The first room was well lit, and Miss Tolerance saw two more girls of six or seven, similarly attired, busily picking over piles of clothes—mostly silk and linen handkerchiefs—examining each item and folding it neatly. At the rear of the room a boy of like age in old-fashioned knee breeches and a clean white shirt was looking over a tray of pocket watches, holding each to his ear and shaking it gingerly. Mrs. Nab’s fences-in-training. It seemed to Miss Tolerance that no keeper of an orphanage or poorhouse could have a better-ordered set of charges working with more laudable industry.
Mrs. Nab was in the rear chamber. The room was dominated by a large chest made of dark wood and piled high with such an assortment of silver plate that that side of the room glowed in the candlelight. Mrs. Nab herself sat at a desk in the center of the room, examining a row of glass-and-silver bottles and decanters. She was a comfortable-looking woman of middle years,
wearing a blue worsted dress and apron, with a plain cap neatly containing her iron-gray hair. Her face was ruddy but her expression was placid—hardly what one would expect of a master criminal.
“Come in, Miss Tolerance, come in. Tabitha, tell Arabella she may put some sausages on for supper by and by.” Mrs. Nab waved the girl out of the room. “What can I do for you?” Despite her cozy appearance, Mrs. Nab’s manner was all business. There was no chair for Miss Tolerance to sit in; she suspected Mrs. Nab preferred to keep her clients standing, and likely to take the first price offered for any item they brought to her.
“I won’t take your time, ma’am. I merely wanted to ask about a competitor of your—”
“Not asking for a reference, are you?” Mrs. Nab raised an eyebrow.
“No, ma’am. Only a direction where I might find the fellow. I simply need to ask him a question or two.”
“Where was you when such and such happened? I won’t be thanked for getting a
competitor
into a quizition with the law.” Mrs. Nab picked up a decanter of cut glass and held it to the light.
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “The man I want has already spoken to the law; I merely want to ask him about his evidence.”
“So this competitor’s peached on someone else?” Mrs. Nab said. “And who are we speaking about? All this ‘man in question’ such-and-such don’t tell me naught.”
“I was told his name is Tom Millward. I know only that, and that he is a receiver.”
Mrs. Nab turned the decanter in her hands. The candlelight threw tiny rainbows across the bridge of her nose.
“Millward? Millward? What’s ’is territory?”
Miss Tolerance shrugged. “I don’t know. I was hoping you might tell me.”
“And you’re certain-sure he’s a receiver? Because I thought I knew most of my
competitors
in this neighborhood, and a goodly number of ’em about town, and I don’t know that name a-tall.”
“That was the name I was given,” Miss Tolerance said. “Perhaps he’s new to the business.”
“Anyone new of consequence I’d ha’ heard of straightaway.
Not a whisper of anyone by that name have I heard. I’d go back to them as give you the name, my dear.”
“Perhaps another neighborhood—”
“P‘raps.” Mrs. Nab’s tone offered little hope. “Ave you ’quired of Noah Abraham in Southwark?”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I came to you first, ma’am.”
“Right flattering, that is. I’m sorry I can’t offer you no more ‘elp than that, dear. I don’t know of no one named Millward, Tom nor any other, as is receiving. You talk to the Jew in Southwark, why don’t you? He’s perhaps got a broader ’quaintance among ’is own people—though Millward don’t sound a Hebrew name, does it?”
Miss Tolerance agreed that it did not. In the interests of maintaining a good business relationship, she gave Mrs. Nab a token payment and requested that if she heard anything of Millward she get word to her at Tarsio’s.
“A‘course, a’course,” Mrs. Nab said. She had taken up a silver pitcher and was examining it closely.
Miss Tolerance took her leave, went out past the industrious children with their stolen goods and, after some walking, found a hackney carriage to take her to Southwark.
By ten that evening Miss Tolerance had been from Shoreditch to Southwark to Whitefriars to the back parlor of a chophouse just off the Knightsbridge Road. Not one of the receivers she spoke to would admit ever to having heard of Tom Millward. Either all of them were so fearful of Millward (or Boyse) that the lure of financial interest had no power to pry information loose, or she had been given false coin by Betty Strokum. One might almost think Tom Millward did not exist at all. What the law would make of that, and what bearing it would have upon Anne d’Aubigny’s case, was a very interesting question indeed.
