CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Hearth and Home
“. . . but it is all glitter and glare, and trick; everything is tinsel and trumpery about it; it is altogether a bad dream.”
Bury, Charlotte, The Diary of a Lady-in-Waiting
Josiah Poole lived on Great Cumberland Street, near Portman Square. It was a neighborhood where the well established lived alongside the still ambitious. The houses here were a little older and a little smaller than those in the most fashionable areas, but they were still well appointed. The carriages pulling up to the doors were new and neatly kept, though they lacked coats of arms on their doors. Servants here were not in livery, but they were plentiful.
Adam arrived less than a quarter hour after Rosalind. Rosalind let the driver help her down and hurried to meet him, even though the only greeting they could exchange in the public street was a polite nod.
“I’ve just come from Sir David,” Adam told her. “Unfortunately, he did not discover much beyond the obvious. Poole died of a stab wound recently delivered.”
“And you have found nothing to indicate whether the attack came because of the certificate or Mrs. Fitzherbert?” They fell into easy step together, making their way up the street.
“Nothing,” said Adam. “We’ll have to hope his family can enlighten us, or at least that they’ll give us permission to go through his papers.” He paused. “That was well done, by the way,” Adam remarked. “Sir David was impressed with how quickly you were able to find his private residence. How did you manage?”
“One of the drawing mistresses from my old school left to marry an attorney. We kept in touch. I admit I was not at all sure my inquiry would bear fruit so quickly. There are a famously large number of men at law in London.”
“You have a way of defying the odds.”
“Thank you, sir.” Rosalind took a moment to enjoy his compliment before they both began the serious business of crossing the street in the midst of the evening traffic. They’d arrived at a busy time. The men who had been out at their places of business, and the women who had been out making calls and running their own errands, were all returning home.
The address on Mr. Poole’s visiting card was Number 23. This proved to be a respectably sized house in the middle of the block. Although it was barely twilight, the lamp was lit. The clean windows, tidy stoop, and polished brass announced it as an efficiently run establishment.
“This is not going to be easy,” said Adam. “Will you be all right?”
“We will find out.” Rosalind smoothed her sleeves and straightened her bonnet. “I have delivered unpleasant news before, certainly, but seldom to complete strangers.”
Adam’s fingers brushed hers. Then he took hold of the knocker and rapped firmly.
A few moments later, a maid in tidy black and white opened the door. Adam presented her with his card.
“We wish to speak with Mrs. Poole,” said Adam. “I’m afraid the matter is urgent.”
The maid looked at the card. She also looked at Adam and Rosalind, but much more skeptically. Rosalind could see her trying to work out what sort of urgent business brought a well-dressed woman to the door after polite visiting hours.
Nonetheless, she did ask them to step in and took the card through.
Adam looked about the foyer and cocked one eyebrow at Rosalind. She nodded. This was not a home that fit with the character of unprincipled Josiah Poole, who kept his office in a public house. From what they could see, all was in excellent taste and arranged with the elegant moderation favored by the most skilled hostesses.
The maid returned. “If you will follow me, please? Mrs. Poole will be down in a moment.”
The maid took them to a small library. As they entered, the man seated by the hearth rose. He ducked his head, hunched his shoulders, leaned heavily on a walking stick, and held Adam’s card.
“Mr. . . .” The man glanced at the card. “Mr. Harkness? My name is Considen. Mrs. Poole is my sister.”
Mr. Considen was a tall, broad man. He was also no longer in health. His white skin sagged against his bones. His color was not merely pale but tinged with gray. His eyes were clouded, as if he suffered prematurely from cataracts, but she could still see the grim determination in them.
“How do you do, sir?” Adam made his bow. “May I introduce Miss Rosalind Thorne?”
Rosalind made her curtsy.
“May I ask what your business is with my sister?” said Mr. Considen, mostly to Adam. “If it is anything to do with money, you will need to wait until her husband returns home.” His whole body spasmed once, as if he were trying to hold in a hard cough. “We do not expect him for at least another hour.”
“Unfortunately, it is regarding her husband that we’ve come,” said Adam.
“What is this about my husband?”
Mrs. Poole entered the room, then closed the door carefully behind her. She was approaching her middle years but seemed to have accepted them with equanimity. Her hair was a fading auburn, swept into a simple twist and pinned underneath a lace cap edged with silver. She wore a dignified blue silk tea gown with only a single row of ruffles at the hem and simple lace cuffs and collars. Like the household around them, she was tasteful and absolutely correct.
Like the house, nothing about her fit with what they knew of Mr. Poole. Except possibly the old, haunted look in her blue eyes.
