The Path of the Wicked Page 2

  In the evening, I put on my printed glazed cotton with guipure lace at bodice and sleeves, fastened my lucky dragonfly in my hair and told my housekeeper, Mrs Martley, not to wait up. Treading carefully to the gateway in new satin pumps, I gave one of the boys from the mews a few pennies to find a cab for me. Normally, I should have asked my unpredictable assistant, Tabby, to do it, but she’d gone wandering again. A case a few months before had strained our relationship badly and the damage was by no means healed.

  The house was in Kensington Gore, practically out in the country and an expensive cab ride. On the way, we passed a town house with the shutters up. Nothing unusual in itself, at a time when the fashionable world was beginning its migrations to spas or grouse moors, but this house was part of the reason why I did not want to exile myself to Cheltenham. It belonged to a man named Stephen Brinkburn. His father had died recently, so he was now Lord Brinkburn. His half-brother Robert and I were . . . well, what were we? Not engaged officially. Not even unofficially. We had cared very much for each other, but he had chosen to go travelling and I had encouraged him. Six months ago he had set off with a friend on a leisurely journey to Athens and probably beyond, which would take them away for a year or more. At first his letters had been warm and frequent, but now I hadn’t heard from him for months. Lord Brinkburn owed me a favour, and I’d fought a battle with my pride and decided at last to ask if he’d heard from his half-brother, but by the time I brought myself to that point, he’d shut the town house and gone to his country estate. I’d resolved to ask as soon as he got back. If the answer was yes, he heard from him regularly, then whatever had been between Robert and me did not exist any more. I sighed. With one thing and another, I needed whatever task Mr Disraeli was going to offer to divert me. I hoped it might be some scandal at the Foreign Office.

  At Kensington Gore, clouds were threatening showers, so the recital took place in the huge conservatory, with tropical birds fluttering free through swathes of palms and lianas. Seated behind a frangipane, I looked around for Mr Disraeli and caught sight of his wife, Mary Anne, at the end of a row near the front. Since she seldom left his side in public, that guaranteed his presence at least. She was wearing carnation-coloured silk and what looked like a matching turban, with fringes. On a stage between tubs of orange trees, Lucia di Lammermoor went decorously mad in white satin, her cadenzas competing with screeches from the macaws. At the interval, I collected a cup of coffee and walked into the garden. The showers had kept off and a smudgy sunset was staining clouds to the west. I waited on a stone bench by a pool where goldfish flickered, knowing he’d find me when he wanted.

  ‘Miss Lane, how nice to see you here.’

  His affectation of surprise was one of the customs of our meetings. I said nothing, trying to resist the feeling that with his presence the world became instantly a more exciting place, though not necessarily more dependable.

  ‘May I join you?’

  I nodded. There were enough people strolling in the garden to make our tête-à-tête acceptable. He sat down on the other end of the bench. He was wearing two or three gold chains and a brocade waistcoat that matched Mary Anne’s dress. Goodness knows how he’d managed to escape her.

  ‘What did you think of the soprano?’ he said.

  The hitch of an elegant eyebrow gave his own opinion. I couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘A very tasteful madness,’ I said.

  He laughed. ‘Yes, for a young lady who’s just stabbed her bridegroom, she was commendably restrained.’

  We sipped coffee and watched the goldfish.

  ‘The Home Secretary’s very worried,’ he said.

  Down to business. So no scandalous foreigners this time.

  ‘He has plenty to be worried about,’ I said.

  ‘The demands of the Chartists are very reasonable in many ways,’ Disraeli said.

  He knew my views and I didn’t try to hide them.

  ‘In every way,’ I said.

  ‘The problem is, the manner of asking.’

  ‘Isn’t signing a petition one of an Englishman’s rights?’

  ‘Indeed, but it doesn’t stop at the great petition, does it? There’s the question of riotous assembly.’

  ‘If peaceful marches turn into riots, it’s usually because the authorities are heavy-handed,’ I said. ‘If you call out the dragoons every time men are asking for food and employment, of course there’s trouble.’

  ‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ he said.

  It should have been a danger signal when he agreed with my opinion so easily, but I was too heated to catch it. He went on talking, eyes on the fish, voice serious.

  ‘The problem for the authorities is how to know in advance which marches and meetings are intended to be peaceful and which have been subverted by agitators who want to overturn everything in society. If the Home Secretary knew, for instance, more about the people who are involved in planning these demonstrations, he’d be in a much stronger position to decide which ones needed serious steps and which didn’t.’

  A cold feeling came over me as he was speaking.

  ‘So what has this got to do with me?’ I said.

  ‘You’re something of a radical; you can’t deny it.’

  ‘I’ve never tried to.’

  It was in my bloodline. My late father had been threatened with prison for openly supporting the French Revolution.

  ‘You have contacts among pamphleteers and so forth.’

  ‘Has somebody been spying on me?’

  ‘Of course not. The point is that you are in a good position to get to know some of the men involved and, from time to time, report on what they’re planning.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  The clattering of coffee cup on saucer warned me that I was literally shaking with anger. I clinked them down on the bench. Disraeli stared at me, seeming honestly surprised.

  ‘You’d be doing the honest men among them a favour,’ he said. ‘It would make it more likely that the genuinely peaceful gatherings wouldn’t be broken up by the police or army. Surely that would be worthwhile.’

  I stood up, dazed with anger.

  ‘So you’re asking me to be a government spy on the Chartists. I won’t say I’m sorry you hold such a low opinion of me, because after this your opinion doesn’t matter one way or the other. Goodnight.’

  As I turned away, I had a glimpse of his annoyed and puzzled face. In my anger, I lost my way in the rambling garden, stumbling over box hedges, my sleeves torn at by rose briars. By the time I found my way to a side gate, everybody else had gone in and the tenor’s voice in ‘Una furtiva lagrima’ came faintly from the conservatory. There were no cabs to be had as far out as Kensington Gore and by the time I’d marched all the way to Knightsbridge my satin shoes were shredded beyond repair. When I got home, I used them to stir up the ashes of the parlour fire, found pen and ink and wrote a note.

  Dear Mr Godwit,

  Since our meeting, I find myself unexpectedly free of my obligations in London. If you still require them, you may call on the services of Liberty Lane.

  TWO

  ‘Lively sort of place, Cheltenham,’ Amos said. ‘I was there when they burned down the grandstand.’

  My friend Amos Legge and I were taking our usual early-morning ride in the park, I on my thoroughbred mare, Rancie, he on a bad-tempered roan from the livery stables where he worked as a groom. I’d told him about Mr Godwit, but not about the meeting with Disraeli.

  ‘Grandstand?’

  ‘On the racecourse. Ten years ago, that was. Local preacher went around stirring people up about all the devilment that went on every July at the Gold Cup meeting.’

  ‘So did burning down the grandstand get rid of the devilment?’

  He grinned. ‘What do you think? They just moved the racing to another course not far off, and the devilment went on as usual. Still does, I daresay.’

  There was a faintly wistful sound to the last words.

  ‘I didn’t kno
w you knew Cheltenham.’

  ‘Place where I grew up was less than fifty miles away to the west. I worked for a while for a man who kept a racehorse or two. We used to lead them over.’

  Amos came from Herefordshire and talked about it sometimes as if it were the Garden of Eden – with cider. In spite of that, he hadn’t gone home for more than three years, since he set out with an employer to deliver a pedigree bull to a breeder near Paris. That was partly my fault. In Paris, our fortunes had come together and never quite parted. He was now the most fashionable groom in Hyde Park, with some high-class horse dealing on the side, and seemed in no hurry to return to a rustic life.

  ‘About time I went back for a visit, though,’ he said. ‘Business has gone quiet enough for them to spare me for a week or two. I could lead her down with me and drop her off at Cheltenham if you liked.’

  He nodded towards Rancie.

  ‘I’ll be working,’ I said. ‘What would I do with a horse?’

