Chapter 29
Mr. Naismith studied me for a very long time from his wintry eyes, and I was suddenly glad Mr. Fielding had given me the knife.
Naismith transferred his gaze to Daniel, as though expecting Daniel to apologize for my impertinence, but Daniel only regarded him calmly.
“Will you answer her?” Daniel asked his old enemy. “She has taken a liking to Mr. Banks and is not happy that someone murdered him.”
Mr. Naismith returned his cold scrutiny to me. “Then I regret her grief.” He raised his thin shoulders. “If a man in my employ became exuberant and killed Mr. Banks for coming too close to something that interested me, then I apologize. He will answer for it.”
“If he only did your bidding, he is as blameless as Mr. Banks,” I said, my nervousness making me sharp. “Well, not entirely, because he did a terrible thing, but you ought to give him to the police, not punish him for obeying your orders.”
Mr. Naismith rested his hands at his sides, and I wondered if he’d tucked a firearm or other weapon under the upholstery, within easy reach. “What makes you believe you can enter my house and give me orders?”
“Because you are a horrible man,” I said decidedly. “Cruel. It is a wonder you can sleep through the night.”
His eyelids twitched the slightest bit. “You do not know me well, so I will forgive your ignorance.”
“She is not wrong,” Mr. Fielding broke in. “I was very fond of Nathaniel Carter. He was a villain and a kind man at the same time.”
“As I told McAdam, I had nothing to do with his death,” Mr. Naismith said. “You want to speak to a man called Galbraith, who pretty much runs South London. For now, at least.”
Mr. Fielding held him with a furious stare. “Pushing your crimes onto others again, are you? I saw your bullyboys that night, igniting sticks and throwing them in through the windows, ensuring that house went up in a blaze.”
“Yes,” Mr. Naismith said without remorse. “Carter was my enemy. Though I did not kill him or call for his death, it was better that his entire empire be wiped out than Galbraith take it over. Carter had an arsenal in his house. I did not want it used against me.”
Mr. Fielding drew a breath, his face harder than I’d ever seen it. “Such a good reason for destroying my home.”
“You were boys.” Mr. Naismith’s voice strengthened. “Carter wasn’t anything to you, and you weren’t to him, except to do his bidding. He disguised it with friendliness, but he was as much a criminal as I am. I am simply not the liar he was.”
“Mr. Fielding and Mr. McAdam are not fools,” I broke in. “And I doubt they were such when they were lads. They know the difference between a man who has no heart and a man who does. As do I.” I bathed him with one final scornful gaze. “I am finished with you. Good day, Mr. Naismith.”
Without waiting for his reply, or for Daniel or Mr. Fielding to stop me, I turned and marched for the door.
No one prevented me. I sailed out into the beautiful gallery and went down the stairs with as much dignity as I could muster.
I was shaking all over when I reached the front door, opened by the same tough who’d admitted us. He looked at me in curiosity this time, instead of with a dead-eyed lack of interest.
Lewis straightened from where he leaned against the high wheel of the hansom and unfolded his arms. He handed me into the cab, then climbed to his perch, just as the front door opened once again to disgorge Mr. Fielding and Daniel.
“About time, guv,” Lewis growled down at them. “The man’s bullies have been eyeing me like the next pig to take to slaughter.”
Mr. Fielding huffed a laugh as he climbed in beside me. Daniel gave Lewis the direction of Mount Street and slid in on my other side.
“Can you imagine why I wanted you to stay in the cab?” Daniel asked me as we started, but he sounded cheerful, not admonishing.
“You are an incredibly brave woman,” Mr. Fielding said in admiration. “And a fine, bold one. I’d kiss you, but you are engaged to my brother, who would strongly object.”
“Please do not, Mr. Fielding,” I said in some alarm. “I admit, I let my tongue get away from me, but I do not regret a word. That man deserved a scolding.” I settled back with a shudder, my own daring leaving me cold.
“And then to turn your back on him and walk away,” Mr. Fielding crowed. “A well-performed exit, worthy of the stage. Did you rehearse it?”
“Don’t be silly. I had said all I had to say, and I thought I’d better leave before he grew too incensed.” I leaned against Daniel’s warm shoulder. “That and I saw out the window that the police were arriving. I distracted Mr. Naismith nicely from that, do you not think?”
