Adele Rawlins 4 A fishy tale 1

 

Chapter 4 A Fishy Tale part I

 

Me, I am entirely English. I understand le spirit sportif. I understand le picnic or dejeuner sur l’herbe as one might render it, and I am English, but so English! In that I do not fear flying insects just for being flying insects, and I do not flap at wasps but place a piece of jammy bread to attract them, and then upend a cup over them until they suffocate. I do not have an ounce of romance in my soul, and if I sent for my dear Tony in an emergency, I would expect him to consult a good railway timetable and telegraph ahead for a cab rather than riding ventre à terre across the countryside at great risk to life and limb and probably no faster than going by more regular methods. However, I cannot understand the English obsession with fishing. As far as I can understand, this involves sitting in total quiet, bored to death, for hours, often in the rain, and then heaving a fish in to land on a line which is likely to hurt the hands, and then boasting about the size of it when it shows that fish are smart in their own environment, breaks the line, and gets away. And when the men talk of an old pike which has defied all efforts to catch it, and which eats the edible fish in a pond [for you cannot persuade me that pike is edible] they then look horrified when one makes the perfectly natural suggestion that a dragnet be used to catch and remove the said pike.

It was under the suggestion of my devious father-in-law that Tony and I were staying in a place called Stankriggin in Scotland, which was not odorous and makes more sense if you know that estanc is old French for a fish pond.  The house was set on a ridge overlooking a slow-running stream which opened into a wide pond with rather boggy edges set with reeds, but with wooden structures running out into it like jetties, for people to fish. The pond lay between two waterfalls, and apparently salmon came upstream to spawn there, and get caught by those guests who paid to come and fish. Tony must pretend to be a keen fisherman, and Clara and I were part of the superfluous women whose interest in attending was supposed to be enjoying the air and sketching the scenery.

I was not unhappy to go away for a little while; I had miscarried and was consequently somewhat lachrymose. Clara had been an angel, running errands for me. I had worried that she might be jealous, but she had seemed truly interested in ‘our baby’ and cried as bitterly as I did when I told her about baby being born too soon, and dead.  I was up and about, but Tony said that I had lost some of my spirit. So, we had taken a job for his father, who works at the home office, because one of the fishermen here was suspected of selling secrets to the Russians.

Anyway, I made the comment that the establishment would do better if only the pike was caught and removed, and might be removed humanely and released downriver if they wished, but it would not then be eating young salmon.  And all the fishermen gave me most unfriendly stares.

“Do not look so at Mama! It is a clever idea!” said Clara. She is still shy, but a partisan supporter.

“I fear you do not understand, Mrs. Rawlins,” drawled Sir Jasper Clowchester, whom I disliked cordially for the way he sneered at Tony all the while. “There is sport to be had in attempting to catch ‘The Owd Bysyn,’ and that is what many people come for. It’s worth it for the laird to leave him be, even if he eats some fry. There’s always plenty of salmon to catch and send to Edinburgh, London, or Paris.”

“Aye, and I’ve a braw part cordoned off that yon bysyn canna get intae, for the trade,” said our host.

Well, that made sense.

There was a spur of the pond or lake where the guests did not seem to go; but there was some kind of building on its banks, doubtless for boxing up salmon caught commercially.

“So, is ‘Bysyn’ a word for pike?” I asked.

“It aye means ‘a monster,’” said the laird.

So now I knew.

You are thinking, no doubt, that the secrets were concealed in the fish and smuggled out to France, where they were sent on to Russia.

They had already thought of that, and searched fish before they left the country. Nothing.

The Laird’s man had stood, smirking, whilst home office men unpacked every fish, looked inside it and in the packing. The laird sued. Sir Geoffrey was hurting; and so here we were. Because I was good at finding things out. And because Sir Geoffrey thought that a woman’s point of view might be useful.

A woman’s point of view is that fishing is a damned silly occupation.

Oh, fishing for food is important, and I like salmon as much as anyone. Me, I have gone out of my way to find French ways of cooking, because everyone seems to expect me to know, even though I was eating English food from as early as I can remember, but I do like Salmon Meunière where it is pan fried in butter and served with a lemon caper sauce. First you dredge the salmon fillets in flour to crisp the outside and cling to the sauce, then you fry it in butter, remove, add more butter, parsley, lemon juice and zest, and capers if you like them. Served with fresh asparagus it’s heavenly. And we did eat salmon a lot in Stankriggin, which was somewhere between a hotel and the private home of the laird, who took in paying guests. Mostly they poached it in milk and used the hot milk to make a parsley roux sauce, or fried it with mushrooms, which were dried mushrooms soaked back into life at this time of year. We also had Salmon en croute or baked in pastry, which I suspect might be an English dish despite its French name. The English love their pies.

