A Broken Vessel (17 page)

She stole candles, too, for inmates whose weekly ration had run out. The candles were kept in a little storeroom known as the matrons’ closet, between Harcourt’s office and the matrons’ private room, on the first floor of the office house. Peg dusted the matrons’ closet every day, and was often sent to fetch things from it. The candles were counted, but Peg knew a trick worth two of that. She simply shaved thin pieces of tallow off the bottoms of a number of candles and stuck the slivers together.

Sally had to admire a talent like that. But Peg made the inmates pay dearly for any favours she did them. She gradually extorted the few possessions of any value they brought to the refuge. When those were exhausted, she made them do her work or wait on her like lady’s maids. She was turning a tidy profit from her sojourn here. Was that why she stayed so long, or did she have some other reason best known to herself?

Sally sometimes wondered why any of the inmates would stick a place like this. But many of them were getting on in years—Bess must be thirty at least. For a game girl past her prime, it might be worth submitting to reformation on Harcourt’s terms, in order to get her character back and find honest work. Some inmates, to do them justice, were genuinely repentant. Seduced maidservants and milliners, mostly—the kind who were forced into tail-trading out of necessity, or despair.

A few inmates were harder to account for—Florrie, for instance. She would not tell Sally anything more about why she had come to the refuge, or about the man she had been trying to escape. She was too indolent and fond of ease for a life like this, but she seemed content enough. She was a sunny soul, candid and good-natured. Sally found it hard to believe she had anything to hide.

On her way to the chapel, her thoughts took another turn. She came up beside Florrie and asked abruptly, “That cordial Mary was taking—where is it now?”

“Good morning to you, too!” Florrie dug her playfully in the ribs.

Sally shoved back, laughing. Peg shot them a warning look, and they came to order hastily. Sally went on in a whisper, “We was just chopping about Mary in our room, and I got to thinking about that cordial. Who’d want to drink any of it now, I says to meself, seeing as how it was give to a gal as clipped her own wick like that? Seems to me it’s cursed. I wouldn’t swallow none of it—not for a yellow George, I wouldn’t. What’ve they done with it?”

“I don’t know,” said Florrie. “It used to be kept in the matrons’ closet, but I ain’t heard nothing about it since Mary died.”

They reached the chapel, filed in, and took their seats. Sally stationed herself by a window, so that she could make her signal unobtrusively at noon. They were to listen to sermons all morning, and Bible readings all afternoon. Oh, well, Sally told herself, it would be a good opportunity to sort out her thoughts. While Harcourt ran on about sin and repentance—really, the man had tongue enough for two sets of teeth—she marshalled every fact she knew about how Mary might have been poisoned. Assuming, of course, that her death was murder, and the bottle of laudanum was only a blind.

Three people had been in a good position to hocus her dose of cordial. First there was Mrs. Fiske. It was she who had poured out the cordial that night. Her husband was an apothecary, so she could easily get her hands on opium in all sorts of forms and strengths. Of course, anyone could buy opiumcompounds, and not only from apothecaries, but from chandlers, grocers, even outdoor stalls. Still, Mrs. Fiske must know more than most people about mixing drugs, and about the amount of opium needed for a fatal dose. And she seemed to have hated Mary—perhaps because Mr. Fiske was fond of her. The inmates said she had little love for her husband, but that did not mean she would not feel slighted by his attentions to a pretty girl.

She also had a good opportunity to plant the empty laudanum bottle in Mary’s room. She admitted she had gone to inspect the inmates’ house during the night, and had actually looked in on Mary. What could be simpler than to bring the bottle with her, and put it on the night-table by Mary’s bed? Mary would either be dead by then, or too heavily drugged to awaken. To make the illusion of suicide complete, Mrs. Fiske need merely add a few drops of laudanum and water to the empty cordial glass, so that Mary would appear to have mixed her own fatal dose before she went to bed.

But there was also Wideawake Peg to consider. She had no known reason to want Mary dead, but she was sharp enough to plan the murder, and had an opportunity to carry it out. Mr. Kestrel had suggested that, since no one but Mary was taking the cordial, the murderer could have killed her by poisoning the entire bottle. The cordial was kept in the matrons’ closet, and Peg was the only inmate allowed in there. She could have laced the cordial with opium at any time during the day on Tuesday and been nowhere near when Mrs. Fiske poured out the dose that night.

It would be easy enough for Peg to leave the laudanum bottle in Mary’s room. The ground-floor front room, where Peg slept, was next door to the Black Hole. It would take her only half a minute to dart into Mary’s room, then back to her own. If someone should catch her outside her room, she could simply say she was on her way to the boghouse in the back garden. That was always a good excuse for an inmate to leave her room at night. She might also have planted the bottle in Mary’s room when she was sent to fetch her next morning. But in that case, Florrie must have been lying when she said she had seen the bottle on Mary’s night-table on her way to breakfast.

There was one serious problem with the case against Peg. Mr. Kestrel had put his finger on it when he was giving Sally instructions before she left for the refuge: “Of course, you realize, if one of the inmates killed Mary, she didn’t act alone. Shut up in the refuge, how could she have got hold of the laudanum bottle to leave in Mary’s room, or the poison actually used to kill her? She would have needed an accomplice: someone outside the refuge, who could smuggle them in to her—”

Sally felt a jab at her elbow. Florrie was nudging her and pointing to her prayer book. The other inmates had theirs open and were reading aloud in a sort of duet with Harcourt. Sally had not been to church often enough to understand what it was all about. It sounded rather grand, though very sombre. There was no point in trying to find the page they were looking at, since she could barely read anyway. So she opened her prayer book at random, moved her lips when the others did, and went on thinking.

