Chapter 27
I suddenly wanted to sit down and weep. I thought I’d grown used to the idea of Grace and Joanna leaving, but seeing Joanna’s beloved house, which was the closest thing to a home I had, laid bare, made clear to me that this epoch in my life was truly ending.
Grace descended the stairs, following Mark and Matthew, who came down with another load. She gazed at me with understanding in her eyes, took my hand, and led me down the back stairs into the kitchen.
I no longer had interest in baking or going to my stall at all. I wanted to sit in the warm kitchen and hold on to Grace.
The rest of the world, my life cooking and baking, the excitement of selling things at the market stall, ceased to matter. All that mattered was being with my daughter for the brief time I could.
Grace, on the other hand, was exuberant. “We need to get a move on, Mum,” she said. “Don’t want all our punters going to Mrs. Weber.”
She named the sour-faced woman whose baked goods stall was down the street from mine, but even outselling Mrs. Weber had lost its zest for me today.
“It doesn’t matter, Grace.”
Grace towed me to the kitchen table, where she’d already started rolling out crusts. “Yes, it does. I’ll only be able to go to the market with you once more after this, and then we’re leaving.”
Her bravado evaporated, and I gathered her to me.
“I know, love.” We held each other for a moment, then I let out a breath and released her. “Now, you are right. Let us get these things baked and to the market.”
* * *
For Grace, I went back to work. If this was the last time but one Grace would assist me at the market, I’d make the most of it.
We rolled and filled, crimped and baked, then loaded the cooling goods into my baskets.
We lugged our pies and tarts across London to Portobello Road and slid behind our table, which today Hannah’s son had set up for us. Customers surged toward us, and I felt a frisson of pride. My pastries were becoming known for their quality.
There weren’t many lulls that afternoon, but whenever there was, Grace went to Hannah’s table to assist her, and I perused the sheets Mrs. Davies had given me, though I drew no conclusions.
I also pondered the ongoing investigation regarding Mr. Banks. Whether Ramsay proved to be his murderer or not, I wanted to try to find any family Mr. Banks might have had—children, an estranged wife, or even cousins he might have tracked down over the years.
For one, I wished to pass on my condolences, and second, I wanted to give them his Crimean War medal.
Mr. Patterson, Mrs. Kerr’s former beau, might know whether Mr. Banks had ever found any family, or if he’d begun a family of his own. Mrs. Duggan, his landlady, might as well. So might Ramsay, in fact.
I’d have to ask Mr. Fielding or Mr. Grimes how to find Mr. Patterson again. I pulled out my notebook and began to make a list of things I needed to do.
A shadow fell over me as I wrote. I looked up, starting in gladness when I found Daniel gazing down at me.
“I’m afraid all of the scones are gone and most of the tarts,” I said, gesturing to the mostly empty table. “Once I sell those last two pork pies, I will go. Will you escort us home?” I quieted as Daniel peered grimly down at me. “What is it? Did Mr. Ramsay confess?”
Daniel shook his head. “Someone tried to kill Ramsay today. Came upon him as he was wending his way through Blackfriars. Ramsay fought back hard, but whoever it was managed to wound him pretty thoroughly with a knife before he ran away. Ramsay crawled to the nearest building, and those inside helped him to a surgeon.”
“Oh, dear.” My pencil fell from numb fingers. “The poor man. Will he be all right?”
“I think so. Grimes, who’s been helping me search the area, alerted me, and we went to him. He’s in a foul temper, but spooked, definitely spooked. He refused to say who did it to him, claiming it happened too quickly for him to see. He might be telling the truth.”
“It might be a falling-out between Ramsay and a fellow tough, or it might be Banks’s killer believing Mr. Ramsay knows he did it.”
Daniel shrugged. “Or it was a random robbery, but the same sort of attack twice in the same place looks suspicious. Grimes hasn’t found anyone who regularly waits for victims in that area, and in fact says that most ruffians were too afraid of Draper’s men to try to operate there.”
“Then we must wait until Mr. Ramsay decides to tell us what happened,” I said. “Unless he truly can’t identify his attacker.”
“I’m fairly certain he knows, which puts him in danger. He is now in the lockup at Scotland Yard, resting and recovering. He didn’t put up a fuss when I and Scott escorted him there, which means he understands his danger. I’ll question him when he’s feeling better, and Scott will as well.”