However, back to our mystery.

Sir Jasper had been searched on boarding the train to come north as well, and had openly sneered at those who had searched him, and who had gone through his luggage, lining and all. It had been done very discreetly on the train and everything made good but he was plainly amused by it all.

Me, I had no doubt as to how he arranged that stage, and I wrote to Sir Geoffrey,  Papa as I like to call him, to inform him that Sir Jasper received a letter addressed in his own handwriting and had probably mailed it as soon as he had anything to send.  You may ask, why go himself, then? But if he did not visit a suspected contact, that contact’s mail would be searched. Mailing it to himself, he allayed suspicion.

How the information was then sent abroad was what was required, because stopping the source was not enough without cutting all the links in the chain. So, Clara and I went out and about, idly sketching. There was a pleasant terrace outside the house, with a good parapet to stop anyone absently falling down the crag, which overlooked the lake, and to the pleasing vista of the mountains beyond. Clara painted the lake, very competently, considering her age, and rather whimsically added a leaping salmon.

“Can I ask if they would like to use it on their labels?” she asked me. Clara had no idea why we were there.

“‘May I,’” I corrected, absently. I would not correct at first when she was so shy, and when speech did not come readily.

“May I?” she repeated.

“Certainly,” I said. “Please will you ask them for refreshments on the way back up.”

She galloped off coltishly.

She was back far too quickly, sobbing, a hand mark on her face, and her sketch crumpled.

I gave her a cuddle.

“I will see the laird,” I said, grimly. “His men have no business treating you like that.”

I confess, I slammed into his office.

“Mrs. Rawlins! Wha’s got ye in sich a taking?” he asked.

“One of your men hit my little girl hard enough to leave a hand mark,” I snarled. “She’s seven years old,  and vulnerable, and she was intending only a kindness in offering her sketch to be used as a label. She wanted to show off her drawing of a salmon leaping, and it is, perhaps, that they were busy, and that she was in the way, but that is no excuse for a grown man to hit so little a girl so hard when she had no intent of anything but being well-meaning!  I will expect a written apology from him to her, and your assurance that your servants will learn not to strike the paying guests!”

He had gone white.  I should think so, too!

“Yer bairn will hae her apology,” he said. “It’s best for her tae stay oot o’ the way o’ the men packing fush, for they’re rough fellows.” He paused. “Has she a favourite meal? I should like to have it served tonight as my apology.”

“She has expressed a fondness for your haggis with neeps and tatties,” I said.

“Ah, we’ll mak’ a Scot o’ her yet, forbye,” he said.

I went back to Clara, having acquired a pot of tea for me, milk for Clara, and a two-decker plate of biscuits and small cakes.  I was gaining a taste for the triangular sections broken from a large biscuit of Scottish shortbread, myself, but Clara had discovered Dundee cake and carefully picked all the almonds from it to eat afterwards.

“I will permit you to leave the almonds if you do not like them,” I said.

“Oh, I like them, mama, I just like them better out of the cake,” she said, seriously. Well, to each their own, and we  had no audience to censure her for playing with her food; I am just glad to get her to eat anything, for she picked at her food when we first had her.

“Feeling better?” I asked. She gulped the last of her milk, and nodded, solemnly.

“I said I wouldn’t mind if they wanted to use it as the under-label,” said Clara.

“What do you mean?” I asked, though I suddenly had an idea that I knew.

“Why, they paste a little label firmly in place, then put a larger one over it,” said Clara.

“Ah, well, Papa will frame your picture and we will hang it to remember a mostly very pleasant holiday,” I said. It pleased  Clara well enough.

 

I spoke quietly to Tony as we dressed for dinner; Emmie was helping Clara. She is a perfect maid for Clara, being  young enough to enjoy playing with dolls with her.

He stared.

“I need to get this information to Papa,” he said.

“No; I need to get the information to Papa,” I said. “They will watch you.”

“I will play cards with the other men in the evening instead of coming to bed with you,” said Tony. “I will tell them you have a megrim after being upset today.”

