Chapter 9
Mrs. Bywater considered the vicar, Mr. Errol Fielding, now a suffragan bishop for the entire East End, to be a charming gentleman.
Mr. Fielding often praised Mrs. Bywater for her work in charities that provided clothing or improving books for the downtrodden of London, and he occasionally made a modest monetary contribution to said organizations.
In return, Mrs. Bywater was happy to ply him with tea, cream scones, and perfectly iced petit fours in her first-floor parlor from time to time. Cynthia, bless her, donned a frock that Saturday afternoon to join her aunt and Mr. Fielding, sipping tea and listening to them converse.
Afterward, as I’d hoped, Mr. Fielding insisted on descending to the kitchen to praise me for my skill in baking the tasty treats. Mrs. Bywater was always willing to send him down, as she believed his chats with me might set me on the path of righteousness and better behavior.
Mrs. Bywater firmly disapproved of Cynthia running into and out of my kitchen at will, but she made an exception if Cynthia escorted Mr. Fielding. Perhaps he’d guide her to better behavior as well, I assumed was Mrs. Bywater’s thinking.
A slim but strong man, about the same height as Daniel, Mr. Fielding had a trim brown beard and brown hair, with blue eyes that missed nothing. He also had a smile to light a room, its ingenuousness masking the cunning and intelligent man who lurked behind it.
“What a fine repast, Mrs. Holloway,” Mr. Fielding exclaimed as he clasped my hands in his. “Thank you for letting me partake of your bountiful gifts.”
I made myself not react to his overblown flattery. At least he didn’t try to pass me a coin.
“ ’Tis naught but a bit of bread and cake,” I said with feigned modesty.
“On the contrary, it was fit for a king.” Mr. Fielding released me to kiss his fingers and open them to the sky.
Tess and Elsie, the scullery maid, watched and listened with interest. Mr. Fielding was always entertaining.
“Mr. Fielding’s hyperbole aside, it was quite good, Mrs. H.,” Cynthia said. “The cakes with the violet frosting were particularly delicious.”
I was pleased by this, because beating the buttercream and coloring it just right with dye I made from crushing violet candies had been tricky. The edible violet petals placed on top of each had been a masterful finishing touch.
“Thank you,” I said in true gratitude. “I am happy you enjoyed it.”
“Perhaps we can step to the road to speak further,” Mr. Fielding continued in his ingratiating manner. “I brought a few tracts with me we could discuss. Lady Cynthia, you will join us?”
“Of course,” Cynthia said, managing to sound sincere. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Mr. Fielding gave Tess and Elsie courteous nods as he led Cynthia and myself through the scullery and up the stairs to the street.
Once we emerged into a cool wind under a much sunnier sky than Thursday’s, Mr. Fielding suggested we walk around the corner to the churchyard behind Grosvenor Chapel.
“Mrs. Bywater will be able to watch us out of her sitting room window,” he explained. “We can appear to speak about serious subjects as we walk among the gravestones. Ladies?”
He guided us the short way to South Audley Street and then down the passageway that ran beside Grosvenor Chapel, a lovely, simple church I sometimes attended with the mistress. We moved through iron gates behind the church to the quiet green space beyond.
The churchyard was quiet. A man and a woman milled separately on one of the walks, whether looking for a specific grave marker or simply enjoying the peace of the place, I could not say.
The brick facade of another church graced the far end of the churchyard—Catholic, Mrs. Bywater would sniff with acute disapproval whenever she caught sight of it. I personally thought the church lovely, with its golden bricks and pointed arch over its stained glass window.
“What is this all about, Mrs. Holloway?” Mr. Fielding said once we’d wandered a bit. “I know you didn’t have Lady Cynthia invite me here because she thought I’d enjoy tea with her aunt.”
“I hoped you could find out about a person for me,” I answered. “She is deceased but was a resident of Bethnal Green. Thirty years ago, at least. I’m not certain when she passed away.”
Mr. Fielding’s brows rose. “That’s rather vague. A woman who died thirty years ago in Bethnal Green? I suppose I could have a look through parish records, but I’d at least need a name.”
“Mrs. Kerr,” I said. “I don’t know her Christian name, I’m afraid.”
Mr. Fielding lost the vacant expression he used in his role as genial vicar and eyed me sharply. “Who was she?”
“I don’t really know,” I confessed. “But it might be important.”
Daniel had not wanted me to tell Mr. Fielding about his quest for information, so I did not wish to confide anything too specific. I’d debated a long time before asking for his help at all.
