3
APRIL TILSLEY BURST INTO Maisie’s office at the Female Hospital, dressed to the nines in scarlet silk and fox fur, carrying a newspaper and saying: “Have you heard what’s happened?”
Maisie stood up. “April! What on earth is it?”
“Micky Miranda shot Tonio Silva!”
Maisie knew who Micky was, but it took her a moment to remember that Tonio had been one of that crowd of boys around Solly and Hugh when they were young. He had been a gambler in those days, she recalled, and April had been very sweet on him until she discovered that he always lost what little money he had in wagers. “Micky shot him?” she said in amazement. “Is he dead?”
“Yes. It’s in the afternoon paper.”
“I wonder why?”
“It doesn’t say. But it also says—” April hesitated. “Sit down, Maisie.”
“Why? Tell me!”
“It says the police want to question him about three other murders—Peter Middleton, Seth Pilaster and … Solomon Greenbourne.”
Maisie sat down heavily. “Solly!” she said, and she felt faint. “Micky killed Solly? Oh, poor Solly.” She closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands.
“You need a sip of brandy,” April said. “Where do you keep it?”
“We don’t have any here,” Maisie said. She tried to pull herself together. “Show me that paper.”
April handed her the newspaper.
Maisie read the first paragraph. It said the police were hunting for the former Cordovan Minister, Miguel Miranda, to question him about the murder of Antonio Silva.
April said: “Poor Tonio. He was one of the nicest men I ever opened my legs for.”
Maisie read on. The police also wanted to question Miranda about the deaths of Peter Middleton, at Windfield School in 1866; Seth Pilaster, the Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank, in 1873; and Solomon Greenbourne, who was pushed under a speeding carriage in a side street off Piccadilly in July of 1879.
“And Seth Pilaster—Hugh’s uncle Seth?” Maisie said agitatedly. “Why did he kill all these people?”
April said: “The newspapers never tell you what you really want to know.”
The third paragraph jolted Maisie yet again. The shooting had taken place in northeast London, near Walthamstow, at a village called Chingford. Her heart missed a beat. “Chingford!” she gasped.
“I’ve never heard of it—”
“It’s where Hugh lives!”
“Hugh Pilaster? Are you still carrying a torch for him?”
“He must have been involved, don’t you see? It can’t be a coincidence! Oh, dear God, I hope he’s all right.”
“I expect the paper would say if he had been hurt.”
“It only happened a few hours ago. They may not know.” Maisie could not bear this uncertainty. She stood up. “I must find out if he’s all right,” she said.
“How?”
She put on her hat and stuck a pin in it. “I’ll go to his house.”
“His wife won’t like it.”
“His wife’s a paskudniak.”
April laughed. “What’s that?”
“A shitbag.” Maisie put on her coat.
April stood up. “My carriage is outside. I’ll take you to the railway station.”
When they got into April’s carriage they realized that neither of them knew which London terminus they should go to for a train to Chingford. Fortunately the coachman, who was also the doorman at Nellie’s brothel, was able to tell them it was Liverpool Street.
When they got there Maisie thanked April perfunctorily and dashed into the station. It was packed with Christmas travelers and shoppers returning to their suburban homes. The air was full of smoke and dirt. People shouted greetings and farewells over the screech of steel brakes and the explosive exhalations of the steam engines. She fought her way to the booking office through a throng of women with armfuls of parcels, bowler-hatted clerks going home early, black-faced engineers and firemen, children and horses and dogs.
She had to wait fifteen minutes for a train. On the platform she watched a tearful farewell between two young lovers, and envied them.
The train puffed through the slums of Bethnal Green, the suburbs of Walthamstow and the snow-covered fields of Woodford, stopping every few minutes. Although it was twice as fast as a horse-drawn carriage it seemed slow to Maisie as she bit her fingernails and wondered if Hugh was all right.
When she got off the train at Chingford she was stopped by the police and asked to step into the waiting room. A detective asked her if she had been in the locality that morning. Obviously they were looking for witnesses to the murder. She told him she had never been to Chingford before. On impulse she said: “Was anyone else hurt, other than Antonio Silva?”
“Two people received minor cuts and bruises in the fracas,” the detective replied.
“I’m worried about a friend of mine who knew Mr. Silva. His name is Hugh Pilaster.”
“Mr. Pilaster grappled with the assailant and was struck on the head,” the man said. “His injuries are not serious.”
“Oh, thank God,” said Maisie. “Can you direct me to his house?”
The detective told her where to go. “Mr. Pilaster was at Scotland Yard earlier in the day—whether he has returned yet, I couldn’t say.”