C
old and tired, Miss Tolerance entertained a vision of home: a cup of soup, her slippers, and the novel she had borrowed from Marianne, to lull her to sleep. Then she recalled that home, at this moment, meant the yellow bedchamber at Mrs. Brereton’s, with a borrowed nightshift and slippers. The comfortable image of her cottage was exchanged for the notion of the more luxurious but less cozy chamber surrounded by other rooms in which Mrs. Brereton’s business was being pursued. Did her door have a lock? she wondered.
It was easier, thinking of the cheerless luxury which awaited her, for inspiration to strike her as she reached the corners of Audley and Green Streets. Miss Tolerance’s face ached with cold and the healing of her bruises; the stitches on her forehead itched distractingly, but she was very near Mrs. Lasher’s establishment. Some useful bit of information might yet be salvaged from the evening. Miss Tolerance knocked at the door of Mrs. Lasher’s, inquiring for Josette Vose or, failing that, for Mrs. Lasher herself.
The footman, looking no farther than Miss Tolerance’s Gunnard coat and topboots, displayed no awareness that he had seen her before. She found herself being treated with the respect accorded a potential customer: Mrs. Vose was not in the house at
present, but he would inquire as to Mrs. Lasher’s availability. He left Miss Tolerance in a small parlor near the door, where she waited, warming her hands at the grate.
When the door opened it was Mrs. Lasher herself who swept in.
“Good evening, sir! I hope you’ll tell me how we can—”
Miss Tolerance turned from the fire. She observed that the madam was handsomely dressed in purple jaconet and a spangled turban, scented to high heaven and preparing to offer the hospitality of the house. She observed, too, the moment when Mrs. Lasher recognized her visitor; her smile hardened and cordiality departed as if it had been blown from the room.
“You? Wallace said you was a
customer.
What are you doing in that rig-out?”
Miss Tolerance bowed. “It is convenient when I go about Town on certain errands. How do you do?”
“Errands.” Mrs. Lasher dropped into a chair and waved at Miss Tolerance, indicating that she might seat herself. Her expression was less one of shocked dismay at the unconventionality of her guest’s attire than it was of dismay that a fat fee would not be forthcoming. “Should have known something wasn’t right. Single man, come all on his own without a such-and-such sent me, never been here before. What do you want?”
“I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Vose.”
“She’s not here.” Mrs. Lasher seemed far more delighted than the mere chance to thwart Miss Tolerance would explain. “On a very important call she is, with everything fine about ’er. Silk sheets and silver pisspots, and French wine too, I’ve no doubt. All of the best with His High—with my Lord Such-and-Such.” She rubbed her hands together greedily. “Quite covered in laurels. Brings distinction to the house. And perhaps custom, as well.”
Miss Tolerance added a few facts and came up with a human sum which gave her a cold start. “The Duke of Cumberland.”
Mrs. Lasher frowned. “How did you know?”
“You all but had the Royal Warrant: by appointment to His Royal Highness. Beside which, I was there when Mrs. Vose was presented to the Duke. I had not realized until now that she had won her point with him.”
Mrs. Lasher preened as if the conquest were her own. “Well, as
you already know, I suppose there’s no ‘arm in speaking of it. She won ’im complete, Josie did. Like I said: everything fine about her. ‘E likes it all kept quiet, though. I s’pose ‘is family shouldn’t like to have it bruted about; ’e’s had enough scandal this year, and the public don’t much love ’im to start with—”
“You find his money lovable enough.”
“Well, why shouldn’t I? I’m a woman of business. Mind, I ain’t seen a penny yet. I have my hopes—but that’s neither ’ere nor there.” Mrs. Lasher pulled herself up short. “You didn’t come about Cumberland, did you?”
“You’re quite right. And for what it’s worth, I doubt I shall remember a word of what you said on the subject,” Miss Tolerance lied reassuringly. “I was actually wondering if you could recall if Mrs. Vose was here on the evening of eighth November.”
