
“Apparently after someone killed the woman, the person took some sort of sewing needles and ran them into the woman’s eyes,” he said in quiet, but earnest tones, as people streamed around them, for the sun grew higher in the sky, and London was awake.
Miss Whitchurch went as white as fine china. “I know who did this. A man,” she murmured, “nearly knocked me… to the ground.”
Benjamin knew from her expression that she could see the scene in her head.
“Dropped my bag… everything spilled…” She clutched at his hand. “Were they my needles?”
“I do not know, sweetheart,” he said as he caressed her cheek. “Are you missing any needles?”
If she heard it, she ignored his endearment.
“I just threw everything in the bag,” she pleaded.
“I did not have time last evening to separate the pins and thread and the like. I tossed everything in the bag together. Sustar furnishes me with the thread and needles for the majority of my tasks for his patrons. I was afraid, you see. The man was dressed all in black, and, though he barely said anything beyond an apology, I was frightened of him. His hat was pulled down. I could not see his face, but I… I felt fear.”
“All in black?” Benjamin asked. The image of Duncan’s shooter sprang to Benjamin’s mind.
“A dark floppy brimmed hat,” she confided in whispered tones. “Like what a coachman might wear in a driving rain,” she explained.
“Exactly how Duncan’s shooter was dressed,” his mind announced.
“Are you well, my lord?” she asked. “You have grown quite pale.”
“How can you know worry for me when your whole world has been turned on its ear?” he asked.
“Because, without you, I would be alone in this chaos,” she said softly, but with a touch of honesty that Benjamin appreciated. “Neither the boy nor I would have a champion of our very own.”
“You possess such a compassionate heart,” he remarked, while thinking that whoever she grew to love would know both loyalty and passion.
“Sometimes said heart places me in an uncomfortable position,” she admitted.
He caressed her cheek. “Never change. You are perfect just as you are.”
She stepped back from his touch and rolled her shoulders into place. “We should continue, my lord. If this is Mrs. Taylor, she deserves our consideration.”
“You are correct,” he conceded as he slid his hand down her arm to catch her hand. “We will do this together.”
As they came nearer to the scene, which still had a large crowd looking on, he was happy that she still clutched his hand. Neither of them wore gloves, and he could feel the hitch in her pulse as fear arrived.
She held tighter with each step, but Benjamin did not mind her seeking out his strength to steady her.
“Oh, no!” she gasped. “Not in an alley. Mrs. Taylor deserved better than soot-covered bricks. She was one of the kindest people I have known.” Miss Whitchurch swiveled her gaze up to meet his.
“Are the sewing needles truly in her eyes? Might I only look at the rest of her? I do not want that image following me around for the rest of my days.”
“We will ask Brunswick to identify her,” Benjamin assured. “Did he not speak to the woman when he escorted you to claim your belongings from the boarding house?”
“Yes,” she said with a bit of hope. “Though I would like to say a prayer over her if you would be willing to stand with me.”
“Of course,” he assured her.
They turned the corner, and she froze as Mrs. Taylor’s body was laid out on the dirty bricks. Miss Whitchurch instantly recoiled and buried her face in Benjamin’s chest. He held her to him. “I have you,” he bent to whisper in her ear.
“We found something else,” Aaran said cautiously.
Benjamin nodded his understanding. “Go ahead. I have her.” He adjusted Miss Whitchurch in his grasp, but it was not necessary for her to view what he did.
Graham held up a half-made gown—one Miss Whitchurch had been making for the boy.
She had been trimming the edges with intricately placed stitches—little squares interlocked in a parade of colorful thread.
“From Miss Whitchurch’s bag,” he said. “A man in a long black coat and a loosely brimmed hat knocked her bag from her hands yesterday before she entered Sustar’s shop.
You may examine the condition of the bag now.
She has made no effort to straighten out the entangled thread and so forth. ”
He was glad when Graham did not make an accusation, but rather said. “Planned then. A message to you. To all of us. Someone saw Miss Whitchurch greet Mrs.…”
“Taylor,” Benjamin supplied. “Brunswick may assist in the identification. He met the woman when he escorted Miss Whitchurch to her former quarters to retrieve her belongings. The small gown was meant for the boy.”
“A loud warning,” Graham cautioned.
“Yes. A man in a long, dark coat, wearing a hat similar to what Duncan’s shooter wore.
A man the lady feared looking upon for he exuded evil.
Not a warning to her, but to us. He is still walking London’s streets and waiting, I suppose, to strike again.
Mrs. Taylor’s death is a warning for us, not Miss Whitchurch.
This man is capable of getting close to our loved ones.
To taunt us. Have us making false predictions.
An evil exhortation of what is to come.”