Vice and Virtue (12 page)

Celia made the tea and gave the cups to Joe to distribute. He set Aurora’s at her elbow, where she watched its spiral of steam disperse in the sunny room for a few moments before she picked it up.

“When I have drunk my tea I must go,” she told them decisively. “I do not think I can eat dinner. I had better rest at home.”

“Then you must allow me to accompany you in the carriage as far as, say, Charing Cross,” said Joe. “You cannot walk all the way.”

If her fainting fit were to seem genuine, there was no possibility of protest. “Very well, sir.”

The three of them chatted idly while they finished their tea. Aurora could feel the edges of the folded paper inside her bodice, pressing into her flesh. This delay caused by the drinking of tea would at least be offset by a carriage ride for more than half the distance back to the lodging rooms. She had promised Edward she would be back as soon after dinner as she could. He would be surprised to see her returned so early. And hopefully, he would be pleased with her morning’s work.

Harrison was told to order the carriage. Aurora collected her hat and kissed Celia, who grasped her hand. “What about your brother’s books?” she asked. “They must still be in the library. Joe, collect them on your way out.”

“There is no need,” Aurora assured her. “I had not progressed very far in choosing books when I began to feel faint. I will select some on my next visit.”

“But your next visit is tomorrow!” protested Celia. “We are going to Spring Gardens!”

Aurora could see Celia was not to be denied. The girl was hoping, no doubt, for another communication from Edward Drayton. Turning to Joe, Aurora smiled encouragingly. “Your sister is so kind. Perhaps you might choose some books you think my brother would like, and I can collect them tomorrow evening?”

“It would be an honour,” said Joe.

It was hot in the carriage, even with the windows down. Aurora fanned herself all the way to Charing Cross, trying to calm her agitation. The piece of paper must have slipped further down inside her dress. She could no longer feel it there, but could not check for it with Joe sitting only inches away from her. She prayed it had not fallen out.

When the carriage stopped, Joe alighted and handed her out. Before he let go of her hand he raised it to his lips, bestowing a kiss upon her gloved fingers. “Until tomorrow.”

“At seven o’clock.” Aurora smiled. “Goodbye, and thank you again.”

He bowed, and climbed back into the carriage. “Fare thee well, Aurora.”

She watched until the carriage was out of sight. Even though she was convinced it would not have mattered if Joe had seen where she went, she had assured Edward that she would be zealously careful, and she must keep that promise.

Turning away from the road, she slipped into the shadow of the buildings and felt for the paper. It was still there. She wavered a moment, indecisive, wondering whether to withdraw it and read it. Then she sighed and set off once more for Samuel Marshall’s bookshop.

The attic was deserted. Aurora stood at the open door with her hand on the latch, unable to contain her irritation.

Edward had left no note on the table. She checked her own room. Nothing. She went to the top of the stairs and called. “Mary! Mary, do not pretend you cannot hear me!”

After a few minutes Mary shuffled up the lower flight and waited, looking up sullenly.

“Tell me, when did Mr Drayton go out?” asked Aurora.

“Cannot say, ’m.”

“Is Mr Marshall in?”

“Yes, ’m.”

“Thank you. That is all.”

Aurora went back into her own room. The glass confirmed that she looked as anxious as she felt. The flesh of her face was as lifeless as clay. She pinched blood into her cheeks, but could do nothing to disguise the dullness of her eyes, nor the smudges beneath them. She pulled her hat brim forward and set off down the stairs.

A light showed under Samuel Marshall’s door; he must have lately finished his dinner. Perhaps he had spoken to Edward earlier in the shop, and might know where he had gone. Aurora set an expression of polite enquiry on her face, and knocked.

“Come in!”

When she opened the door she was met by the sight of Mr Marshall – his round face bathed in delight, his gouty foot supported on a stool – sitting at a table weighted with books, ale tankards and the remains of a platter of bread and cheese. On the other side of the table, smiling sheepishly, sat Edward.

“My dear Miss Drayton!” The landlord indicated with his walking stick a chair in the corner. “Draw up that chair and partake of some cheese, if you will. And there is some ale left in the pitcher.”

