Chapter 17

17

The newspapers were full of the narcotics ring that had been uncovered and smashed in rural Cambridgeshire. The story dominated the headlines for several days, revealing how the gang had smuggled drugs in from the coast, using ancient waterways to move their deadly cargo around. The ringleader was named as Ishmael Bloom, although Scotland Yard confirmed he'd had many accomplices, most of whom had been rounded up. No mention was made of Thrumwell Manor, nor of the famous author Philip St John's strange illness, for which Harry was grateful. She knew from Oliver that the tobacco Eliza had given them had indeed been laced with tincture of Ergot. It seemed she and Donaldson would be going to prison for a long time, if found guilty at trial.

It was more than a week later that Harry received another letter from Beth. They met, as before, at the Mother Red Cap, and Harry discovered she was beginning to develop a taste for mild.

‘So what have you got for me?' she asked, once she and Beth were seated at a table.

The other woman took a long draught of her drink. ‘Firstly, Polly Spender is a wet drip. I don't know who she's more scared of – her old man, the gang she's fallen in with or me.'

Harry eyed her with some disapproval. ‘I hope it's not you. You were supposed to persuade her to talk, not scare her half to death.'

Beth rolled her eyes. ‘Who said I done that? I didn't say that, did I? I just pointed out that the girl is terrified of her own shadow.' She sniffed. ‘Luckily for you, I made that work in our favour. It turns out she did plant that jewellery under your friend's pillow but get this – she was told to by the housekeeper.'

The housekeeper who had links with Mrs Haverford's Bureau of Excellence. Why did everything keep coming back to that, Harry wondered. ‘Does Polly know who told the housekeeper to do it?'

‘That's where your luck ran out. She did mention there was a right to-do when Mildred got released from prison – a lot of people got angry, she said.' Beth paused to gaze at Harry. ‘She didn't name any names but I got the sense she meant the sort of people you don't want angry with you. It was obvious she knew more but she clammed up like an oyster. That means she was more scared of them and what they might do if they found out she blabbed, than she was of me and what I was threatening to do if she didn't blab.'

‘Beth!' Harry exclaimed. ‘What were you threatening to do?'

‘Keep your hair on,' Beth grumbled, casting a sour look around to see if anyone had noticed. ‘I told her I'd put the word out, make it tricky for her to get another job. And she said, it was already tricky. The housekeeper at the Finchem place refused to give her a reference, see. Polly said she might have to go into the family business instead.'

Harry considered the information. It was curious that Polly had been refused a reference from Lady Finchem – Percy Finchem, in particular, had thought highly of the girl. ‘What's the family business?'

‘Picking pockets,' Beth said. ‘But she'll be no good at that. She's too scared – the mark would notice her before she got fingers anywhere near their pocket. But she might be useful to us in the future. For information.'

‘Us?' Harry stared at her, amused at her impudence.

The woman shrugged. ‘You said there might be more work for me, if I done all right with Polly. Seems to me I done a good job.'

Harry could not deny it; Beth had done exactly what she had asked of her. She placed four shillings on the table. ‘Fair enough. Here's the rest of your payment, plus a little more for expenses.'

Beth stared at the money, then grinned at Harry. ‘Thanks very much. I might take myself on a little jolly to the seaside with this.'

Harry nodded. ‘Good idea. I'm going there myself at the weekend. Brighton, in my case.'

Beth raised her eyebrows. ‘Ain't we lah-di-dah?'

‘Just visiting a friend.' She sighed. ‘One who's got herself into a bit of a mess, actually.'

‘Involving a man, I'll bet,' Beth said knowingly. ‘There's always a man at the bottom of it.'

Harry couldn't deny it. ‘There is.'

‘In the family way, is she?' Beth went on. ‘I don't suppose he wants to marry her.'

‘No,' Harry agreed absently, her thoughts on how she could persuade Cecily to leave Circus Street. ‘She's worried about being an unmarried mother. She says even if she moves somewhere new, people will look down on her.'

The other woman shrugged. ‘She's right, they will. But who says everyone has to know?'

