Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Covent Garden
Miss Austen pulled on her white cotton gloves as they left Covent Garden, a prim gesture that was out of place in the district known for its theatres, whores and cabbages. The lady was behaving as if they’d just emerged from a church service, which got on Dora’s nerves.
‘That was very informative,’ Miss Austen said, looking back at the pillars of the theatre’s classical facade, a smile hovering on her lips.
Dora wasn’t feeling so sanguine. She hadn’t gained many answers from the opera singers, only more questions. ‘You think so?’ She headed towards Long Acre.
‘To see what life is behind stage, how they speak and behave – yes, I’d say it was very informative.’
‘I think you are taking your story about being a novelist rather to heart.’ Dora hailed a cab. The banker was footing the bill and she doubted he would like his sister to walk all the way to their next destination.
‘Where to, love?’ asked the jarvey, pulling his carriage up beside them.
‘Barnes, please.’
His eyes widened. ‘You got enough for that fare? It’s a long way.’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Fair enough.’ He glanced at Miss Austen. ‘Want me to get down and help you in?’ Cabbies rarely descended from their seat behind their horses, but he must have realised he had a real lady as a customer.
‘We will manage,’ said Dora, helping Miss Austen into the carriage compartment.
‘All right, ladies,’ the jarvey declared, flicking his whip to tickle his horse into motion. ‘We’re off to the country.’
‘May I enquire as to where we are going next?’ asked Miss Austen, trying not to sound put out that Dora had not consulted her on their next move.
‘To the scene of the crime.’
‘Ah, Barnes Terrace. Of course.’ Her hazel eyes watched the world passing by, seemingly missing no detail.
‘You visited them there?’
‘No, we called on them in Queen Anne Street. I remember that they had an excellent collection of paintings, but the comte would insist on speaking French so our communication was somewhat limited, Eliza having to translate. The son is very musical. I wonder what will become of him now?’
‘It’s good he has a talent to fall back on.’ Dora let a few minutes of quiet thought pass as she debated whether or not to raise what was concerning her. It niggled away like an itch that had to be scratched. ‘I wasn’t comfortable when we were in the Green Room.’
‘Oh?’ Miss Austen turned to face her. ‘In what way? You looked perfectly at home to me.’
‘I wasn’t comfortable with the way you took credit for another woman’s success.’
Something closed down in Miss Austen’s expression, her friendliness going inside like a maid whipping in the washing as a rain cloud threatens. ‘I don’t think it matters. We have a greater cause we are pursuing.’
‘I wonder if it is the same one.’
‘What do you mean?’ Miss Austen could summon a haughty tone when she felt affronted, Dora noted.
‘Dr Sandys and I are after the truth. Your brother said he relied on you to spread fictions.’
Miss Austen rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Henry!’
‘We won’t be involved in misrepresenting the facts about two people who are unable to defend themselves, and neither should you, pretending, as you do to care about what becomes of the son. Think of him if you decide to spread falsehoods.’
‘I’m not pretending—’
‘Are you not? You get admiration from your favourite opera performers by stealing another woman’s reputation, even making claims for her next work.
What happens if that gets back to her? She might already have another novel about to come out…
What if someone influential like Madame Catalani claims she is disappointed that it wasn’t the story she was expecting, or Mr Incledon says the authoress herself had promised but not delivered? ’
‘You are taking this too seriously.’ Miss Austen folded her hands and stared out at the passing trees of Hyde Park.
‘Only someone who has never had to worry about where their next meal is coming from would say that.’
Miss Austen snorted, adding fuel to Dora’s temper.
‘What if the writer is depending on her literary success for her living?’
‘Few people can earn enough from writing to live on.’
‘That’s what your sort think. All the people you know have safety nets spread under the tightrope; nearly everyone I know will break their necks if they fall because there is nothing to catch them.’
‘What an excellent image,’ murmured Miss Austen, but that only further inflamed Dora’s temper. ‘Like Lucy Steele, the unprotected female stealing Elinor’s chance, morality go hang, because she is desperate.’
‘This isn’t a story! You can’t go stealing someone’s reputation without a thought of what it means for them. I regret I agreed to let you come.’
Her piece said, Dora folded her arms and glared at the back of the cab horse.
Miss Austen would likely leap out and complain to her brother at her treatment and get them thrown off the job they had been given.
