Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

THE THIRSTY PIG

M r. Lewis Martin shoved his arms into his coat sleeves as he ran down the front steps of Mrs. Southerland's townhouse. It was not fully dark yet, though heavy, charcoal-gray shadows ate up the roads, and the nighttime chill had already descended upon the streets. The lamplighters had begun their rounds but hadn't made it down by the townhouse. He could see tiny bright specks glowing to his right at the other end of the street. He turned left and hurried up the street's slight rise to where it met the main road, and he rounded the corner to where The Thirsty Pig pub stood.

He didn't want to leave Lady Gwinnie— as he thought of Lady Guinevere Nowlton— with the body of Mrs. Southerland and a house of emotional young women who had already seen enough horror in their lives without having their haven impacted with horror.

He thought the duke's daughter was a remarkable woman. He'd met her the night after the Duke of Ellinbourne's engagement ball to her cousin, Miss Ann Hallowell. He'd come to Malmsby House at the behest of Lord Aidan Nowlton and the Dowager Duchess of Malmsby. They requested his services to investigate Lord Candelstone's gunshot wound during the ball. He questioned everyone in the household about what they saw and heard during the ball, before he sought out the guests and questioned them as well.

She had been practicing with members of her musical quartet. She played the violin. It was obvious she was the leader of the musicians.

She was a tall woman, over six feet and therefore taller than him, with a voluptuous body, a voice lower than most women, and a cloud of deep-red hair casually tied up in a loose knot, tendrils framing her face. It was the kind of hair a man longed to run his fingers through. She welcomed him into her midst with a warm smile that spread into a pair of beautiful brown eyes, and a deep laugh. Unlike her brother, her facial freckles were lighter and fewer, her skin a light alabaster with a pale rose glow.

He'd been surprised to learn she was not married, that she devoted herself to her music and her charity work with women who'd been abused within society and cast aside. Despite himself and his years of ignoring any of the glittering trappings of the ton— for they could be as guilty of crimes as anyone— she intrigued him.

In the weeks and then months since he first became involved with the Nowlton family, he'd found it harder and harder to ignore the Junoesque beauty. Regrettably, he knew he could not become involved with a duke's daughter. Though his father had been an earl, he— as he'd told Lady Gwinnie— was baseborn. But he appreciated her intelligence and humor and enjoyed the mild friendship that had evolved between them. With her brother now married, he'd encouraged her to shift her teasing and joking to himself and Mr. Hargate, the London solicitor who managed the Earl of Soothcoor's charity projects. They'd come to understand their roles in her life as guards and friends for the lonely woman.

With the duke's interests and investment in new inventions, cottage craft workers and small factory workers worried for their livelihood. There were threats against the duke and his family for his support of the inventions. Lady Gwinnie ignored the threats to her, as she did not feel they were real. Lewis and Mr. Hargate did not think they should be ignored. Thus, he had come to Mrs. Southerland's that day to escort Lady Gwinnie home, no matter how she railed at the intrusion into her independence. She did not believe, with her height and size, that any man would dare to try to harm her. Lewis did not want to have to prove his point following an attack on her person.

He pushed open the door to the brightly lit and warm pub and scanned the crowded room for the two employees of Mrs. Southerland. The wintry weather did not keep people from going out; however, it did encourage their hunkering down in a warm pub. He knew Mrs. Albert better than Miss Wooler and would have to count on their being together to help him to identify her.

"Mr. Martin!"

Lewis turned to see the publican, Tobias Watney, hailing him from over by the bar. He lifted his hand in acknowledgement and walked over to join the man. He needed to speak to him as much as he needed to speak to Mrs. Albert and Miss Wooler.

"Pleasure or business," Mr. Watney asked when he reached him.

"A most unfortunate business," he said.

Mr. Watney screwed up his face in disgust. "Robbery?" he asked.

Lewis shook his head. "Murder."

"Murder, eh?" he said, as he passed a mug of ale to Lewis.

Lewis nodded. "Mrs. Southerland," he said.

The publican nearly dropped his mug. "Mrs. Southerland!" he exclaimed. He shook his head. "What's our city coming to? This is a nice neighborhood. Not ton, but no Seven Dials neither. What happened?"

"Set upon almost at her back door."

Mr. Watney whistled through his front teeth as he shook his head.

"Do you have a cool room below stairs where we might keep her until an inquest can be arranged? I'd hate to have those poor women live with her body in their midst, let alone a company of men traipsing into their home."

"For Mrs. Southerland, of course! I'll have my boy Jamie set it to rights so you can have her brought here."

"I am much obliged to you, sir.'

"Nonsense. She was a good woman. Did good work."

"Thank you. Do you know where I might find Mrs. Albert and Miss Wooler? I need to notify them so they can return to the townhouse."

"Yes, yes." He stepped away from the bar and pointed to the back wall. "They're in the second-to-last booth."

Lewis looked where he pointed and nodded. He drained his beer and set it back down. "I am obliged to you again."

