Do not think, Dear Reader, that an interlude for the expression of connubial devotion distracted either Colin or me from our purpose. On the contrary, I found it cleared the mind. The next morning, I made a quick investigation (by telephoning my mother to tap into her infinite knowledge of everyone connected to the royal family) of the illegitimate descendants of William IV, the FitzClarences, and felt confident that none of them would attempt to usurp the crown. One was married to Princess Louise, our present king’s daughter. Another—much to my surprise—had embarked on a career as a novelist, and under the name of the Countess of Munster, had penned a number of successful works. Her ghost stories would be much enjoyed by the boys when they were a bit older. Among the rest of the FitzClarences (there were quite a lot of them) one could find army officers, a vicar, and a rear admiral, but, alas, no one with pretentions to the throne.
I say alas, but, to be candid, did not consider this a blow. If anything, it supported my burgeoning view that Colin’s messages were not meant as warnings to the king. I pointed this out to him in a most spirited fashion over breakfast that morning. He did not agree.
“However,” he said. “You may be onto something. This is the first time we’ve had a message—since the original one—that does not appear to be sent in conjunction with a murder.”
“No bodies dressed like Richard II or Harold Godwinson?” I asked.
“You shouldn’t sound so glib, but, no, no bodies at all. I think Gale is a bit disappointed, but terrified at the same time. One is bound to turn up sooner or later. I’ve searched every church I can think of where I might find the chalice in the drawing on the last note—it looks remarkably like everyone’s idea of the Holy Grail—but have had no luck as of yet. I’m starting on museums next.”
Lizzie Hopman’s funeral was scheduled for that afternoon. As Jeremy was escorting Mrs. Grummidge and Colin had to go to Marlborough House after breakfast, I planned to take the carriage and meet my husband outside the church. It was a dismal day, sleet falling from clouds so dark it looked more like dusk than day. St. Botolph’s was at once a fitting and heartbreaking choice of location. Unfortunately, a not insignificant number of women who shared Lizzie’s profession made a habit of plying their trade (or at least seeking potential clients) in the area surrounding the church, which had led some impertinent people to refer to the sacred building as the Church of Prostitutes.
Today, however, none of them stood outside, though half a dozen, Mary included, walked through the doors to mourn their friend. A handful of men came as well, but, not surprisingly, I knew none of them save Mr. Brown, the new proprietor of the Black Swan. As always, a swarm of boys appeared as if by magic the instant Jeremy pulled up in his Daimler. This time, when he selected one to watch the motorcar, I chose one as well, asking him to identify for me any of the persons he recognized entering the church. This strategy was not as fruitful as I had hoped. He knew the names of three of the women, but none of the men.
Colin arrived just in time for the service to begin, and had brought Mrs. Bagstock with him. After installing her next to Mrs. Grummidge—the two women appeared to be the only mourners genuinely grieving—he slipped into the seat next to me in the back of the church, where I had positioned myself in order to better observe the congregation’s behavior. Despite the old clichés about murderers and funerals, no one revealed much of anything. Truly, it was a sad little gathering.
“Mind-boggling to think that Sir Isaac Newton lived just across the street, isn’t it, my dear?” Colin whispered to me during the vicar’s sermon. “How the neighborhood has changed.”
“You shouldn’t talk during a funeral,” I whispered back.
“I’ve never liked a long sermon, and it’s perfectly clear the reverend didn’t know Miss Hopman,” he said. “Furthermore, I object to him sounding so judgmental. He doesn’t have the courage to accuse her outright of being a prostitute, but he’s making it very clear that he does not approve of the life she lived. As if she had much of a choice in any of it. No one offered her a comfortable vicarage for a home.”
When, at last, the service ended—Colin’s words may have been inappropriate for the situation, but he was quite right about the sermon—pallbearers carried the coffin to the churchyard, where the body would be lowered into a pauper’s grave, a layer of lime between it and those buried earlier. The motley group of mourners stood near the hole in the ground, but not quite around it, their heads bowed as the reverend recited a final prayer.
I had suggested to Colin that we host a small tea after the funeral—not at our house, of course, but in the private room of a suitable neighborhood tavern—but he howled at the mention of the idea. His objections were numerous, the strongest being that there was something unsavory about using such an occasion to glean information from those mourning a death.
At the time, I could hardly disagree with him, but after having observed the decided lack of emotion around us, I wished I had insisted on putting my plan into action. It was too late now, however, so I was left with no choice but to introduce myself to the others after the burial. Lizzie’s colleagues, if I may call them that, bristled when I approached them. Mary alone gave me more than the barest greeting and a rote exchange of sympathy. I noticed that she was wearing the outfit, overcoat included, that I had purchased for her.
The men were even less interested in speaking to me than the women, so I left that task to Colin, but observed each of them carefully. None engaged in any suspicious behavior and none stayed for long after the reverend had gone back into his rectory. Mr. Brown, not surprisingly, was the first to leave, but not before pulling me aside and reminding me that I was not safe in this neighborhood. His breath stank of ale. Only one of the others, a well-dressed older man with a barrel chest and a neatly trimmed white beard, approached me.
“Your husband assured me you would not be offended if I introduce myself. Prentice Hancock. I did not know Miss Hopman well, but she grew up not far from my haberdashery and I have many fond memories of her. Always seemed a bright little thing. I’m sorry to see that her life took such a sad direction.”
“As am I, Mr. Hancock. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Grummidge as well?” I asked, gesturing toward her.
He squinted and shook his head. “I don’t recognize her.”
