Page 76 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Audrey hurried to keep up with him. The courtyard-like interior was packed with men dressed in striped shirts and caps. They were sitting on benches and stools, or directly upon the dirty, wet flagstones. A few were hammering stones to break them; some were working mortar with pestle, grinding some whitish dust. With a shudder, she noticed a collection of animal bones piled nearby. The men glanced up at her with sharp, assessing eyes. Some mean and desperate, others hopeless. Audrey quickly looked away, wondering how anyone at a place such as this freed themselves of these walls.
The man led her to an office, dim and smoky and smelling of a peat fire. Another man, equally scraggly, with a soiled shirtfront and stained underarms, sat in a chair, his heels upon his desk.
“What’s this, Grover?” he asked, bringing down his heels as his eyes set upon Audrey.
“Lady says it’s about money due to us,” Grover, the porter, replied, unable to mask his excitement.
Audrey’s stomach dipped; perhaps she should have thought of another excuse.
“I’m here on behalf of the Marchioness of Wimbly. It seems one of the footmen from the benefit luncheon she recently hosted is due a wage and left before receiving it. I am to locate him.”
The pair of men quizzed each other with a glance, then shifted it to Audrey.
“What’s his name, this footman?” the master asked.
Heat flashed up her back and out along her shoulder blades at this unexpected question—though she should have expected it. To be caught so unaware worried her. What more had she not taken into consideration?Fool. She’d acted rashly, out of desperation and panic.
Her mind scrambled to produce some answer. “That is, well…something of a challenge. You see, the butler cannot recall the man’s name.”
“Then how’re we supposed to find him, eh?” the master retorted.
She licked her lips, more heat rising to her cheeks. “Perhaps if I could take a list of names back to the butler, he would recognize it.”
The master spread his arms out. “I don’t got no list of names, do I? Grover. Who do you recall went to thissoiree?” He dragged out the last word as if it was an amusing joke.
The porter pinched his brow, as though thinking. “Billy Parker, Jim Gent, Charlie Harris I know went because he nicked a bottle of gin from the—” Grover caught himself and cleared his throat. “Well, never mind that. Let’s see…Hobarth went and he said Fellows was there too…”
He kept listing names, but Audrey’s attention snagged on that last one. Fellows. In her vision, Lady Wimbly had whispered, “Fellow! Put that knife down.”Audrey had thought the address odd at the time, but now realized she might have been calling him by his name.Fellows, not fellow.
“Fellows,” she said, cutting off the porter. “Yes, I think that is him.”
The warden frowned. “Thought you said you couldn’t remember the name.”
“It just came to me now, hearing Mr. Grover say it,” she said lightly, adding in a giggle to appear even more vapid—and hopefully, easy to dismiss.
“MisterGrover. Ye hear that?” the porter said, rocking back onto his heels and pulling at his stained collar. The warden scoffed. “Fellows paid his debt and sprung from here a few days ago, miss.”
“Do you know where I might find him?”
The workhouse master leaned forward, forearms flat on the desk, chapped hands clasped together. “The board of guardians hasn’t seen no coin from the marchioness and yet Fellows is to get his first?”
“Oh, well, ah…Mr. Fellows was so competent that I am also to pass along an invitation to interview for a permanent position.”
She could imagine Mr. Marsden, rolling his eyes at the weak fib. The master sneered. “Fellows, eh? Must’ve turned over a new leaf, him.”
The porter at her side snorted. “Fellows, in service to a fine house?”
The footmen on display at Lady Wimbly’s luncheon had appeared rough, without the polish most men in service have, but something told Audrey that these men were doubtful for more reasons than just Fellows’s appearance.
She cleared her throat. “If you wouldn’t mind sharing where I can find him?”
“He’s got a shanty now. Bragging about it, he was. The Jackdaw,” Grover said.
A shanty? “And where does he moor it?” she asked.
The master sat back, no longer interested in her visit now that he knew she had no money for him. “The Thames of course, near St. Katherine’s wharves. Ain’t a place for a lady goin’ alone, mind you.”
Audrey exhaled, her chest expanding. “Thank you, I’ll be sure to bring someone with me.” She backed out of the office, eager to be on her way and find the person she did, indeed, plan to bring with her.