Harry stared at her. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Who's going to tell them?' Beth asked patiently. ‘I always thought, if I got myself into that particular sort of state, that I'd just nip down the pawnbrokers and buy a cheap ring. Then, if anyone asked, I could just wave my hand around and tell them how my husband had tragically died before he could see our little babe even born.'

Harry turned the idea over in her mind. It was, she had to admit, a simple but brilliant solution. ‘Wouldn't people suspect?'

‘They might, but what are they going to do? Demand to see my wedding certificate?' Beth gave her a practical look. ‘People don't like to talk about death, especially if you can dredge up a few tears.'

Would it work? Harry wondered. And then decided there was no use in speculating. She would simply have to go to Brighton to find out. She smiled at the woman beside her. ‘You're a marvel, Beth Chamberlain. Simply a marvel.'

Beth snorted, although Harry thought she was secretly pleased. ‘Yeah, yeah. Tell the whole blooming world, why don't you?'

Saturday dawned bright and clear. After a leisurely breakfast, Harry took the train down to Brighton. The confectioner did not offer her any advice as she passed by, but she barely spared him a glance. She knew her way to Circus Street, and she knew which house she wanted.

‘You.' Joan's expression was flat and unwelcoming as she surveyed Harry.

‘Hello,' Harry said pleasantly. ‘I've come to see Cecily. Is she here?'

The woman folded her meaty arms. ‘No.'

Harry drew in a patient breath. ‘I see. Do you know where she is?'

Joan shrugged. ‘No.'

‘Do you know when she will be back?'

She fixed Harry with a defiant look. ‘No.'

Sighing, Harry reached into her bag and withdrew a pound note. ‘I appreciate Cecily is your niece, and a good hard worker, but you must be worried about the burden she'll be once the baby arrives. She won't be much use when she's up all night feeding, will she? Keeping you up too – you know how noisy babies are.' She held out the money. ‘I'm offering to compensate you. One pound now, if you tell me where she is, and another nine if you let her go.'

The older woman thinned her lips, clearly torn. Harry had calculated the amount with care – ten pounds was a small fortune to a woman in Joan's situation, more than she could expect to recover from Cecily even after several years of laundry work. She reached out to pluck the note from Harry's hand. ‘You'll find her at the Palace Pier.'

And stepping smartly backwards, she shut the door in Harry's face.

The seafront was busier than it had been during Harry's last visit. Couples and families were making the most of the sunshine, although there was still a brisk wind blowing in from the sea. The pier jutted out a long way over the water, a confectionery of delicate iron struts and balustrades. There were plenty of people here too, Harry observed as she passed beneath the clock tower that marked the entrance to the pier, and paid the tuppenny toll to enter.

It was hardly surprising the pier was popular. Boards proclaimed the entertainments available for all the family – scooter rides, a rifle range, a children's playground, reading rooms, a theatre… The list went on and on. All of which presented Harry with another problem. How was she to find Cecily Earnshaw among the crowds? She could probably rule out the smoking rooms, and the scooter rides, but the theatre and the Winter Garden were both possibilities. In the end, it turned out to be quite simple. Cecily was in the first place Harry looked – the reading rooms.

She was so engrossed in her book that she did not see Harry approach. It was only when Harry gently cleared her throat that Cecily looked up, and covered her mouth to mask the gasp that escaped her. ‘Miss White,' she said, once she had recovered herself a little. ‘I didn't expect to see you again.'

She looked pale, Harry thought. Her belly, covered by the coat she wore, seemed to have expanded further, although it had only been a few days since their last encounter. The dark circles beneath her eyes were more pronounced and her lips were dry and chapped. Even so, she managed to radiate a serenity that attracted more than one passing glance. ‘How have you been, Cecily? May I join you?'

The younger woman waved a hand, although Harry thought the motion was a shade reluctant. ‘Please do.'

Harry sat beside her. ‘I will come straight to the point, Cecily,' she said in a low voice. ‘Last time we spoke, you expressed reservations about accepting charity, because you were afraid you would still be a pariah.'

