The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery by L.C. Sharp (i have read the book .TXT) 📗

The streets turned more gracious as he walked further west, long terraces of white-stucco buildings, some natural brick with fancy trims. All had wide, covered porches with entrances that skimmed over the yards below, the black-painted iron fencing protecting the unwary from plummeting to the depths below. Broad pavements spread smoothly under his feet, instead of a row of posts designating the walking area, or nothing at all to prevent the ever-present carriages bowling him over.

The carriages were still here, but they were finer, private vehicles, extravagantly decked out with pale silk and velvet linings, the better to display the wealth of the owners. A gray horse, one of a pair drawing a town carriage, turned its head and whinnied.

“Many thanks for the comment,” Ash muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. He was in no mood to be whinnied at.

Elegant streets opened on to gracious squares, much like his own, except the houses here were more uniform in style, and more gracious. And newer, of course. Ash continued through the squares, lowering his chin when he passed the house belonging to Lord and Lady Urmston, the parents of Godfrey Uppingham. He was not here to see them, although he might yet have to visit them once more. Not a prospect he was looking forward to.

He walked past, and down the street by the side of the square to an inn at the end. Inside his quarry should be waiting. Normally he would have considered meeting so close to the house the height of folly, but the man had insisted he had no choice; he only had an hour to spare.

Fortunately, the place was crowded. One more plainly dressed man would not attract much attention. Finding the man he was looking for, Ash equipped himself with a mug of beer and sat opposite him. Smythe had chosen a small cubicle that would seat four. Ash removed his hat and slung it on the seat, sitting with his back against the wall, facing the servants thronging the place. Although nobody here wore livery, this was evidently a favorite meeting place for servants and not their masters. Perhaps the choice was not so bad after all.

He missed Juliana’s presence. When he took her out with him, she checked his conclusion and provided a second pair of eyes. But Smythe had insisted on complete confidentiality, saying he would not speak if he brought anyone with him. Ash had to obey his strictures, or he would hear nothing at all.

“You’re well?” he said, more a ploy to start the conversation than a genuine enquiry.

The man sitting opposite him had every sign of robust good health, from his ruddy face to his powerful body. Smythe, being a bold, brashly handsome man, made a good living as a footman, and like many of his ilk, he preferred to remain in London, so he moved from house to house. The perfect spy.

The man shrugged. “Not so much. If I ’adn’t promised to keep an eye on things for you, I’d ’ave moved on.” He saved his aitches for working hours.

“That bad?”

Smythe nodded and took a morose gulp of beer. “Miserable. The missus don’t stop crying, and the master’ll ’ave an ’eart attack if ’e carries on like this. Spends all day ranting and raving. Says ’e’ll see that woman rot in ’ell if it’s the last thing ’e does.”

Ash didn’t have to ask who that woman was. “So he’s assuming his daughter-in-law did it?” He spoke, as Smythe did, a little roundabout, because he didn’t want to attract attention. People were still talking about the murder, not surprisingly. But both knew they meant Juliana.

“Convinced. They don’t know where she is, but they’d do it themselves if they could find ’er.”

Ash didn’t doubt it. They’d probably get away with the crime, too, considering their position. “She’s living quietly in the country, waiting for things to happen.” No need to tell him where Juliana really was. He doubted her parents would be too anxious to spread that information. If they did, well, he had a house in the country less than a day’s journey away. He would move her there. “Do you think she did it?”

Smythe shrugged again, his russet coat so well worn, it had molded itself to the shape of his bulging muscles. “I dunno. I wouldn’t ’ave blamed ’er if she ’ad. Bloodcurdling screams there was that night, but we’d been told not to go up. I nearly did, anyway, but then it went quiet, and the maid said they was sleepin’.”

“The personal maid?”

“Yes.” He gazed wistfully at his empty tankard.

Not wanting an interruption, Ash swapped it with his own nearly full one.

Smythe took an appreciative sip of his new libation. “Cheers, guv’nor. Everybody knew what ’e was like. The ’usband. All the servants, that is.”

“In my experience, servants know everything. How did they know? I thought he kept that part of his life separate.”

“Not entirely. ’E’d tried it with several of the maids.”

Ash would make sure to secure a maid or two for the trial. He could offer her a good alternative. He knew people who ran registry offices, the lists of servants for hire. Surely at least one would be willing to give evidence, for a consideration. The women in the House of Correction wouldn’t, and in any case, their evidence would hold little water with a jury made up of respectable members of society. Any evidence that Uppingham had made a habit of abusing women would help to show what innocent, unsuspecting Juliana was subjected to.

While Smythe was engaged with his beer, Ash went to the tap and bought two more. This contact was proving fruitful.

He took them back to the table as Smythe was licking his lips after finishing his drink. He nodded his thanks for the refreshed mugs. “So the servants knew to steer clear of him.”

“They did, most of ’em, but ’e paid well to keep their mouths shut.”

“Would the maids talk?”

“Mebbe. If their palms