“What you want to know that for?” Mrs. Lasher asked.
“I’ve been told two different stories, and knowing where Mrs. Vose was on that night would help me to know who was lying.”
“I told you, Josie ain’t one of the house girls. She works when she likes—”
“But surely you must know which evenings she is here.”
“Of course I do. I run a business, miss. Just because it’s a whorehouse don’t mean I don’t need to keep accounts.”
Miss Tolerance smiled sympathetically. “Of course not. There are so many things to keep count of. My aunt, Mrs. Brereton, seems to be aware of the smallest expenses—”
“Your aunt? Mrs. Brereton of Manchester Square?”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “Her ledgers are the most painstaking imaginable—”
“Mrs. Brereton’s ledgers?” Mrs. Lasher appeared torn between awe and rank curiosity.
“Oh, yes. Sea sponges and tea cakes and wax candles. Laundry and livery and victuals—but I needn’t recite to you the sorts of expenses a first-class house incurs. She doesn’t spend a penny out of place. And knows to the minute the time each of her employees spends with a customer.”
Mrs. Lasher nodded sagely. The spangled fringe of her turban released a waft of unpleasantly musky scent. “You must do, that’s for certain.”
“So you see, I was sure you would be able to tell me if Mrs. Vose had been here on the evening I mentioned,” Miss Tolerance finished.
Mrs. Lasher sucked on her teeth and thought. “She wasn’t ‘ere that night,” she said at last. “’Ad a meeting with her old keeper—the chevalyer you were inquiring after the other day. Now I remember, I was a mite anxious she might decide to go back to ’im.”
“She did not, I take it.”
Mrs. Lasher shook her head. “Never fear that. It seems ‘e was just as nip-farthing as ever. They couldn’t come to terms, and she left before ever they got to business, so she made no money that night. She slammed right out the kitchen door, she said, like a scullery maid. Swore she’d never go back there while ’e lived.”
“And nor did she,” Miss Tolerance murmured.
“Now, Josie won’t want you queerin’ her pitch with Lord Such-and-Such,” Mrs. Lasher warned, suddenly recalling discretion. “All this talk about the chevalyer—”
“My dear madam, you’ve only confirmed for me what Mrs. Vose would doubtless have said herself.” Miss Tolerance extended her hand. “My aunt would so appreciate the courtesy you have extended me.”
“Would she?” Mrs. Lasher asked. “Well, she should, I s‘pose. Professional courtesy, like. Not but what—you’re not one of
’ers,
are you?”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Pity. But why—” Mrs. Lasher’s puzzlement set her fringe to dancing again. “Then why do you care where Josie was—oh.” Mrs. Lasher’s intellect was calculating rather than imaginative. “That night you asked about, that’s the night
‘e
was killed. But Josie wouldn’t—she never did—”
“My dear Mrs. Lasher, calm yourself. I am not looking at Mrs. Vose as a suspect. As I said, someone else had told me she had an appointment with Mr. d’Aubigny—we had as well include his name in the discussion—and I merely wished to confirm it, so I can understand how much of the informant’s word I can trust.”
Mrs. Lasher’s face had pinked remarkably. Now the color began to ebb. “Well, if that’s all,” she said slowly. “That’s twice now you’ve winkled something out of me. I should remember you’re a
slippery one, but I suppose it ain’t done no damage this time. Because I do know for a fact that it couldn’t ha’ been Josie.”
“Do you, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes. When the papers come out with ‘Horrid Death’ all over them, she sounded a bit regretful-like. Told me about runnin’ out the house and going back to her room in Balcombe Street without a penny to show for it. Said she’d suspected the chevalyer’d go for his little wife after she left, but principle was principle and without money she wasn’t going to stay. Did say that whoever’d killed Dobinny done the wife a service, which made me wonder if perhaps one of the servants done it. Josie said none of them ’ad the brass to kill a rat. Nor the widow neither—Josie said she was always dosed full of laudanum by the time tea was brung in. I’ll tell you what I think.” Mrs. Lasher leaned forward. “I think it was
spies
.”
“Really?” Miss Tolerance was polite. “Why would a spy—for the French, I presume?—kill one of his own countrymen?”
