A Scandal in Battersea Read online

  “Yes, yes, of course, certainly.” Alexandre moved aside and waved the man in, then conducted him to the sitting room. “Please, have a seat, Mister—”

  “Abernathy. Of Abernathy, Abernathy, and Owen, your solicitors and the administrators of your trust.”

  The man took a seat as Alexandre suddenly felt faint. He sat down himself, and clutched at the arms of his chair. There was only one reason why Abernathy would be here. Oh god. The trust’s gone bust. I’m penniless. I’m—

  “Master Harcourt, there is no easy way to say this,” Abernathy said, taking off his hat and holding it in his lap, gloved hands resting on the brim, his face a mask of polite concern, with just a touch of professional sympathy. “Mrs. Emily Harcourt, your mother, passed to her reward last night. She was found this morning in her bed. We are deeply sorry for your loss. You have our every sympathy.”

  Alexandre had been so braced for the horrible news that he was dead broke that the words did not at first register with him. And when they did, he stared at Abernathy in open-mouthed astonishment. “My—mother?” he stammered. “She’s dead?” The words made no sense. No sense at all.

  “If it is of any consolation to you, it appears she departed from this mortal world in her sleep,” Harcourt said . . . with the air of someone who is withholding information, if Alexandre was reading him correctly. “The doctor has been called, and there is no need for an inquest. There is no foul play suspected, nor does it appear that she somehow, accidentally poisoned herself with her medicine. Of late, her maid has kept that locked up and administered measured, safe doses herself. No, the death is certainly . . . er . . . natural.”

  There is something he is certainly not telling me. Oh dear, I should present some sort of semblance grief . . .

  He buried his face in his hands. “Oh mother . . . poor mother. . . .” he forced his voice to break as if he was sobbing. He imagined himself if he had lost the trust fund, penniless, and in the street, and managed to produce real tears of self-pity. “I would have come at Christmas, but the doctor said not to . . . I should have gone, and I didn’t, and now I shall never see her again.” This ended in a real sob, as he pictured himself huddling for warmth against the chimney of his own house, hoping no one chased him away.

  “Now, Master Harcourt,” Abernathy said uncomfortably. “You must brace up. This was not unexpected. We both know she has not been well for a very long time, and has been pining for your late father since he died.”

  He wiped his eyes, pleased to have produced some genuine tears. “Yes . . . yes of course you are right. And now she is with him, where she longed to be, both safe in the arms of Jesus.” He rather thought that was a nice touch. “Tell me, Mister Abernathy, what must I do? What must be done now? I am sure there are many tasks but—I don’t know where to start.”

  Now more comfortable with his role, Abernathy straightened, and his expression smoothed into one of professional sympathy. “According to the terms of our agreement with your late father, the firm will undertake all the necessary arrangements for you. We assumed it would be a modest funeral—?”

  “Yes, of course, just myself, and mother’s servants,” he replied, trying to sound just heartbroken enough to be bereaved, but not unmanly. “Any friends she once had fell by the wayside when she became . . . ill.”

  “Quite right, quite right.” Abernathy removed a notebook from inside his coat and consulted it. “Fortunately she can be interred in the family vault beside your father immediately, and there will be no need to wait. Would Wednesday do?”

  It can’t be soon enough. “Yes . . . yes of course,” he replied. “Just send me the details, and anything I might need to sign. I rarely leave the house; my work, you know. I will be here, certainly until at least suppertime every evening.” He started to get up to show Abernathy out, but the man remained seated. “Is there something more?” he asked, and sat back down again.

  “One small matter, of your trust,” Abernathy replied, and coughed. “As you know, the trust specified that you were to have your affairs overseen by a member of the firm.” He flushed a little. “However, Arthur Fensworth, who undertook that task, seems to have taken leave without notice. This leaves us shorthanded, and the other members of the firm have suggested that your mother’s sad demise effectively breaks that trust, leaving you the sole heir, and us with no obligation to continue what must have been somewhat distasteful, since you are a grown man in perfect command of his senses.” The very slight lift of Abernathy’s eyebrow conveyed to Alexandre, without words, that only the insistence of Fensworth had led them to continue the practice of the quarterly visits and the minute examination of his accounts. Precisely as he had suspected. Only that old goat knew my father, and knew how little my father trusted me to handle my own affairs.