But, as I’d mentioned to Daniel, Mr. Fielding was best placed to discover things in the East End without arousing suspicion. If there was, indeed, any suspicion to be aroused.
“Is our mutual friend, McAdam, on another case?” Mr. Fielding asked. “I thought he’d retired from the police.”
“Not entirely,” I answered. “It is a case, of a sort.” I had difficulty lying, especially to Mr. Fielding and his keen-eyed stare. “This would be more of a personal favor, to me.”
Cynthia, who also knew nothing about this, listened avidly to our exchange, while Mr. Fielding continued to scrutinize me.
“It is dangerous to poke about that area of town, you know,” he stated.
“So I have been told. Which is why I thought of you, Mr. Fielding. Your help has been invaluable in the past.”
“Now you are trying to soften me with flattery.” Mr. Fielding’s smile turned wry. “Not to mention those delicious scones with excellent lemon curd. Very well. You did me a very good turn once, dear lady. Of course, that came with a price—you saddled me with six bothersome orphans.”
I knew he’d grown fond of the children, who’d been rescued from dire circumstances, so I paid no attention to his complaint.
“How are they all?” I asked. “I always mean to look in on them, but I haven’t much time to myself.”
“Driving me distracted.” Mr. Fielding shook his head. “Betty insists she wants to go on the stage, even though I explain that it is barely a step up from her former address. She finds me a tedious old man. I admit, she has done well in the Nativity plays we perform at Christmas.”
Betty was the oldest of the three girls Mr. Fielding had taken in. As they’d been released from a bawdy house, Mr. Fielding was right to worry about her. A young actress could be coerced into many unsavory situations.
I wondered if Miss Townsend, who had set up a trust to pay the children’s way in life, could be of some assistance in this matter.
“And the others?” I asked. The youngest girl, Alice, had been numb to a point that I feared for her. Michael, the youngest boy, had a penchant for exploring, particularly the chimneys.
“Behaving themselves, more or less,” Mr. Fielding replied with a hint of pride.
“Hate lessons but do them. The older boys want to go out and work, to fend for themselves. I don’t blame them.
One of my parishioners is a carpenter by trade, and he’s teaching them much, including the fact that they can earn money by crafting things with their hands.
” His good humor faded. “I worry that any of them will fall back into their old trade, as a quick way to earn cash.”
“A perilous way,” I said. “Please tell them to keep well, and I’ll send a batch of scones over for them.”
“Aren’t you the kindliest of women?” Mr. Fielding asked in his usual sardonic tones. “You have adroitly turned away my questions about this person you wish me to find. If you have no idea who the devil she was, why do you wish to find her?”
“To learn whether she was important or not. I really can say no more.”
Mr. Fielding let out a breath. “Your loyalty to my annoying brother has always puzzled me. I assume he is not to know I’m doing this, or he’d have asked me himself.”
“For now.” I nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fielding.”
“I am forever put upon,” he said to the air. “My own fault for deciding that becoming a vicar would be the best joke I could play upon the world. Now I’m forced to do good works whether I like it or not.”
“Cheer up,” Cynthia said. “I know plenty of clergy who wouldn’t lift a finger for anyone. You’re showing your true colors, you are.”
“Heaven forfend.” Mr. Fielding studied the back of Grosvenor Chapel, its plain glass windows a contrast to those of the Catholic church.
“Hoisted by my own petard is what I am. Never fear, Mrs. Holloway. I will be the busybody cleric, and hound parish vicars until I find knowledge of her. Her death would be recorded at Somerset House, though her local vicar will know more about her as a person. I imagine that’s more of what you are after, not simply where she died and when. ”
“Yes,” I answered. “The scones will be forthcoming to thank you and also nourish the children.”
“Better send a sweet treat to Mrs. Hodder, or she will take offense,” he advised. “She will believe you don’t think much of her baking skills.”
Mrs. Hodder was Mr. Fielding’s housekeeper, and not a bad cook in her own right. “She is coming along,” I conceded. “Now, I’d better return, or Mrs. Bywater will take me to task. Converting me from my ways of sin should not take so long, in her opinion.”
Mr. Fielding burst out laughing. The lady and gentleman in the distance turned his way in disapproval.
“You have amazing depths, Mrs. Holloway,” Mr. Fielding declared. “Far too many for my brother to appreciate.”
I was becoming irritated with the gentlemen of my acquaintance trying to warn me off Daniel. Cynthia, who knew of the secret of our engagement, had been very happy and encouraging. Only male creatures, it seemed, did not like my fondness for him.
“That is for us to resolve,” I said, a bit crisply. “I will leave it to you to decide how best to send word of your findings.”