There could not have been much. Mr Marshall, gout or no gout, was very intoxicated. Edward, who was less so, raised the pitcher. “Empty.”

“Pray do not trouble yourself, sir,” said Aurora to Mr Marshall with a curtsey. “I have a private message for Mr Drayton that will not wait.”

Mr Marshall raised his eyebrows at Edward. “A private message?” He looked back at Aurora. “I trust it is not bad news?”

“It is of great import,” said Aurora.

“Then I will come at once,” said Edward. He rose and picked up his hat. It was the green one. She looked at it, remembering how the sunlight from her mother’s drawing-room windows had fallen upon it.

“I bid you good day, Edward,” said Samuel Marshall, nodding in the studied way of the inebriated. “You and your sister both.”

“Good day, sir,” said Edward, “and many thanks for your hospitality.”

“Come down after dinner whenever you like.”

Edward bowed, and they left the room. “I was very happy in there,” he told Aurora. “What can be of such great import that you pluck me from such good company?”

“I cannot tell you here, on the stairs. I have come straight from Mill Street.”

Edward frowned. “Then they eat their fish
very
early.”

“I did not stay for dinner.”

“Why, then, you should have partaken of some cheese when Mr Marshall offered it!” he exclaimed. “There is no food up here. I have eaten it all.”

“Edward!” Aurora dragged him into the attic room and shut the door. “I have brought something from Mill Street. I pray you, attend.”

“Very well, I will attend. But may I make myself comfortable first?”

He removed his coat and wig and put on his well-worn grey worsted house robe, that garment so despised by Joe Deede. He placed his sword, its belt and holder still attached, against the wall. The table was spread with the remains of their breakfast, which Mary had again neglected to clear. The window was too small to admit much sunlight, and the room was gloomy. Removing her hat and gloves, Aurora sat down on the edge of Edward’s bed. “Would you light a candle, please?” she asked. “I wish you to read something.”

He took the tinderbox from the mantelpiece, lit a candle and placed it in the centre of the table. Then he sat down, sprawling in the chair with his elbow on the table. He had drunk enough wine for his eyes to have a wayward, abandoned look. “So, faithful accomplice, what is your report?” he asked.

Aurora told him about the dummy keyhole, the snuffbox, the levers and mechanisms, the false drawer backs, the folded paper. He listened without interruption, not looking at her, but studying, as he often did, the candle flame. It was too far away to light much of his face, but Aurora watched his eyes become increasingly concerned as she talked.

“Please, let me see the paper,” he demanded as soon as she ceased.

She drew it from her bodice. He unfolded it, held it close to the candle and read it quickly. His expression remained passive, though tinged now with sorrow.

“Is it a letter?” she asked.

“It is.” He cast it upon the bed beside her. “Read it.”

Aurora picked up the letter. It was dated the fifteenth of February, 1698, more than two years ago, and was addressed to Josiah Deede in a neat hand.

Mill Street, Mayfair

My honoured friend
,

I hope you will forgive this timely reminder of your promise. Our mutual friend will be at his post at seven o’clock this Friday evening, in the usual place. I have no doubt you will fulfil your obligation, but may I prevail upon you to make that obligation a little larger than last month? I find I am no longer able to keep the costs of this venture at the level they once were. Thirty-five shillings should be sufficient. I hope I shall not have to prevail upon you again for a further increase, though of course this cannot be guaranteed
.

If you wish a return upon your investment, as a businessman you will understand my request. I will endeavour as usual to obtain for you the very best return
.

I am, sir, indebted to you for your continued generosity
,

  
H. F
.

Aurora was so shocked that her breath disappeared. She felt as if an invisible hand with the strength of a giant had struck a blow to her chest. It was the letter of a blackmailer. A blackmailer who signed himself “H. F.”

Her throat had dried. She swallowed, watching Edward. No indignation or anger had come into his eyes.

“Edward, this letter is from your father,” she said, bewildered.

“It is not.” His voice was full of contempt.

“But the initials—”

“It is a forgery.”

Aurora looked again at the letter, and back at Edward. “You must face the truth,” she told him gently. “The evidence is here before your eyes.”

