Page 19 of Murder in Blackfriars

Hannah had taken another large bite, and now she coughed, cream staining her lips.

“No, she did not.” Hannah glared at me as she swallowed.“Why in the name of the good Lord do you want your daughter to go to Basingstoke? I don’t even know where that is.”

While Grace explained to the amazed Hannah, I nibbled my profiterole, noting the pastry was a bit dry and the cream too runny. Yes, I needed to begin my stall as soon as I could to provide the punters of Portobello Road with much better fodder.

* * *

As the clocks were striking four, I arrived at the north end of Blackfriars Bridge.

The bridge, a wide and formidable structure, stretched its large iron arches across the Thames. The Fleet River emptied somewhere under my feet, its final exit to the larger river covered over by the relatively new road that led from the end of Blackfriars Bridge up into the City.

The railroad bridge ran alongside the one for foot and horse traffic, its iron span a narrow ribbon compared to the wide avenue that would carry me to Southwark this day.

At the moment, I was less enchanted with the bridge’s architecture and the sculptures of waterfowl carved on it and more concerned that fog shrouded its southern end. Also that Hannah was nowhere to be seen.

She’d been annoyed with me for not telling her straightaway that Grace was leaving London. I mollified her only slightly by explaining that Grace had wanted to tell Hannah herself.

Hannah had not been as impressed as I had been about Sam’s new post.

“Always the way, ain’t it?” she’d said. “The man has a bit of luck, and the womenfolk have to give up everything for him. It’s why I threw over my last bloke, who wanted to sell up androam to the ends of the earth, with me following him about and looking after him, if you please. So I bought him out and now do what I like.”

At least Grace had not blurted out her idea to stay in London and live with Hannah. She seemed to have given up the scheme, though I’d still spied an obstinate light in Grace’s eyes as we’d journeyed back to Joanna’s home.

I wondered if Hannah had been so irritated that she’d decided I could wander about Southwark in the cold and fog on my own. After all, I was letting my daughter travel far from me, when I’d implied not long ago that Hannah ought to keep a better eye on her son.

Being a mother was a complicated venture, I concluded with an inward sigh.

In the next moment, Hannah was beside me. I jumped, and she grinned at me, her good humor restored.

I hadn’t noted her approaching, and I wouldn’t have recognized her if I had. She’d donned a plain, slim-skirted, dark gray frock and a subdued, thin brimmed hat trimmed with only a hint of black netting. She also carried a furled black umbrella, ready for the rain that threatened.

It was the ensemble of a poor but respectable woman, the sort who survived by becoming the companion of a wealthier aunt or other relation. Garb that told people she would never dream of commanding attention for herself.

“What on earth are you wearing?” I demanded.

Hannah never lost her cheerfulness. “I didn’t pinch it, if that’s worrying you. Plenty of secondhand clothes in the market. I reasoned that no landlady would let me into a bloke’s rooms dressed as meself. We’ll be his grieving sisters or cousins, or some such, come to look after his things.”

“We’d better hurry,” I said. “Before the landlady inquestion clears out his chambers to rent them to the next man coming along. Good rooms to let are scarce.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Hannah slid her arm through mine and drew herself up in a dignified fashion. “Shall we, sister?” Her voice changed to the tones of a middle-class, virtuous woman who disdained lesser beings. Hannah was masterful, like Daniel, at absorbing herself into whatever role she chose.

We started across the bridge. The fog thickened as we strode along the walkway, while wagons, carts, vans, and drays rumbled heavily past us. The mist obscured the river below and was dense enough to thread itself through the stone balustrade.

By the time we reached the other side of the Thames, gas lamps were already being lit, casting eerie glows into the foggy air.

We passed the Blackfriars goods depot, where freight trains were being loaded with whatever had come off the docks. Busy Southwark Street led us to a jog that bent around to become Holland Street.

A brewery took up one corner of this road, coating the air with the thick odor of malt. Behind it rose a gasworks, its square tower poking grimly into the air, the upper reaches swallowed by mist.

Houses marched along in the tower’s shadow, including several boardinghouses. We inquired in two before we found the one that contained the lodgings of Mr. Howard Banks.

Hannah had been correct that the landlady would be suspicious.

The woman, who gave her name as Mrs. Duggan, listened to Hannah’s tale that we were cousins to Mr. Banks with a skeptical eye but didn’t immediately chase us off. Hannah embellished the story to say we’d not been close to Mr. Banks but were unhappy to learn of his death. Could we look in hisrooms and see if he left anything that had sentimental value to us?

“Police been here,” Mrs. Duggan told us. She had a lined, leathery face and iron gray hair and wore a gown as plain as Hannah’s. “Likely they’ve tossed his things all about. You’re welcome to cart away what you want, because I’ll have to sell the rest. Mr. Banks don’t have no solicitor or heirs as far as I know, excepting yourselves.”

“The police visited us as well,” Hannah replied in a somber voice. “It is very sad, though, as I say, we had become estranged from Mr. Banks of late.”