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? But the chevalyer was a government man, and worked for England now. There’s no accounting for what a foreigner will do.”
There was a tap at the door and a woman—the same dour, black-dressed woman who had brought Miss Tolerance to see Mrs. Lasher on her last visit, looked around the jamb. “Mrs. Lasher, Mr. Barto—” she caught sight of Miss Tolerance. “There’s a question with Annie’s gentleman.”
At once Mrs. Lasher was upon her feet, all business and with a face full of wrath. Miss Tolerance rose also and hastily thanked her hostess.
“Will you tell Mrs. Vose that I do need a word with her?” Miss Tolerance called out. “She can find me at Tarsio’s—”
With a nod of the prodigious purple-and-gold turban that might have been assent or, as likely, dismissal, Mrs. Lasher was gone.
Miss Tolerance went home to Manchester Square with a good deal to consider.
S
he lay wakeful in the yellow room for a long while that night, distracted by the feeling that she had at least one answer within her grasp and had yet to take it up. When she was wakened
in the morning by the homely noise of Jess, come to light the fire, Miss Tolerance lay abed for a time in the grip of an idea which had occurred to her as she slept. At length she washed, dressed in one of her newly laundered gowns, attempted to visit her aunt (Frost, with a pursed smile, sent Miss Tolerance away with instructions to come back at a decent hour when Mrs. Brereton was actually awake) and went to the kitchen to beg a roll and coffee from Cook.
At half past ten Miss Tolerance started out for Oxford Street.
The Duke of Kent public house had not long been open for business when Miss Tolerance arrived there. She wore her blue wool gown and cloak, a sober enough costume for such a venue, but the barman hardly bothered to look at her, let alone wonder what a single woman of respectable mien was doing in his establishment. He was a different fellow from the one she had spoken to the day before; he produced the coffee she ordered and returned to polishing his taps with sleepy indifference.
Miss Tolerance slid a half-crown piece along the bar but kept one gloved finger upon it. “Has Mrs. Strokum been in this morning?” she asked.
The barman blinked and turned to examine Miss Tolerance more closely.
“What’s a mort like you want with Betty?”
“She and I were talking yesterday. I have recalled a question to ask her.”
“You ’ave? And how do I know she’s wantin’ to talk to you?”
Miss Tolerance smiled. “You don’t. But do I look a dangerous sort to you? I only want five minutes of her time. Is she likely to be in her usual spot?”
“This hour, she’s likely asleep.” The barman shrugged and turned away.
“Perhaps. But perhaps I could make it worth her while to wake and speak to me.” Miss Tolerance slid the coin back and forth upon the rough-hewn bar in subtle rhythm. The barman was not unmoved by this music.
“She’s got a crib over the chandler on Goodge Street. If she’s sleeping home, that’s where she’d be.” The man slid his hand toward Miss Tolerance’s.
Miss Tolerance lifted her finger from the half-crown. The barman put his own atop it and slid it across the bar and into the pocket of his apron.
“You don’t look like a whore.”
“No, I don’t,” Miss Tolerance agreed.
“You’re not one of them Ee-vangelical Ree-formers?” He spoke with distaste.
“Hardly. Mrs. Strokum’s soul is her own concern and none of mine.”
“Well, that’s all right, then,” the barman said. He turned back to the taps and Miss Tolerance swallowed the last few watery sips of her coffee in silence.
The chandler’s on Goodge Street was not a prosperous business, nor did the building which housed it appear to be a prosperous one. The shop window was flyspecked and badly illumined, and the structure itself sorely wanted a coat of limewash. In the cramped hallway which led upstairs, the scent of beeswax was overwhelmed by the less pleasant smells of tallow, sweat, and a whiff of chamberpot. When Miss Tolerance knocked at the door at the head of the stairs it was opened at once by a bony old woman with rheumy eyes.
“The doxy?” She pointed down the hall and slammed her door shut.
Miss Tolerance turned and went along the corridor. She knocked firmly for several minutes, and was about to decide that Mrs. Strokum was not at home, when she heard a thump inside the chamber. A moment later there was the sound of someone fumbling with the latch.