  “The firm hopes you will allow us to continue to administer the estate, but from henceforth, you need only drop us a message to have whatever you like transferred from the account of the estate into your own,” Abernathy concluded. “We will, of course, under this arrangement, arrange for all the final expenses and death duties without needing to trouble you.”

  “Of course,” Alexandre said, numbly, unable to believe his good fortune. No more penny-pinching! No more having to account for the least little expense! No more busybody Fensworth! “That would be . . . admirable. Thank you. My father was right to put his trust in you.”

  “Have you any suggestions as to the disposition of your mother’s servants?” Abernathy asked delicately.

  “Six months pay, and letters of recommendation from the firm?” Alexandre replied. “I . . . don’t think I can bear to even look at the house. I think it must be closed up. Possibly sold. So much death . . . I am the only one left . . . I could not bear to be alone in so much familiar, empty space.”

  “Quite, quite,” Abernathy rose, uncomfortable again now that there might be a second display of emotion. He probably put all that down to Alexandre’s being a poet. “We’ll see the house is closed up, and revisit the disposition of it, and your mother’s personal effects, in three or four months, shall we? And your suggestion for the servants is perfect—generous, without being effusive. We will see to that as well. Now, I really should go. There is much to do.”

  “Yes, yes of course,” Alexandre replied, rising himself. “Thank you, Mister Abernathy. Thank you.”

  He saw the man out, and closed the door only when Abernathy was inside his carriage and pulling away. Then he went to his sitting room and poured himself the largest brandy he thought he could drink at one sitting without being fuddled by it.

  Dead! he thought with glee. The bitch is dead at last! And that meddling old dotard is missing! And I, I, I have control of every damned penny, at last!

  He tossed down the brandy, scarcely able to believe in his luck.

  Or . . . was it luck?

  Having his mother die, just after the entity had told him that “opposition” was going to be removed could have been coincidence. But having Fensworth vanish? At the same time?

  No. That was not coincidence, could not have been coincidence. Fensworth vanishing alone would not have broken the trust. His mother’s death would not have removed Fensworth. As long as his mother lived, Abernathy would have felt duty bound to make sure Alexandre did not misuse the funds that were supplying income for both of them. And the tyranny of Fensworth would never have ended until the old dotard died himself.

  But both of them going? And the firm deciding that he could handle his own funds? No, that could not possibly be coincidence. Somehow that thing in the basement had exercised its influence, and given him the one thing he wanted and needed above all others at this moment—financial freedom. Financial freedom to make sure the entity got what it had demanded.

  He would not even have to buy a horse and cart now. There was one elderly horse, and an even more modest carriage than Abernathy had used at the house. He co
uld send for it now, if he chose, claiming he needed it to go to the funeral, and would keep it for his convenience. All perfectly proper, and it would allow Abernathy to dismiss the stablehand along with the rest of the servants, and would not leave him trying to be rid of a horse only useful for occasional service.

  Perfect. It could not have been more perfect. All that was needed was for Alf to return with stabling arrangements, and everything would be set in motion. He went to the study to write out that note to Abernathy about the horse and carriage. Alf could take it over when he returned, get the stableman to drive it to the stabling, and with any luck the entire issue would be taken care of tonight.

  An old coat, a coachman’s hat, and no one will look twice at me.

  No, this could not possibly be coincidence. He repressed the urge to dance with glee. If this was how his life was going to be conducted from now on, well. . . .

  . . . that thing in the basement can have anything it likes!

