Chapter 7
The jarvey halted his horse upwind of the smoke. “Close as I can get, guv’nor, if that’s where you’re headed.”
“Thank you. It is.” Grim-faced, Kit got down, tossed the jarvey a guinea, then helped Sylvia, who was scrambling to the pavement.
Her hand clutching his, she straightened and stared at the smoke pouring up and out from the school’s rear yard. “Dear God!”
“Don’t panic.” Kit had noticed that there was surprisingly little activity in the street—just a woman and three young children waiting by the hall’s steps. “From the look of that smoke, they’ve already put out the blaze.”
“Oh, thank heavens!” Relief swamped Sylvia’s features.
Keeping hold of her hand—holding her back from rushing down the alley toward the fire—Kit nodded to Eddie as the boy leapt down from the hackney. “You did well to fetch us, but now go with your mother.”
“Yes, sir—my lord.” Big-eyed, Eddie scampered toward his family.
Gripping Sylvia’s hand more firmly, Kit led the way down the narrow alley that ran along the side of the hall.
The smoke was thinning as they stepped onto the cobbles of the rear yard.
Sylvia held her breath and swiftly scanned the scene. A deeper wave of relief swept through her at the sight of Jellicoe and Cross, soot-streaked and mopping tears from their eyes, but otherwise apparently unharmed.
A bevy of neighbors was hanging over the rear fence and both side fences; from the buckets dangling from several hands, the neighbors had helped ferry water to put out the flames. Evidently, not everyone wished the school gone.
Kit released her hand and nodded to Jellicoe and Cross.
Sylvia hurried to where they were slumped against the side of the privy. “Are you all right?” When both nodded, she asked, “What happened?”
Jellicoe waved a hand before his face, batting away the lingering smoke.
“We came to take a look at our notes for Monday’s lessons, smelt smoke, tried to get out of the back door and couldn’t, then we raced around and found that.
” He pointed to a pile of wood stacked against the hall’s back door.
“It was well alight—or so we thought—with flames leaping up against the door. I sent Cross to get help while I tried to beat out the flames with a sack. Then the sack caught fire as well.”
Cross took up the tale. “I found Eddie out front—sheer luck—and sent him for help.” Cross squinted up at her through watering eyes. “I take it he thought I meant you.”
Sylvia smiled gently. “He did.”
Cross humphed. “Luckily, the neighbors smelt the smoke, too, and came to help.” He waved at the watching men. “Thank you all.”
The men nodded and smiled, and one called, “Put all of us at risk, the blighters did—fires spread quickly in streets like ours. Any idea who it was?”
A dark murmur of agreement rippled through the onlookers.
Kit, who had been studying the smoldering wood, replied, “Not yet.”
Words and tone held a promise of retribution that seemed to satisfy the watching men.
Then Kit flicked out a handkerchief, anchored it over his nose, and walked to the still-smoking pile.
He stared for a moment, then bent, picked up a broken branch, and prodded and scraped at what looked like remnants of rags hanging off the logs.
After a moment, he said, “These rags were soaked in some sort of liquid fuel—that’s why your sack caught fire.
But the rags were placed on top of the wood, so although the rags burned merrily, most of the wood didn’t catch, then when you tried to force the back door, the pile shifted, and the rags fell over the front of the logs. ”
Slowly, Kit rose, frowning down at the detritus. Then he raised his gaze and scanned the hall’s rear wall.
Sylvia followed his gaze, taking in the blistered paintwork on the door and the soot streaks on the solid stone walls.
Glancing around, she saw that the neighbors were watching Kit with interest. She doubted he realized just how definite was the aura of not just status and wealth but also command that hung from his shoulders, an invisible mantle a large portion of the populace instinctively recognized.
She watched as he stepped back from the now-damp stack of wood and walked over to join her before Cross and Jellicoe, who were still slumped against the privy.
Kit extended his hand to Jellicoe.
Jellicoe looked faintly startled, but then took the proffered hand and let Kit haul him to his feet.
“Good work, you two.” Kit lightly thumped Jellicoe’s shoulder, then reached down and helped Cross up as well.
As soon as he was on his feet, Cross, now frowning, went to stare at the smoking pile. After a moment, he grunted. “Now I can see how this was laid, I’m having trouble believing there was ever much of a threat.”
Jellicoe coughed and went to look, too, then nodded. “I see what you mean. Whoever set this had no idea what they were doing.”
His hands sunk in his greatcoat pockets, Kit joined the teachers.