“Good heavens” was all I could reply.
After all this time, tangling with Mr. Naismith and uncovering a smuggling ring, we still did not know who killed Mr. Banks and why. Now Mr. Ramsay might be another victim, instead of the culprit.
In the meantime, I had avenues of inquiry I wanted to pursue.
“I’d like to visit the workhouse where Mr. Patterson left you,” I said abruptly.
“And speak to Mr. Patterson as well. Not today—I want to spend every moment I can with Grace. But I might convince Mrs. Bywater that Mr. Fielding would like my help on some venture or other to do with the missionaries his church sponsors this Saturday or Sunday, and must travel to the East End. Will you come with me?”
* * *
In the privacy of my bedchamber that night, I again went over the long lists Mrs. Davies had given me. It was a tedious business, and I hadn’t finished by morning.
The next afternoon, however, as I snatched a few moments to continue, my fingertips tingled when I found a name that was the same as one on the lists Miss Townsend had showed me.
I wasn’t certain it was an exact match, but I copied it out, tore the page from my notebook, and handed it to Cynthia when she passed through the kitchen.
“Check that one,” I said quietly to her as she caught up a fresh bun and put it into her pocket.
Cynthia took the paper with interest, promised me she’d look into it, and hurried out.
Daniel arranged things for me to go to the workhouse near Mrs. Kerr’s former abode, and I departed Saturday afternoon after sending up the luncheon.
Mr. Fielding arrived in the kitchen to escort me himself. Mrs. Bywater fussed over him, urging me to hurry and go, as Mr. Fielding’s missionary work wouldn’t wait. I donned my second-best frock, buttoned my coat over it, and departed with him.
We walked along Mount Street toward Berkeley Square, looking every inch a poor parish vicar and a domestic on her day out. Mrs. Bywater would no doubt conclude that we’d walk soberly and sensibly all the way to the East End.
A hansom was waiting for us, it turned out, in Hanover Square, with Lewis driving and Daniel inside.
“You have been busy,” I said to him as Mr. Fielding handed me in.
Lewis waited until Mr. Fielding had mounted the step before pulling into the street. Mr. Fielding landed beside me, dropping his clergyman persona.
“It amuses me that you use my apparent piety to lie to your employer to escape your bonds.” Mr. Fielding chuckled. “We’ll make a confidence trickster of you yet, Mrs. H.”
I sent him a prim look. “I told Mrs. Bywater we were going to a parish workhouse in the East End to consult with the vicar there. Which we are.”
“That is the best way to dissemble, you know,” Mr. Fielding said. “Keep your tale as close to the truth as possible, and don’t embellish.”
“Thank you for arranging things,” I said to Daniel, ignoring Mr. Fielding, who continued to be amused. “I hope I can find out more about Mr. Banks and his family. He is rather elusive.”
“I think he was more polite and self-effacing than he was a man of secrets,” Daniel said.
“Everyone I have spoken to about him has agreed that he was always good-natured but spoke little of his past life. I have heard that experiencing distressing events, like the terrible battles at Sebastopol and Balaklava, can make a man withdraw into himself.”
“Poor soul,” I said. “I am convinced he was only trying to do you a good turn, Daniel. He was killed for his pains.” I clenched my gloved hands on my lap. “Did Mr. Ramsay recover enough to tell Acting Inspector Scott who attacked him?”
“He is still insisting he didn’t see the man and can’t describe him. I believe he thinks his reticence on the point will save his life.”
“Perhaps it will, if he well knew who’d tried to kill him,” I said. “Well, we can only hope Acting Inspector Scott proves more frightening to Mr. Ramsay than the would-be killer.”
“I’ve met Sergeant Scott,” Mr. Fielding said. “Beg pardon, Acting Inspector. I well believe he can be.”
I agreed. All we could do now was wait until Mr. Ramsay saw sense.
Traffic was thick this Saturday afternoon, and it took us some time to arrive at the church of St. Simon Zelotes and its workhouse and school.
The vicar, called Dr. Boland, was a thin man in his fifties with iron gray hair. Daniel had contacted him since I’d told him my wishes Thursday afternoon, explained what we wanted to know, and set the appointment. Dr. Boland now met us and escorted us into his offices behind the church’s sacristy.