  After consultation and scouting, Alexandre and Alf had decided on West Ham as their initial hunting grounds. At sundown, dusk, and twilight, the streets still had some people on them, but not many. It was a part of London where most people were prosperous enough to rent entire homes, but generally not prosperous enough to have servants. The folk who lived in West Ham were well off enough that they had the freedom to be concerned about their daughters’ virtue—rather than scolding her for losing her position because she wouldn’t let her master do as he pleased with her. And the area was well off enough that the streets were considered safe. Girls were not afraid when strangers spoke to them.

  So it was trivial for Alexandre, in his disguise as an elderly coachman, to drive his old horse alongside a girl who looked to be about fourteen and call to her from the box, in an ingratiating voice, “Miss . . . could you tell me how to get to 124 Portway Road? This isn’t my part of London and I’m fair lost, I am.”

  And despite the fact that in the gathering gloom between the streetlamps you couldn’t see across the street, the girl quite trustingly came right up to him to tell him the directions. Alexandre knew she would be perfect as soon as he laid eyes on her. She was a pretty little thing, in a black and white dress, white stockings, black boots, and a little black coat and wool hat with brown curls escaping out from underneath it. Just as neat and clean as you could wish. It was clear her parents thought a great deal of her. “I’d be happy to,” she said, smiling up at him. “It’s no trouble at all.”

  Which was when Alf crept up to her from behind the coach, clapped that chloroform-laden sponge over her mouth and nose and had her inside the coach and on the floor before she even had an inkling there was a second person behind her.

  Alexandre started the coach moving as soon as Alf got the door shut, to cover any sounds that might be coming from inside it, and any swaying the girl’s struggles might cause. But he really needn’t have worried. Alf, it seemed, was very good at this. I wonder if he did a bit of abduction for his previous master? It wouldn’t have surprised him. There had been rumors . . . and Alexandre never had found out why the police were interested in him.

  The double thud on the coach roof that told him Alf had the girl secure, silent, and probably sleeping was the signal for him to take the next two turns to head back to Battersea. It had all gone so smoothly that he was very careful to keep the horse to an amble so as not to attract any interest. And he was careful not to tempt fate by thinking they had this job locked up and finished. It wouldn’t be finished until the entity in the basement said “offering acceptable” and turned one of the two girls they needed to snatch back over to them. Actually, it wouldn’t be finished until they figured out what to do with that second girl, and got her safely away from them.

  And they would have called it a good night’s hunting, except that on the way home, they spotted a girl sitting on the curb beneath a streetlamp and crying. This one was dressed like a servant, in a plain, dark dress and white apron, with nothing but a shawl pinned around her shoulders for warmth, and had a tatty old carpetbag and a scarf done up around a bundle next to her. Her tale was as plain to read as if it had been written out; she was a servant who had done something wrong, or at least something her employer didn’t like. Hopefully, it wasn’t being caught in bed with another servant or the master’s son. She’d been turned out on the spot, with no references, and she was either afraid to go home and confess she’d lost her place, or she had no home to go to. If the first girl matched the description of someone who would be missed . . . well this one was clearly someone who wouldn’t be. At least, not for a good long while. And there was absolutely no one in sight, on either side of the street, for as far as Alexandre could see in either direction. Even the building she sat in front of was dark; either no one was home, they were early sleepers, or it was vacant. Alexandre gave the triple rap on the roof of the coach that signaled to Alf that he had spotted another target.

  Alf must have been astonished, but Alf never stayed surprised for long. As Alexandre stopped the coach right at the girl’s feet, and she gaped up at him in shock and surprise, Alf already had the door open and was leaning out. She had no time to react before he had her. This time he clapped his hand around his victim’s mouth to prevent her screaming, and dragged her, kicking and thrashing inside. There was some bumping about until he overpowered her, then silence—presumably as he applied the chloroformed sponge. Meanwhile Alexandre had leapt down off the box, picked up the girl’s belongings, and tossed them inside the coach with Alf and his captives. Then he was back up on the box and urging the horse forward, taking a quick glance all around to make sure that no one had spotted them. The street was still deserted, and there was no sign of life in the house.