Cecily's gaze dropped to her lap, where Harry saw her hands were red and scabbed. ‘That is still the way I feel. It is better to be accepted somewhere like Circus Street than an outcast by society.'

‘What if I were to tell you I had not only the means to offer you a new life but a way to avoid becoming the subject of gossip?'

She looked up then, her expression suspicious. ‘I would wonder what was in it for you.'

Harry sighed. Clearly, Cecily had spent too much time with Joan already. ‘There is nothing in it for me. A benefactor has pledged enough money to find a new home for you and your baby, a long way from where you live now.' She paused and took a breath, because this was the trickiest part of the proposition. ‘And I have in my pocket a second-hand wedding ring, which will allow you to claim a sadly departed husband as the father of your child.'

Cecily shrank back, horrified. ‘A dead husband? You cannot mean that!'

‘But I do,' Harry said quickly. ‘It is only a small lie, after all, and one that will enable you to make a fresh start away from Circus Street. Think of the life you might have, Cecily,' she urged. ‘Think of the life your child might have.'

‘My aunt would never allow it,' the younger woman whispered, her expression torn.

‘She will,' Harry said firmly. ‘But I have no intention of telling her about any charitable donations and nor should you. The money will become available to you only when you leave her house and agree to start again somewhere else.'

She sounded horribly overbearing but she did not plan to let the proceeds of John Archer's generosity fall into the wrong hands. The cheque had been made payable to Oliver Fortescue and, when cashed, would enable Cecily and her baby to make a better future. If Cecily decided she did not want to take up the offer then the cheque would remain undrawn.

‘But where would I go?' Cecily asked.

‘Wherever you like,' Harry replied. ‘There are more new houses being built every day and many are available to rent. You might even be able to use some of the money as a deposit for a mortgage, if you are able to find work at a later date.'

At this, Cecily eyed her with even greater uncertainty. ‘A deposit. But that would be ￡30 or more. What sort of charity gives that much to one person, much less a – a fallen woman like me?'

‘An extremely generous one,' Harry said, with complete honesty. ‘But the offer is there, all the same. All I ask is that you go somewhere far away from Circus Street.'

Cecily shook her head, her expression hopeful and wary at the same time. ‘I don't understand. Why are you doing this?'

Harry reached for her hand. ‘Because you have been treated terribly – by your parents, by your aunt and by the man whose child you carry. But I don't believe you should be made to suffer the consequences alone.' She met the younger woman's gaze and held it firm. ‘Have courage, Cecily – you are not without friends. Take the money and build a new life for yourself. You will never have a better chance.'

For a moment, Cecily seemed to waver. Then she looked away. ‘I'm afraid you have too high an opinion of me, Miss White. I have no courage, in fact, I am a coward. I – I cannot accept your offer.'

Harry's shoulders sagged. From what she knew of Cecily Earnshaw, the last word she would use to describe her was coward. But she also knew obstinacy when she saw it. If such an opportunity could not induce the young woman to make a fresh start, then nothing would. ‘Then I am sorry for you both,' she said quietly, and left the reading room.

Outside, the sky was still blue and the sun was still bright. Harry stood gripping the iron balustrade for several minutes, allowing the wind to buffet her while she gazed out to sea. Somewhere further along the pier, a band had struck up; snatches of music faded in and out on the breeze. The smell of salt danced on the air, mingled with the piquant scent of vinegar from an oyster bar not far from where Harry was standing. She allowed the wind to scour away her disappointment and, when at last she felt less melancholy, she began to make her way back along the pier.

She had almost reached the clock when she heard her name being called. Glancing over her shoulder, she was astonished to see Cecily hurrying over the wooden slats. The young woman had one hand supporting her belly and was puffing with the effort of moving at speed. ‘Miss White, wait!'

Harry did as she asked. Cecily huffed to a halt, her cheeks rosy from the exertion and her eyes suspiciously bright. ‘Do you truly mean it?' she asked, half gasping the question as she struggled to get her breath back. ‘There is no catch?'

‘There is no catch,' Harry repeated. ‘I promise. If you don't know where to start then there are those who can help with that too.'

