Page 64 of Murder in Blackfriars

“They were happy to do it,” Cynthia said. “Hubbard organizes and sends them out like a general ordering troops into battle.” Hubbard was Miss Townsend’s devoted butler and majordomo. “Home Office, eh? That speaks of serious dealings.”

“I’m more interested in records than anything else. I don’t know how much her father would allow her to ask for information.”

Cynthia’s haggard expression began to clear. “Depends on the information, I suppose. What is it?”

I told her about my idea to discover whether a couple who lived near or had some relation to Victoria Park had either reported a missing child thirty years ago or had died ordisappeared themselves. The Home Office must have records of goings-on across the country, or people with access to them, and Miss Townsend’s father was highly placed there.

“I ask on the remote chance she could find something out,” I finished.

Cynthia had listened with rapt attention. “I will certainly ask her.”

“You and Mr. Thanos could also return to Somerset House,” I said. “And look for records of deaths there.”

“We could. And births. See if we can find a boy born a few years before his parents died, is that the idea?”

“Yes, if they did perish. I hope they did not, for Daniel’s sake, but after all this time, I fear that is the case.”

Cynthia nodded. “Most families wouldn’t stop until they discovered what had happened to a child.” She paused and softened her tone. “You do know that he could have been abandoned on purpose. Taken to this woman in the East End and left, because they couldn’t feed him.”

“I have thought of that,” I admitted. “That is unfortunately the most likely explanation. But I would like to pursue all possibilities.”

Daniel had confessed to me that he recalled a time when he felt safe and comfortable, unworried, which did not point to a mother forced to rid herself of her child. Then again, the comfortable and safe place he vaguely recalled could have been Mrs. Kerr’s home.

“Well,Iwon’t think less of him if he was given up. Or if he’s the by-blow of some foreign prince.” Cynthia grinned. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

I did not think so, but I nodded along.

It did not matter to me one whit where Daniel had come from, butheneeded to know. Whether the truth would changeour resolution to marry each other, I didn’t know, but as the saying went, the truth would make us free.

“Never fear, Mrs. H.” Cynthia climbed to her feet, the coffee having restored her. “I will speak to Judith and also to Thanos. We’ll comb through every record we can find.”

“It might be a thankless task,” I warned, rising with her. “We may never find the answer.”

“But we’ll have a jolly good try.” Cynthia lifted the cup and took one final swig of coffee. “I say, are those buns over there? Mind if I nab one?”

* * *

I was restless for most of the morning and made the excuse after luncheon that I needed to nip to the market. Tess started to offer to go, but she must have sensed that I simply needed a walk, and shooed me off.

I donned my coat and took up my basket without a clear idea of what I would do, but I headed for Oxford Street. Though the best produce and meats would be sold by now, something might inspire me to bake something new.

As I wandered the shops, I realized I’d often passed but never truly noted a secondhand bookseller. I paused to look into its tiny, dusty window at a few solid tomes that told me nothing about what they contained, then grasped the door’s worn iron handle and pushed my way into the shop.

The door swung shut behind me, and I found myself in a large room that was crammed full of books. Tall shelves filled much of the floor space, and they contained books of every size and color imaginable. Tables, also piled with books, fit into the spaces not occupied by shelves.

One table was stacked with nothing but children’s picture books. I spied a copy of the one I’d purchased from Hannahand slid it out. This book was in better condition, with the color plates inside fresh and unmarred.

“For your daughter, dear?”

I turned to see a woman with graying hair tucked into a neat bun smiling at me. She was tiny, in a dark maroon gown, with woolen mitts on her hands. She must have slipped in from the door behind her, which was nearly hidden between two bookcases.

“No,” I said, laying the book down. “My Grace is a bit older. Thirteen.” I drew a breath. “Almost a young lady.”

“They do grow too quickly, don’t they?” the woman commiserated. She pointed a thin finger at another table. “The books over there might be more to her taste. Novels for girls by Miss Ewing, Miss Molesworth, poor Miss Sewell, and Miss Yonge, though I find the last a bit overly moralistic for my taste.”

I had not heard of any of these authors, as when I’d been a girl, books had been luxuries my mother could not afford. I’d had no time to read anything but the worn schoolbooks my mother had saved from her childhood, in any case.

When I grew older, I’d scraped pennies together to purchase cookery books and never had money left over for other tomes.