Chapter 13
Mr. Hobart suggested I use his office to speak to Lord Rumford. He then discreetly left us alone and promised we wouldn’t be disturbed. I sat in Mr. Hobart’s chair and regarded Lord Rumford across the desk. I think he knew from my face that I didn’t have good news.
“You’re giving up, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I have no choice. The people I need to speak to won’t talk to me.”
“And who are these people?”
I clasped my hands on the desk and sat forward. “Before I tell you that, I want you to know that I agree with your assessment of Pearl’s death. By all accounts, she was happy, so it’s unlikely she killed herself.”
“I hope you learned more than that, Miss Fox.”
I clasped my hands tighter and drew in a fortifying breath. “I learned that Pearl had a baby, four years ago this March.”
His lips parted. He hadn’t known.
“Mr. and Mrs. Larsen are raising the child as their own,” I went on. “Did Pearl ever mention that her niece might be her own daughter?”
“She never mentioned the niece at all, except once, in passing.”
“From what I can gather, Pearl didn’t want the child. However, it’s possible she changed her mind recently.”
He shook his head. “She would have mentioned it to me if that were the case.”
I doubted that, but didn’t say. “It’s possible she asked Lord Wrexham for money to support Millie.”
There was no surprise on his face at the mention of Pearl’s former benefactor. He’d already quickly calculated Millie’s age and realized who’d fathered her. “You forget that Pearl did ask me for money too.”
“After Wrexham refused her. But I don’t think that’s why Pearl was killed. I think it has to do with a disease she either caught from Wrexham or gave to him.”
This time his expression left nothing to guesswork. Disgust was written all over it. “Pearl wasn’t diseased, Miss Fox, and your insinuation is abhorrent.”
“Lord Wrexham has syphilis—”
He shot to his feet. “I’ve heard enough. Wrexham’s medical situation is no business of mine. If he is ill, it’s not Pearl’s fault. She hasn’t been near him for years.”
“You can’t know—”
“I can,” he ground out between gritted teeth. “Pearl wasn’t with anyone else when she was with me.”
“That’s not true. While I cannot be certain if she was with Wrexham, I do know she had another lover, one she’s had for years. He knew about you, and Wrexham.”
His mouth and jaw worked, as if he couldn’t decide what to say next. I couldn’t imagine what was going through his mind. Jealousy? Anger? Was he picturing Pearl taking her other lover to the flat he’d paid for?
Finally he found his voice. “She was not with Wrexham. Nor did she have any diseases. Believe me, Miss Fox, I would know. The thing about Wrexham is that he likes to show off his lovers. He’s not discreet.
It’s a well-known fact in some circles that Wrexham’s most recent lover is a dancer.
It’s also well-known that she disappeared from the stage some months ago, and speculation is that she is ill.
If anyone gave Wrexham syphilis, it’s her. ”
I capitulated on the point. I’d been given no reason to believe Pearl and Wrexham had resumed their relationship.
She’d not been seen with him, except for that one time, after Christmas, and there were no letters from him among her things.
By all accounts, she was content with Lord Rumford and she’d be a fool to jeopardize that by taking up with Wrexham again.
If they hadn’t been together lately, she could not have given him syphilis.
Wrexham would have known that, which meant there was no reason for him to kill her.
There was still Lady Wrexham, however. She might not be aware her husband had caught the disease from another woman.
Lord Rumford strode to the door, but before opening it, turned back to me.
The gaze he settled on me was as cold as ice.
“Mr. Hobart recommended you, and against my better judgement, I hired you. I should have gone with my instinct and sent you on your way. I knew this would be too difficult for a woman. Female private detectives are better left to trapping philandering husbands than murderers.”
I watched him storm out of the office, biting on my tongue until it hurt. Despite the fact he kept a mistress, I had liked Lord Rumford. Well, perhaps that wasn’t quite true. It’s safer to say I didn’t dislike him. Until now.
With a sigh, I left Mr. Hobart’s office and returned to the foyer where Peter was busy with new guests checking in.
Goliath stood by, waiting for instructions on which room to take up a trolley full of luggage, and gave me a discreet nod as I passed.
Mr. Hobart was in deep conversation with two guests, and didn’t notice me as I headed for the stairs.