Cecily caught her lip between her teeth and gnawed at it. ‘My aunt will be angry.'

‘Then don't tell her,' Harry suggested as an idea occurred to her. ‘In fact, come with me now. We can take the train to London and you can stay with me while we make a plan.'

She almost regretted the offer as soon as it was made – her apartment was luxurious compared to the slums of Circus Street but it had only one bedroom. It was too late to take the words back, however. The other woman shuffled anxiously. ‘I can't. I have some things in my aunt's house – a few trinkets and what little I have left of my savings. It is not much but I would hate to leave it all the same.'

Harry understood her attachment to her possessions. Cecily had already given up so much already. Why should she also give up what little she had left? ‘We will go to collect them together,' she said decisively. ‘And then we shall board the train and the next chapter of your life will begin.'

‘You are so brave,' Cecily said, as Harry took her arm and led her from the pier. ‘Is there anything you're afraid of?'

Harry considered her recent adventures in the fens, when she had been scared of many things, including a strange bobbing light she was still not convinced she could entirely explain. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘But your Aunt Joan is not one of them.'

As Cecily had predicted, Joan took a dim view of her niece's departure. ‘Who's going to help me with the laundry tomorrow, that's what I'd like to know,' she growled when Cecily explained in a halting voice.

‘I'm sure you'll manage,' Harry replied briskly. ‘Go and collect what you need, Cecily. I'll wait here.'

As her niece climbed the stairs, Joan rounded on Harry. ‘You never said she was going today. I've got three loads of laundry coming in the morning, and another four on Monday.'

Reaching into her bag, Harry took out the wad of notes she had counted out in case she needed to give them to Joan. ‘You'll find someone,' she said. ‘Here's your compensation, as agreed.'

With sour-faced acceptance, Joan snatched the money, just as Cecily appeared on the stairs with a small suitcase in one hand. ‘Show me what you've got in there,' she demanded, nodding at the case. ‘I want to make sure you're not taking anything that's not yours.'

Cecily's cheeks flamed. ‘I would never do such a thing, Aunt Joan.'

The older woman did not dignify her with an answer. Instead, she rummaged through the contents of the case, undoing Cecily's carefully folded clothing. When she came to a small drawstring bag, she jangled it menacingly. ‘Where did you get this?'

‘I brought it with me,' Cecily said, raising her chin. ‘It's my savings, from when I worked at the bank.'

Joan hefted the bag, considering. Harry took a step forward. ‘We had an agreement.'

The air hummed with tension. If it came to a fight, Harry knew she would lose. Joan was strong and Cecily would be no help. But thankfully, Joan seemed to think better of her greed. She dropped the bag into the case and slammed the lid shut. ‘Go on, then, if you're going. And don't think I'll forget how ungrateful you've been.'

Harry felt her eyes upon them all the way along Circus Street. ‘Here,' she said, once they had turned the corner and reached the safety of Victoria Gardens. ‘Let me take your case. It's over now.'

They reached the station with just minutes to spare before the non-stop train left. With each step along the platform, Cecily's mood seemed to lift, until she was almost laughing as they tumbled into an empty compartment and shut the door. She leaned back against the seat, panting a little, her eyes gleaming. ‘I feel better already,' she said, as the train lurched and began to pull out of the station. ‘But I don't know how I'm ever going to repay you.'

‘You don't have to,' Harry said, as the young woman turned to gaze out of the window. ‘All I ask is that you do your best for yourself and your child.'

Cecily let out a weary sigh. ‘There is so much to think about.'

‘But it doesn't all have to be thought about today,' Harry replied. ‘Most of it can wait until tomorrow.'

‘Tomorrow,' Cecily echoed, and closed her eyes. ‘At least I won't have to wash the bed linen. It hurts my back so to bend over the tub.'

Harry shook her head. ‘You don't have to do anything you don't want to. You're going to be fine, Cecily.'

‘Fine,' the girl murmured softly. Moments later, she was asleep, lulled by the gentle motion of the train. Harry allowed herself a smile of satisfaction, then reached for her notebook and pen. The Case of the Cursed Writer , she wrote, By R.K. Moss .