Aiden had written that note. Aiden, who had consumed bowl after bowl of porridge at the table downstairs, who had juggled screwed-up pieces of paper in this very room, who had run off to fight the sons of the gentry at the zoo, who had thrown his grain at the monkeys because he was too afraid to let them eat from his hand. Aiden.
Again, my thoughts turned to chloral hydrate. I had an excuse, with my injury, to go downstairs and drink a teaspoonful, and allow the black water to close over my head. I could sink down and drift away.
But I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Not before I knew why Aiden had written it.
He could have been acting under duress, I thought. I could picture him with a pen and paper, a knife held to his throat, his hands shaking as he wrote the words. If that was what had happened, I truly should stop my investigation.
I had to bite my fingers to keep from howling.
I lay down on my hard floor as the light faded. I didn’t want to use my bed, the one they had slept in. Their smell was lingering in the blankets. I could almost believe that if I lit a match, they would be there again, whole and real, breathing softly. I was so close to reaching for the matchbox, my hand twitched for it, ached for it. But I knew I was being ridiculous.
I forced myself to think.
Why would their captor force Aiden to write the note? Why not write it himself?
Perhaps their captor was unable to write. My mind drifted towards the footman; he didn’t strike me as an especially literate man.
But another possibility pinched at me more ferociously, burrowing into the skin on my arms and legs, into my face, until I stung all over.
Perhaps Aiden wrote the note because he chose to.
Perhaps he was trying to stop me from making enquiries because he didn’t want his mother’s killer found.
I couldn’t bear to consider it, and yet I couldn’t erase the scenario from my mind: confusion in the dark of the courtyard, a sudden sound, a gasp of fright and a turn, a glint of metal and a gush of blood, followed by an awful stillness.
Could Aiden have killed his own mother?
I could guess what came afterwards: the boy realising what he’d done and falling upon her, weeping, and someone hearing and coming, maybe more than one person, and burying her right there in the mud and guiding him away, telling him never, ever to tell a soul. Because he was ten years old and shouldn’t be held responsible.
But if that was the case, who had been in the carriage with the gun?
I no longer wanted to know the truth. I didn’t care about it. All I wanted to do was find the children and keep them safe.
I didn’t sleep. At dawn, I got dressed and was about to leave my room when Alfie called up to tell me Mrs Flowers was here again. As I stumbled down the stairs, I tried to work out what I would say to her.
She was sitting at the table in the back room, her face a picture of determination. She pushed something towards me, which turned out to be a pie wrapped in paper.
‘Mutton,’ she said. ‘No charge, but it’s Wednesday’s, so it’s on your head if you’re ill. Now, tell me what’s happening. Why did you suddenly decide to stop looking for Aiden and Ciara last night?’
I breathed slowly and folded my arms. All I had to do was stick to my story. ‘I’m following the instructions in the note from the kidnapper. I don’t want any harm to come to them.’
She shook her head. ‘No, there’s something else. What aren’t you telling me?’
‘Nothing.’
She looked away, out of the window at the yard and the back fence. ‘I went to see Constable Pallett after I left here last night.’
‘What? Why?’
‘You wouldn’t listen to me, and I thought the police should know about that note. You may think it’s an excuse to stop looking for them, but I think it might be important.’
I walked around in small circles, unable to stay still. ‘What did Pallett say?’
‘Not much. You know how he is. But he did tell me one thing.’
‘All right, what was it?’
‘He said that Edwin Cowdery was released from jail yesterday morning.’
‘Released? Why? He hasn’t been tried yet, and they know he’s guilty of plotting arson.’
I couldn’t understand it. He was exactly the sort of man the police adored locking up: a socialist, an anarchist and a threat to civil society. Why would they let him out? He had no influence to exert or money to slip into the right pocket.
‘I know.’ She smoothed out her skirts. ‘It’s a mystery. It did get me thinking, though.’ She paused for a few seconds, still angry with me, making me wait. ‘I mean, if Sir Reginald’s not the children’s father, then who is?’