  ‘How are you going to get around without one?’

  It was a fair point. I was thinking too much like a Londoner, with cabs or hired carriages always to hand. Also, the prospect of country rides on Rancie was the first cheerful thing that occurred to me since the quarrel with Disraeli.

  ‘It’s a long way for you to ride and lead a horse,’ I said.

  ‘Hundred miles or so. Five or six days. Of course, it would be quicker if I wasn’t leading her.’

  ‘Then go by yourself and don’t worry.’ My voice sounded pettish from disappointment.

  ‘Quicker with you riding her, I mean. Probably do it in four days in that case.’

  As opposed to around half a day by fast stagecoach. But a long ride through summer countryside was a more pleasant prospect than being cooped up in a rattling vehicle with strangers.

  ‘Start the day after tomorrow, if you like,’ Amos said.

  I could tell from his voice that he’d picked up my thoughts and knew he’d won.

  ‘Amos, that’s far too early. I have things to do here.’

  But had I really? A few hours’ work would wrap up my current case. All I’d be doing in London was watching to see when the shutters came down on the Brinkburns’ house. Better altogether to get away.

  ‘You can send Tabby in the coach with the heavy luggage,’ Amos said.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for days. I’m not even sure she’d come.’ A sad admission since she was supposed to be my apprentice.

  ‘She’ll come if you tell her to,’ Amos said. ‘A bit of country air will do her good.’

  I was certain that Tabby wouldn’t see it that way, having no enthusiasm for life outside London. Still, by the time Amos and I parted at the gateway to Abel Yard it had been agreed that we should ride to Cheltenham together. The only change was that we should leave in four days’ time instead of two, leaving early on the following Sunday. I had preparations to make and another letter to write to Mr Godwit.

  By the magic of our new penny post, his reply arrived the day before we were due to leave.

  Dear Miss Lane,

  I am happy to agree to your terms as stated, including expenses, and look forward to your arrival, which, according to my best calculations, is likely to be in the middle of next week. You ask if I can recommend a nearby inn for yourself and your maid, with stabling for your mare. Since our local hostelry would hardly be fit accommodation and the hotels of Cheltenham are a good three miles away, I hope you may find it convenient to lodge in my bachelor establishment. My housekeeper heartily welcomes visitors, having so few, and is even now shaking the lavender out of her best sheets. My stables are modest and my groom fulfils a dual role as gardener, but I am sure we can accommodate your mare suitably and offer our own oats, hay and good grazing. If your maid would consent to share with our girl, Suzie, I am sure we could provide for her equally comfortably.

  I entirely understand your warning that you are not able to guarantee success. I assure you that even in agreeing so kindly to take up the case you are contributing very greatly to the peace of mind of Stephen Godwit.

  I liked the tactful mention of a housekeeper, giving respectability to the proposed arrangement. As for my maid, I’d mentioned in my letter that she would bring my heavy luggage by stagecoach, but Tabby had not reappeared. Tabby had been my assistant and apprentice, willing to be called my maid on occasion – though incapable of behaving like one – but in the last few weeks she seemed to have reverted to her street-urchin way of life. I’d seen her now and then in Abel Yard but could only get a word or two out of her before she disappeared again. I was worried, but knew that while she was in her present mood it would be no good trying to chase after her. I finished packing my small trunk with clothes, sketching materials and a few books, wrapped it in hessian, roped and labelled it with Mrs Martley’s help and then went down to the mews to find two lads to carry it to the alcove under the stairs, ready for the carter. There, sitting on a mounting block, looking every bit as disreputable as the ragged lads around her, was Tabby. Her eyes were sunken, cheeks pinched and pale. She didn’t look particularly pleased to see me, so I just said hello to her and offered twopence each to the two biggest lads. When they and I came back down with the trunk, Tabby was waiting in the alcove. She watched impassively as they set it down and were given their pay.

  ‘You didn’t need to have paid them that much,’ she said. ‘Penny was enough.’

