Once outside Thomas Jackman’s small house, Rachel said there was no need to go to the expense of another hansom cab, if indeed they could find one in this part of London. There was a stop for an omnibus on the other side of the road.
As they waited, a crowd of drinkers erupted from the Bottle and Glass pub next door to the investigator’s house. Dressed in workmen’s clothes, with heavy boots on their feet, they were rowdy but unaggressive. There was much back slapping, calling of names and friendly insults.
‘I am surprised at Mr Jackman residing in such an area,’ Rachel said as they waited for their public transport. ‘He cannot expect to attract much middle-class business. I am familiar with such areas through my work with the East End Charity hospital, but not many others will be.’
For the first time since meeting her, Ursula recognised how solidly middle class the girl was. She dropped a little in her estimation. A ragamuffin approached them, holding out a hand, his dirty face pinched with hunger. Rachel drew her skirts away from possible contact, then opened her purse and found a sixpence. Ursula added a few pennies she could barely afford but she knew what it was not to have enough food. Rachel looked at Daniel and, after a moment’s hesitation, he too found some coins. The urchin’s face lit with delight as he inspected his haul. ‘Cor! It’ll be pie tonight!’ He ran off as though the money might be snatched back if he hung around. Rachel brushed her gloved hands together as though to remove dirt.
‘No doubt,’ Ursula said quietly, ‘when Mr Jackman was a member of the police force, he found living here a fertile field for information.’
‘And just why is he no longer with the force?’ Daniel sounded suspicious and tetchy.
Ursula’s explanation was interrupted by the arrival of an almost empty omnibus.
After they were settled along one of the benches, Daniel, hanging on to a strap in front of the two girls, said, ‘We need a top lawyer, one conversant with criminal cases. Darling Alice must not remain in that terrible prison. I really do not think Jackman will be any help.’
More passengers embarked at the next stop, removing the little privacy they had enjoyed and conversation faltered and died.
Their journey terminated at Victoria station, ideal for Ursula. She turned to take her leave of Rachel and Daniel.
‘You must not think I lack gratitude, Miss Grandison,’ Daniel said with an obvious sincerity, taking her hand. ‘It may be that your Mr Jackman will be able to uncover at least part of the mystery surrounding that beast’s death. I really do hope so. Now, we cannot leave you to make your way home alone. Rachel and I will escort you. I believe it is not far from here.’
Ursula was touched. As the trio walked towards her boarding house, Daniel regaled them with details of a story he was working on for a monthly magazine. It was an historical fiction involving smugglers led by one Richard Wellbeloved, a Robin Hood type, pursued by Customs men as they try to land a cargo of brandy and lace. With the story unfinished, they reached Ursula’s destination. He looked nervous and almost shy.
‘Oh, Daniel, you are such a romantic,’ said Rachel with a touch of irritation.
‘You must let me know if it is printed, for I am sure I would enjoy reading such a story.’ Ursula said, hoping she sounded sincere.
He smiled and for an instant she recognised the charm that had captivated Alice Peters.
Rachel turned to her. ‘All my hopes are with Mr Jackman.’
Ursula nodded. ‘Let me know if he takes your sister’s case, won’t you?’
Ursula waved goodbye and went into the boarding house. She was far too late for communal supper. Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs Crumble was clearing up the last of the dishes.
‘Where’ve you been, then?’ she asked cheerfully, setting a large iron pot on its customary shelf. ‘Mrs Maple was that worried, seeing as how you dashed off without saying you wouldn’t be in for the meal.’ The dark curls escaping her mob cap were damp with sweat but the strong arms handled the heavy pots without difficulty.
‘I got involved in something that took much longer than I had foreseen, Mrs Crumble. I do apologise.’
Ursula hovered, wondering whether she could ask if there were leftovers.
In the rocking chair by the stove sat Meg with the kitchen mouser on her lap, her bony fingers gently stroking its tortoiseshell fur. ‘Gorn upstairs. ’Ad a headache.’
Ursula murmured her regrets. The aroma of a beef stew hung in the kitchen air and hunger gnawed at her.
‘I could find you a plate of something,’ offered Mrs Crumble. ‘That is, if you was hungry, Miss Grandison?’