It was a good question, and I had missed it.
‘Not John Thackery,’ I said, thinking aloud through the alternatives. ‘Do you suppose it might be Edwin Cowdery?’
‘That was my conclusion too. He was sweet on her, if I’m any judge, which I am, and Mr Whitford said they had an “understanding”, which is a word for … well, one thing leads to another, and another thing leads to children, as often as not.’
Aiden did seem to share Edwin Cowdery’s temper.
That hideous thought clawed its way back into my mind, but I forced it down.
‘If Mr Cowdery is their father, he might’ve taken them,’ Rosie said slowly. ‘But he might not view it as kidnapping, do you see? He might view it as reclaiming them. And he could’ve killed their poor mother too.’
My mind was snagging on details. A single thrust of a sword didn’t feel like a crime of passion. ‘Is Mr Cowdery able to read and write?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. If he has them, then he must be able to. He wrote that note, didn’t he?’
I nodded, but my conclusion was the opposite. If Edwin was holding them, then he must be illiterate. Otherwise, why hadn’t he written the note himself?
I felt my palms itching. If Aiden had been coerced by Edwin, then he wasn’t guilty of anything, and he and Ciara were in great danger; perhaps in the hands of a murderer.
But how could I be sure?
‘Wait here,’ I told Rosie.
Upstairs, I put on my coat and hat, and studied Ciara’s picture of a lion: the mane like a ball of fluff, the claws long and fierce, the tail a single stroke of the pencil, disappearing off the paper. It was all I had of her, but it was also evidence. I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket.
When I came back down, Rosie was standing by the open door.
‘Finally!’ she announced. ‘You’ve come to your senses.’
‘The question is, where’s Edwin Cowdery?’
‘Constable Pallett said they have a watch on that club, and he’s not there, but …’ She pulled a piece of paper from her bag and held it up: the appeal for money Erica Cowdery had been distributing at the wake. ‘We could always ask his sister, couldn’t we?’
From the outside, the Home for Penitent Females was a pleasant-looking house with steps up to a single blue door. Even from the pavement we could hear a babble of voices and the rhythmic clanking of machinery.
Rosie read the sign. ‘Penitent?’
‘It’s another word for desperate.’
‘Then why don’t they say desperate?’
The door was opened by a young woman in a mob cap wearing a patch over one eye and squinting at us through the other.
‘We’re here to see Miss Cowdery.’
Inside, the sounds of whirring cogs and squeaking pedals were accompanied by lively voices and, to my surprise, laughter. I poked my head round one door and could barely see as far as the opposite wall, such was the thickness of the steam. Young women were sitting on stools in front of a trough of water in which they were laundering sheets, while others hauled them out and hung them on racks, although I couldn’t imagine how anything would ever get dry in the damp atmosphere.
One of the women met my eye and hastily ducked away. She was so thin and hunched I found it hard to believe she was still alive. She disappeared into the haze, the light of her cigarette marking her movements.
‘Mr Stanhope!’ Erica Cowdery came down the stairs like a mallard coming in to land among a flock of pigeons, scattering them in all directions. ‘What a pleasure to see you here. And Mrs Flowers too, of course.’ She took my hand and looked earnestly into my eyes. ‘What happened to you?’
‘An accident. We’ve come to ask you some questions about your brother. Does he know how to write?’
Miss Cowdery didn’t immediately answer, her attention drawn to the laundry room. ‘One minute. Ellen Rattle!’ She pointed accusingly at the skinny woman. ‘If you smoke, you’ll put holes in the sheets, won’t you?’
The woman sulkily dropped her cigarette on the floor and trod on it, pulling a face as soon as Miss Cowdery’s back was turned.
Miss Cowdery brushed her hands down her apron, regaining her composure. ‘They’re good girls, but they’ve had hard lives, mistreated by their masters and mistresses. Mostly masters, needless to say. They work here to earn a few pennies and keep a roof over their heads. Would you like to make a contribution to the cause? Sixpence, perhaps?’