“Very pleased to see you again, Mr. Fielding,” Dr. Boland said, shaking that man’s hand first, then Daniel’s. “Mr. McAdam.” He bowed to me but didn’t offer his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Holloway. Come, let us sit.”
He waved us into a large but stuffy bookcase-lined chamber with several straight-backed chairs drawn into the middle of the room. A place for Dr. Boland to meet with his parishioners, I surmised, or for those parishioners to have meetings of their own.
“Some sherry, I think,” Dr. Boland said as we seated ourselves. “Always welcome, especially on a blustery day.” He trickled pale liquid into glasses at the sideboard.
Mr. Fielding, who must be a bit fed up with offers of sherry, made a face when Dr. Boland’s back was turned but managed a grateful smile when Dr. Boland handed the glasses around.
I sipped politely, though sherry was far too sweet for my taste. It did well in a syllabub, though, or a sweet custard.
Dr. Boland settled into a chair with a sigh and downed most of his sherry in one gulp.
“I’ve asked around a bit about Mr. Banks,” he said.
“But I don’t know what I can tell you. My predecessor was here when Banks would have attended church, if he ever did.
He didn’t come to the workhouse with the rest of the children you told me about. I did dredge up the records of that.”
He swiveled in his chair to open a drawer in a table behind him and pulled out a ledger. He handed the ledger to Daniel, instead of Mr. Fielding, who only sipped his sherry as serenely as possible.
“Nine children, brought in by Mr. Gordon Patterson in August 1855,” Dr. Boland said.
He pointed a thin finger at the page Daniel peered at.
I could see, upside down from my perspective, that date and the names beneath it.
“As you can see, only a month later, six of them had run off. Never heard from again.”
Daniel ran his gaze down the list, then turned the book around and handed it to me.
I set down my sherry and balanced the large book on my lap. In the list of children, I saw the names Fergus Draper and Eddie Barlow. Another one read Robbie Taylor.
“Taylor,” I repeated. “Was that Robbie’s true surname?”
Dr. Boland shrugged. “Anyone I’ve asked says no one knew the lad’s true name. They chose Taylor to have something to write on the ledger.”
“To receive the funding to feed him,” Mr. Fielding said, an edge of disparagement to his voice.
“Very likely. It is difficult to find the money to do all the good works we are supposed to, as you know, Mr. Fielding.”
There was nothing about Mr. Banks in the ledger, since he hadn’t been left here. He’d been older than the others, able to join the army to fend for himself.
I hadn’t come to ask about little Robbie, and I had the feeling Dr. Boland knew nothing about him. But there was a man who might give us a little more information on both.
“Did you find Mr. Patterson?” I asked Mr. Fielding. “Can we perhaps bring him here?” I looked hopefully at Dr. Boland. “He might be more willing to come to a church than having us descend on him, wherever he lives.”
Less chance of him legging it out the back door, I meant, and by the twinkle in Mr. Fielding’s eye, he knew it.
“I did,” Mr. Fielding said. “Bringing him here will be simplicity itself, since he has now taken lodgings here in the workhouse.”
Dr. Boland nodded. “Not that he can work anymore, but the poor soul had nowhere else to go. I’ll have him fetched over, if you like.”
* * *
Mr. Patterson entered not long later. I found it ironic that the closest place Mr. Patterson could go for help was the very workhouse in which he’d abandoned the children—and possibly Daniel—all those years ago, but I kept the observation to myself.
Mr. Patterson paused on the threshold, his gaze taking in us all and resting on Daniel. As he’d done the day Mr. Fielding had brought him to Mr. Thanos’s flat, Mr. Patterson’s eyes flickered and he resolutely turned his gaze away.
The man sidled to the chair Dr. Boland offered, his body trembling as he sat. He switched his very blue eyes to me, which I realized were not watery because of his age.
Mr. Patterson was weeping, and striving not to, just as he’d done when he’d met us the first time.
“Mr. Patterson,” I said with certainty. “You do recognize Daniel, don’t you?”
Mr. Patterson shook his head, then studied the threadbare carpet beneath his shoes. “It were a long time ago.”
“Perhaps, but time only alters so much,” I insisted. “Especially if you look at Daniel and see someone else.”
While Daniel stared at me in trepidation, Mr. Fielding and Dr. Boland in perplexity, Mr. Patterson put his hand over his eyes and let his tears come.
“I see me daughter,” he gasped.