Ursula nodded eagerly. The girl went to the larder and returned with a bowl of that night’s beef stew, piling a goodly portion on a plate. Ursula refused the offer of it being warmed up; in her experience cold cooked beef was delicious.
‘Shall I lay you a place in the dining room, Miss?’
‘Would you mind if I ate it in here?’ Ursula said, hesitantly. She didn’t want to intrude on the maids’ gossip.
‘In the kitchen, Miss? We’d be honoured, wouldn’t we, Meg?’
The woman nodded. ‘Sit down there, Miss. I sits here with Tiddles.’ Meg stroked the tabby cat, who screwed up its eyes in pleasure and twitched a lazy tail.
Ursula pulled out a chair and sat with her plate of beef. It had carrots, potatoes and small onions in with the meat and the gravy was thick and glossy. Mrs Crumble fetched cutlery, supplied some thick chunks of bread, a dish of butter, and a piece of cheese, then a glass of water.
‘Sorry there ain’t no cabbage left, Miss. Ate it all they did this evening.’
Ursula was not sorry. Vegetables were not the girl’s strong point; they were usually overcooked and watery. Meat was a different matter.
‘This is wonderful, Mrs Crumble. How do you get such a shine to the sauce?’
Mrs Crumble heaved the last of the cooking pots on to the shelf and wiped her hands down her apron. She beamed. ‘Got to keep skimming the stew, you have. My nan taught me that.’
She removed her stained apron, filled the kettle and placed it on the well-blacked range. ‘We’ll have a nice cup of tea. Where you been, Miss?’
Ursula thought for a moment then decided there could be no harm in telling the truth. ‘Do you remember Mrs Peters, who stayed here for a little while?’
Mrs Crumble, busy fetching the tea caddy, nodded. ‘’Course I do.’
Unexpectedly Meg said, ‘Lovely, Mrs Peters was.’ She stroked the cat more vigorously and it jumped down. ‘Aw, don’t do that, Tiddles.’ The cat ignored her. ‘Always writing, Mrs Peters was,’ Meg added, her hands collapsed in her lap.
Ursula finished a mouthful of stew, her mind suddenly alive. ‘You saw her writing, Meg?’
A decided nod.
‘In a diary? A book, that is?’
An equally decided shake of the head. ‘Naw, on paper. Letters.’
Ursula wondered who Alice had been writing to. The obvious answer would have been Daniel, but she hadn’t known where he was. Perhaps the girl was writing to close friends. ‘It’s convenient to have that postbox on the corner,’ she said slowly.
‘Aw, she didn’t post ’em.’ Meg said.
‘She didn’t?’
‘She burned ’em.’
‘Burned them?’
‘In her grate. Used matches, she did. Then she’d cry.’
Ursula wondered why the girl would go to the trouble of writing letters only to set fire to them. Had she been writing to Daniel after all, hoping she would find out where he was so she could send them? Then perhaps burned them when no address was forthcoming, in case they fell into the wrong hand.
‘You saw her when you cleaned her room, is that it?’
Meg gave another vigorous nod. ‘Left when I started cleaning. Put letters in drawer. Always writing she was,’ she repeated. A sly look came over her face and she scrambled in a pocket of her crumpled dark grey cotton dress. ‘Found this in her grate, I did.’ She brought out a scrappy piece of paper, its edges singed brown. ‘Lovely she was, Mrs Peters.’ Meg smoothed the paper over her knee and peered down at it.
‘What’s it say?’ asked Mrs Crumble, filling a teapot with boiling water and bringing it over to the table. ‘Writing to her young man, was she?’
Meg looked closely at the paper, bending her head so she sat hunched. ‘Can’t read.’ She held the paper out to Mrs Crumble. ‘You read it.’
Mrs Crumble took the paper and held it carefully, scanning the words as though they were difficult to make out.
Ursula felt she should intervene. This was as bad as eavesdropping, especially as Alice had meant whatever she had written to be destroyed.
‘I don’t think …’ she started.
But Mrs Crumble wasn’t paying attention. ‘“you, my darling, I have worked it,”’ she read in a monotone, each word given equal weight. ‘The next word looks odd,’ she said in a normal voice. ‘I think a bit’s been burned away. “aniel, I can do it, I know I can. It readful” – is that a word? Something to do with reading?’ she asked Ursula.