“Melora,” said Mr. Considen. “This is Mr. . . .” He glanced at the card again. “Adam Harkness and, erm, Miss Rosalind Thorne.”
“How do you do?” Mrs. Poole said uncertainly.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Poole,” said Rosalind. “I believe we have an acquaintance in common. Mrs. Cotes?”
Mrs. Poole’s face went blank for a minute but then brightened. “Oh, yes. I knew her much better as Miss Huntingdon. How is she?” She gestured for them to sit. Her brother also returned to his seat, slowly and cautiously, as if he could not fully trust his body to obey his commands. He kept tight hold of his stick, as if he expected to need to rise again at any moment.
Once her hostess had been seated, Rosalind said, “Mrs. Cotes is very well. I called on her specifically to find your address. I am afraid we are here with very bad news.”
Mrs. Poole’s face lost a bit of its color. Mr. Considen’s fingers curled more tightly around his stick.
“I am sorry we must tell you that Mr. Josiah Poole is dead,” said Adam quietly.
Mrs. Poole’s expression froze. She trembled slightly where she sat. Mr. Considen heaved himself to his feet, abandoning his stick, then stumped quickly to his sister’s side. His pale hand closed around her shoulder.
“I’m all right, William.” Mrs. Poole’s reassurance was harsh and breathless. She swallowed hard and pressed her hand against her stomach, as if she feared she was about to be sick. Indeed, her face had turned a pasty gray.
Not seeing a bell, Rosalind hurried to the sitting room door. She opened it to find the maid standing there, and judging from the stricken look on her face, she’d overheard the entire conversation.
“Some tea and brandy quickly,” Rosalind said and closed the door again.
Mr. Considen gave her a reproving glower for presuming to give orders when she’d only just set foot in the house, but he did not contradict her.
“What happened?” Mr. Considen asked instead. “What”—again, his body spasmed—“what did he do?”
Once again, here the assumption was that Mr. Poole was to blame for his own death. Rosalind and Adam exchanged a glance.
“Please,” Mrs. Poole said, and her voice shook only a little. “Tell me what happened.”
“We do not yet know the reason behind his death,” said Adam. “I am here as an assistant to Sir David Royce, the coroner. He will be conducting the inquiry.” Such circumnavigation was very different from Adam’s usual plain speaking. There was, of course, no truly gentle way to tell such a tale, but he was doing what could be done to put some distance between the events and the family. “It is known that Mr. Poole was found in Newgate Street, and there were marks of violence on him.”
Mrs. Poole looked ill but not surprised. Indeed, if anything, she looked angry.
The door opened, and the maid reentered, carrying a tray of tea things and a decanter of brandy. A young woman in a pink and white dress entered with her.
“Letitia!” cried Mrs. Poole. “You were meant to be resting.”
Rosalind was instantly struck by the young woman’s appearance. Rosalind was used to being the tallest woman in any gathering, but the new arrival was at least her equal. Most young people, when they suffered sudden growth, became painfully awkward and hunched over to try to hide this strange new self. This girl moved with confidence, even poise. Her face was as strong as the rest of her. She had an air of maturity, even though she could not have been much more than seventeen.
“What is going on? Judith says . . .” Letitia paused, her oval face twisted with anger and confusion. “Judith says Papa is murdered. Is this true?”
“Judith!” cried Mrs. Poole to the maid. Judith stood with her eyes lowered and her hands folded, but her face was stubborn.
“Is it true?” demanded Letitia.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Poole. “Yes, it is.”
A spasm of anger crossed the girl’s face. She seemed to notice Rosalind and Adam for the first time. “Who are these? What’s happened?” The question threatened to become a shout.
No one answered her. Mr. Considen spoke to the maid instead. “That will be enough, Judith.”
The maid made her curtsy and left, but with visible reluctance. Only then did Mr. Considen turn to Letitia.
“Letitia, go back upstairs. Melora . . .”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” said Mrs. Poole. “Then I’ll tell you everything.”
Letitia did not move. “Just tell me why this has happened,” she demanded. “What did he do?”
Again, that question. Letitia stared into Mrs. Poole’s eyes for a long moment. Rosalind could not read what was passing between them, but Letitia’s eyes grew bright and hard as glass.
“Go upstairs, Letty,” Mr. Considen ordered. “Make sure the boys are all right. Tell Nanny, if you must, but don’t frighten them. Melora will be there as soon as she may be.”
“Melora?” said Letitia.
Mrs. Poole nodded. Letitia’s face hardened, but she made no further protest. She simply turned and swept from the room.
“Letitia is my husband’s daughter by his first wife,” said Mrs. Poole, sinking back into her chair. “She will take this very hard.”
“Where . . . how may we . . . Arrangements will need to be made,” stammered Mr. Considen.
