Page 75 of Murder at the Seven Dials
“You…want him to plead guilty?” she whispered. “You want him to say he lost his mind?”
“It is the best way forward,” he said. “I’ve a lunch today with Lord Westborough, the House leader, to discuss Philip’s immediate release into the custody of Gibbets Sanatorium. A stay there would certainly restore his mind and give the public some sense of peace—"
“Why would you do this?”
He peered at her with narrowed eyes. “Do what?”
“Give up on him! He isn’t the murderer!”
Michael shook his head and reached for her arm. “I understand this is difficult, but the evidence is damning.”
She jerked away. It was clear now. “You think he did it.”
He hardened his jaw and thinned his lips. Her eyes stung and filled with tears. Philip’s own brother believed he’d lost his mind and mutilated his lover.
She spun around, unable to look at him another moment.
“I know you’ve resisted going to Fournier Downs, but I must insist. If Westborough agrees to my terms, you should decamp before Philip is removed.”
She said nothing but felt her heart toll in her chest. His immediate release, Michael had said. They would send him to the sanatorium right away? Today, even?
Michael took his leave when she refused to look at or speak to him again. Her mind spun, her breaths came quickly.
The night before, she’d promised Mr. Marsden she wouldn’t go to Bow Street to ask Philip about St. John. She’d assented to him questioning Philip instead, and she was in twists wondering what he had learned. If only he would send a message or perhaps show up at the servant’s entrance again. But how could she stand by and wait? Especially now that Michael was so close to having Philip released into the custody of a sanatorium. It was just a nicer word for insane asylum. Just as Shadewell had been.
She couldn’t let it happen. Promise or no promise to Mr. Marsden, she had to find evidence against St. John or Lady Wimblynow. Before they took Philip.
The footman.He told Lady Wimbly the letter was tucked away safe, but surely not amongst his things at Wimbly Manor. The marchioness would have turned his room over to find it. Was he even living at the manor? Or perhaps he was back at St. Emmanuel’s. If she could get a list of the men’s names that the workhouse provided for the luncheon, perhaps she could share it with Mr. Marsden, and together, they could look for the one who had scratches to his face and neck. The odds were long, but it was all she could think of at the moment.
Audrey checked through the front window; Michael’s carriage had already left.
“Barton,” she called, and a moment later, the butler entered the room.
“Your Grace?”
“I’m going to my room. I don’t want to be disturbed, not even by Greer,” she said, then whisked from the sitting room.
No doubt the staff would believe she was sorely vexed by Lord Herrick’s visit; surely Barton heard their raised voices and would pass along the order for privacy. Going to her room and wallowing there seemed a natural thing for a lady to do after such a distressing conversation.
No one, not even Greer, would know Audrey had left Violet House. It was best they all thought she was abed. Sneaking out to visit a workhouse would even alarm her devoted lady’s maid. There was no other option, though. She had to find that letter, whatever it may contain.
She dressed quickly, choosing her plainest day dress, an olive linen with a puce spencer. The dress was still too fine for her to be mistaken as working class, but perhaps she would not draw too much attention to herself.
The adjoining door to Philip’s room was unlocked, and once inside, Audrey went to the door, listening closely for any footsteps. Hearing none, she slipped into the corridor and to the servant’s stairs at the back of the house. When no noise came from the stairs, Audrey took them quickly, pausing at the bottom, where they emptied into a hall off the kitchen. Voices drifted from the kitchen, but the washroom to the left was silent. She dipped into it, and the washroom door led to a minuscule courtyard. It was totally obscured by trellis and boxwood hedges, and Audrey walked toward the street without being detected. If Hugh had his young spy watching Violet House, he might not have even spotted her.
A hansom cab stopped for her along Curzon Street, and considering it was still daylight, she didn’t worry as she had when she’d gone to Jewell House past midnight.
It took about a half hour to reach St. Emmanuel’s, and still Audrey didn’t quite know what she was going to say once she arrived. Only when she was stepping down from the hansom and paying her fee did some half-formed idea come to mind. Philip’s imminent remittance to the sanatorium continued to drive her, and oddly enough, she didn’t worry about her own actions as she approached the stone edifice of the workhouse. It looked every inch the penitentiary it was for the poor men, woman, and children inside.
Audrey brought the solid iron knocker down onto the wood door, one of a pair, and larger than the barn doors to her carriage house. A small square of metal slid aside, revealing a window and a man’s face. The porter wore a hat and had a scraggly red beard, his skin underneath chapped and flaking.
“Wotcha want?” He peered at her as if she were no more than a fly on a horse’s backside. As shocking as it was, it was also welcome.
“I am looking for the master here,” she responded, attempting to sound firm. “It has to do with money due from the Marchioness of Wimbly’s benefit luncheon.”
She hoped the mention of money would open the door for her. The scraggly-bearded porter slammed the small window and then a moment later, the deep thunks of locks being thrown sounded. The door opened on massive iron hinges.
“This way, missus,” the man said, and immediately started away.