“Miss Fox,” said Frank from behind me. “There’s a lad who wants to speak to you. He says he’s Peter’s brother.”
I followed him outside where he directed me to the boy standing a few feet away, a pack slung over his shoulder and a stool in one hand.
“I know you,” he said. “I saw you go into the house.”
“My name is Cleo Fox.” I put out my hand and he shook it, introducing himself as William. “Have you come to tell me you’re giving up?”
“No, miss! I want to report in about the mistress of the house. She went out this morning and I followed her.”
I stood a little straighter. “Go on.”
“She went to a shop in Shoreditch. Real small place, tucked away in a court behind a pub. She was in there for a few minutes and came out with something in a paper bag. She went straight home again.”
“What does the shop sell?”
“Potions, as near as I can tell. I reckon the shopkeeper’s a witch.” He pulled a face. “She sure looked like one.”
He gave me the address on Sclater Street and I paid him for his trouble.
He squirreled the money away in his pocket. “Any time you need a house watched, I’m your man.”
“I can see that. Thank you.”
“Working in an office or a fancy hotel ain’t for the likes of men like me. I’ll leave that to Peter and folks like him.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant. I didn’t think William even knew what he meant. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. He winked at me and went on his way, whistling.
Smiling, I returned to the hotel to fetch my coat and an umbrella.
Ten minutes later, I caught a hansom to Sclater Street, Shoreditch.
The shop William had seen Lady Wrexham enter was difficult to find.
Accessed through an arched walkway beside the pub that opened to a small court, it had a single, grimy window with the word HERBALIST painted across the top.
I could smell burning incense before I even opened the door.
There were so many scents mingled together, it was difficult to discern individual ones.
The shop looked like a Medieval apothecary’s laboratory.
Bunches of drying herbs, flowers and berries hung from the rafters, some so low they skimmed my hat as I passed beneath them.
Behind the counter was a large cabinet with small drawers, while the counter itself was covered with small pots of lotions, as well as soaps and sachets.
A set of brass scales stood at one end beside a basket filled with dried rabbit’s feet.
I bent to inspect the contents of a collection of glass jars on a table only to reel back when a pair of dead eyes stared back at me. The jars were filled with severed animal heads and entire bodies of small creatures suspended in fluid to preserve them.
“They’re not for sale,” came a crackling voice from behind me.
The elderly woman must have come from the adjoining room, accessed through the door near the counter.
She’d not made a sound. It was no wonder William referred to her as a witch.
She had the classic storybook profile with the hooked nose, sharp chin, and beady eyes.
All that was missing was a broomstick and pointed black hat.
“You don’t have an appointment,” she said.
“You take appointments?” I asked. “What for?”
She went behind the counter and pulled out a ledger from a lower shelf. “Private consultations. You tell me what ails you, and I tailor a treatment to your specific needs. The consultation is free and there’s no obligation to purchase anything.”
“And what do your treatments entail?”
“Tonics, creams, tisanes, emetics…it depends on the ailment.”
“What sort of ailments can you treat?”
“Everything.” She opened the ledger and scanned her finger down the page. “I’m expecting a client any moment, but I can fit you in after her in thirty minutes. Will that suffice?”
“How long does it take for the cure to work?”
“It varies.” She eyed me narrowly. “I see you’re a skeptic.
That’s understandable. Many people come to me despite having reservations.
Usually I’m the last resort. I suspect that deep down, however, you believe modern medicine is failing us.
Doctors scoff at the ancient science of herbalism, but it works.
” She tapped the lid of a nearby jar with a boney finger.
“My cures are based on recipes passed down through the female line of my family over hundreds of years. They don’t fail, as long as you come to me early enough. ”
It was a sales spiel if ever I heard one, but I could see how it would work on the desperate who’d tried everything else. Desperation and hope were powerful weapons in the charlatan’s armory.
“Do your customers often return after their initial consultation?”
“Of course, when their supplies run low. No follow-up appointment is necessary, unless one is requested.”
The door opened and a woman entered. One side of her face was covered with a red rash which she tried to hide upon seeing me.
“Miss?” The herbalist indicated her appointment book. “Will you come back in thirty minutes?”
“Not today,” I said.