They came at us around the corner of Barnsbury Square, several police vans pulled by sturdy horses, passing us to halt in front of Mr. Naismith’s house. Inspector McGregor climbed out of one that poured forth constables, and Sergeant Scott emerged from the other.
Mr. Fielding burst out laughing, while Daniel looked satisfied.
“Ramsay must have finally peached about who cut him,” Daniel said. “He must have known Naismith had Banks killed, and Naismith was trying to tie up a loose end. I’ll wager Scott pried the truth out of Ramsay. Good man.”
Inspector McGregor caught sight of the hansom before we rounded the corner. His face grew scarlet with fury, and he opened his mouth to shout.
Lewis drove us quickly onward. Naismith’s house and the police around it were lost to sight, our escape punctuated by Mr. Fielding’s heartfelt laughter.
* * *
On Monday afternoon, I met Daniel at Victoria Station, and we boarded a train for Richmond.
We said little as we went. I had left pies and tarts with Hannah at the market to peddle for me, as I now had clientele I did not want to disappoint. The drawback of running one’s own business, I supposed, as well as its benefit.
Daniel had informed me last night when he stopped by for tea and a chat that Inspector McGregor and Acting Inspector Scott had arrested all those in Naismith’s household, interrogating them about all of Naismith’s activities and their part in them.
The man who’d actually killed Banks was being bound over for trial, and now lodged in Newgate. He insisted he’d only been following Naismith’s orders, as though that absolved him of the crime.
Naismith himself had slipped the net. He’d not been in the house anywhere when McGregor, Scott, and their men had burst in.
I was not terribly surprised. A man like Naismith would have worked out an escape route for himself long ago.
Daniel was of the opinion that Naismith would lie low for a while before resurfacing. He would have to abandon the lovely house and find another in yet another genteel but unassuming neighborhood.
Today, Daniel and I sat side by side in a second-class carriage, I in my best frock and Daniel in a wool suit tailored for him. No homespun or patched coats to meet people who might be his family.
He was nervous, fidgeting as he stared out the window, reaching for my hand and then releasing it, as though he couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted comfort.
Daniel’s uneasiness increased as the train pulled into Richmond. We descended, and I consulted the address. Cynthia had found a map of the area for me, and I’d circled the court we were looking for.
Richmond was a quiet town, with rows of bow-windowed houses on narrow lanes. I’d worked in a large home here for a time, and had enjoyed walks in parks along the river and in the nearby Kew Gardens.
King’s Crescent was a little cul-de-sac off a lane called King’s Road. We stopped before the house we sought, a small redbrick home with white trim, separate from the others around it. A gate led to a little courtyard in front, and a garden.
A dark-haired woman straightened up from where she pulled spent summer plants from a flower bed, her dull green frock covered by a pinafore, now smudged with dirt. She pushed back her gardening hat when she saw us at the gate, and her mouth fell open.
Before we could speak, she put her soil-stained, gloved hand to her bosom and dragged in a breath.
“Uncle Robert,” she stated in shock.
“No.” Daniel opened the gate and entered the garden, halting just inside. “I’m his son. At least, I believe I am.”
The woman heaved another breath, her face draining of color. I quickly slipped around Daniel and caught her, easing her toward the iron bench that reposed under a tree.
“Perhaps you ought to sit down, my dear.”
The woman plumped onto the bench and stared at me as I sank down beside her.
“How?” she wheezed. “How is it…?”
“We believe he was spirited away not long after his father and mother died,” I explained, holding the woman’s hand in a soothing grasp. “Why did you think he was your uncle?”
“Because he is the exact image of him,” the woman said, her eyes wide. “And greatly resembles my father. Are you—?” She gulped, gazing up at Daniel, who hadn’t moved. “Are you Robbie?”
“It is a strong possibility,” I answered for him. “Though he calls himself Daniel now. Is your father here?”
“No, he passed away, two years ago. My mother ten years ago.”
“You inherited the house,” I stated.
“Yes, my father left it to me. And my husband.” She started to her feet. “Let me fetch him.”
“Of course.” I released the woman, who ran for her front door, banging it open. “Gerald,” she shouted. “Come outside. Come and see who it is.”
I moved back to Daniel, standing close beside him. In a few moments, the woman reappeared, still amazed but less rigid.