“Oh, how clever,” I said. “They will watch the door of my room, but probably not the window.”

I had a word with Emmie. My clever little maid knows most things about me, and nodded gravely over the importance of not letting Clara find out that I was not there.

“I will stay in her room, ma’am,” she said, earnestly.

“Get comfortable, and sleep,” I said. “I don’t know when I will be back.”

“The laird didn’t half lay into one of his men,” said Emmie, in satisfaction. “Told him how stupid he was to antagonise the guests by hurting their children.  The man said that she, by which he meant Clara, had seen something, and the laird cut him off and told him that the child wouldn’t understand what she saw. Of course, they were speaking their own uncouth idiom but I can follow it,” she added, with a sniff. Emmie also speaks fluent French, for I taught her, and refers to it as ‘that heathen tongue of foreigners.’ I am very fond of Emmie.

 

We endured dinner, and Clara shyly thanked the laird for making her favourite Scottish meal to make up for her fright. As there was a bruise on her poor little face, he was well reminded of what had happened, and thanked her for not spreading the story about.

“I’m not a tattle-tale-tit, and you told Mama you would deal with him,” said Clara, scornfully. “But Mama was right to tell you, because bullies did not ought to make children have their little secrets.”

Had there been anyone who knew anything, that phrase would have given away a lot; Clara saw her father kill her mother and he told her to say nothing. It had frightened her so much that she had not spoken a single word until she spoke to me at Christmas last, and we adopted her. One day I would tell her that we help out catch bad people, but not yet. She did not need to have more secrets until she understood that there are good and bad secrets.

After dinner, I swept her off for her bath before bed in the antiquated manifestations of plumbing which passed for bathrooms in this ancient pile.

Me, I like things to look ancient, but have every modern convenience. What is the point of having inventors if you do not make use of them? The picturesque is for the eyes and the eyes alone. All other senses demand the most modern way of doing things so that the nose is not assailed by what should be carried by good drains, the ears not assaulted by pipes groaning as if the familial banshees are trying to learn the bagpipes and failing mournfully, and the taste buds not let down by food cooled by having to have it brought two miles or more down rambling corridors. Though I will say this, for the laird, he did have kitchens close to the dining rooms.

His drains needed work though.

You would have thought that if he was smuggling secrets he could have afforded to have his plumbing, in both directions, upgraded.

I let Emmie undress Clara in the usual way; which is to say, helping with things like the middle button Clara could not reach, and then came in to tell her a story. I extemporised a story about a family of rabbits whose laird was a supporter of Bonnie Prince Charlie, who dug an underground trench all around the camp of the rebels so that their tents collapsed, and dug through to the English camp to warn them of the impending attack. She was mostly asleep when I kissed her goodnight, and wanted to know only if the good bunnies were rewarded.  I promised her that they were, and she was making sleeping noises as I went out of the door.

It was time to get ready to leave.

                                                                            

adele rawlins ch 3 the poisoned man, part 3

 

Chapter 3 The poisoned man part III

 

I waited for the house to be quiet, and I got up and unlocked the door to the maid’s room, and eased her door to the corridor open.

I was glad I had done so; Basil sat sprawled in an easy chair outside my room. Presumably he had volunteered to watch me.

I went back into the bedroom, and opened the window, passing the rope around the bars. I took off my dress and pulled on my tight knit trousers, and over it a long, black knitted garment I had acquired from Mr. Cohen; he said it was called a ‘garnsey’ and was a fisherman’s garment. I belted it tight around me, and returned to the maid’s room. I went out of the window, and along the brickwork to the other end of the nursery, to tighten the knot of the rope, so that nobody could gain entrance to the room in which I was supposedly sleeping.  At least, not without a lot of male puffing and grunting with tools.

I went directly down, and in at what turned out to be Basil’s window. And if he was upstairs guarding my doors, he was not in his room.

Like the nursery, his room was at the back of the house.  And whilst he was elsewhere, I went through his papers.

I confess, I found his papers somewhere between disturbing and disgusting; I can only describe it as pornography.

Sickened, I restored pictures and writings of his perverse fantasies and moved out of his room. And it seemed to me that I needed to go first to Sophie’s room.  The master bedroom had an adjoining mistress bedroom, and a boudoir or sitting room for her, and a study for Engelbert on the other side of his bedroom. She had a davenport in her boudoir, and it was to this that I turned my attention.

