But inevitably, she drew herself up and glared—first at him, then at Sylvia. “How dare you come to my door and accuse my sons—who are well on the way to becoming staunch, upright citizens just like their late father—of acting in such a manner! It’s outrageous!” As if, in her panic, her mind had searched for and found a solid defense, she swung her glare fully on Kit and all but spat, “You said I had no proof that the students set the fire. Well, do you have any proof that my sons were involved?” When Kit didn’t reply, the intensity of her glare increased. “Well?”
Kit inclined his head. “As yet, we’ve nothing beyond your attitude and their opportunity—”
“There you are, then!” Mrs. Stenshaw flung out a dismissive hand. “You have no grounds on which to persecute me and my sons over that fire.” She waved curtly at the gate. “Now kindly take yourselves off.”
Kit reached for Sylvia’s arm, but before he stepped back, he met Mrs. Stenshaw’s eyes. “As you will shortly see from the sign that will go up over the front door of the hall, the school is now operating under my aegis, as well as that of the Dean of Christ Church, with the full support of the Abbey.”
Mrs. Stenshaw made a scoffing sound and, her glare still in place, waved them off her porch.
With pointed politeness, Kit nodded. “Good day.”
Setting Sylvia’s hand on his arm, he turned and steered her down the steps and on toward the gate. He could feel her vibrating with barely suppressed anger.
Behind them, he heard Mrs. Stenshaw shuffle back and the door close.
He halted on the pavement.
Sylvia drew her hand from his sleeve and swung to face him. “You saw her expression—she’s worried her sons were responsible for the fire and hopes that we’ll go away.”
He grimaced. “We’ll have to hope that when her sons come in, she reads them the riot act, and that they’ll leave the school alone from now on.”
Sylvia snorted softly. “Youths like that are rarely the sort who pay attention to their mother’s prohibitions.” She crossed her arms, gripping her elbows. “Worse, having set the fire, been suspected, yet not being brought to face any sort of justice will only strengthen the belief her sons likely already hold that they are immune—that they can act like that and get away with it.” She shook her head. “It will be only a matter of time before they try something else—try to damage the school in some other, more drastic way.”
The hackney they’d taken to Peabody’s and back had halted by the curb a little closer to the river. Kit gently grasped Sylvia’s arm and urged her toward it; as she fell in beside him, her gaze on the pavement, he murmured, “Short of finding more damning evidence, I can’t see what else we can do.”
She sighed, raised her head, and rather glumly admitted, “I know. I just wish we could be sure there won’t be another incident—”
“Psst!”
The sound had them both halting and looking to their left—to where a boy of about ten stood just inside the runnel that ran along the side of the Stenshaw house. The pale oval of his face peered out at them from the shadows. He was dressed neatly enough, suggesting he was a servant at one of the nearby houses.
Seeing he’d caught their attention, the boy beckoned them closer.
Curious, they approached.
The boy cast a swift glance behind him, then, when they reached him, whispered, “I saw them two do it—set the fire behind the school.”
“Saw who?” Kit asked. “Which two?”
Impatiently, the boy tipped his head at the Stenshaw house. “Her two—Cedric and James. No others around here as nasty as they are.”
Kit glanced at the front of the house, but they were out of sight of the bow window. Looking back at the boy, Kit crouched and mildly asked, “What’s your name? And how was it you saw them?”
“I’m Oliver, but everyone calls me Ollie.” Ollie looked up at Sylvia. “You’re the lady from the school—I’ve seen you over there.” He returned his open gaze to Kit’s face. “I knew Cedric and James were up to no good when they told me to fetch the lamp oil—the whole jar. It’s not as if they’d ever stir themselves to fill any lamps. When I gave them the jar, they took it, and they was whispering to each other and laughing as they went out of the back door. I saw they’d stuffed rags in their pockets, so I followed them. I snuck down this alley after them and across to the school. I crept along the alley down the side of the school, and I peeked around the corner. They was stacking wood from the hall’s woodpile against the back door. Then they pulled out the rags from their pockets and got them all wet with the lamp oil—they used it all up—then they stacked the rags on top of the pile in a ball.”
Ollie paused, then said, “Could’ve told them that wasn’t going to work, but I didn’t want the hall to burn down, so I kept mum. Then Cedric got out his tinderbox and lit the rags—they went up with a whoosh! That was when I scarpered.”
He looked up at Sylvia. “I didn’t dare yell out or anything—they would’ve found me and beaten me bloody.” He drew in a breath and said, “So I got back to the kitchen, and they came in a few minutes later, laughing and clapping each other on the back.”
Ollie wrung his hands. “I knew it was all wrong, what they’d done. I’ve heard the missus ranting and raving about the school coming to the street, but at least schools like that give boys like me a chance, and it’s wrong of the Stenshaws to try to get rid of it just on account of they don’t like it.” Ollie looked miserable. “But I didn’t dare tell anyone what I’d seen.”
Kit laid a hand on Ollie’s shoulder. “You’ve been brave to come and tell us.”
“But if they”—Ollie tipped his head toward the house—“hear I’ve spoken up, I’ll lose me place and be out on me ear quicker’n you can blink. And me ma’s dead, and so’s me da, and I’ve nowhere else to go.”
Lightly gripping Ollie’s thin shoulder—in case the boy’s courage gave out and he bolted—Kit met Sylvia’s eyes, then looked back at Ollie. “Do you like working for Mrs. Stenshaw?”
Ollie looked at him as if he was insane. “Lord no! She’s mean to everyone. Folks only work here until they can find somewhere better.”