She wouldn’t mind, pleased to be shot of the annoying Austens, but Jacob would feel his honour had been impugned.
Blast. The client had to be humoured. She was going to have to apologise, wasn’t she?
Before she could speak, Miss Austen cleared her throat.
‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you for what?’ grumbled Dora.
‘For caring about the writer’s reputation. I will be more circumspect in future. My excuse is that my excitement at meeting the opera singers made my tongue run away with me. I wanted them to approve of me.’
‘I can understand that.’ She felt herself relenting a little.
‘It is far more exciting to be the mysterious writer of a novel than plain Miss Jane Austen from Hampshire.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being…’ Dora struggled for a polite way of saying an ordinary woman from a village.
‘Being a spinster whose brothers and sister-in-law are much more interesting than she is? Miss Fitz-Pennington, I know what I am and how others see me. Occasionally, it is pleasant to surprise people to be something else, someone of note.’
‘You’re talking to an actress. I know all about worrying where one’s name appears on the billing.’
‘I imagine you do. Families are the same. I’m not expecting you to like me, or even understand me, but I do think we can work well together if you allow it.’ She held out her slim gloved hand. ‘Are we agreed?’
Dora hesitated, running back through what they had said and realising her main issue had not been addressed. ‘Will you misrepresent our findings to save your brother’s bank?’
Miss Austen pursed her lips. ‘I am more likely to be silent on the subject than lie about it.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Miss Austen sighed and dropped her hand. ‘I suppose it is not.’
Arriving at Barnes, they descended from the cab and sent the jarvey on his way with a handsome tip.
Dora had a quick word with a crossing sweeper and then headed for the nearest tavern, the White Hart.
According to the lad, the inquest had taken place in the inn and it was likely the landlord would be taking a personal interest in the case, not least because talking about it would drive customers to his taproom.
The sweeper had earned himself sixpence with that intelligence.
Miss Austen trailed in her wake.
Dora went up to the bar and tapped a shilling on the counter in front of the russet-haired pub landlord, his face and hands speckled with freckles to match his locks.
One of his eyes wandered, giving him a boss-eyed gaze.
He wouldn’t be winning any prizes in a beauty contest. ‘A glass of gin and information please.’ She turned to her companion.
‘What’s your poison?’ She knew her tone lacked civility, but irritation had that effect on her.
‘A little wine wouldn’t go amiss.’ Miss Austen’s tone was humble, but Dora wasn’t buying what she was selling.
Dora relayed the order and waited for the landlord to present the two glasses. ‘Why don’t you go and sit over there.’ She gestured Miss Austen to take a seat in the window. She had had enough of having the woman hanging on her apron strings all morning, and landlords were better tackled one on one.
With a nod, Miss Austen took her drink to the table and drew out a notebook.
The landlord jerked his head in her direction. ‘What’s her deal?’
‘She’s a writer,’ said Dora.
‘Do I know her?’ He was wondering if he had a customer he could boast about to future patrons.
‘Not famous. You won’t have heard of her.’
He wiped the clean top of the bar. ‘All right. What information is it that you’re after?’ He flicked his gaze up and down her, trying to judge her social standing from her clothing. ‘Husband run off? Sorry – can’t help you there.’
‘Do I look married?’ He smirked. ‘Nothing like that.’ She put one of her calling cards down on the counter. ‘I work for an agency making private enquiries for our clients. I’ve been asked to find out as much as I can about the double murder that took place here in July.’
His interest sparked. ‘Now that I can tell you about. But it’s worth more than a shilling.’
‘Naturally.’ She placed several more coins on the counter.
He huffed. ‘I don’t come cheap.’
She laughed and put another down. ‘That’s my limit or I’ll have to walk home.’
He swept them into his apron pocket with a grin. ‘They had the inquest in here.’
‘I know that.’
‘I had to speak before it.’
‘That I did not know. What did you say?’ She sipped the gin to put him at his ease. See, they were just settling into a lovely little gossip about things he would probably talk about for free.
‘I told ’em how that Lorenzo – he was an odd fish of an Italian – came in here on the very morning around eight o’clock and downed a glass of gin just like the one I served you. Then he went off and killed his master and mistress.’
Dora wondered if the killer had resorted to the gin to screw himself to the sticking point, or perhaps he was a drunkard and that was part of the reason for the violence. ‘An Italian? I thought he was a deserter from the French army.’