Page 8 of Silence of Deceit
ChapterThree
Hugh arrived at Delia Montgomery’s boarding house early the next morning. Lark Street was like most of the streets in Lambeth: narrow, busy, and poor. This was a corner of London he had unfortunately been to countless times to arrest all sorts of unsavories. That the Duchess of Fournier had been acquaintances with a woman who resided here, had brought her in for tea, and passed along her fine clothing to her, continued to puzzle him. Their shared experience at Shadewell must have bonded them on some level, though Miss Montgomery’s reasons for being there had to have been vastly different than Audrey’s.
Sleep had been impossible when he’d returned to Bedford Street. Frissons of relief still worked their way through his limbs whenever he recalled seeing Audrey on the stairs at Violet House, alive. Still, the fact that she had known the murdered woman clung to his mind like a thorn. How was it that she could have a connection to yet another murder victim? Was she cursed? Was it somehow linked to her unnatural ability to read objects?
As he stood outside the boarding house, his hands in his pockets, Hugh felt the clump of calling card stock between his fingers. He’d removed the ruined cards from the silver case earlier that morning. The duchess would not be needing them, but the casewasher property, and it was only right that he return it. If the case showed her something that could help provide information on the poor woman lying in the bone house, all the better. While considering the potential benefits and pitfalls of involving Audrey any further, Hugh had absent-mindedly picked at the stack of card stock. Peeling them apart, one by one, he'd found something unexpected: they did not all belong to the Duchess of Fournier.
He'd made up his mind and had sent the case off with Sir, whom Hugh had found in his kitchen breaking his fast. Mrs. Peets had taken to having toast and two hardboiled eggs ready for the lad come eight o’clock. If he was polite, she brought out the jar of marmalade. If he was surly, she made him wash his own dish afterward. That morning, he’d pocketed the second hardboiled egg and strutted off with the parcel for delivery to Violet House.Make sure it gets to the duchess—not the duke,he’d instructed, and Sir had winked theatrically.
Hugh had agreed with Fournier that Audrey should not involve herself. He’d resolved to investigate as thoroughly as he could and send a note to the duke and duchess, informing them of his findings. Contacting Audrey would be improper, and after the quarry pit ledges, even the slightest hint of familiarity would be disastrous.
And yet, he’d paced his study, then lain abed, wide awake, unable to get her hurt expression out of his mind. If he had never learned the truth about her mother and uncle sending her off to an asylum, treating her as though she was not only a freak of nature, but worthless enough to abandon for two years, Hugh might have been able to brush off that wounded look, or the glassy hint of tears pricking her deep blue eyes before she’d averted them. Though she wore a near impenetrable mask of indifference, their treatment of her had injured her thoroughly. Lastingly. Hugh could not endure the thought that he might have as well.
And when he’d seen the other cards among her own, he’d known Audrey had more information to give.
Hugh brought his fist down upon the door to the boarding house. A woman appeared after a few moments, a skeptical glint flattening her eyes.
“What d’you want?”
“Miss Delia Montgomery.”
The woman pulled her worn shawl over her plain gray dress as she stood within the threshold. “She ain’t here.”
Behind her, the entrance hall to the home was dark and drab, with yellowed paper on the walls and little adornment.
“When did you last see her?” he asked.
“A week or so, I’d guess. Why? Who’re you?”
“Principal Officer Marsden from Bow Street.”
The woman pressed her lips thinly. “What sort of trouble did Delia get herself into now?”
“Is she apt to find herself in trouble?” he asked, intrigued by her question.
She pulled the shawl tighter. “Nothing too terrible. Though, some fancy gowns she turned herself out in lately made me suspect she pinched them.”
If Delia had worn Audrey’s cast-off ballgowns here, she would certainly have stood out.
“This your establishment?” he asked.
She wiggled her shoulders a bit, something he’d witnessed many people do when they were preparing to tell a falsehood. “It is. Name’s Mrs. Roy.”
The emphasis she placed on “Mrs.” let Hugh know she was not, in fact, married. Most housekeepers and landladies advertised themselves as married for propriety’s sake. It didn’t necessarily mean this woman was not to be trusted, but he would tread carefully.
“Does Miss Montgomery share her room with another boarder?”
True boarding houses often double or triple stacked each room, but instinct told him that this house might have been a bit different than a run-of-the-mill lodging place. It wasn’t uncommon for women to use rooms to sell themselves and for landladies to act as madams. Prostitution was not illegal, of course, and though there was a ban on keeping a brothel, Bow Street did not arrest women for it. Molly houses, on the other hand, were a different story. Just last year, a molly house had been raided and the men within it arrested and pilloried. Beyond that incident, a handful of men had been hung for gross indecency as well. It was unfair, but Hugh didn’t make the rules.
“She did—Winnie—but I let the room to another when Delia cleared out her things and took off.” The woman jerked her chin. “What is this about, Runner?”
“Is Winnie here?” Hugh pressed.
“No. Now either tell me what Delia’s done or shove off.” She grabbed the door, as though intending to slam it in his face.
“Miss Montgomery is dead, and I want to know how she came to be that way.”
He watched the woman’s reaction, waiting for something to clue him in to guilt. But she reacted appropriately: lips parting, facial muscles going slack, eyes softening at the corners.
