The Unwanted Heiress (26 page)

“Yes.”

The girl scrubbing the pots giggled. “Except for the spectre!”

“There ain’t no ghost, Sally, now button your pie hole and get back to work.”

“Ghosts?” Gaunt eyed the maid. “Surely there are not any spirits here?”

The scullery maid nodded vigorously, although she didn’t reply.

The cook eyed him. “You interested in ghosts, then?”

“Oh, yes.
I have made something of a study of them. I am surprised to learn you have one here. Have you actually seen it?”

“That I
‘ave,” the cook replied with a certain air of self-importance. She picked up a pot of boiling water and rinsed an old white china pot out before spooning in some once-used tea leaves. “You fancy a cuppa?”

“That would be a treat,” Gaunt agreed, moving toward the table set in the center of the flagstone floor.

“Sit down,” the cook ordered, pulling out cups, saucers and a plate containing a few Sally Lunn buns. “Help yourself.”

Gaunt took one and held out his cup while she poured.
“I am afraid I did not catch your name?”

“Mrs. White,” she replied, taking a seat opposite him.
Her chair creaked ominously under her weight, and she sat rigidly for a moment until the noises ceased. Then she sighed and relaxed, pouring a cup for herself. “And you, sir, so you are interested in them poor, incorporeal spirits are you?”

“Oh, yes.
Very.”

“I
‘ave seen ‘em in many houses both in London and in Surrey where I grew up, why I could tell you stories as would make your hair go white….” she said before pausing to sip her tea and staring at the scones thoughtfully.

“Indeed, but I
am most interested in
recent
stories. In fact, are there any ghosts in this house, for example?”

The cook nodded.
“There is a story of a poor girl who fell in love with a suitor forbidden to her by her cruel parents. The lad came from a decent family, but ‘ad no title, you see, so he was not good enough for their little lambkins.”

He nodded.
The story was as old as London itself. “What happened to them?”

“Oh, they locked the poor girl up in the attic where she stayed for weeks until one day her maid came with her tea and found the poor girl dead on the floor.
Died of a broken heart, she did.”

“And she haunts the house?
This house?”

“Yes, poor thing.
You ‘ear her walking back-and-forth, back-and-forth, all night, waiting for her lover to rescue her.” The cook stared at Gaunt for a moment as if gauging his reaction. “And of course, the lad will never come for he ran off with another lady, as lads will do.”

“Have you heard her?”

The scullery maid giggled. “Deaf as a post.”

“I a
m not deaf! I ‘eard that did I not?” the cook said, half rising. Then she shook her head. “Not from my room, sir, I’m ‘appy to say. I ‘ave never ‘eard her.”

“I ‘
ave,” the scullery said.

“You have?”
Gaunt turned around in his chair, hooking his arm over the back. “When?”

“W
hy, I ‘eard her yesterday, or last evening.”

“You never ‘
eard her!” the cook accused the girl. “Quit your lies and get back to work.”

“I
am not lying,” the girl replied hotly.

“How could you
‘ear her? When did you ever go to the attic?”

“You don’t ‘
ave to go to the attic, if you want to know. You remembers that Mrs. May asked me to carry some old bits of luggage up to the storage room on the fourth floor. Right near the attic door! Well, I never got a chance until late yesterday, after it was already getting dark. Right shivery it were, too, with shadows filling the spaces.” She stopped when the cook snorted. “It
were
shivery! And anyway, I piled the cases where she ordered, and that is when I ‘eard her—the specter. Walking to and fro up there, pacing in the darkness. I ran all the way back here, afeared for my very soul!”

“So you heard her just last night?
” Gaunt asked. “In the attic?”

The scullery maid nodded before shooting a grin at the cook and turning back to her dishes.

“Saucy bit of baggage,” the cook mumbled, draining her cup.

Gaunt caught her eye.
“Do you believe her?”

“Oh, yes.
I ‘ave ‘eard the other girls—the upstairs maids—say the same.”

“Do you recall, off hand, where you first heard that interesting tale?”

“Why I am not sure…”

“Well, I
‘eard it from Miss Uppity, herself. Not that she ever deigns to speak to the likes of me,” the scullery grumbled.

“Rose?”
The cook scratched her bulbous nose. “I cannot rightly say, but it might ‘ave been that Rose Woodley, the girl as is an upstairs maid.”

Gaunt found th
eir information profoundly interesting. “I certainly thank you ladies for entertaining me so well. I cannot remember enjoying a cup of tea and a spectre story so much.”

“Are you leaving?” the cook asked, struggling to get to her feet.
“I ‘ave many more stories of unquiet spirits if that is the sort of thing you fancy…”

“I m afraid I ha
ve stayed too long, as it is.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “You were so fascinating that I lost track of all time.”

The cook grinned.
“Will you be staying nearby, Mr. Gaunt?”

“Yes.”
He adjusted the hat on his head and nodded at the women. “This seems like an interesting neighborhood. I am sure we will meet again.” As he paused in the doorway, he casually asked one last question. “You ladies have not seen a white, three-legged dog and a red-haired giant, have you?”

The ladies laughed heartily.
“Why, Mr. Gaunt, you must be meaning Red Smythe! He is a groom as lives over the stables here. Why he is almost as tall as you are, though he is as broad as a barn and has a face as would scare the fiercest pirate away on a dark night. And the master’s got a dog as fits that description to a letter. Why ever’d you ask?”

“Oh, I heard someone mention it, and I thought it might be the lad and the phantom dog belonging to the young lady of your tale.”

“Good Lord, no. Red Smythe ain’t no lady’s lover, and there is no spirit dog here.” The cook shook her head. “We ‘ave enough troubles with the living mongrels his lordship thrusts upon the household.”

