Chapter 28
Chapter 28
‘I have to hand it to you, Arden. You’re very persistent.’
Henderson came forward, his movements unhurried. ‘Or should that be, very stupid? You don’t know when to stop, do you? You just can’t see that you’re beaten.’
‘That’s because I’m not.’
Jem spoke through a clenched jaw, surprised at how steady his voice was. Despite the biting cold, he was sweating.
Henderson laughed softly. ‘I’ve known for months who you are. I worked it out soon after you arrived. Do you really think I’d have let you stay all this time if I suspected there was the slightest chance that you could do any damage? It’s been quite entertaining watching you scramble for crumbs, but I would have had you sent on your way if I’d thought you’d find anything. Or done a proper job on you that night, back in the summer. I admit, I was tempted… I almost got carried away.’
Jem remembered. His ribs still ached with remembering.
‘Just as well you managed to stop yourself. You were lucky enough to get away with one dead servant at Coldwell. Another one might be harder to cover up.’
He put it out there to test Henderson’s reaction. The way his face hard ened, his eyes narrowing and lower jaw jutting, told Jem everything he didn’t want to know.
‘Watch your mouth, Arden. I wouldn’t go throwing baseless accusations around if I were you. Your brother was a grubby little nobody. A common thief. The constabulary conducted a search of the house and park and came to the obvious conclusion that he’d made off with a very valuable jewel, which he had been trusted to wear for a special occasion.’ He shook his head with exaggerated regret. ‘So difficult to find honest servants. They’re the criminal class, aren’t they? Boys like him—they can’t help themselves. They learn it at their mother’s knee.’
Jem’s fists shook, his clenched fingers burning and pulsing with the urge to throw a punch. He heard, in some distant part of his mind, Kate’s voice. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
‘Except’—his voice was hoarse—‘except the jewel he’s supposed to have stolen is here, isn’t it? Upstairs, in the safe.’
Henderson wasn’t expecting that. Jem saw it on his face, the flash of surprise and a split-second of uncertainty. He recovered quickly, changing tack with a nonchalant shrug.
‘Do you really think anyone will believe you if you say that? Especially as you appear to be cut from the same coarse cloth as your brother.’ He nodded at Kate’s keys lying on the desk, and triumph glinted in his eyes. ‘Unless, of course, the lovely Mrs Furniss handed those over herself?’
And there it was.
Henderson’s checkmate.
‘She didn’t.’ It felt like he’d swallowed broken glass. ‘This has nothing to do with her.’
‘Of course not. I won’t ask how you managed to procure them.’
Smirking, Henderson went across to the fireplace and picked up an Indian silver box from the table beside it. He removed a cigarette and tapped it on the mantelpiece. The flame of his lighter briefly illuminated his face: leering and hard, like Mr Punch. Or the devil himself, with his black pointed beard.
‘I imagine…’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘that she still thinks it’s pure chance a handsome footman appeared at Coldwell from nowhere and… just happened to fall for the housekeeper…’ His laugh was a sneer. ‘And fell so completely that he was willing to flout all the rules and risk his position for a thrilling fumble in the linen cupboard…’
Henderson took a leisurely drag of his cigarette, leaning a shoulder against the mantelpiece with exaggerated ease. Jem felt sick. Stunned into immobility, like a rabbit cornered by a dog.
‘You’ve played a good hand, Arden, I’ll give you that. Got yourself a nice place here, haven’t you? Decent job, and a piece of skirt that’s a real cut above the scullery skivvies you must be used to. Older, of course,’ he qualified, with a wave of his cigarette, ‘but that means she knows what she’s doing. Those grasping young girls are always such a disappointment. I bet she’s quite the wildcat beneath that stern housekeeper’s dress. I assume you know that she’s married?’
The question came from nowhere and caught Jem off guard. Just in time he recognised it as a test. A trap to incriminate Kate.
‘All housekeepers are called Mrs,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s a courtesy title.’
‘So you didn’t know?’ Henderson looked smug. ‘I must say I was rather stunned myself when Miss Dunn let that gem of information slip.’ He laughed, almost fondly. ‘It’s surprising how quickly a drop of vodka in the fruit cup loosens the tongue of a lifelong abstainer. Anyway, small world, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not so remarkable that so many friends and associates of Sir Randolph just happened to be dining at the Savoy on the day of the wedding—between you and me, he did put the word about that a bit of male company would be welcome. But for one of those associates to be the erstwhile husband of our own Mrs Furniss, and for Miss Dunn to recognise him…!’ He shook his head in a great show of amazement. ‘A small world indeed.’