Reader, my years as a burglar had taught me that there is scarcely a simple, innocent piece of furniture to be found, if it is made for the writing, it will have secret drawers for the concealment of such correspondence as are not for public consumption. I had often found caches of money in such places, some in currency so old that the owner du jour had surely not known of the secret drawer; and in one, some rather mouldy macaroons, possibly a treat not permitted to the diet of some poor old person kept on strict rations. As a result, I poked, pulled, turned and tried sliding various carvings, placed probes into anything which might be a recessed hole for a key or just to be pressed, and with sensitive fingers exploring, it was not long before the secret yielded to me.

I found a bundle of love-letters, which was disappointing. They were moderately steamy, but I, who am French, am not shocked by such things nor embarrassed in reading them, being perfectly ordinary in their sexuality and not twisted like Basil’s proclivities. I suppose that a man denied a healthy love life will turn inward and find less than salubrious concepts, but it was a relief to read about Sophie’s lover’s frank but straightforward discussions of their time together.

His name was Dimitri Raskolnikov, and he urged her over and over to try to see her husband’s blueprints of the propellers for ships.

Well, now! That made things clearer.

Sophie had sold out to a foreign power.

Or rather, as some of the tender phrases became more and more formulaic and platitudinous, Sophie had been targeted by a foreign power, and was, judging by the tone, proving difficult at times in being dismissive over her husband’s silly drawings ‘which don’t even look like anything.’ The poison seemed to have been suggested by Dimitri, to confuse Engelbert’s mind, something which had come close to succeeding.

I abstracted the three letters which were of the most interest, and was about to exit the room when I heard Basil’s limping tread on the stair.

Reader, I fled into Sophie’s bedroom and up onto the top of the half-tester bed, where embroidered excrescences hid me from casual sight; and I doubted that Basil could climb in any case. He did not come into the front rooms, but went into his own, and presently went back up the stairs again. I heard his voice, and went up one or two stairs to hear what he was saying.

“I thought I might entertain you by reading,” he said, supposedly to me, the other side of the door.

The revolting fellow had gone to get some of his vile stories to read out!  How shocked a little girl of sixteen that I was supposed to be would have been! I have long held that it is unfair to suppose that those with twisted bodies also have twisted minds, but Basil appeared to live down to that uncharitable view.

I had to get out of this place.

I went out of Basil’s window, and back up to the maid’s room, pausing to untie the rope on my bedroom door. I slipped in cautiously, and moved with care, so as not to alert him with any noise. I went and chose a simple gown, and some boots to wear, a coat and bonnet, and returned to the maid’s room. Here I ate the rest of the veal pie and ham,  as I tied up the clothes in a sheet. I tossed them out of the window, and climbed down, donning them inside a bush in the kitchen garden, and covering my somewhat bloodied fingertips with good York tan gloves.

I walked to Geoffrey’s abode, and let myself in, to await the return of my husband and parents-in-law from church.

 

I confess, I dozed off on the chaise-longue, under the gay quilt Marianne keeps on it.

 

oOoOo

 

 

When the family arrived home, I flung myself into Tony’s arms, and reader! I have to confess it, I sobbed hysterically.

Tony sat down on the chaise-longue and pulled me onto his lap.

“What the devil happened?” he demanded.

“She locked me in the nursery with enough food to keep a gnat alive, and Basil used his key, as they all fit, and tried to debauch me,” I sobbed, succinctly.

“I’m going to kill him,” said Tony.

“I didn’t let him get near me, and I jammed the doors, and I have the information for Papa, but oh! He was reading filthy stories through the door while I was pretending to be locked in, and I… I just had to get away.”

“Dear God!” said Geoffrey. “I would never have asked you to go there if I had any idea you would be so badly treated.”

I managed a hysterical giggle.

“Perhaps you should tell them that as I fled the place, they won’t be made trustees of my million pound estate,” I said.

Geoffrey sniggered.

“How appropriate,” he agreed.

He did not ask about the information, but I could see he was agitated, and I pulled myself together.

“I have the honour to report to your lordship…” I began.

“That’s for the navy; just tell Papa,” said Geoffrey.

