Page 29 of Murder in Blackfriars

“Perhaps we can step to the road to speak further,” Mr. Fielding continued in his ingratiating manner. “I brought a few tracts with me we could discuss. Lady Cynthia, you will join us?”

“Of course,” Cynthia said, managing to sound sincere. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Mr. Fielding gave Tess and Elsie courteous nods as he led Cynthia and myself through the scullery and up the stairs to the street.

Once we emerged into a cool wind under a much sunnier sky than Thursday’s, Mr. Fielding suggested we walk around the corner to the churchyard behind Grosvenor Chapel.

“Mrs. Bywater will be able to watch us out of her sitting room window,” he explained. “We can appear to speak about serious subjects as we walk among the gravestones. Ladies?”

He guided us the short way to South Audley Street and then down the passageway that ran beside Grosvenor Chapel, a lovely, simple church I sometimes attended with the mistress. We moved through iron gates behind the church to the quiet green space beyond.

The churchyard was quiet. A man and a woman milled separately on one of the walks, whether looking for a specific grave marker or simply enjoying the peace of the place, I could not say.

The brick facade of another church graced the far end of the churchyard—Catholic, Mrs. Bywater would sniff with acute disapproval whenever she caught sight of it. I personally thought the church lovely, with its golden bricks and pointed arch over its stained glass window.

“What is this all about, Mrs. Holloway?” Mr. Fielding said once we’d wandered a bit. “I know you didn’t have Lady Cynthia invite me here because she thought I’d enjoy tea with her aunt.”

“I hoped you could find out about a person for me,” I answered. “She is deceased but was a resident of Bethnal Green. Thirty years ago, at least. I’m not certain when she passed away.”

Mr. Fielding’s brows rose. “That’s rather vague. A woman who died thirty years ago in Bethnal Green? I suppose I could have a look through parish records, but I’d at least need a name.”

“Mrs. Kerr,” I said. “I don’t know her Christian name, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Fielding lost the vacant expression he used in his role as genial vicar and eyed me sharply. “Who was she?”

“I don’t really know,” I confessed. “But it might be important.”

Daniel had not wanted me to tell Mr. Fielding about his quest for information, so I did not wish to confide anything too specific. I’d debated a long time before asking for his help at all.

But, as I’d mentioned to Daniel, Mr. Fielding was best placed to discover things in the East End without arousing suspicion. If there was, indeed, any suspicion to be aroused.

“Is our mutual friend, McAdam, on another case?” Mr. Fielding asked. “I thought he’d retired from the police.”

“Not entirely,” I answered. “It is a case, of a sort.” I had difficulty lying, especially to Mr. Fielding and his keen-eyed stare. “This would be more of a personal favor, to me.”

Cynthia, who also knew nothing about this, listened avidly to our exchange, while Mr. Fielding continued to scrutinize me.

“It is dangerous to poke about that area of town, you know,” he stated.

“So I have been told. Which is why I thought of you, Mr. Fielding. Your help has been invaluable in the past.”

“Now you are trying to soften me with flattery.” Mr. Fielding’s smile turned wry. “Not to mention those delicious sconeswith excellent lemon curd. Very well. You did me a very good turn once, dear lady. Of course, that came with a price—you saddled me with six bothersome orphans.”

I knew he’d grown fond of the children, who’d been rescued from dire circumstances, so I paid no attention to his complaint.

“How are they all?” I asked. “I always mean to look in on them, but I haven’t much time to myself.”

“Driving me distracted.” Mr. Fielding shook his head. “Betty insists she wants to go on the stage, even though I explain that it is barely a step up from her former address. She finds me a tedious old man. I admit, she has done well in the Nativity plays we perform at Christmas.”

Betty was the oldest of the three girls Mr. Fielding had taken in. As they’d been released from a bawdy house, Mr. Fielding was right to worry about her. A young actress could be coerced into many unsavory situations.

I wondered if Miss Townsend, who had set up a trust to pay the children’s way in life, could be of some assistance in this matter.

“And the others?” I asked. The youngest girl, Alice, had been numb to a point that I feared for her. Michael, the youngest boy, had a penchant for exploring, particularly the chimneys.

“Behaving themselves, more or less,” Mr. Fielding replied with a hint of pride. “Hate lessons but do them. The older boys want to go out and work, to fend for themselves. I don’t blame them. One of my parishioners is a carpenter by trade, and he’s teaching them much, including the fact that they can earn money by crafting things with their hands.” His good humor faded. “I worry that any of them will fall back into their old trade, as a quick way to earn cash.”

“A perilous way,” I said. “Please tell them to keep well, and I’ll send a batch of scones over for them.”