I found a twopence and gave it to her. She shoved it into her apron pocket, making no attempt to hide her disappointment.
‘Can Edwin write?’ I asked again. ‘More than his name, I mean.’
She gave me a long look. ‘My brother and I aren’t idiots, Mr Stanhope. We went to school. We spend half our lives writing letters to raise funds or protest against government. How do you think this place has stayed open as long as it has?’ She cast her eyes around the hallway, at the patterned paper peeling off the walls, and the door to the laundry room, so badly warped it couldn’t possibly be made to close. ‘Though we’ll likely have to move soon, I’m told. Colonel Penton wants his land back. Lord knows, he’s got a lot and these girls have only a little, but he’ll take even that away.’
I didn’t have time for sympathy.
‘Is your brother the father of Dora Hannigan’s children?’
She seemed taken aback by my bluntness, opening and shutting her mouth like a fish before replying. ‘Well, yes, that’s my understanding, though he didn’t want me to know, nor anyone for that matter. I heard them talking once. She was very independent-minded and thought him too impulsive for marriage. He tried not to show it, but I think he still had hopes in that direction. A reconciliation, you might call it. They agreed on so many things, you see. It was her idea to start the strike at the factory, so he told me, because the best time to burn the place down is when it’s empty. No working men to get hurt, and no one around to douse the fire.’
‘And do you know where he is now?’ asked Rosie.
‘I don’t.’ Miss Cowdery’s face clouded, and she straightened her lace cap. ‘He was let out of prison yesterday, as perhaps you’re aware. I wanted him to come here with me, but he wouldn’t. Same as ever.’ She smiled, but it was rigid, the expression of one who has finally run out of patience and doesn’t care who knows it. ‘He prefers what he calls a direct approach, and what I call foolhardy and missing the real point. How does it help anyone to burn down a place where men work and earn a living to feed their families?’
‘Do you know why they let him out of jail?’ asked Rosie.
Miss Cowdery brightened a little. ‘It’s all because of that Mr Duport at the club. Strange as it may sound, it turns out he was rightly named Thackery and was Sir Reginald’s own adopted son! Can you believe it?’
I glanced at Rosie, but she was looking down, utter shock written across her face.
‘Well,’ continued Miss Cowdery, oblivious, ‘our solicitor made the argument that Sir Reginald had likely engineered the whole thing from the start. He said Duport, or Thackery I should say, had been inserted into the club by his father to spy on us and report our goings-on.’
‘That can’t be true,’ I said. ‘Sir Reginald hated his son.’
‘That’s what Detective Inspector Hooper said as well,’ replied Miss Cowdery, enjoying her story. ‘But it opened up the possibility that Duport had encouraged Edwin to plan the arson with the specific intention of entrapping him. An element of doubt was cast on their case. Hooper wasn’t best pleased, I can tell you. He said it shows how far we’ve slipped, giving credence to an anarchist over a man of honour and decency. Those were his exact words.’
She produced a fan from her bag and began swishing it to and fro. The hallway was already sweltering, and the movement of the air made it worse.
‘Forgive me, Miss Cowdery,’ I said gently, ‘but you don’t seem happy that your brother has been freed.’
I looked at Rosie, who was much better at navigating this sort of thing than me. But she didn’t seem to be listening.
‘It’s not that,’ Miss Cowdery replied, a little too hastily. ‘In his own way, Edwin loved Dora. We Cowderys are passionate people. Romantics at heart. When he came out of jail yesterday, he was most upset. He had trusted Mr Duport, you see, and to find out he was a Thackery all along … well, it was the last straw.’
‘What are you saying?’ I asked.
She dipped into her bag for a handkerchief and began dabbing her eyes.
‘If I’m honest, I never thought they would actually burn down that mill. I thought it was a bit of fun for them, like a game, thinking about how they might go about such a thing. But now, I’m not so sure. I think he might actually do it.’