  All was soon quiet in the coach. The horse ambled its way back to Battersea. Once in a while they met a coach not unlike theirs; in the universal fraternity of men who must be outside in wretched weather, the other coachman invariably nodded and touched his hat to Alexandre in sympathy, and Alexandre echoed the gesture. What would they think if they knew what I carried? he asked himself, and felt a thrill of excitement at getting away, literally, with murder.

  And that was that. By the time he usually had a late supper, they were back home. Alf carried the girls under the cover of darkness into the house, and Alexandre took the second girl’s belongings up beside him on the box. Halfway to the stable, he pitched the carpetbag into the backyard of a place dilapidated enough that he knew whoever found it would take whatever was in it, and the bag itself, with no questions asked. A little farther along, he dropped the scarf-bundle at a crossing where, again, the first person to come along would snatch it up and carry it off. Alf’s stabling solution had been a good one; it was a place for both vehicles and draft animals of men who did all sorts of odd jobs. The care and feeding of the animals could be done by the customer or by the stablehands, if you paid a little extra, which Alexandre was happy to do. There were long, covered sheds with spots for wagons, carts, and old cabs and coaches. Alexandre’s story was genius; he gave the name and history of his mother’s now-dismissed coachman and stableman, except that in this version, he’d been given the horse and vehicle in her will, and he reckoned to pad out his savings by hiring himself out now and again. No one batted an eye at the story.

  He backed the coach into its shed, unhitched the horse, and took it to its stall. He’d learned to do all of these things at his father’s insistence, as the price of having his own pony and cart as a boy. The old skinflint had even made him do all the feeding and mucking out, no doubt to spare himself the expense of a stablehand. He had burned with resentment as a boy whenever he’d been forced to do such menial work, but now, the skills were literally his salvation. The old man is probably spinning in his grave, knowing he is responsible for my carrying all this off so successfully. When the horse was unharnessed, the harness hung on a peg in the stall, and the horse put up under a blanket, he made his way to the front of the place
. There were vehicles coming and going here at all hours of the day and night, and it was no trouble to catch a ride for a penny most of the way back to his flat with a carter on his way to collect night soil. By the time he returned, Alf had everything in readiness in the kitchen.

  The girls were awake now, but tied up, with balls of cloth stuffed in their mouths and gags tied in place for good measure. The most they could manage were muffled grunts. Alf had them sat down in two of the kitchen chairs. Alexandre surveyed them with pleasure. He knew what they were expecting. He chuckled to himself.

  “Good night’s work, guv,” Alf observed, rubbing his bristly chin. “Bit uv luck, that second one.”

  “When fortune was so obliging as to provide her, I couldn’t see any reason to pass her by,” Alexandre smiled, as the girls shrank as far away from him as they could manage, their eyes huge and terrified above the gags. He regretted that the entity had specified it preferred virgins; that first girl was really quite pretty, and it was a pity he wouldn’t get to enjoy her and her terror. The very few times he’d paid for the privilege of “breaking in” a new girl at a brothel, the experience had been exhilarating.

  “Shame t’waste ’em,” Alf observed, echoing his thoughts.

  “More where they came from,” Alexandre replied. “And I don’t fancy the risk if you-know-what objects to us enjoying ourselves. Let’s give our guest what it wants. We’re both just lucky it was temporarily satisfied with that baby, Christmas Eve.”

  “Roight ye are, guv,” Alf agreed. “Oi’ll take th’ feet. They’re kickers, they are. Yew take th’ ’ead.”

  The girls did, indeed, kick, but Alf was far stronger than he looked, and he wasn’t even thrown off balance as they carried the girls, one at a time, down the stairs. Alf eyed the eerie pool of blackness in the center of the floor as they brought down the second one. “Oi’ll jest wait upstairs an’ make supper,” he said hastily, and made his way up, taking the steps two at a time.