“If I do it formally, it hurts less to consider the universal rejection and unkindness,” I said. “I cannot think your friend to be much of a man, for he has no control at all in his own household. Even though I stole food there was no outcry, which suggests that servant peculation is common enough, and hushed up by the upper servants. I was referred to as a ‘foundling,’ though at least Robert Ogrington pointed out I was clearly of their class. To the rest, I was something dragged off the street. Sophie was clear enough that the servant who brought such food as I was given told me that missus hoped I’d either submit or ask to be allowed to leave.  I had an evening meal of pea soup and two pieces of thinly-buttered bread, and a morning meal of a bowl of gruel and a pot of tea. That was it. I had no candles, no firewood or matches to light a fire, a single thin blanket, and if I had not put on my Garnsey and lit the fire, I might have been seriously ill, especially as I had no drink until the tea in the morning.”

“Oh, my dear!” cried Geoffrey. “Your dedication to the country is noted, and I will pass it on.”

“I stole a carafe of water as well as food,” I said, “But I was deeply scared for a while, with bars on the windows.”

I described how I had managed to get into the maid’s room, which had no bars, and also taken possession of the key to that room.

“I must apologise for Engelbert not seeing to your comfort and safety better,” said Geoffrey.

“I accept that he is weakened from the poison, but I do not accept that he is so despised in his own home that his hospitality is abused,” I said. “However, it was Basil who gave me the key, in mentioning Sophie’s fancy-man, and that he believed her to be poisoning Engelbert in his morning tea. He did not, however, see fit to warn the brother who had generously opened his home to him.”

“Nor did he respect his brother to attempt to lay lewd hands on someone who was presented as his ward,” said Geoffrey, grimly. “I will be speaking with Engelbert about this, and I will see that Basil is sent rightabout.”

“I doubt he could hold a trade,” I said.

“He can sit on a stool as a clerk,” said Geoffrey. “He hangs on Engelbert’s sleeve, and if he had a wholesome avocation like painting or poetry or novelising, why, that can be accepted, but not when a man goes beyond what is proper with a young girl. I am shocked.”

“Parbleu! So was I,” I said. “But it is plain that your culprit is Sophie, and I don’t even know if she realises she is killing her husband or whether she assumes merely that he will be confused; her, she is a most stupid woman, and selfish, and mean, and all she cares about is her own comfort. I despise her.”

 “You may be assured, I will make many things plain to the whole family,” said Geoffrey, grimly. “I cannot arrest a lady of her age for treason, but I will be asking for her lover to be sent back to Russia as persona non grata and I will make her own role as a traitor plain to her.”

“She won’t understand,” I said. “Papa, it would be far better if a naval architect drew a propellor which was wrong… I don’t know if I am right, but would not the wrong angle create nothing but turbulence?”

“Cavitation,” said Geoffrey, a smile spreading across his face. “My dear daughter! You are a wonder. I will have Engelbert draw up such a thing, and leave it where Sophie may pass it to her lover.”

I smirked.

“And then, you need not wonder who is the spy in the Russian embassy, for you will know, and can set a watch on Dimity Rashspotsoff,” I said.

“Dimitri Raskolnikov,” Geoffrey corrected me absently. “Indeed, I like it very much. I am certain that my superior will agree; Kilvert Holmes will appreciate the irony. He’s in need of cheering up; his son, Mycroft, is just three years old, and is into everything, which would be less trying if he did not already read fluently and is capable of working out compound interest on his pocket money if it is given to him late.”

“A prodigy!” I said. “He will be director of her majesty’s secret service when we retire.”

“No doubt,” said Geoffrey. “I can use your exploits to show Holmes that it is not a waste to educate women; though I fear Sophie is evidence to the contrary for him.”

“No, Papa!” I said. “It is precisely because Sophie has not been well-educated that she has been so foolish; she has no idea of the importance of a drawing of the proposed propulsion system of a warship, and that is why she has been used by an unscrupulous spy, taking advantage of her lack of knowledge as much as her silly nature.”

“Why, there is much in what you say,” said Geoffrey.

 

 

Reader, that was the end of it for me, officially; but I was pleased to learn that Geoffrey dropping the comment that Tizia was so displeased with her treatment that she sought others to be the trustees for her considerable fortune caused much distress. Sophie feathered her metaphorical oars in an attempt to turn against the current she had set herself in and Geoffrey sneered at her.

What, did you think I did not row when at university as Edward Fairfax? I was never a rowing blue, but I performed ably enough.

