Page 84 of Murder in Blackfriars

The next afternoon, however, as I snatched a few momentsto continue, my fingertips tingled when I found a name that was the same as one on the lists Miss Townsend had showed me. I wasn’t certain it was an exact match, but I copied it out, tore the page from my notebook, and handed it to Cynthia when she passed through the kitchen.

“Check that one,” I said quietly to her as she caught up a fresh bun and put it into her pocket.

Cynthia took the paper with interest, promised me she’d look into it, and hurried out.

Daniel arranged things for me to go to the workhouse near Mrs. Kerr’s former abode, and I departed Saturday afternoon after sending up the luncheon.

Mr. Fielding arrived in the kitchen to escort me himself. Mrs. Bywater fussed over him, urging me to hurry and go, as Mr. Fielding’s missionary work wouldn’t wait. I donned my second-best frock, buttoned my coat over it, and departed with him.

We walked along Mount Street toward Berkeley Square, looking every inch a poor parish vicar and a domestic on her day out. Mrs. Bywater would no doubt conclude that we’d walk soberly and sensibly all the way to the East End.

A hansom was waiting for us, it turned out, in Hanover Square, with Lewis driving and Daniel inside.

“You have been busy,” I said to him as Mr. Fielding handed me in.

Lewis waited until Mr. Fielding had mounted the step before pulling into the street. Mr. Fielding landed beside me, dropping his clergyman persona.

“It amuses me that you use my apparent piety to lie to your employer to escape your bonds.” Mr. Fielding chuckled. “We’ll make a confidence trickster of you yet, Mrs. H.”

I sent him a prim look. “I told Mrs. Bywater we were goingto a parish workhouse in the East End to consult with the vicar there. Which we are.”

“That is the best way to dissemble, you know,” Mr. Fielding said. “Keep your tale as close to the truth as possible, and don’t embellish.”

“Thank you for arranging things,” I said to Daniel, ignoring Mr. Fielding, who continued to be amused. “I hope I can find out more about Mr. Banks and his family. He is rather elusive.”

“I think he was more polite and self-effacing than he was a man of secrets,” Daniel said. “Everyone I have spoken to about him has agreed that he was always good-natured but spoke little of his past life. I have heard that experiencing distressing events, like the terrible battles at Sebastopol and Balaklava, can make a man withdraw into himself.”

“Poor soul,” I said. “I am convinced he was only trying to do you a good turn, Daniel. He was killed for his pains.” I clenched my gloved hands on my lap. “Did Mr. Ramsay recover enough to tell Acting Inspector Scott who attacked him?”

“He is still insisting he didn’t see the man and can’t describe him. I believe he thinks his reticence on the point will save his life.”

“Perhaps it will, if he well knew who’d tried to kill him,” I said. “Well, we can only hope Acting Inspector Scott proves more frightening to Mr. Ramsay than the would-be killer.”

“I’ve met Sergeant Scott,” Mr. Fielding said. “Beg pardon, Acting Inspector. I well believe he can be.”

I agreed. All we could do now was wait until Mr. Ramsay saw sense.

Traffic was thick this Saturday afternoon, and it took us some time to arrive at the church of St. Simon Zelotes and its workhouse and school.

The vicar, called Dr. Boland, was a thin man in his fiftieswith iron gray hair. Daniel had contacted him since I’d told him my wishes Thursday afternoon, explained what we wanted to know, and set the appointment. Dr. Boland now met us and escorted us into his offices behind the church’s sacristy.

“Very pleased to see you again, Mr. Fielding,” Dr. Boland said, shaking that man’s hand first, then Daniel’s. “Mr. McAdam.” He bowed to me but didn’t offer his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Holloway. Come, let us sit.”

He waved us into a large but stuffy bookcase-lined chamber with several straight-backed chairs drawn into the middle of the room. A place for Dr. Boland to meet with his parishioners, I surmised, or for those parishioners to have meetings of their own.

“Some sherry, I think,” Dr. Boland said as we seated ourselves. “Always welcome, especially on a blustery day.” He trickled pale liquid into glasses at the sideboard.

Mr. Fielding, who must be a bit fed up with offers of sherry, made a face when Dr. Boland’s back was turned but managed a grateful smile when Dr. Boland handed the glasses around.

I sipped politely, though sherry was far too sweet for my taste. It did well in a syllabub, though, or a sweet custard.

Dr. Boland settled into a chair with a sigh and downed most of his sherry in one gulp. “I’ve asked around a bit about Mr. Banks,” he said. “But I don’t know what I can tell you. My predecessor was here when Banks would have attended church, if he ever did. He didn’t come to the workhouse with the rest of the children you told me about. I did dredge up the records of that.”

He swiveled in his chair to open a drawer in a table behind him and pulled out a ledger. He handed the ledger to Daniel, instead of Mr. Fielding, who only sipped his sherry as serenely as possible.

“Nine children, brought in by Mr. Gordon Patterson in August 1855,” Dr. Boland said. He pointed a thin finger at the page Daniel peered at. I could see, upside down from my perspective, that date and the names beneath it. “As you can see, only a month later, six of them had run off. Never heard from again.”

Daniel ran his gaze down the list, then turned the book around and handed it to me.