  I sat on a step of our staircase and signed to her to join me. From the smell, she’d given up washing. I resisted the temptation to move up several steps.

  ‘I’m going away for a while,’ I said. ‘Not long, probably.’

  ‘Oh, you are, are you?’

  ‘I thought you might like to come with me.’

  She considered.

  ‘D’you need me?’

  ‘I might. For one thing, I need somebody to see that trunk to a village near Cheltenham.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Quite a long way.’

  She knew London down to the darkest basements and alleyways. Further than that was either not far or a long way.

  ‘What are you going for?’

  ‘A case. There’s a man accused of murder.’

  ‘Did the one he murdered deserve it?’

  Tabby’s and the law’s idea of justice seldom coincided. That was part of the problem between us.

  ‘It was a woman, a governess, so probably not. And I don’t know if he did the murder. That’s what we’re supposed to find out.’

  More consideration, then a grudging concession.

  ‘If you want me to, I’ll come.’

  Details were settled through the rest of the day. I booked a place for her, travelling outside, on the Berkeley Hunt stage from London to Cheltenham, leaving three days after Amos and I started, so that we should arrive at approximately the same time. She listened impassively to instructions from me about visiting the bath house round the corner, washing her hair in anti-lice tincture and getting out her respectable grey dress from wherever she’d stored it or pawned it. I gave her three sovereigns, broken into silver and copper coins, for the expenses of the journey and wrote Mr Godwit’s address on a piece of card so that she could show it to people when she arrived in Cheltenham. It was a risk, sending her on her own so far from her usual haunts, but perhaps it would lift her out of her sullen mood. Amos came round in the evening to bring a couple of saddle bags for the things I’d need on our journey and to ask what we should do about Rancie’s cat, Lucy. It was a problem that hadn’t occurred to me until then.

  ‘We can’t take the cat with us, but will Rancie settle without her?’

  ‘Need be, I could put her in one of my saddle bags,’ Amos said. ‘But the cat’s happy where she is. Rancie should settle, long as you’re there.’

  I was worried that the cat might pine without her companion, but Amos said she was on friendly terms with the little hackney in the next box, so we decided that Lucy could stay in Bayswater. When Amos had gone
, I packed a few necessities into the saddle bags and reread a hurried letter from my brother Tom, sent from Cairo. He’d be at sea again now, on his way back to Bombay. I missed him dreadfully – another reason for wanting to be away from London.

  As agreed, Amos was down in the yard at first light on Sunday morning, holding Rancie and a dark bay charger I hadn’t seen before. It was a great heavy-headed beast, over seventeen hands high, and the first thing he did as soon as we’d mounted and were moving along the mews was snort in terror and perform a four-footed sideways leap at the sight of a small stray dog. Amos urged him on as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Does he often do that?’ I said.

  ‘Only two or three times a minute.’

  It turned out that the animal, named Senator, was a reject from the cavalry, with the looks of a war horse and the nerves of a white mouse. He’d have had a bullet through the brain by now if Amos hadn’t bought him at a knock-down price and determined to cure him of shying. He thought a journey of several days cross-country, with the start of it being along some of the busiest roads in the kingdom, was just the prescription. By the time he reached his home county, he reckoned he’d have taught Senator enough manners to make a gentleman’s hunter out of him and would sell him to pay his expenses for the journey. This made for a lively first day, first along the familiar main road route over Hounslow Heath, then turning north-westwards and stopping for the first night at an inn near the Thames at Cookham. When we arrived there, as always on our travels, Amos switched from friend to groom. As I followed the maid upstairs to my room, it was a respectful ‘Early start tomorrow, then, Miss Lane’ from Amos down in the hall. It had worried me in the past, but I knew now that he preferred it that way. In any stable yard in the country, Amos was guaranteed to meet an old friend or find a new one among the grooms and ostlers and join that network of gossip from the horse world that was so much part of his life. There was another woman staying at the inn, which meant ladies and gentlemen could all, with propriety, dine together at the parlour table.