Page 30 of Murder in Blackfriars

“Aren’t you the kindliest of women?” Mr. Fielding asked in his usual sardonic tones. “You have adroitly turned away my questions about this person you wish me to find. If you have no idea who the devil she was, why do you wish to find her?”

“To learn whether she was important or not. I really can say no more.”

Mr. Fielding let out a breath. “Your loyalty to my annoying brother has always puzzled me. I assume he is not to know I’m doing this, or he’d have asked me himself.”

“For now.” I nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fielding.”

“I am forever put upon,” he said to the air. “My own fault for deciding that becoming a vicar would be the best joke I could play upon the world. Now I’m forced to do good works whether I like it or not.”

“Cheer up,” Cynthia said. “I know plenty of clergy who wouldn’t lift a finger for anyone. You’re showing your true colors, you are.”

“Heaven forfend.” Mr. Fielding studied the back of Grosvenor Chapel, its plain glass windows a contrast to those of the Catholic church. “Hoisted by my own petard is what I am. Never fear, Mrs. Holloway. I will be the busybody cleric, and hound parish vicars until I find knowledge of her. Her death would be recorded at Somerset House, though her local vicar will know more about her as a person. I imagine that’s more of what you are after, not simply where she died and when.”

“Yes,” I answered. “The scones will be forthcoming to thank you and also nourish the children.”

“Better send a sweet treat to Mrs. Hodder, or she will take offense,” he advised. “She will believe you don’t think much of her baking skills.”

Mrs. Hodder was Mr. Fielding’s housekeeper, and not a bad cook in her own right. “She is coming along,” I conceded. “Now, I’d better return, or Mrs. Bywater will take me to task. Converting me from my ways of sin should not take so long, in her opinion.”

Mr. Fielding burst out laughing. The lady and gentleman in the distance turned his way in disapproval.

“You have amazing depths, Mrs. Holloway,” Mr. Fielding declared. “Far too many for my brother to appreciate.”

I was becoming irritated with the gentlemen of my acquaintance trying to warn me off Daniel. Cynthia, who knew of the secret of our engagement, had been very happy and encouraging. Only male creatures, it seemed, did not like my fondness for him.

“That is for us to resolve,” I said, a bit crisply. “I will leave it to you to decide how best to send word of your findings.”

Mr. Fielding pressed a hand to his chest. “I will not fail you, good lady.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fielding,” I said, ignoring his dramatics. “Shall we return?” I asked Lady Cynthia.

“We shall, yes, before my aunt sends out an army regiment to haul us back. Pleased to partake of your company, sir, as always.” Cynthia bowed, manlike, to Mr. Fielding, who bowed in return, ever fascinated by her.

Mr. Fielding guided us back to the gate and out into South Audley Street. There he took his leave, with more bowing and handshaking and lifting of his hat—he was back to being the unctuous clergyman. He headed south to Curzon Street and wherever was his next destination.

“One never knows what that fellow will say,” Cynthia observed as we strolled together toward Mount Street. “He had my aunt riveted with his tales of missionaries in Polynesia,and she even promised a good sum of money for him to send to them. Uncle will put a stop to that, I will hazard. He believes missionaries are interfering meddlers descending upon people who’ve lived happily for thousands of years, to claim they’ve been doing everything wrong.”

Mr. Bywater was a pragmatic man, unswayed by emotions or impassioned speeches. I believed Cynthia when she speculated that Mrs. Bywater’s money would stay at home.

I had to wonder, given Mr. Fielding’s character, whether he’d truly intended the donation to go to the missionaries. He was a conniving trickster, but he could then turn around and be incredibly generous. Hence his care of the six children thrust upon him.

Cynthia accompanied me to the kitchen, where Tess and Elsie regarded us in curiosity, clearly hoping we’d tell them what had transpired. I disappointed them by setting them both on tasks for supper’s preparations.

Mr. Davis marched in with two bottles of wine, plunked them on the dresser without looking at me, and walked out again. I’d had to request them via Mrs. Redfern, because Mr. Davis had shut himself into his pantry and wouldn’t respond to my knocking.

“Whatever is the matter with Davis?” Cynthia said when he’d gone. “He’s been cross as an old bear for the past couple of days. Is he ill?”

I could not explain in front of Elsie, who did not yet know that I’d gotten myself engaged to Daniel. I uncorked the red Bordeaux and trickled it into a decanter to keep its sediment from getting into my dishes.

“He does not approve of my choices,” I said to Cynthia once Elsie began sloshing water in her sink. “He is not ill, but vexed.”

Cynthia’s eyes widened. “I see. So he knows, then?”

“Found out rather abruptly.” I finished decanting the wine and set the bottle aside.

I could see Cynthia was curious but also that she realized she could not ask for details with maids and footmen running into and out of the kitchen. “Would you like me to speak to him?”

I quickly shook my head. “Please do not. He’ll come around.”