Mr. Watney shook his head. "Nonsense. In this neighborhood, we all do what we can for each other."

"That's not what I've heard," said Lewis. "I hear there is one neighbor here who would be happy to see Mrs. Southerland's establishment leave the area."

Mr. Watney shrugged. "Mr. Jeffrey Simmons. Full of hot air, like in those balloons. If it is not one thing to complain about it is another. One day, one of his complaints is going to carry him away much like those balloons."

Lewis laughed and clapped the publican on the back. "Thank you. I needed that laugh tonight. I'd best be off to see the ladies."

"I'll warn Mabel if she hears screams it won't be from you causing physical pain."

"Thanks— I think," Lewis said as he turned to walk to the back corner of the pub.

"Mrs. Albert," he said cordially, as he came to a stop by their table. "Forgive the intrusion."

Mrs. Albert squinted at him, then put her glasses back on. She'd only taken them off for a moment to clean the lenses.

"Mr. Martin?"

"Yes ma'am. You are needed back at Mrs. Southerland's. There has been an incident."

"An incident," Miss Wooler repeated.

He turned toward her. "Miss Knolls needs your assistance."

"Miss Knolls?" she repeated, confused.

"Where is Mrs. Southerland?" Mrs. Albert asked, the quicker of the two women.

"Mrs. Southerland has met with an unfortunate occurrence," he told her seriously, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Yes?" the women said.

"She's deceased."

"Dead!" screamed Mrs. Albert.

All around them conversation stopped. Lewis looked around to see everyone looking in their direction.

Miss Wooler grabbed his arm. "What? How? I don't understand."

Lewis frowned. "I don't have time to explain it to you. I need to fetch the coroner and Miss Knolls will need your aid with the other young women as they return to the house from their free afternoon." He disengaged his arm from her grip. "Will you return to the house?"

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Albert said, rising to her feet. She grabbed her coat and put it on. "Come, Jessica."

"Thank you." He turned to leave, and they trailed after him.

"Mr. Martin," Mrs. Albert said, as he held the pub door open for them and they stepped out into the wintry night. "Can you at least tell us how she died— it will be hard for us to immediately support Miss Knolls if we don't know how she died when we arrive."

"She'd gone out on an errand to meet someone, and on her return, she had her throat slit," he said baldly.

"No!" the women cried out.

"Yes. Excuse me I must go." He strode away from them before they could ask any more questions.

Gwinnie had just come back into the house when she heard the front door slam shut.

"Where is she?" Mrs. Albert yelled.

"What happened?" Miss Wooler shrilled.

They clattered down the half-flight of stairs to the back door.

"Let me see!" insisted Mrs. Albert, reaching around Gwinnie for the door handle, Miss Wooler crowding against her.

"No!" Gwinnie said, blocking the door.

"But—" Mrs. Albert protested.

"No," Gwinnie repeated. "A Bow Street Runner has gone to fetch the coroner."

Mrs. Albert compressed her lips and stepped back, forcing Miss Wooler back. "You mean that handsome blond man who told us Mrs. Southerland had been killed is a runner?"

"Yes."

"We've seen him here before," Mrs. Albert said.

Miss Wooler nodded. "I thought he was sweet on you, that he's your courting gentleman."

Gwinnie laughed lightly. "Hardly," she said. "He's shorter than me," she tossed out in a wild explanation on seeing Mrs. Albert's eyes narrow, hiding her insecurities.

Miss Wooler made a dismissive sound as she put her hands on her hips.

"Lord Soothcoor asked him and that solicitor, Mr. Hargate, to keep a watch on goings-on here— for the safety of everyone," Gwinnie hastened to explain, feeling a twinge of guilt, for tonight she felt unaccountably drawn to Mr. Martin.

"I'll be betting that's on account of the threats made by the gentleman down the street." Mrs. Albert nodded wisely.

Gwinnie blinked. "What gentleman? What threats?" she asked, looking hastily from one woman to the other.

"Mr. Simmons," Miss Wooler said. "He don't like Mrs. Southerland's House for Unfortunate Women being here. Says it brings down the neighborhood."

"And him just moving in not eight months ago. We been here over three years now," Mrs. Albert said.

"Hmm," was all Gwinnie replied. She would tell Mr. Martin and the coroner for sure, but something about the way Mrs. Southland was killed did not seem to Gwinnie like it would be as vicious if it were over dissatisfaction with a charity home on the same street.

"Miss Wooler, I know meals aren't typically served on Friday night, but could you see what you could get the girls to eat and drink to help calm them? Mrs. Albert, I just heard the front door open, I'm sure that is more of the young ladies returning. I depend on you to take charge of those returning now, carefully explaining the situation— and no one is to go out this door," she emphasized, pointing to the door behind her, "but the coroner and Mr. Martin."

"I can't say I know what the situation is to tell them," Mrs. Albert retorted. She drew herself upright. "But I'll look after the women. It is what Mrs. Southerland would have wanted."

Miss Wooler nodded.