“I see, well, thank you for the story.
I bid you good day, ladies.”

“And good day to you, too, Mr. Gaunt,” the cook said, standing in the doorway and watching him leave.

The information he had collected was coming together beautifully. The previous day, he had questioned the stable lads at this particular house about the hoof knife used to dispose of Miss Moorland. Gaunt remembered that Mr. Smythe had been absent from the stables at that time, however, one of the lads had referred to Mr. Smyth as “Red.”

Interesting coincidences, and Gaunt did not believe in coincidences.

* * * * *

Nathaniel and Michael made their way slowly through Whitechapel. No one had seen or heard anything relevant about a lady kept under duress
, and no one knew of a three-legged dog, although many helpful souls offered to lop the legs off various curs if so desired. There were plenty of red-haired men about, however, and several were quite tall. Unfortunately, no one could recall seeing a red-haired giant accompanied by a three-legged dog,
per se
.

Their luck wasn’t much better in Bethnal Green, although they did come upon a red-haired midget dragging along a black poodle missing its tail.

When the light started fading, they realized the necessity to return home and regroup. It was too easy to get lost in the warrens of sagging tenements. As the shadows lengthened, people grew much less interested in answering questions and a great deal more interested in what the two strangers had in their pockets. Nathaniel and Michael were gradually forced to wend their way wearily homeward, sporadically discussing various strategies to employ on their next attempt.

“I’ve got some favors owed,” Michael said. “
I will just ask for them to be repaid by searching.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Nathaniel replied, distracted by his thoughts.

Where is Charlotte? Is she still safe? Frightened?

His hands clenched the leather reins. He couldn’t wait until the morrow to find her. They had to do something tonight.

“We will get something to eat and start again,” he said. “We must get a map and divide it up between you and the other men so you can cover more territory.” He remembered the hostility in Whitechapel. “And make sure the men are armed and go in pairs.”

Michael nodded, although Nathaniel wasn’t sure if it was agreement or just exhaustion. He felt bleary-eyed himself, and his clothes itched.

On their return, Nathaniel questioned Carter but no one had come by with news. Thankfully, Mr. Clark of Bow Street had not returned, either. Nathaniel remained a free man, at least for the time being. Sooner or later, the fathers of the murdered girls would demand justice, and unless matters changed, he would be their natural target.

His neck and jaw
ached from tension and frustration. He rubbed his nape, torn between searching for Charlotte and investigating the two deaths.

The dead couldn’
t be injured any further by delay, he thought. Charlotte was more important.

When they reached his house, he dismounted, stiff and sore from the worn out saddle. He raced up the stairs and changed hurriedly. Collecting a map of London, he made his way to the dining room, hoping to plot a more effective strategy while he ate.

He drew up a list of servants between mouthfuls, barely aware of the food placed before him. On the map’s margin, he drew up a roster of paired men and began dividing up the east end into small, easily searched sections. He was almost done when Carter interrupted him.

“Visitors, Your Grace,” he said from the doorway, bowing.

Archer pushed his way past Carter without waiting. Dressed in his usual unrelieved black, Cheery Gaunt followed at a more sedate pace.

“Archer! Cheery!” Nathaniel leapt from his chair. “Have you found her?”

“Perhaps,” Cheery replied, eyeing the platters on the table.

“Where is she?”
Nathaniel asked.

“
I am not certain, but I have a theory.” Cheery replied. “Her note reminded me of someone—a pugilist I used to know. Perhaps you recall ‘The Red Death’?”

“Who the hell is ‘The Red Death’?”

Cheery and Archer chuckled. “A very bad prize fighter. Apparently, he gave retired when he found it more lucrative to work odd jobs with questionable legality. I believe he may be the red-haired man Miss Haywood mentioned.”

“And you know where he is?”

“Oh, yes,” Archer replied, cutting off Cheery. “Gaunt tracked him down.”

“Where? Where is she?”

“Safe,” Cheery said with damnable nonchalance.

Nathaniel groaned and transferred his gaze to his uncle. Archer shrugged and wandered over to the table. He picked up a fork and transferred a slice of rare roast beef to Nathaniel’s bread plate. Sitting down, he pulled the plate in front of him.

“What are you doing? We must go!” Nathaniel protested. He shoved his chair back and stood.

“She
will keep,” Archer said as he calmly cut a small piece of beef and raised it to his mouth. “She is perfectly safe in her attic.”

“You don’t know that! They could be…that is
, she could be…. Damn it, we don’t know what they are doing to her!”

“Nothing, I presume,” Archer assured him, pouring more wine into Nathaniel’s glass and drinking it down. “Red would never harm a lady. Come
, sit down. Let us have dinner like reasonable men. Then we can determine if Gaunt’s theory survives the turn of the card.”

Nathaniel strode to the door and back. Cheery sat across from Archer and waited while Carter brought several more plates and cutlery to the table.

“I assure you, she is quite safe,” Cheery said. “If she is where I believe her to be, that is.”

“How can you two just sit there like…like insensate animals while she—” Nathaniel lashed out, wanting to throttle the pair.

Neither one paid the least attention to him. They polished off his bottle of cabernet and demanded another while they feasted on his roast beef, pudding, casserole of potato, and the seafood aspic his cook had provided for the main meal. Then they insisted on partaking of the cream tartlets a footman brought in for dessert.

“Have you had enough to eat?” Nathaniel finally asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Archer wiped his lips and sat back, draining his final glass of port. “Very good, Your Grace. Excellent.”

“And can we leave, now? If it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone, of course. And if
you are sure you have had enough to eat?” Nathaniel replied. He stood behind his chair, his hands almost crushing the delicate carved back.