Maisie wondered whether she should go back to London right away, now that she was fairly sure Hugh was all right. It would avoid a meeting with the ghastly Nora. But she would feel happier if she saw him. And she was not afraid of Nora. She set off for his house, trudging through two or three inches of snow.
Chingford was a brutal contrast to Kensington, she thought as she walked down the new street of cheap houses with their raw front gardens. Hugh would be stoical about his comedown, she guessed, but she was not so sure of Nora. The bitch had married Hugh for his money and she would not like being poor again.
Maisie could hear a child crying inside when she knocked on the door of Hugh’s house. It was opened by a boy of about eleven years. “You’re Toby, aren’t you,” Maisie said. “I’ve come to see your father. My name is Mrs. Greenbourne.”
“I’m afraid Father’s not at home,” the boy said, politely.
“When do you expect him back?”
“I don’t know.”
Maisie felt let down. She had been looking forward to seeing Hugh. Disappointed, she said: “Perhaps you would just say that I saw the newspaper and I called to make sure he was all right.”
“Very well, I’ll tell him.”
There was no more to be said. She might as well go back to the station and wait for the next train into London. She turned away, disappointed. At least she had escaped an altercation with Nora.
Something in the boy’s face bothered her: a look almost of fear. On impulse she turned back and said: “Is your mother in?”
“No, I’m afraid she’s not.”
That was odd. Hugh could no longer afford a governess. Maisie had a feeling that something was wrong. She said: “Might I speak to whoever is looking after you?”
The boy hesitated. “Actually, there isn’t anybody here but me and my brothers.”
Maisie’s intuition had been right. What was going on? How had three small boys been left totally alone? She hesitated to interfere, knowing she would catch hell from Nora Pilaster. On the other hand she could not simply walk away and leave Hugh’s children to fend for themselves. “I’m an old friend of your father … and mother,” she said.
“I saw you at Auntie Dotty’s wedding,” said Toby.
“Ah, yes. Urn … may I come in?”
Toby looked relieved. “Yes, please do,” he said.
Maisie stepped inside. She followed the sound of the crying child to the kitchen at the back of the house. There was a four-year-old squatting on the floor bawling, and a six-year-old sitting on the kitchen table looking as if he were ready to burst into tears at any moment.
She picked up the youngest. She knew that he was named Solomon, after Solly Greenbourne, but they called him Sol. “There, there,” she murmured. “What’s the matter?”
“I want my mama,” he said, and cried louder.
“Hush, hush,” Maisie murmured, rocking him. She felt dampness penetrate her clothing and she realized the little boy had wet himself. Looking around, she saw that the place was a mess. The table was covered with breadcrumbs and spilled milk, there were dirty dishes in the sink, and there was mud on the floor. It was cold, too: the fire had gone out. It almost looked as if the children had been abandoned.
“What’s going on here?” she said to Toby.
“I gave them some lunch,” he said. “I made bread and butter and cut some ham. I tried to make tea but I burned my hand on the kettle.” He was trying to be brave but he was on the brink of tears. “Do you know where my father might be?”
“No, I don’t.” The baby had asked for his mama, but the older boy wanted his father, Maisie noted. “What about your mother?”
Toby took an envelope from the mantelpiece and handed it to her. It was addressed simply Hugh.
“It’s not sealed,” Toby said. “I read it.”
Maisie opened it and took out a single sheet of paper. One word was written on it in large, angry capital letters:
GOOD-BYE
Maisie was horrified. How could a mother walk out on three small children—and leave them to fend for themselves? Nora had given birth to each of these boys, and held them to her breast as helpless babies. Maisie thought of the mothers in the Southwark Female Hospital. If one of them were given a three-bedroom house in Chingford she would think herself in heaven.
She put such thoughts out of her mind for the moment. “Your father will be back tonight, I’m sure,” she said, praying it was true. She addressed the four-year-old in her arms. “But we wouldn’t want him to find the house a mess, would we?”
Sol shook his head solemnly.
“We’re going to wash the dishes, clean the kitchen, light the fire and make some supper.” She looked at the six-year-old. “Do you think that’s a good idea, Samuel?”
Samuel nodded. “I like buttered toast,” he added helpfully.
“Then that’s what we’ll have.”
Toby was not reassured. “What time do you think Father will come home?”
“I’m not sure,” she said candidly. There was no point in lying: children always knew. “But I tell you what. You can stay up until he gets here, no matter how late. How’s that?”
The boy looked somewhat relieved. “All right,” he said.
“Now, then. Toby, you’re the strongest, you can bring in a bucket of coal. Samuel, I believe I can trust you to do a job properly, you can wipe the kitchen table clean with a rag. Sol, you can sweep up because—you’re the smallest, so you’re closer to the floor. Come on, boys, let’s start work!”