‘We have to find Edwin Cowdery,’ said Rosie, as soon as we were outside on the pavement. She set off at a rapid pace and I had to scurry to keep up.
‘Rosie, what’s wrong?’
‘We have to pray he hasn’t harmed them.’
‘Rosie!’
She turned and glared at me, and I realised her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘You don’t understand, Leo. It’s my fault.’
‘What is?’
‘After we argued about … God, I can’t even remember what. It doesn’t matter now. I thought you were being reckless, allowing John Thackery to blackmail you. I thought it would be best if the police knew that Thackery was Duport, and Duport was Thackery.’
The truth washed over me like the first big wave when you wade into the sea. ‘You told the police about John.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, but I didn’t think … I didn’t realise it would mean they’d release Mr Cowdery.’ She stood up straight, squaring her shoulders. ‘It’s my fault. I told them about Thackery and, because of that, Mr Cowdery was released and was able to kidnap Aiden and Ciara.’
She walked swiftly away from me, and I think I would have let her carry on, would have let her suffer, if she had been right.
But she wasn’t right.
‘Rosie!’ I called after her. ‘Edwin Cowdery didn’t take them.’
She didn’t slow down, but called back over her shoulder. ‘He’s their father and a criminal, and he’s been set free because of me.’
‘He didn’t write that note, Rosie.’
She stopped and looked up at the sky as if calling on God to give her patience. ‘How can you possibly know that?’
I had to tell her. I couldn’t abide the thought that she would blame herself.
‘Because Aiden wrote it.’
I showed her Ciara’s drawing and the kidnapper’s note. Her hand was shaking as she held them. Nevertheless, she examined the lettering with care, peering over the top of her spectacles.
‘They do look similar,’ she said, in a small voice.
‘They’re identical. Look at the “a” here and here. The same bad spelling and grammar too.’
She wiped her eyes and sniffed. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday, instead of pretending you were giving up?’
I took off my bowler and cautiously rubbed my forehead, avoiding the stitches. There was a cool wind blowing down the street, yet still I felt hot.
‘I thought perhaps that Aiden …’
‘Oh Leo.’ She pursed her lips. ‘We’re as absurd as each other, don’t you think? We shouldn’t keep any more secrets. Now I know that Aiden wrote it, the whole thing makes sense. You were brought up as a gentleman, weren’t you?’ She paused, blanching, realising what she’d said. ‘I mean, as a … I mean, educated.’
There was no one near enough to hear us, but I still wished she’d be more discreet.
‘You were taught to read and write, but most of us weren’t. I never went to school, not one day. My old man said it wasn’t worth sending a girl and I was more useful in the shop. Most people write the same way they speak.’
She pointed at the note, and I read it again.
Stop asking after the dead lady an looking for the orfans rite now or therell be trubble there lives are at stake
‘See here,’ she said. ‘He’s spelled “looking” right. But “trubble” is wrong, isn’t it?’
She wasn’t absolutely certain.
‘Yes.’ I felt a glimmer of anticipation. Perhaps the note was telling us more than it intended. ‘And look: the first six words are all correct, but most of the rest aren’t. His spelling isn’t so much bad as variable. He can spell “dead”, “looking” and “lives” perfectly well, but not “right” or “orphans”.’
She nodded, poring over the piece of paper, her finger running along the words. I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell she was trying very hard not to weep. ‘And the way it’s written is odd too,’ she said. ‘“Stop asking after” is a strange form of words for a lad his age, don’t you think? He’d say “stop asking about”.’ She looked up at me. ‘I think someone else was telling him what to write.’
‘Yes!’ I spun round on the spot, feeling, for the first time, as if we were getting close to the truth. ‘It was written under duress. Someone else spelled out some of the words for him. Someone who isn’t illiterate but wasn’t able to write it for themselves.’
I stared at her, realising what we had to do next. Realising the danger.
‘Rosie, I know who has them.’