Page 7 of Speculations in Sin

I knew she was trying to cheer me up, but I would not shun her offer. “Thank you,” I said sincerely as I got to my feet.

“Not at all. I have lost count of the number of times youhave assisted me. Good night, Mrs. Holloway. Let’s hope old Davis hasn’t had himself an accident.”

Again, her tone was nonchalant, but Mr. Davis’s absence was concerning.

“I will send word the moment he arrives home,” I promised.

Cynthia took herself away then, squaring her shoulders to return to her aunt and uncle’s company.

I remained in the housekeeper’s parlor, pondering things, until I heard Mrs. Redfern returning. At the sound of her footsteps, I snatched one of my cookery books from the shelf and pretended to be consulting it when she swept in.

“When I see Mr. Davis again, I will wring his neck,” was Mrs. Redfern’s greeting to me. “Waiting at table isnotwhat I was meant to do.”

“I’m certain he has a reason,” I ventured.

“It had better be a good one. Good night, Mrs. Holloway.”

Mrs. Redfern did not move, so I interpreted her farewell to mean I should leave her parlor. I replaced the cookery book, bade her have a good evening, and exited.

Tess glanced at me inquiringly when I returned to the kitchen, but I could not tell her the entire tale, as the servants’ hall was still busy, and Elsie and another maid chattered in the scullery.

“Tess, do you think Constable Greene might keep an eye out for Mr. Davis?” I asked her as I joined her at the table to mix dough for tomorrow’s bread. “Discreetly?”

Caleb Greene walked the beat on Mount Street and nearby roads and had fallen for Tess’s good nature and lively eyes. Tess had changed her day out to Saturday because it was also Caleb’s day off.

Tess edged closer to me. “Do you believe Mr. Davis got himself murdered?” she asked in a dramatic whisper.

“Certainly not.” My response was swift, but I felt a qualm. Robberies happened in London, and Mr. Davis was not the sort to tamely hand over his money. Ruffians could make short work of him and leave him by the side of a road, or push him into the river to be found days later by a boatman trawling for flotsam.

“What, then?” Tess asked.

I pulled my thoughts from their gruesome track. “I meant perhaps Caleb could find out if there have been any reports of incidents involving Mr. Davis. An accident, most like.”

“An accident?” Again, the whisper. “He might have been run down by a wagon, you mean?”

“Tess, do not be so theatrical. He might have gone out for a walk and tripped and fallen. Or lost his way somewhere.” Mr. Davis had lived in London for many years, so that was unlikely, but one never knew. “I am certain he simply has better things to do than rush home, but just in case, I’d feel better if Caleb had an ask around.”

“I’ll tell him.” Tess tapped the side of her nose, her voice quiet. “You leave it to me.”

I hoped I had not erred sharing my worries with her, but I knew Caleb would not instantly report the request to his superiors. He was a sensible young man and would understand our reluctance to involve the police.

“You go on up to bed now,” I said. “You did a mountain of work today, and I’m certain you are fatigued. I’d rather have you fresh for tomorrow, not dragging yourself about.”

Tess sent me a grateful look. “You’re that good to me, Mrs. H. I don’t deserve ye.”

“Enough of your buttering up. Go on.”

I pretended to ignore her and continued mixing the flour, water, salt, and starter, my hands squishing through the dough.Tess showed how much she’d learned about kitchens by not simply dropping the knife with which she’d been slicing dark green peppers for tomorrow’s soup and fleeing upstairs. She carefully put the peppers into a bowl and wiped off the knife, laying it next to my others, which I would wash and sharpen later.

Only then did she dance away. Two years ago, she’d have simply rushed out, leaving everything for me to clear up.

I finished mixing and kneading the dough, wiped my hands, and moved the bowl to the back of the stove to rest. Elsie made room for me in the scullery, where I washed up the knives and then took them to the table to dry and oil them.

Once Elsie and the others had finished their final duties for the night and drifted up to bed, I threw on a coat, took up a basket of food scraps, and hastened out the back door. I always carried unusable leavings from the meal to give to the beggars who crept into Mayfair in search of food, a good excuse to depart the house.

It was freezing cold tonight, and I wished I had blankets or coats to give the poor souls as well. As I distributed the food, I dispensed the advice to seek Mr. Fielding, the vicar at All Saints in Shadwell, who’d arrange for a warm place for them to sleep if need be. A bit of a walk in this weather, of course, but I knew Mr. Fielding would help.

A well-bundled lad slouched next to the gratings and didn’t reach for the food.

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