Loving Lily (Fair Cyprians of London 6)

“No, Mr Montpelier, that is true enough. No flair! The boy’s got no flair or flamboyance, that’s wot me mam allus used ter say. Only way ’e’ll earn a crust is if ’e goes inter service an’ does wot ’is betters tell ’im ter.” Mrs Moore gave a satisfied sigh. “But yer surprised us all, yer did, Mr Montpelier, when yer showed yer ’ad nouse ’an nerve.”

“’Twere a grave risk, Mrs Moore—”

“An’ yer didn’t get away wiv it, neither, Mr Montpelier. Stealin’ yer master’s cufflinks like yer did. Yer got caught an’ the fancy footman were no better’n than the rest o’ us. I remember ’ow yer did like ter show o’ that fine liv’ry o’ yours. ’Fought a bit o’ gold braid made yer better’n than the rest o’ us, didn’t yer?”

“I was promoted ter valet ter me gennulman, I weren’t no footman.” He sounded offended, but Mrs Moore was already running on, “I still can’t fink what got inter yer. Stealin’! Fer yer nevva were a chance taker, that were fer sure. Can’t imagine ’ow yer didn’t bungle it even more an’ end up swingin’ from a noose.”

“I meant only ter relieve ’is lor’ship o’ ’is cufflinks long enough ter buy meself a train ticket ter the asylum an’ see fer meself if the incredible story I’d ’eard ’bout the poor madwoman who maybe weren’t mad were true.”

“An’ if ’is lor’ship’s sojournin’ in that Froggie land ’and’t taken

yer so close ter the asylum, wot them dinner guests ’ad bin talkin’ ’bout the night afore, yer wouldn’t ’ave ’ad the chance ter see fer yerself, eh?” Mrs Moore hiccupped in pleasure. “But the story ’bout the poor beautiful ol’ wife, discarded like a piece o’ flotsam, were true enough.”

“There’s the rub, Mrs Moore. She looked like a bit o’ flotsam; a bag o’ rags when I saw ’er. I nearly turned tail an’ fled back ter me master wiv his cufflinks afore ’e ’ad a chance ter realise any o’ us ’ad gone.”

“‘Cept yer used yer nouse, Mr Montpelier. Yer ’fought o’ the girl’s potential an’ ’ow she ’ad no one an—”

“‘Twere a prison guard wot said she were a fine beauty when she were brought ter ’em an’ as a bit ’o victuals would set the matter ter rights...an’ that she’d not ’ad a bout o’ madness since she’d got there, when I asked ’im.”

“So, yer kept the cufflinks which was diamonds, not paste, an’ got the lady an’ now we’se rollin’ in muck, eh? An’ wot’s more,” Mrs Moore went on, punctuating her conversation with a cackle, “The Widow Renquist came back this mornin’ an’—dead set—but she all but put it in writin’ that she wants me ter ’old a séance ter find ’er dead ’usband’s killer. Or ’is body, more like. She’s comin’ back t’morra. Says if we can come ter an agreement that makes it worth ev’ryone’s while, she wants ter ’old the ’ole smoke an’ mirrors palaver next Thursday.”

“Well, well. That’ll keep Mrs Eustace useful a while longer,” said Mr Montpelier with a chuckle. “Wot’s the widow off’rin’?”

There was a tense silence. And then Mrs Moore said with glee, “Fifty ter fill the place wiv suspects, Mr Monpelier. People wot might o’ seen ol’ Renquist round St John’s Wood where them bloodstains was found.” There was a long, tense silence finally broken by her wheezing whisper, “An’ a thousand if we find the body or get us a murderer.”

Mr Montpelier seemed lost for words. Lily certainly was.

“A thousand? Lor’, Mrs Moore, I ain’t sayin’ I don’t b’lieve yer but –”

“Mr Montpelier, the widow Renquist is a rich woman who wants ter remarry.” Mrs Moore clapped her hands. “She can’t do that fer seven years if the body o’ ’er ’usband ain’t found. ’Tis worth at least a thousand if we can do that.”

Lily’s brief excitement gave way to the pragmatic realisation that of course they couldn’t do that. How foolish to have let hope bear her up for even a moment.

Mr Montpelier clearly shared her view for he said, “Now, now, Mrs Moore, don’t get ahead o’ yerself. If we can secure fifty jest fer a few sessions communin’ wiv this so-called mort cove, then we’se doin’ well. ‘Ow do yer s’pose we ‘ave any ’ope o’ doin’ wot the constabulary can’t?”

“Why, Mr Montpelier, ’ave yer no imagination? We will publish the story in the newspapers. ’Twill bring the punters in droves an’ somewhere ’mongst them all will be the killer who will lead us ter the body. My dear cousin, I’s read ’nuff o’ them penny dreadful detective stories ter know ’ow it’s done. I b’lieve we can do it!”

“Publish? Who’ll publish?”

Lily peeked again through the folds of the curtain that sheltered her, to see the smug smile that nestled amidst the folds of Mrs Moore’s heavily powdered face. Mrs Moore looked far more indomitable than Lily felt. “Any newspaper or magazine wot likes ter serve up wot the public likes ter read will be fallin’ over themselves ter come ’ere an’ photograph Mrs Moore the Magnificent, Spiritualist an’ Spirit Communer.”

“Wiv all due respect, mayhaps a photograph o’ a young an’ winsome creature might whet the public appetite more. Photographed wiv yer, me dear cousin,” Mr Montpelier added hastily. He made an expansive gesture with his hands, unusual for him, but then it was clear he’d offended the mastermind of this little plan. “Experience an’ beauty, Mrs Moore.”

Mrs Moore greeted this with a harrumph. “The girl will ’ave ter be veiled. Course, ’er appearance can be apprehended, not but that she don’t ’ave a nice shape ter ’er. But the ’int o’ ’er youth an’ beauty will be sufficient. That boy wot checks on ’er from time ter time says she’s a good ’un wot don’t go out wivvout bein’ veiled though more like it’s cos she’s terrified ’o bein’ recognised an’ returned ter that ’usband o’ ’ers.”

Just the thought of being returned to Robert and her former life was enough to make Lily’s mind close down for a second. She took a deep breath to try and push aside the horrors of her former life; silently entreating the heavens that this not be a precursor to the insanity that robbed her of all her faculties. Life with Robert, and life in the maison, were both tantamount to death sentences.

Mrs Moore rose. “Now Mr Montpelier, ’tis comin’ up ter time an’ Mrs Eustace should be ’ere by now. Go an’ sees if she’s waitin’ in the cellar an’ I’ll nip ter me chamber an’ prepare meself. If Lor’ Lambton were in tears last week, ’es goin’ ter be gnashin’ ’is teeth an’ blubbin’ like a baby afore ternight is ’frough.”

Chapter 12

In the warm offices of McTavish & Son, a battle of wills was taking place.

“But it’s wot the public wants, guvnor,” Archie protested, causing Hamish to bang his fist onto the table with more energy than he’d intended.

Hamish—Archie’s boss, superior and editorial director—reminded his minion of his status, drew in a breath and said in a measured but warning tone, “If I published what the public wanted, we would be written off as purveyors of filth and immorality.”

“I ain’t sayin’ ter lower the tone, guvnor; I’m jest sayin’ as yer are missin’ an opportunity when the public—rich an’ poor—’ave gone spiritualist mad. Why, this Widow Renquist seekin’ out yer Mrs Moore ter discover wot ’appened ter ’er ’usband is the perfect occasion fer me ter lug me equipment across town an’ photograph all them wot’s in the audience, jest like Mrs Moore respectfully requests.”