Page 8 of Speculations in Sin

“It’s a bit chilly to be waiting to run an errand, James,” I told him.

The tall young man who was Daniel McAdam’s son grinned down at me. He’d grown at least a foot since the day I’d met him.

“I never feel it, Mrs. H. What do you need me to do?”

3

“Is your father about?” I asked James casually.

Daniel had recently gone to Ireland to do who knew what for Scotland Yard. Upon his return, he’d visited as usual but could not tell me what he’d been about. On my day out closest to Christmas, he’d taken Grace and me to a pantomime, which Grace had adored. After that, he’d become elusive again, which I knew meant he was helping the police solve various crimes.

“He’s around somewhere,” James answered with his usual bonhomie. “Want me to fetch him?”

“He is not a bushel of potatoes,” I said. “I’m not certain he wants to be fetched.”

James laughed, eyes dancing. “He won’t mind if it’s for you.”

“Don’t be cheeky, young man.” I spoke admonishingly, but simply standing near James could lift one’s spirits. “If he has the time, I would like to speak with him on a matter.”

“Right you are, Mrs. H. I’ll find him.” Touching his cap, James sprang from the pavement and sprinted down MountStreet in the direction of Berkeley Square. He was correct that the cold darkness seemed to not affect him in any way.

I suspected he’d be hurrying to the house in Southampton Street, south of Covent Garden, where Daniel took rooms. Daniel also had a small house in Kensington—at least he’d had at one time. He moved where it suited him, and one never knew in which dwelling he’d be found. That is, I never knew—Daniel usually told James where he’d be, thankfully.

“The young’s always in a hurry,” an older man who’d taken a few of the food scraps said to me. “I remember them days like they was yesterday. Funny fing, missus. I don’t feel like I’m more than nineteen in my head, but my body tells me a different tale.” He chuckled, his breath wheezing.

I fumbled in my pocket and slipped him a coin. “You get indoors as soon as you can. The vicar in Shadwell is a…kind…man and will see that you’re warm tonight.” I stumbled over the wordkind, but there was no proper adjective to describe Mr. Fielding.

“Thank ye, missus.” The man pocketed the coin without awkwardness and showed missing teeth in a smile. “Ye’re a good one, no mistake.”

He warmed my heart, but I hoped he would not simply use the coin for drink. I did not regret handing it to him, however, no matter what he did with it.

My basket empty, I bade the stragglers good night and returned to my kitchen.

Now, to wait for Daniel.

* * *

He never arrived. I stayed up as long as I dared, checking the dough, rearranging the bowls of ingredients for themorning meals, sharpening my knives, and making notes about recipes.

I gave up on Daniel at two in the morning and climbed my quiet way upstairs to my chamber.

I was too tired to wash up and had no desire to do so in water that had long gone cold in the basin. Climbing into bed, I shivered until the covers warmed me enough to let me sleep.

My dreams were of Daniel lounging in his small house in Kensington, his stockinged feet on an ottoman. I was there as well, insisting that his socks, full of holes, needed darning.

The dreams turned hazy, and I woke with the vague notion that I’d been trying to hide Grace, Joanna, and all her children in my tiny bedchamber while Sam languished at Dartmoor.

Not in the best mood, I descended to find the rest of the staff up before me. Mr. Davis had still not returned.

“Most vexing of him,” I said as I divided the bread into pans and set them aside for their next rise. My truncated sleep had left me less anxious and more annoyed. “Mrs. Redfern and I will have to cover his duties as well as our own.”

Tess was already toasting yesterday’s leftover bread on a rack in the oven. She removed the toast rack with tongs just as the bread became golden brown. After slathering the slices with butter from a crock, she stacked the toast into a dripping, warm tower and slid the next batch of bread onto the rack.

“I had a word with Caleb,” she told me. “I was up early this morning, since I had such a nice sleep. Nipped out and found him. He said he’d keep an eye out for Mr. Davis or any mention of him in the police reports.”

“Thank you.”

I tamped down on my churlishness. Mr. Davis was not an irresponsible man, and his absence might signal something dire. Other butlers I’d worked with had waltzed in and out asthey pleased, or been found drunk on the floor of the butler’s pantry, but never Mr. Davis.

---