And Dimitri dropped her like a hot chestnut as soon as he had her drawing, which I assume was one of the factors in the total naval supremacy of the Royal Navy over the Russian fleet, as was to be ably demonstrated in a few more years’ time when we entered the Russian war in the Baltic and on the Crimean peninsula.

As to Basil, he had not managed to do anything for which to be taken in charge; but it came out that he had told Sarah some of his filthy stories from the time when she was fourteen, and she had been at first terrified when Denis Allbright showed an interest in her. The young man was, however, thoroughly wholesome, and had allayed her fears.

When Sarah confessed this, Denis laid Basil out.

“Now I know which filthy person it was who so scared my poor darling!” he said.

“My own brother!” cried Engelbert. “Well, I cannot have such a man in my household any longer.  I have some lands, however, in Jamaica, and he shall go there as a bean counter, where the fever and the ague may eat him up.”

I confess, the idea of Basil having to cope with tropical heat, hurricanes, and with a bit of luck, sharks, filled me with vindictive pleasure.

Once Sophie had fulfilled her function in foisting disinformation onto the Russians, Engelbert separated from her, and paid for her to live in seclusion in a small house in Slough. Where one might hope she was despondent.

 

Adele Rawlins ch 2 the poisoned man part 2

 

Chapter 2 The poisoned man part II

 

Reader, I had been preparing to work for Geoffrey for a while, the moment I suspected that he would be happy to make use of my skills; and I had told him that I was happy to be his agent in this. I had had Tony go into York, with my measurements, to a tailor, claiming to carry the measurements of a crippled lad for whom travel was too painful to come himself. I had commissioned black trousers in a knit fabric, to stretch, and rather than just straps under the feet to have full feet in them, like those of acrobats. A tailor would sympathise at such a lad, preferring not to have to put on stockings as well. And I put light soles under the feet myself, and a lining of light chamois within, to preclude having to wear drawers with them, for chamois may be treated with talc to draw forth sweat and oils. I had prepared also a kind of miniature bourdaloue in gutta percha, with a rubber tube to one of Mr. Faraday’s balloons, and a one-way valve, so I could relieve myself on long waits, which I confess had tried me somewhat when lurking to steal back Halliwell’s family ring from that wretch, Deverill. I did not anticipate needing such specialised equipment here, but the reader should not think that I had neglected preparation.

 

“I’ve prepared a room for you,” said Mrs. Ogrington. “Of course, you will not expect to mingle much with the family, so you will eat in the nursery near your bedroom.”

“Ah, you put me in the quarantine, but I assure you, coaching accidents are not contagious,” I said.

No, reader, I had not intended to make waves, but oh! You know my temper, and how it fuels my sarcasm. And I was glad to see the woman blush.

“Why have you not prepared a guest room?” asked Mr. Ogrington, sharply. “And there is no question about poor Tizia being made to eat on her own; how would you feel if it had been you and I who died, and her father treating Sarah in such a way, for we made mutual agreements of care, you know!”

Basil gave a bark of laughter.

“She wouldn’t feel anything, bro, if she was dead,” he said.

Mrs. Ogrington was scarlet.

“Accidente! It is of no moment to me to eat alone, Uncle Engelbert,” I said. “I would not wish to be poisoned by the milk of human unkindness.”

“How dare you suggest anyone would poison you, miss!” cried Mrs. Ogrington.

“You mistake, signora, it is but the atmosphere which poisons, and I will be pleased to stay away from the family who wish me elsewhere,” I said.  “Che Schifo! The Good Lord does not reside in the hearts of any of you.”

“The child is observant,” said Basil. “Poisoned by the milk of human unkindness, I like that, it suits you down to the ground, Sophie.”

“She is pert,” said Mrs. Ogrington.

“When I see that I am to be treated with despite whatever I do, I will not hide how I feel,” I said.

“She has been given cause,” said Mr. Ogrington, with an edge to his voice.

“We did not ask to have a foundling foisted on us, Papa,” said Sarah.

“Hardly a foundling; the child of a colleague of mine in the foreign office,” said Ogrington.

“I’m sure we will warm to her soon enough, but it is sudden,” said Robert Ogrington, pacifically. “She is, after all, plainly of our own class, and not some child from the street.”

“I am sure my lawyer will make some other arrangement for me, as soon as possible,” I said.

“Enough! You must stay in the nursery for the time being, as that is the room set aside for you. I will call for a maid to show you the way, and you can settle in.” Mrs. Ogrington declared.