"Such is my thought as well," Gwinnie said, breathing out a sigh of relief that they hadn't given her too much of a bother.

Miss Wooler turned toward the short flight of stairs down into the kitchen and Mrs. Albert trudged back up the stairs to the ground floor, her shoulders slumped, her footsteps heavy. Gwinnie sagged against the wall for a moment, then drew herself up as Mrs. Albert had done.

She needed to send notes to the earl— and to her father. She gathered her skirts in her hands and ran up the stairs after Mrs. Albert. She slipped by the woman talking softly to the two recent arrivals, one of whom had sunken onto a step leading to the first floor. Gwinnie went into the parlor. Mrs. Southerland had a small desk set between the long windows that looked out on the street. Her favorite chair to the left of the intricate desk.

Gwinnie sat on the delicate Hepplewhite chair before the desk and stared out the window. She could almost see the march of shadows across the street and the houses opposite. The last of an orange haze sat just above the houses, then it, too, disappeared. Tears now ran down her cheeks, unchecked. She already missed Mrs. Southerland, a surrogate mother to her as much as to the young women she welcomed into her home. She helped Gwinnie feel comfortable with her height. She showed her she had value far beyond being a duke's daughter. Gwinnie had hated her oversized body since she'd been twelve and that year grew taller than her twin, Lance.

She'd tried dieting on bread and water for a month to reduce the curves that came with the height, but that only made her sick and weak. Her mother constantly told her that her size had nothing to do with fat. Gwinnie hadn't believed her until she fainted in church. Her father became quite stern with her and ordered her to eat. She continued to grow until she stood six feet two inches, her bones large and her body covering them in curves.

Mrs. Southerland had helped her to be at peace with her body. Mrs. Southerland with her ready smile and sage advice— a mother to many lost women— bringing them home, encouraging them to love themselves no matter what their life experiences had been.

The last orange in the sky disappeared. Gwinnie turned up the lamp and lifted a section of the desktop up to reveal a stack of paper and pencils. Mrs. Southerland eschewed ink and quills, saying she couldn't write with ink without getting her fingers smudged with ink. She preferred pencils.

Gwinnie removed the paper from the desk and selected a pencil. She stared at the paper stack a moment as she considered what she could say to Lord Soothcoor. Her hand hovered over the paper when she noted the indentations on the top sheet. Deep indentations from a hand pressing down, writing quickly. She remembered Mrs. Southerland jotting down something before she left.

A sizzle of excitement traveled through her. If they knew where she'd gone, they could get a clue as to who killed her. She opened the desk again to find the small knife Mrs. Southerland used to sharpen her pencils. She took it out and carefully scraped it against the graphite while holding the pencil over the paper. Tiny amounts of dark gray floated down to the paper under her hand. She gently rubbed the tip of her finger across the paper to transfer the graphite to the sheet. Her excitement jumped when she saw the graphite was doing what she'd hoped, illuminating the writing.

She hurriedly continued scraping the pencil. In her excitement, she pushed too hard. The graphite broke.

" Bloody hell, " she muttered to herself, then bit her lower lip, embarrassed by her expletive, though no one stood by to hear.

She lifted the desktop open again to pull out the small metal wax stamp. Moving the broken graphite piece to another sheet of paper, she used the stamp to grind the broken piece into powder. When it was as fine as she could make them, she picked up the paper and let the graphite dust slide off to the paper with the handwriting imprint. With the tip of her finger, she carefully smoothed the graphite across the page.

My darling, yes! I have p ayed for his. I don't know wheth r t lau or cry. Take this note to butler at venor Squa . He'll s th t e. Foll i n ucti

The more she wrote, Mrs. Southerland's hand pressure eased. The impression disappeared save for an occasional letter. Nothing that Gwinnie could make out.

She sat back on the delicate chair.

Whom was she addressing as darling? Gwinnie knew Mr. Southerland died four years ago. It was after his death— at the encouragement of her sister-in-law— that Mrs. Southerland had approached the Earl of Soothcoor to ask if he would fund this house.

She carefully set the original paper with its impressions, and her graphite smudge document aside, then pulled out clean paper for her notes.

Dear Father,

I will be staying at Mrs. Southerland's establishment tonight. There has been a murder here and…

No. To baldly state there has been a murder without context would have her father rising in protest. She crumpled the paper and tossed it into a beautiful, filigreed iron bin beside the desk. She brought another sheet of paper toward her.

Dear Father,

There was an incident at Mrs. Southerland's this afternoon. I feel I should stay here with the ladies to help sort it out.

This one followed the first into a crumpled mess in the bin. It was so mealy-mouthed and evasive!

She breathed deeply, determined to be accurate, concise, and non-emotional.

Dear Father,

Mrs. Southerland has…

Rapping at the front door had her set her pencil aside with relief.

She hurried through the parlor and down the stairs just as Mrs. Albert was coming up the stairs from the kitchen area.

"Do not worry, Mrs. Albert, I'll get this," she told the woman.