A tow-haired man followed in her wake. He halted on the brick walk and gaped at Daniel.
“Good Lord.”
“He says he’s Uncle Robert’s son,” the woman babbled. “He looks just like him, doesn’t he?”
“Good Lord,” the gentleman repeated. He wore a rumpled gray flannel suit as though he’d decided to stay at home and read newspapers all day. “He does. The spitting image. I say, you don’t remember me, do you?” The gentleman peered at Daniel with ingenuous hazel eyes.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Daniel said. “Nor you,” he said to the woman. “Though I suppose you are my cousin.” He swallowed as he said this, as though the unfamiliar words were difficult.
“I suppose I am,” the woman said, brightening. “I’m April. April Meade, now. Used to be Munro.” She smiled, her eyes lighting.
Daniel’s eyes, I realized. They were very much the same.
“I’ve known April since we were toddlers,” Mr. Meade said.
“I lived over yonder.” He waved down the lane.
“My folks still reside there. April and I decided to move in here, as it was a large place, plenty of room for a family.” He finished proudly, and I suspected that family had already been started.
“Do you have any photographs?” I asked, when Daniel, his cousin, and her husband continued gazing at one another in both awkwardness and excitement. “Of your uncle Robert? Your aunt?”
April started. “Oh, yes. Why didn’t I think? Yes, yes, come in, do. We are having a little holiday today, as Gerald’s offices are being painted—he’s a junior solicitor—and they gave him a few days’ leave. I will have Mrs. Bullen bring up some tea. She’s our cook, and a very good one, fear not.”
So saying, she peeled off her garden gloves and rushed into the house. Mr. Meade grinned at us good-naturedly and waved us to follow him.
Daniel and I exchanged a glance, he with great agitation. I could only take his hand and squeeze it as Mr. Meade led us into the house.
It was a cozy home, I saw as we entered. The downstairs hall was cluttered with coats and hats on a rack, boots for the garden below it. A smaller pair of boots rested there as well as a little coat, one a lad would wear.
“You have a son?” I asked as Daniel and I shed our wraps.
“We do indeed.” Mr. Meade seemed surprised I’d concluded this. “Jeremy. Jemmy, we call him.”
“He’s upstairs pretending to study,” April said. “I told him he must finish a chapter of history before he could help me in the garden.” She made her way to the backstairs door, pulling off her apron as she went.
“The photographs will be in here.” Mr. Meade opened the door to a front sitting room that overlooked the garden.
A tree shaded the window, dappling the sunlight on this fair day. A fireplace stood ready to warm it on winter nights, and the mismatched furniture, some worn, some new, told me that this room was well used.
Mr. Meade waved us to sit on the sofa that faced the fireplace.
He rummaged in a bookcase and brought back two fat books that proved to be filled with photographs.
Most were old, when photography had been in its early stage, with people posed stiffly, their eyes too white under the glare of the lights.
“Here we are.” Mr. Meade pried a photograph from a middle page and held it out to us. “That’s April’s Uncle Robert. And her Aunt Rose.”
“Good heavens,” I said in astonishment.
The man, sitting in a carved chair, was Daniel. Or rather, Daniel if he’d put on a suit from thirty years ago, grown a thick mustache, slicked his hair back, and stared hard at a camera.
The man had Daniel’s face, his build, his thick hair that curled no matter how he’d tried to tame it. At any moment, the man would break into a grin at the ridiculous pose and wave at us gazing at him.
A woman stood beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder. She had a softer stance, as though unworried about the long time she had to keep still. Her mouth was curved into a half smile, a little bit crooked, as Daniel’s often was.
She had long curls of hair that were pulled back behind her head but allowed to cascade along her shoulders. They framed the rather stiff bodice from those days, her belled skirt half-hidden behind the man’s chair.
“She is quite beautiful,” I whispered.
“Rose Patterson,” Mr. Meade said helpfully. “Yes, she was quite lovely, in face as well as inside. We all loved her. She and April’s uncle were very happy. Such a shame.”
A splotch of water fell on the photograph. I turned quickly to Daniel, to find tears streaming unashamedly down his cheeks.
He touched the picture of his mother, and then his sobs came. He clutched the photograph to his chest, his body heaving as he cried for the parents he’d lost and the child he could have been.
Mr. Meade discreetly left us alone, and I gathered Daniel to me and held him close.