Jem was barely listening. His brain, stalled by shock, was now whirring, trying to catch up. From along the passage he heard the kitchen clock strike—four times? Five? It wouldn’t be too long before Susan came down to put the water on. The night was slipping away, spinning out of his control. He needed to work out what to do. What his options were.
Did he still have options?
‘So, it seems our mysterious Mrs Furniss has a past,’ Henderson was saying. ‘And a husband. Who is still very much present.’
Jem wasn’t sure what Henderson was planning. He couldn’t tell which direction the decisive blow was going to come from, or what form it would take. He only knew that it would come.
‘Alec Ross—that’s the fellow’s name.’ Henderson flicked ash into the fireplace. ‘With a bit of lubrication, Miss Dunn had a lot to say about him and his unsavoury past. He and Sir Randolph have a mutual interest in gaming—cards and so on, and frequent the same… sporting clubs in London.’
He paused to pull on his cigarette. The bastard was enjoying himself, Jem thought. Loving the power he held. ‘Ross has a reputation for being a fearless adversary,’ he continued. ‘A ruthless man, not to be crossed. Loss can do that to a person, can’t it? He plays for high stakes, and the rumour is that he has some rather unsavoury connections. Friends in low places, you might say. I suspect he’d be very grateful to the man who could give him information that would reunite him with his estranged wife.’
Jem remembered the summer night, upstairs in the garden passage. The punch that had come from nowhere, hard enough to knock him off balance.
He felt like that now.
‘You wouldn’t,’ he croaked.
Henderson laughed. ‘If it suited me, why not?’ Frowning slightly, he picked a strand of tobacco off his tongue, which glistened pinkly against his beard. ‘But, unlike some, I take the responsibilities of my position very seriously. My duty is to Sir Randolph, and I put his interests first. Which is why I’m going to make you a deal, Arden.’
Placing the cigarette carefully between his lips he inhaled, then blew a column of smoke out of the side of his mouth. Jem waited, fighting nausea.
‘I’ll keep the secret. The lovely Mrs Furniss will be safe here. I will take personal responsibility for her protection and do all I can to ensure Ross is never invited to Coldwell… if you leave, tonight. Now. Without a word.’
Jem’s head reeled. He thought of Kate, asleep in the bed where he had left her; waking up and realising he wasn’t there. He thought of her pressed against the wall of the basement stairs on the day of the coronation, trembling and sobbing in his arms. He’s not the sort of man to let things go…
‘And, to be perfectly clear, you stay away ,’ Henderson went on, his tone hardening as he jabbed his cigarette in Jem’s direction. ‘Disappear, and keep your sordid accusations and ridiculous theories to yourself, and Mrs Furniss can remain here in the peace and security she has always enjoyed; the respectable housekeeper of a respectable house. Do you understand?’
Jem wanted to tell him exactly what to do with his deal. He wanted to push past him and run upstairs to the attic where Kate was sleeping, and gather her up and take her with him. He didn’t give a toss about leaving this miserable house, but it killed him to go without her. Yet how could he ask her to come with him when he had nowhere to go? No future to offer her, not even the last quarter’s pay.
‘You bastard,’ he whispered.
Henderson laughed. ‘I’ll take that as your charming way of saying, “Yes, Mr Henderson, sir, I do understand. Thank you for being so… gentlemanly.”’
There was a noise in Jem’s head. A sort of muffled roar. Above it his own voice sounded distant.
‘I’ll get my things.’
‘Nice try, but I don’t think so.’ Henderson looked down at Jem’s bare feet with a sneer. ‘Wait by the back door. Tempting as it is to send you out there like that, I’ll do you the kindness of going up to the attic to get you some shoes myself. It is Christmas, after all.’
Joseph wasn’t sure what woke him.
There was no loud noise, no obvious disturbance, no intruder standing over him with a cosh and a crowbar to break into the silver cupboard. And yet, his heart was beating a rapid warning and his scalp prickled with fear, just as it used to all those years ago, on the nights when his father came in from the alehouse.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his fists against them to try and halt the jerky picture reel that had started up in his head. In the daytime he kept it shut away, but at night the door swung open, and he couldn’t make it stop. There it was, flickering across the darkness of his memory.
He moved his hands to his ears to shut out the sound, but it echoed across the years and bounced around inside his skull. (The baby’s frantic cry, the rhythmic thud of his father’s fist… his mother’s head against the wall…) Scrabbling at the blanket, he sat up and groped for the chamber pot. He hadn’t wet the bed for ages, and the very real fear of doing it now was enough to bring him back to himself.
Just in time.