Ursula thought for a moment. ‘It might be “dreadful”,’ she said. ‘The “d” could have got lost.’
‘“aniel, I can do it, I know I can, dreadful, but then we can be free for” there’s another bit must have gone. “He will be gone.” That’s it.’ She turned the bit of paper over. ‘Nothing on the other side. What do you think it means?’ she handed Ursula the piece of paper.
‘Here, it’s mine,’ said an agitated Meg. ‘You had it to read, not give away.’
‘You shall have it back,’ Ursula said soothingly. ‘I just want to see how much was burned.’ The writing that was there was educated, the letters clearly formed, controlled but flowing attractively. No difficulty in reading them.
‘Don’t make much sense,’ complained Mrs Crumble.
‘Mrs Peters was planning to leave her husband and run away with the young man who came here, Daniel Rokeby.’
‘Ooh, is that where she went when she left?’ The cook sounded excited.
‘No, she went back to her husband. She found she was …’ Ursula paused for a moment as she sought for the right phrase. ‘With child’ sounded too biblical, and she was averse to ‘in an interesting condition’; it was a ridiculous way of describing such a natural event. ‘In the family way,’ she came up with at last.
At least both women had no difficulty understanding what she meant.
‘That’s nice,’ said Meg.
‘Cripes!’ said Mrs Crumble. ‘And gone back to her husband? I thought she was escaping from him.’
Ursula swallowed an involuntary smile. Servants did indeed know everything that went on in the house where they worked, or nearly everything. Then she wondered what Mrs Crumble and Meg knew about her. But what was there to know?
‘As he was the father, she thought it was her duty.’
‘Treat her right, will he?’ asked Meg, frowning in concentration and holding out her hand for the return of the piece of paper. ‘Mrs Peters is nice.’
Ursula quickly memorised the few words on the scrap of paper and handed it back to Meg, watching her return it to her pocket.
‘Wasn’t burned,’ Meg said. ‘So it’s mine.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact rather than defensive.
Well, if Alice hadn’t ensured all her pieces of paper had gone up in flames, then she had to accept the consequences.
Ursula thanked Mrs Crumble for her supper and went upstairs.
Up in her room, she found paper and pencil and reproduced as well as she could the words as they had appeared on the unburned portion of the letter. The first word did not start with a capital letter, which meant the first phrase was only part of a sentence:
‘you, my darling, I have worked it’
‘aniel, I can do it, I know I can. It’
‘readful, but then we can be free for’
‘He will be gone.’
She tore the left-hand side of the paper away, trying to copy the singed bit of the original. How much had been burned? Had the other part of it been wider than her piece, or narrower? With the missing words in place, could it be part of a letter explaining to Daniel that Alice could leave her husband and run away with him, so that they could be free to enjoy their lives together? But what did that last little phrase mean: ‘He will be gone’?
* * *
Ursula had a largely sleepless night, tossing and turning as she tried to make sense of that scrap of paper. It was hopeless, and that last sentence haunted her.
Breakfast was almost over. The last of the other boarders left, finishing her tea standing up before uttering a muttered farewell.
Ursula wasn’t due at Mrs Bruton’s for another hour and was happy to enjoy some more toast and another cup of tea. She was beginning to appreciate this English habit. The brew was a great deal better than the stewed coffee she had had to endure in California.
There was a knock at the door and Ursula looked up in surprise as Thomas Jackman entered, very smart, wearing a brown suit with curved corners to the jacket and a starched wing collar to his blue shirt. His brown shoes were highly polished. His bowler in his hand, he looked pleased with himself.
‘Good heavens,’ she said, smiling. ‘Mr Jackman. Will you sit down and take a cup of tea?’
‘Thank you.’ He placed the hat on the sideboard.
There was a spare clean cup on the table and Ursula poured the tea, adding milk and offering him sugar. He watched her with a slightly puzzled expression. ‘Do you always add the milk after?’ he asked, taking the cup.
Ursula nodded. She had seen the other boarders pour the milk into their cups before adding the tea but she had watched it being done the other way using cream at Mountstanton and it seemed a sensible procedure to her, allowing the strength of the brew to be assessed so the right amount of milk could be added.
‘Are you on your way to Miss Fentiman’s?’