Sylvia followed and halted on Cross’s other side. “What do you mean?” she asked.
Kit pointed at the rags. “If you wanted that pile to burn, any sensible person would have put the rags beneath the wood—at least in the center of the pile.”
Jellicoe snorted. “And why try to set fire to a thick oak door set in a stone wall anyway? Even if the door had caught”—he directed his gaze up, above the door—“the wall is so high, the rafters would almost certainly be out of reach of any flames.”
“The hall wouldn’t have burned,” Kit concluded.
“Which leaves us with the question of whether whoever set the fire intended it merely as a warning, or if they truly were so inept that they had no notion of how to set an effective blaze. Regardless, I believe we can be certain that no expert arsonist was involved.”
Jellicoe snorted a laugh and ended up coughing.
Cross thumped him on the back. “Wait until your lungs clear before you try that again.”
Sylvia saw Kit glance at their still-watching audience.
Then he turned back to Cross and Jellicoe and, in a voice slightly raised to reach the onlookers, said, “Incidentally, I’m having a sign made for the front of the hall.
‘Lord Cavanaugh’s School.’ Seeing you’re here, you could help me take the measurements. ”
Both Jellicoe and Cross looked thoroughly pleased.
From the corner of her eye, Sylvia saw the neighbors exchange duly impressed looks. None of them would protest about the school now. Indeed, more than likely they would brag about the fire and seeing a real lord and having his school next door.
“Right-ho.” His usual ebullient manner re-emerging, Cross waved down the alley. “Let’s leave this mess to finish smoldering. We’ll get it cleared away tomorrow.”
The three men stood back to allow Sylvia to go first. She emerged onto the pavement before the school steps. Eddie and his mother and siblings had gone.
Sylvia stood back and watched as the three men worked out the optimal dimensions for a sign to fit above the hall door.
She’d noted that Kit had added his title to his proposed name for the school and was grateful he’d done so.
His name would help, but when combined with his title, the result was a far stronger shield.
Being labeled “Lord Cavanaugh’s School” would protect the school as nothing short of a royal warrant could.
Listening to Cross, Jellicoe, and Kit discuss the positioning of the sign, she felt the last of her fire-induced tension drain away. Most of the onlookers had retreated into their homes, doubtless to share what they’d seen and heard.
The day was slowly sliding toward evening.
With the placement and size of the sign decided, Cross and Jellicoe, both now understandably weary, took their leave.
Sylvia thanked them effusively, then let them go.
She watched them walk slowly up the street—and noticed the disapproving lady in black standing, once more, at her gate, glaring in Sylvia’s direction, then, as before, the woman turned and stumped back into her house.
Considering the sight, Sylvia asked, “Who do you think did it?”
She felt certain Kit would at least have a theory.
Kit halted beside Sylvia, his gaze resting on the hackney, still loitering farther up the street.
He waved to the driver, who acknowledged the hail with a salute.
Kit gently grasped Sylvia’s elbow and steered her toward the carriage; this time, she didn’t seem to react to his touch.
“I don’t know,” he replied, “but I believe I need to pay Councilor Peabody a visit.”
Startled, she glanced at him. “You think Peabody was involved?”
Kit considered that, then shook his head. “No. But it occurs to me that the good councilor arrived, breathing fire, on the school’s doorstep within hours of it opening its doors.” Briefly, he met her gaze. “How did he know?”
He watched her face as she worked it out.
Then her eyes widened, and she looked up at him. “Someone complained.”
Jaw firming, he nodded. “And I suspect whoever did will have more of an idea of who set the fire than Peabody.”
He ushered her on.
When they reached the carriage’s side, she swung to face him. “I’m coming with you.” Dogged determination flared in her eyes, violet deepening the periwinkle-blue.
He’d anticipated her resolve and inclined his head.
“If you wish.” He’d long ago learned that, when dealing with ladies, it paid to give way on the smaller issues, and visiting Peabody in Kit’s company held no danger at all.
“I expect we’ll find him at his home. Do you know where he lives— No, wait.
He gave me his card.” He hunted in his jacket pocket and found the card.
As Sylvia turned and climbed into the carriage, Kit looked at the driver. “Park Street. No need for any heroics this time.”
The driver grinned and saluted with his whip. “Right, guv’nor. Climb aboard.”
Kit did. He sat beside Sylvia, the driver flicked the reins, and they rattled off.
On presenting themselves at Councilor Peabody’s door, Kit gave his name, and they were immediately shown into the councilor’s drawing room.