He let out a pent-up breath and was just yanking up his trousers when a pale glimmer of movement in the passage caught his eye. The ghost boy, passing silently through the dark basement where he had once lived and slept—
Blood roared in Joseph’s ears and the night closed in on him. And then, through the woozy panic he heard another noise—the chink of china from the scullery and the scrape of things being moved on the shelf. He stumbled to the door and peered into the dark corridor, one way, then the other.
The scullery door was open, as always. The cold from the icy floor came through his socks as he crept towards it, pressing his eye to the gap by the door’s hinges.
Relief tumbled through him.
It was Jem. Just Jem, replacing the vase that Joseph had seen him drop something into earlier—the one with the Chinese scenes painted on it. Joseph was about to ask what he was doing when a noise along the passage set his heart clanging again. Footsteps on the stairs. He made it back to the butler’s pantry just as the door creaked open.
The footsteps advanced along the corridor. He recognised them even before he caught the waft of hair oil and cigar smoke. Frederick Henderson had his shoes handmade in London—Joseph had cleaned them often enough to be able to picture the horseshoe of tiny silver nails around the heels, which made that thin metallic tapping sound when he walked.
Dread sloshed in his stomach. Stifling a whimper, he pressed himself against the wall, praying that the footsteps would pass.
A bar of lamplight fell briefly across the floor and slid away. He heard voices; Henderson’s low, harsh laugh and Jem’s bitter retort, the scuffle of movement. This time they went in the other direction, towards the back door. Joseph felt a draft of frozen air billow along the passageway as it opened, then shut.
The kitchen clock ticked into the silence.
It wasn’t right—none of it. Jem had never actually said he hated Mr Henderson, but he didn’t have to; just as Mr Henderson didn’t need to spell out what he thought of Jem. So what were they doing, going out into the snow together in the middle of the night?
Joseph had to clamp his teeth together to stop them rattling. Supposing Frederick Henderson had somehow tricked Jem, or blackmailed him? Supposing Jem had left a note in the vase, hoping Joseph would think to look there after seeing him with it earlier? Supposing he was relying on Joseph to help…?
On trembling legs, he darted into the scullery, where the moonlight silvered the stone flags and gleamed on the jars of salt and sand on the windowsill, the rows of vases on the dresser shelf. The vase with the Chinese figures was high enough that he had to stand on an apple crate to reach it. Putting his hand inside, he let out a grunt of triumph as his fingers closed around a square of paper.
He jumped down from the crate. His fingers were shaking, making it hard to unfold the paper, and the gloom was too thick to make out the lettering on it. He was squinting at it closely when a beam of lamplight fell across the page. It threw the words into sharp relief and catapulted his heart into his throat.
‘Thank you, Joseph. I’ll take that.’
Henderson held out his hand. The lamp lit his face from below, casting shadows that made it look like a carved wooden mask, with dark slits for eyes and a strange, cruel smile.
Joseph’s guts turned to water. He handed over the note and watched it vanish into the pocket of the valet’s waistcoat.
And he took the silver sixpence that appeared in its place.
Kate woke slowly.
It was a gradual coming back to consciousness, putting off the moment of opening her eyes, savouring the suspended time between sleeping and waking; between the secret, sensual night and the brisk business of daytime. Stretching her body, she felt its pleasurable ache, and was aware that she was smiling.
For the first time in months, she had slept long and deeply. It wasn’t a surprise to find herself alone in the narrow bed; thank goodness Jem had been more alert than she and got himself back to where he should be before the house awoke. Through the frosty window the sky was lightening. The girls would have been up for an hour already, rising in the dark to get the day’s work underway.
Christmas Day , she remembered, sitting up drowsily and shaking her hair from her face (no plait last night…). Getting out of bed she looked for her chatelaine to check the time.
It was where she had left it on the table in the corner. The silver was cold on her bed-warm skin as she unclipped the watchcase ( a quarter before seven! ) and it took her a moment to realise that there was something wrong. Something missing.
One of the chains that hung from the Indian silver clasp swung down, its clip empty. She blinked blankly for a second, wondering when she’d removed the scissors, the buttonhook, the pencil… and then realised that they were all still there.
The keys.
The keys were gone.
A soft knock sounded on the door. She darted forward to open it—had Jem taken the keys for some purpose and was hurrying to return them? He was taking a risk, coming up here now—
‘Morning, Mrs Furniss. Sorry I’m late.’
Abigail came in with the tea tray. She set it down and struck a match to light the candle. ‘The fact is, we’re in a bit of a state downstairs…’
Kate was suddenly wide awake. ‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s Jem Arden.’
‘What about him?’
Abigail looked at her with a sort of bewildered consternation, shaking her head a little. Twin candle flames glinted in the dark pools of her eyes.
‘He’s… gone.’