“You might know her by her maiden name, Atherton.”
“Can’t say it rings a bell. Also can’t say I’m much surprised to hear Casby was responsible for Miss Hopman’s death. Terrible man. I tried more times than I can count to set the authorities on him, but they never could quite catch him. Such a pity. I grew up in the East End and have spent my life doing whatever I can to improve the opportunities available to my neighbors. Not all of them share my good fortune. But I find so few willing to accept even the smallest changes. People like what they know, even when it’s not good for them.”
“Where is your shop, Mr. Hancock?”
“Oh, I retired years ago and sold the place.”
“But you still live in the neighborhood?”
“I do indeed, Lady Emily,” he said. “Can’t rightly claim to want what’s best for it if I’m not willing to be there myself, can I?”
“That’s very good of you,” I said. “I should very much like to speak with you about your efforts. I’m quite keen on doing whatever I can to improve opportunities for the poor as well. Perhaps we could combine forces.”
His broad smile revealed a row of uneven teeth, but it warmed his whole face. The cold wind and pelting sleet had turned his cheeks and nose a rosy color, and I could not help picturing him as a benevolent Father Christmas. “That would be most welcome, Lady Emily.”
I gave him one of my cards, told him to call on me at his convenience, and turned back to the rest of the little group. Mary had disappeared and the weather appeared to be having a debilitating effect on the elderly Mrs. Bagstock. It was time to take her home. I spoke briefly to Mrs. Grummidge, who was clinging tightly to Jeremy’s arm, but did not think this was the time to pepper her with any further questions. Grief was writ all over her pale face.
“I had hoped the funeral would prove more useful,” I said, after we had returned Mrs. Bagstock to her home. “I’ll give Mrs. Grummidge a few days before calling on her again, but given what she has already told us, you must agree that there is now solid evidence that she suffered terrible abuse at the hand of her husband. His murder could absolutely have been motivated by revenge, as could that of Mr. Casby’s.”
“I do not deny the possibility,” Colin said. “But we need more, Emily, much more.”
“I hate feeling so frustrated,” I said. We rode in companionable silence back to Mayfair. He leapt out at Marlborough House and I continued on to Park Lane. As Davis took my outer garments, he told me that Nanny had taken the boys to the Natural History Museum, leaving the house wonderfully quiet. Much though I would have liked to curl up with The Infidel and a cup of tea, I instead applied myself to going through the mail, which was piling up in the library after we had neglected it for the past several days.
There was very little of import. We had no invitations, as most of Society avoided London during the winter, preferring instead the comfort of their country houses. Indeed, it was only the queen’s funeral that had drawn us here from Anglemore Park. I had a note from one of the keepers at the British Museum asking me to come see a new piece recently acquired by the Department of Greek and Roman Antiquities. It was a fifth-century (BC, I need hardly add) marble bust of a young athlete he thought I would greatly appreciate. I replied to him with delight, promising to come as soon as I could manage.
Below this in the stack were the usual sorts of bills, the latest edition of The Strand Magazine—which had several promising-looking short stories in it—and a note from my mother. Knowing full well that her missive would be less satisfactory reading even than the bills, I opened it first, always preferring to dispatch with the unpleasant as quickly as possible. She opened by chastising me for not allowing her to discuss this when we had last spoke on the telephone and continued with a detailed criticism of my behavior at the queen’s funeral. There was too much jet beading on my dress. My veils were not heavy enough. I had not looked appropriately pale for such a sad occasion. The bulk of her remarks, however, dealt with the disgraceful manner in which I followed my husband out of the luncheon, without so much as a thought for how this would have horrified Her late and much-lamented Majesty.
Naturally, this led to her favorite form of rhetoric, the scolding lecture. She devoted six full pages of stationery (which sported a wide black border) to an attempt (vain, I need hardly say) at stopping me from any and all involvement with detectives, murderers, and other unsavory characters. While I admit to agreeing with her judgment that the wretched Inspector Gale was not a fit acquaintance for me, I would go further, saying he was a fit acquaintance for neither man nor beast. But, unlike my mother, I reached my conclusion as a result of observing his character, not by passing judgment based solely on his occupation.
She finished by sending her warmest regards to Colin and the boys. I crumpled the pages into a small ball and flung it into the fire. I had no intention of favoring her with a reply, but did wonder if she would ever grow tired of her relentless barrage of criticism. No doubt that was too much to hope for. I prodded at the burning paper with a brass poker and returned to my desk. When I reached the final envelope in my pile, I found inside a note from Mrs. Rillington, the helpful yeoman warder’s wife, and the map she had promised to send indicating the locations of hidden passages in the Tower. She reiterated that one of the wives had made a project of exploring the passages, but no longer lived in the Tower. Her husband had retired and they were now living abroad.
I admit to giving way to a number of thrilling flights of fancy about what I might find in these tunnels, and was in such a state of reverie when my husband entered the room that I did not immediately respond to the derisive comment he made as he looked at the map over my shoulder.
“I suppose it would be too much to hope that you won’t insist on going yourself to explore every dank nook and cranny you can find,” he said. “As I’ve warned you before, do try not to irritate the yeoman warders. The raven master in particular.”
“You know perfectly well that we must follow up on this,” I said. “We still have no idea how the murderer entered the Tower. Mrs. Rillington has offered to accompany me.”
“You should take Bainbridge with you as well. No one would mistake him for someone involved in a criminal investigation, and he’s likely to charm the guards. I’ll ring him myself and arrange for him to collect you.”