“Bello! I have the start of a migraine, and I must sleep it off.  It has been very hard to have to bury both my parents and then treated by the family I have been left to as if I am a dog from the street,” I said, lifting my head and looking down my nose, as Mrs. Ogrington rang the bell, and a servant was told to take me to my room.

I took a dislike to the maid as well, whose name was Eliza, and who looked as if she was smelling sour milk.

“You’re in the nursery here, miss,” she said. “And don’t expect no maid to help you dress and undress.”

“Oh, I do not expect anyone in this household to know how to do their job or behave with human decency,” I said. “You may go, Eliza.”

She flounced, but went more impressed than if I had been conciliatory.

I did go and lie down; I needed an impression on the bed and pillow in case I was checked up on. Indeed, Mrs. Ogrington did come to see if I had gone to bed, and I made little sleeping noises more unladylike than even a simulated snore, which every girl has heard from her dormitory mates if she has been to school. But not commonly the sort of noises a girl pretending to be asleep makes. She muttered something about it being awkward.

Reader, I hope that I am never so lost to charity as to make any bereaved and unwanted child feel unwanted. Well, I undoubtedly was unwanted, but I did not know then quite how unwanted by this woman at the moment.

I arose around six in the evening, and went to the door of the nursery.

It was locked.

So was my bedroom door.

Now, that was unfriendly.

I knew the family ate at seven, and doubtless I would be provided with something akin to a meal by some servant at about the same time, and I suspected the sort of tea which would satisfy a six-year-old would be what was my lot.

I was not happy; especially since my bedroom and the nursery had bars on the window. Me, I hate being trapped. It reminds me of the danger of being with Rochester, and, I think, some deep memory of his poor mad wife, who was a danger to all. 

I investigated my prison, and discovered that there was another room at the other end of the nursery, which belonged to the nursemaid when where were small children. The room was also locked, but there was a gap under the door, with a loose lintel which I removed. I found on the nursery shelves a magazine, which I opened, and was able to pass it under the door and poke out the key with the fine poker in my grate. I drew the pages back slowly, and though the paper and key were too thick to come through together, I drew the key right back to the gap of the lintel, and managed to grasp it and draw it back.

You ask why I did not use any of my lockpicking tools? Well, I did not want to give away that I had such tools or such skills.

I exited the maid’s room, and checked that this key also fit the outer doors of my bedroom and the nursery. Often this is the case, as the locks are all of one design, and it was indeed the case. I relocked everything and returned to the nursery, putting back the lintel, but concealing the key.

I was waiting when Eliza came in with a tray.

“Put it down and give me the key,” I said. “I am a guest in this house, not a prisoner.”

“Missus says you ain’t wanted and can stay put or go away,” said Eliza.

“Missus will get the rough edge of my solicitor’s tongue,” I said.

“I dersent,” said Eliza.

“Well!” I said. “You will at least oblige me by bringing me the rest of my dinner.”

“This is it,” said Eliza.

“Are you telling me that Miss Sarah eats so frugally?” I said, looking at the bowl of soup and two thin pieces of bread and butter. “Or am I to be starved as well as imprisoned?”

She shrugged.

“Ain’tnuthin’ to do wiv me,” she said.  “An’ she says if you don’t want it, I can take it away.”

“Well, you are delightful, and no mistake,” I said, with heavy sarcasm. “I think I can do without it and as you’re only the messenger, I won’t throw the soup at you.”

She flounced, and took the tray away, locking the door behind her.

I let myself out, having given her time to get downstairs, and went exploring.

The servants who were not serving and therefore busy were eating in the servants’ hall, Eliza complaining about being delayed by having to feed the foundling. I found a pantry, and filled a carafe of water, as thirst would be my main enemy, not having been provided with any drink, and helped myself to a generous amount of bread and ham, and a pie of some sort, a box of red phosphorus safety matches, since there was no means to light a fire in my grate, though there was plenty of coal, several pieces of kindling, and half a dozen candles, since there were no gas mantles, nor candles either.

She really did mean to starve me or dehydrate me and make me ill from cold and lack of light.

I had hoped to begin my search during the long evening meal, but having to sneak around to feed myself meant that I had lost a good half an hour, and that made the game not worth the candle.

