“What did the doctor say, begging your pardon, Mr. Fitz?”
“He says you're a grand sort for a doctor's clerk, having spotted Miss Georgie's illness before she did herself. I'm afraid we're tied to Shurland until she is well, Gibbon.”
“That means a few days, at the least. And what of these murderous folk who're after your blood, if I may be so bold?”
“We shall have to hope they've lost me altogether.”
Gibbon shook his head, and held out the London Times. “I took the liberty of ironing the newspaper you brought back from Sheerness, as is usual—and I don't like the look of one item.”
Fitzgerald glanced at the column under Gibbon's blunt thumb. Noted Barrister Dead After Attack in Chambers—
“Sep,” he whispered, and took the paper from Gibbon's hand.
It was a sordid little piece, full of innuendo and speculation. Mr. Taylor had been known for his Radical views; an outspoken antimonarchist; given to pursuing his affairs even on the Sabbath, and disinclined to alter his habits in respect of the Prince Consort's tragic passing; almost justifiably, attacked and laid low in chambers—dying barely twenty-four hours later—and the summary capped with a pious little dismissal, that Septimus Taylor would be chiefly regretted among the miscreants of Newgate, whose interests he had principally served.
You deserved better, Fitzgerald thought; and wished the obituary scrivener a special rung in Hell.
It was the suggestion buried within the body of the article, however, that brought his brows together: that Mr. Taylor's partner, one Patrick Fitzgerald—having discovered the victim when he, too, profaned the Sabbath by venturing to visit chambers on the Sunday—had quitted London without consulting the police, who greatly desired to speak to Mr. Fitzgerald in connexion with Mr. Taylor's death . . .
“Have you read this?” he asked abruptly.
“My sympathies, sir. I know how you valued Mr. Taylor.”
“I shall have to leave Shurland at once.”
“With Miss Georgie—”
“Impossible. She'll stay until she's well—and you with her. It's myself the police are wanting. With Bedford Square empty, they'll look to the Inner Temple. And no doubt my chief clerk will help them kindly—he'll have received my bit letter from Shurland this morning. Faith, and the Law might arrive at any moment.”
“Beggin' your pardon, sir—but would it not be best to answer their questions? Surely you've nothing to fear—having done your utmost to save Mr. Taylor?”
Fitzgerald laughed. “Haven't you read it in the paper, man? The wild Irishman is to be charged with murder! Even did I prove my innocence, only think of the delay—the thwarting of our plans, the stripping of all protection from Miss Armistead, the frustration of our object—”
“May I presume, sir, to ask what that object might be?”
“You may not. You can't betray what you don't know.” He mounted the stairs, two at a time. “Be a good fellow and pack my things. We drive to Sheerness in half an hour's time.”
“Then let's hope the Bobbies give us so long,” Gibbon muttered.
Her door was ajar, so that Mrs. Coultrip might glance in from time to time without disturbing her patient; and as he stood in the glow of her single candle he could hear the laboured breathing. He ought to have continued down the hall to take his leave of Maude—he ought to have tiptoed past and allowed Georgie to discover his flight in the morning, when he was too far away to be persuaded. But he paused, staring at her. Her cheeks were too flushed above the white lace of her nightgown and he could sense the burning fever as though her skin were actually beneath his hands.
And suddenly what he saw was not Georgie, but another girl—a younger girl—her clenched fists raised to fight off the horror of night, in the form of a suffocating pillow—
A shout from below, ripe with anxiety.
“Mr. Fitz!”
He wheeled and made for the stairs.
Theo was standing before Gibbon, hands on his hips and mutiny on his face. But it was to Fitzgerald he spoke.
“You lied to me! But why am I surprised? When have you ever done anything else?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I asked if you were fleeing debts. You said not. But you lied.”
“Theo—” Fitzgerald moved impatiently down the stairs to his son.
“Appleford told me.” This was the Eastchurch blacksmith. “I took Clive over to be shod a few hours ago and he said the whole of Sheppey is buzzing about it—”
“About what?”
“The party of duns who're asking everywhere for Shurland Hall. A right pack of toughs Appleford said they were—led by a gent in an eye patch.”
Fitzgerald went cold. “A German? Dark-haired?”
“You see,” his son crowed in triumph, “you do know what I'm talking about.”
“But if they've been here all day,” Gibbon muttered, “why haven't they come to the Hall?”
“They're waiting for darkness.”
Something in the tone of Fitzgerald's voice stopped even Theo's words in his mouth. It was half-past four in the afternoon, and would be dark in a matter of minutes.
“Quickly,” Fitzgerald said. “I'll rouse Georgiana. You gather my things.”
“Father—”
He grasped Theo by the shoulders. “Listen to me, lad. Put Madame duFief and your mother in Coultrip's trap, and send them all to Sheerness. You can ride alongside. Take a gun.”
“Clive's feet are sore! I shouldn't mount him for at least a day—”
“Lead him at a walk, if need be, but get him and the rest away while there's still light. You've no thought what these men are capable of.”
“You make them sound like murderers,” Theo spluttered.
Fitzgerald glanced at him as he turned back to go up the stairs. “They are,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The dressmaker came direct from London today, with a fellow from Robinson's—the mourning warehouse most patronised by persons of Quality—and so I spent the better part of three hours in being fitted for my widow's weeds: a quantity of detestable caps, with a peak over the forehead; black flannel petticoats; gowns of black velvet, watered silk, and black bombazine, with its ostentatious rustle; black bonnets and shawls; black capes and undergarments; black feathers and black lace. I already possess several stout pairs of black boots, which must be a source of comfort; I detest being fitted for shoes.
And then it was for the girls to stand, and be dutifully measured for ells of mourning cloth: Alice and Louise, Helena and Beatrice—to see a child of four so sunk in mourning, is to cry aloud for Heaven's mercy. I took the fatherless child in my arms and thought what a picture we must make—I so oppressed with loss, she a vision of bewildered innocence. I must direct the Court photographer to consider of our poses.
The dressmaker dared inform my maid that all of London is submerged in black—no other shade is to be had at the linendrapers'—and that those who engage to dye lighter stuffs to mourning hue are doing a brisk business the length and breadth of the Kingdom. Robinson's cannot fill its orders fast enough, and must dispatch its goods by railway and private carriage. How extraordinary to think that Albert's death should occasion a surge in commerce. . . .
“Alice,” I said idly as she turned beneath the dressmaker's hands, “how do you like your new maid?”
“Not as well as Violet,” she replied. “But you must have suspected that, when you dismissed her.”
“Margaret is from the Highlands. She is one of our Scots. Her influence on you must be far more salubrious than that chit of a girl's.”