“You will be sent word about when and how you may retrieve the body,” said Adam. “It will be tomorrow at the latest.”
“And you can say nothing about his death?” asked Mrs. Poole plaintively. “Nothing at all?”
“It was our hope you might have something to tell us.”
A laugh escaped Mrs. Poole, a short, sharp sound. She immediately pressed her hand over her mouth. “I do beg your pardon,” she murmured and cleared her throat. “My husband—” She stopped and began again. “My husband was not one to confide in me about his business. He kept his domestic life as far away from his practice as possible.”
“Did he have a bookroom or an office in the house?” asked Adam.
Mrs. Poole blinked. “Well, yes, of course. There is not much of his work in it.”
“May we see it?”
“Really, you cannot ask that.” Mr. Considen’s words grated harsh and painful against his throat. “You come here, you tell my sister she’s a widow, and now you want to run riot through the house!”
“We have a very short time to try to find who did this thing before they disappear,” replied Adam patiently. “Mr. Poole’s papers may tell us if someone harbored enough of a grudge to wish him harm. Unless you can?”
Considen snorted, and the sound dissolved into a brutal cough that doubled him over. His sister moved toward him, but he threw up his hand in a curt gesture, and she stopped.
“My brother knows nothing of my husband’s business,” said Mrs. Poole.
Mr. Considen straightened. “Less even than Melly,” he gasped.
“And Josiah kept no papers here,” said Mrs. Poole. “No important ones, at any rate.”
The brandy and tea things had sat forgotten on the table. Now Mr. Considen lurched to the tray and lifted the decanter. His blue-veined hand shook.
“William, you must sit down, before you collapse.” Mrs. Poole quickly took the decanter from him. He glared at her but quickly dropped back into his chair. Melora poured him a glass of the brandy, which he drank at a single gulp.
“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Poole whispered to the room in general. “I should have offered you tea.”
“Thank you,” said Rosalind.
Adam declined.
Mrs. Poole quickly poured Rosalind a cup and passed it to her. Mrs. Poole filled her own cup, as well, and Rosalind caught her glance at the brandy decanter. She felt that if there had not been guests present, Mrs. Poole would have added a healthy splash to her tea.
But then she had the feeling that if guests had not been present, a great many things would have happened.
“Mrs. Poole,” said Rosalind, “was there any trouble you, or your husband, might have been particularly concerned about?”
Mrs. Poole’s face twisted. Her expression was mirrored by Mr. Considen. Rosalind had the distinct feeling they were both trying not to laugh.
“No,” said Mrs. Poole at last. “But then, as I have told you repeatedly now, he did not take me into his confidence regarding business matters.” Her gaze drifted to Rosalind. “You understand how some men are regarding their wives, I’m sure.”
“Yes, of course,” said Rosalind. “As you understand the question had to be asked.”
“Yes, of course. What I do not understand is why you are here, Miss Thorne,” said Mrs. Poole to her. “What can you have to do with . . . my husband or the coroner?” She gestured toward Adam.
“I am engaged to look into a private matter on behalf of an acquaintance, and there were some questions we believed your husband could answer.”
“This is preposterous,” rasped Mr. Considen. “My sister has just learned that she has been widowed! I must ask you both to leave at once, for decency’s sake.”
“It’s all right, William,” said Mrs. Poole. “I’m fine. It is important . . . We must know what happened.”
“You have nothing to tell!” shouted Mr. Considen.
“We do not know that!” Mrs. Poole answered. “You will remember, we do not know anything!”
“Mrs. Poole, Mr. Considen,” said Adam quickly. “I have only one other question, and then I hope we will be able to leave you in peace, once we’ve seen the bookroom. Do you know if Poole took on any new clients recently?”
Mrs. Poole began to shake her head but paused. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Melora . . . !” Mr. Considen choked.
“William, what good is it holding back what little information we do have?” replied his sister. She turned fully toward Adam and Rosalind. “Yes, he had a new client. He would not say who it was, but he was . . . very full of himself. He said that there was a great deal of money to be made.” She swallowed, apparently attempting to gain hold of her rising distress. “If I knew who they were, I would tell you at once. I am afraid now all I can do is beg of you not to cause us additional scandal. I do not care for myself, but Letitia is vulnerable. We hope she will be married soon, but the family is already uneasy . . .”
This, Rosalind noted, was very close to the plea Mrs. Fitzherbert had made—that the theft be kept quiet for the sake of the daughters.
There were so many questions she wanted to ask, so many things about this scene that did not quite fit. But Mrs. Poole had started toward the door.
“If you wish to see Josiah’s bookroom, I can show you.” This left Rosalind and Adam with no choice but to follow.