I dined well enough on my ham, bread, and veal pie; and saved some of it for the morrow, if I was to be left to starve again. I hid the left-overs in the maid’s room, which had every appearance of still being locked against me.  I was, by this time, quite furious. However, there was nothing I might do tonight, and I took myself to bed, as rest is always good.

 

I awoke, suddenly, to find my door opening, and a candle being brought in.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s me,” said Basil. “I brought you some food; I understand you refused whatever gruel Sophie sent you.”

“That is very kind of you,” I said.

“I thought a pretty little thing like you, with nobody else in the world, might consider being nice to me,” said Basil. “It would be our little secret.”

I rolled off my bed, reader, and grabbed up the poker.

“Oh, I have heard from schoolfriends about people with ‘little secrets,’” I said. “Take your lewd thoughts out of my room now.”

Basil leaned back on the crutch he used.

“Bit of a virago, ain’t you?” he said.

“You have no idea how much of a virago I can be,” I said. “I won’t be fool enough to assume that your damaged legs will make you less dangerous; your arms are doubtless stronger in compensation.”

Reader, I was afraid.

He laughed, a mocking laugh.

“Oh, well, if you don’t want to have a bit of clandestine help in exchange for some fun, I’ll take away the food,” he said.

“Do; it makes me nauseous to consider what you want me to buy it with,” I said, with more distaste than grammar. “Get out.”

“Even for the key to your door?” he held that up.

“I had thought you were perhaps a single piece of leaven in the lump of this family, but I was wrong,” I said. “Get out. I will be barring the door with the chest of drawers.”

He laughed again and withdrew.

I knew he was laughing because he knew all the keys worked in all the locks.

I pulled the chest of drawers over this door into the corridor.

The other door, into the nursery, opened outward.

It had a fancy hook on the door for hanging one’s dressing gown or similar. It was ornate enough, and with strong enough screws to attach the rope used to tie up my trunk to it, and tie it to the bars on the window.

I smirked when the nursery door rattled an hour or so later.

“You bloody virago,” said Basil’s voice.

“I bite my thumb at you,” I said.

“Well, don’t expect me to save you when Sophie and her fancy-man poison you,” said Basil.

That was information.

Sophie had a fancy-man, and Basil believed her to be a poisoner.

“And what makes you think she really is a poisoner?” I asked.

He gave a rather cynical laugh.

“Well, someone is poisoning my brother,” he said.

“Eh… Accidente! Perhaps you should worry about that, and wondering if you will be next, rather than trying to debauch guests,” I said. I had almost said, ‘eh bien’ and I must be careful.

“You know, you’re a clever little girl,” he said. “I wouldn’t put it past her.  But I only eat from dishes she has partaken of; and she does not bring me tea in the morning.”

“A good man would warn his brother, if he believes this,” I said. “Now, go away; I have a headache.”

Reader, I did have a headache with all that was going on. He went away, however, and I did go to sleep.

I was rudely awakened by a hammering on the door to the nursery.

“What are you up to?” demanded Eliza’s unlovely voice.

“Protecting myself from Mr. Basil,” I said.

“Oh, he tried it on, did he? Well, he ain’t here now, so if you wants your breakfast, come and get it,” said Eliza.

I undid the rope, rapidly making myself up with the ease born of many years practice, and my pallid face with dark bags under the eyes peered out at her.

“Gawd! You look as if you died three days ago,” said Eliza.

“You’re no oil painting yourself,” I said.

“Huh, I hates Sundays, hustle bustle, and then hang arahnd in church and poked if you takes a nap,” said Eliza.

“I can’t go out,” I said. “I feel too ill. But I must drink something.”

“There’s a pot o’ tea an’ gruel,” said Eliza. “Miss Sarah has any eggs going, account o’ bein’ wiv child, they reckon.”

“I suppose that is fair,” I said. “I could not face a more robust breakfast, anyway.”

I drank tea, and ate the rather lumpy gruel, and it was gruel, not porridge. I did not manage all of it. I then went back to bed, and presented a ghastly face when Sophie Ogrington came to look in on me.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” she demanded.

“Perhaps being locked in without water, as well as a migraine,” I murmured.

“I’ll get you water; I don’t want you dying on us,” said Sophie.

No, I wager she wouldn’t want anyone investigating a death; it might spoil her plans with her husband, if Basil was right.

I murmured thanks, and let her lock me in with a carafe of fresh lemonade and a glass. Which I had to trust, for the reasons cited, that my death would be inconvenient.