He nodded.
‘And you look as though you are going to accept the commission.’ There was something about the confident way he lifted the cup and drank his tea that told her this. But maybe he always acted in this way. It struck Ursula how little she actually knew Thomas Jackman.
‘Well, now, Miss Grandison, I would be grateful for a little information from you before I take the step of accepting the case.’ He put down the cup and leaned back in his chair, sitting almost sideways on, one arm resting on the table.
Ursula raised an eyebrow at him. ‘If there is anything I can tell you, please ask, but it is unlikely. You know the situation better than I, surely?’
His gaze remained level. ‘Daniel Rokeby,’ he said. ‘What is your impression of that young man?’
‘Ah, Daniel!’ She paused for a moment. ‘What, Jackman, are you actually asking me?’
His hand moved slightly as though her use of his surname disturbed him. It did make her sound as though she thought of him as a servant. She wondered why she had not called him ‘Mr Jackman’, or used his Christian name, as she had started to do at Mountstanton. It would have been more polite and more friendly.
‘Do you, Thomas, think Daniel might have murdered Joshua Peters?’
His bright eyes gave her a sardonic look, as though he understood exactly why she had used his given name. ‘Well, Ursula, Daniel Rokeby had everything to gain by Peters’ death. What I am asking is, do you consider him capable of the deed?’
She looked down at the half piece of toast left on her plate. ‘He’s a bit of a puzzle,’ she said slowly. ‘One moment he seems a charming, intelligent, quite sophisticated young man; the next he’s arrogant, unthinking and immature. But you must have seen more of him than I during your tailing of Alice Peters. What is your opinion?’
He eased the set of his wing collar. Ursula had always thought there could be few more uncomfortable items of male clothing than those collars, starched and fashioned into a knifelike sharpness.
‘Before last night, whenever I have seen Mr Rokeby, he has been lavishing charm on Mrs Peters, who is a very pretty woman.’
‘Would you say he was genuinely in love with her?’
Jackman gave her a sidelong look. ‘Perhaps,’ he said slowly. ‘Together they seemed to inhabit a bubble, cutting out everything around them, no matter where they were.’
Ursula remembered the mention of Millie Rudge during the meeting at his house. ‘You told me you’d made friends with Alice’s maid? Did you ask her what she thought her mistress felt for the man she was constantly meeting?’
‘I did indeed. She thought Mrs Peters was in love in a way she had never been with her husband.’ He leaned slightly towards Ursula. ‘So, do you think Rokeby capable of murder?’
She sighed. ‘How is one to tell? He hasn’t given the impression that a killing instinct lurks beneath the surface. But, maybe, if he wanted something strongly enough …’ She thought of something else. ‘Didn’t you think it odd how he took against you so immediately?’
‘If I was a man full of myself, which I assure you I am not, I’d be tempted to the conclusion he was guilty of the crime and afraid I would nobble him.’
Ursula had thought the same.
‘Do you think he could be that devious?’ Jackman asked.
She gave the question careful thought. ‘My instinct says it is unlikely but, then, I really haven’t seen much of him.’ She remembered his passion the afternoon he had returned from the Lake District and taken Alice out into the square’s garden. ‘I think that devising murder through poisoned chocolates requires a much more malevolent character than Daniel’s.’
Should she tell him about the scrap of singed paper Meg had found? No, she decided, not until she had figured out the exact meaning of what was there. For Alice seemed the least malevolent person she had ever met. There had to be some other reason than the obvious for the words that had been written.
Jackman picked up his bowler. ‘Ursula Grandison, my thanks for your opinion. I shall now visit Miss Fentiman and tell her I shall take the case.’ He put his hat on his head, slightly too far back. It gave him an oddly rakish look.
‘Thomas Jackman, I hope what I said can be of use.’
He gave her a slight bow and left.
Ursula sat at the table for a few more minutes, then realised she ran the risk of being late for Mrs Bruton. Running upstairs to ready herself, she found not having told Jackman about the bit of paper was becoming increasingly difficult to handle. Why hadn’t she told him? Was it because she thought he would jump to the wrong conclusions? That would mean she did not trust him. But would they be the wrong conclusions? Was she trying too hard to believe Alice Peters could not be guilty of her husband’s murder?