“The truth? I will tell you the truth!” He leaned towards her, his expression alert, with no trace of intoxication. “Consider this,” he began in a low, patient voice: “My father was a healthy man of fifty-one when he died. That is to say, his organs were sound and he had no fatal disease. Of course men may suffer diseases that do not kill yet inflict great discomfort upon their victim. Look at poor Samuel Marshall, almost crippled with gout.”

Aurora did not understand. “But what has this to do with the letter?”

“I beg you, forbear. My father suffered greatly from rheumatism. By the time I was fifteen, his hands were so gnarled and painful it had become impossible for him to write his own letters. At the palace he had an amanuensis to do it for him; at home he relied upon me. All he could do was scrawl his signature – the signature that appears on the altered will.”

Aurora’s heart sank. “So you are saying that he could not have written this letter two years ago?”

“Nor at any other time in the ten years before his death.”

Resentment crept over her. She felt an irrational desire to stamp her foot. “Why should I believe you?” she demanded. “Short of exhuming your father’s body and showing me his skeleton, you have no proof!”

“Then you must take my word as a man of honour,” he told her steadily.

“And you must take
my
word that this letter is the key to your father’s death!” She picked up the letter and shook it. “The contents of this show that it was not the only blackmail letter Josiah Deede received. He must have paid a great deal of money to the sender, burning the letters, saving only this one against the day, perhaps, when he could bring his tormentor to justice.”

Edward nodded in agreement. “That is plausible, certainly. But since the letter is forged, and my father was not his tormentor, who was?”

Aurora thought for a moment, frowning. “Someone who knew something about Josiah Deede that he does not want made public,” she reasoned. “I wish we knew what it could be! But whoever the blackmailer was, they wanted Deede to believe his tormentor was Henry Francis.”

Edward’s face was again sorrowful, again immovable. He did not speak.

“Perhaps the blackmailer wanted your father dead all along,” ventured Aurora, “so they engineered a way to incite Josiah Deede to murder him. The two men were already enemies, after all. Blackmail would surely drive the final wedge between them.”

She paused. She had thought of something else, and looked carefully at Edward, to watch his response as she voiced it. “Or … will you consider the possibility that your father was
guilty
? You said you used to act as his amanuensis, so why could not someone else do the same?”

“Because my father was not a blackmailer!”
Edward slapped his hand down on the table so hard Aurora jumped. “Because the letter is written in a hand attempting to mimic his! The writer does not
know
my father suffered from rheumatism. This person has copied his handwriting from some document written many years ago.”

He sat back, his fingers striking the edge of the table repeatedly, his face filled with concentration. “You are correct, it is someone who knows Josiah Deede’s secret. If we can find out what that secret is, we will, as you say, find the key to my father’s death.” His black eyes roved restlessly over Aurora’s face. “You have done very well today, but there is much more to do if we are to expose Josiah Deede’s villainy, and my father’s innocence, before the world.”

Aurora let her head drop forward, resting her forehead on her fingers. She felt intolerably weary, as if she had struggled through a quagmire, only to find herself confronted with quicksand.

“For a moment I thought I would be able to go home,” she confessed miserably. “I thought my promise to you had been fulfilled. The letter seemed to show that your father was a heartless criminal, who disinherited you and left his fortune to Josiah Deede in order to make his peace with God.” She sighed, a juddering, disappointed sigh. “And now,” she went on, “I find I have to stay in this horrible place for Lord knows how long, and not see my sisters, and … and everything has gone wrong!”

Unable to hold her head up any longer, she lay down on Edward’s pillow and closed her eyes. She thought about the little shop with its shelves of silks and damasks, the measuring tapes, the cutting table, the snippets of material on the floor. She pictured her mother sitting on the high stool, humming softly as she held a newly ruffled cuff to the light. She thought about Eleanora curled up in the corner of the parlour window seat, reading by candlelight when she should have been in bed, because Mrs Eversedge did not allow her youngest daughter candles in the bedroom. Aurora thought about Flora, trimming and retrimming her gowns and hats, turning this way and that in front of the looking-glass, making a
moue
with her lips, smiling and chattering to whomever would listen. Dear Flora.