The third target of her suspicions was Harcourt. He could easily have laced the bottle of cordial with opium during the day, since his office was right next to the matrons’ closet. He could also have planted the laudanum bottle in Mary’s room, and the traces of laudanum in her cordial glass. He was working at the refuge the night Mary died, and Mrs. Fiske had left him alone every so often while she went to the kitchen to make tea. That would have given him time to sneak into the inmates’ house. True, he was strict about not going there after the inmates went to bed, but if he were caught, he could have contrived some excuse.

But why should he kill Mary, when he had every reason to keep her alive? Everyone said he wanted to find out who her family was, and return her to them in a blaze of glory. Mr. Kestrel had an answer for that, though, she recalled: “The inmates take it for granted Harcourt was punishing Mary to make her tell him who she was. But suppose that was only an excuse to isolate her, make her murder possible? She couldn’t have been poisoned, and the laudanum bottle planted by her bed, if she’d shared a room with three or four other inmates. If nothing else, one of them might have noticed that her sleep was too deep to be natural, and summoned help in time to rouse her from her stupor before it was too late. No, it was essential that she sleep alone, and Harcourt was the only person with authority to bring that about.”

Sally wondered what she could do to throw light on these mysteries. She could try to find out more about Wideawake Peg: where she came from, why she was here, and how she got so thick with Harcourt. She could explore possible entrances to the inmates’ house, to see how an accomplice to the murder might have gotten in from outside. And finally, she could have a look at that bottle of Summerson’s Strengthening Elixir. She would have to sneak into the matrons’ closet, and might be expelled from the refuge if she were caught. But it would be worth the risk.

Dr. MacGregor called in Clarges Street on Sunday afternoon and found Julian reclining on his parlour sofa. “Don’t get up,” said MacGregor scathingly. “I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble. Fine way to spend a Sunday afternoon—lying about like a lapdog!”

“I’ll have you know I spent the last few hours in a fencing parlour, and I’m quite legitimately fatigued.”

“I didn’t know you dandies did anything so energetic as fencing.”

“We don’t as a rule, but I hate to be predictable.” He added more seriously, “I studied fencing when I lived on the Continent, and I like to keep my hand in.”

“I’d rather hear you’d been in church. Still, I’m glad to see you do something to keep your body in trim, as well as your wits.”

“Actually, I contrived to do both today. I went to the fencing parlour hoping to meet Charles Avondale, or at least find out more about him. He belongs to a sporting set who spend a good deal of their time either boxing or fencing. Avondale wasn’t there, but I did run into some of his cronies.”

“And?”

“And the upshot is, I’ve realized a man’s male friends know nothing about him. In three hours, I gathered that Avondale is a thundering good fellow, sports a first-rate carriage, pays his gambling debts like a gentleman, and has the devil’s own luck with women—all of which I knew already, and none of which tells me anything to the purpose. A woman, by contrast, takes a wonderful, minute interest in a man. She can uncover the state of his health, his heart, and his pocketbook on half an hour’s acquaintance.”

“Well, why don’t you talk to Avondale’s women friends?”

“That would be easy enough during the season. I could simply hang about drawing rooms and ballrooms, dropping Avondale’s name and letting the gossips sharpen their claws on it. But at this time of year, hardly any of the
ton
is left in London. With one important exception: I heard today that Avondale’s sister, Lady Gayheart, is still here. I don’t think she and Avondale are close—she’s not the sort of woman to waste her charms on a mere brother—but she must know a good deal about him all the same.”

“Are you going to call on her?”

Julian grimaced. “Not if I can avoid it. I don’t know her well, and a sudden visit would signal I meant to join her court of admirers—a difficult position to resign from, once assumed. Lady Gayheart is a famous beauty, and demands a constant tribute of flattery and flirtation. Last year a certain duke nearly caused a scandal by kissing her at Brighton, but I suspect the poor devil was only trying to rest his voice.”

“She’s not much use to you if you can’t talk to her.”

“True. Perhaps I can contrive to run into her in some public place. If not, I’ll just have to call on her, and damn the consequences.”

“How are you coming with those other two men—Bristles and Blinkers?”

“We haven’t got any further with Bristles. Dipper and I made enquiries at coaching inns, on the chance he might have left London, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack—too many inns, too many travellers rushing about in anonymous greatcoats and hats. Blinkers is another matter. We’ve had the umbrella advertisement printed and sent round to likely shops. Dipper is handling the responses, and I expect he’ll be led quite a dance. But he and I have a rather strong incentive to lay hands on Blinkers. Apart from anything to do with the investigation, we’d both get a good deal of satisfaction out of tapping that man’s claret.”

“Taking a bit of a personal interest, aren’t you?”

“I don’t approve of young women being knocked about like ninepins, if that’s what you mean.”

“Especially one particular young woman.”

“Especially Dipper’s sister.”

“Hmph! That’s all there is to it, then?”

The fight went out of Julian suddenly. He lay back, his head resting on his arm. “Don’t gloat, my dear fellow.”

MacGregor gave him one brief, penetrating glance, and tactfully changed the subject.

CHAPTER
13

S
ally thought Sunday would never end. Even the usual routine of the refuge was better than sitting still all day listening to sermons. By evening her mind was weary, but her body was full of pent-up vigour. She longed to stretch her cramped limbs, run and shout, and throw the house out of the windows.