A Grave Welcome Page 7

  He nodded, his face serious for such a young boy. “I’ve been better and worse. I’m glad to have found you, though.”

  “You gave him our address?” Lord Ashton asked, eyebrow raised. It was clear he didn’t approve of the gesture, but I couldn’t very well let a young boy wander into a new city alone with no one to turn to for help.

  “He assisted me with a…project while we were on the ship,” I said, breezing past the fact that Aseem used his ability to move undetected to spy for me. “I only wanted to extend the same courtesy and assist him should he need it.”

  Lady Ashton smiled. “That is lovely, Rose. You always were so good at making friends in unexpected places.”

  “Unexpected, indeed,” Lord Ashton mumbled under his breath.

  “Do you think I could speak to Aseem alone for a moment?” I asked.

  Lord Ashton seemed ready to fight me on it, but Lady Ashton looped her arm through his and meandered down the block just out of earshot.

  “You found me rather quickly, Aseem,” I said, the words both a statement and a question.

  He smiled apologetically and tipped his head to the side. “Yes, things did not go as I expected them to. I was supposed to meet someone, but they haven’t appeared, and I’m afraid I have nowhere else to go.”

  “What exactly are you hoping I can do for you?” I asked. Without the full amount of my inheritance, my options were limited. I would have loved to be able to promise him shelter and maybe a position as a servant in my own house, but it would be some time before I could move out of Ashton House. Aseem might very well starve by then.

  “Food and shelter are what I need most,” he said, looking behind me to where Lord and Lady Ashton were standing beneath the shade of an Elm, having what appeared to be a heated conversation. “But I understand if that is not possible.”

  I bit my lip. “Yes, that could be difficult. I do not have a home of my own, otherwise I would gladly offer you a place to stay.”

  “I understand,” Aseem said, taking a step back and preparing to turn and leave. “I do not wish to trouble you.”

  “Don’t go anywhere just yet,” I said, holding out a hand to stop him. “Let me speak with my aunt and uncle. I’m sure they would be glad to help you.”

  Aseem nodded, but I could see the doubt in his eyes. Lord Ashton was a hard man, not nearly as kind as his wife, and it was clear he intimidated Aseem. I smiled at him, trying to offer some reassurance, and then went to speak to the Beckinghams.

  “You really know that child?” Lord Ashton asked, narrowing his eyes at me.

  “He’s a good boy,” I said, sensing the words my uncle was leaving unspoken. It was clear he did not trust Aseem, despite not knowing him in the slightest. “He is all alone in the city.”

  Lady Ashton placed a hand over her heart. “Alone?” she repeated, her lower lip puckered out.

  “He travelled here from India just as I did, but the person he was supposed to meet did not show. He has no one to turn to.”

  Lord Ashton looked unmoved, but Lady Ashton turned to her husband, her face a mask of pitiful sorrow. “We have to help him, James.”

  He shook his head. “No, we do not, Eleanor.”

  “He is not asking for charity. He will work for his supper. I’m sure he would just be glad for a warm bed,” I said.

  “We have enough help as it is,” Lord Ashton said. “Perhaps, if we had an open position I would rethink—”

  “It wouldn’t be permanent,” I said, interrupting him. “Once I have a place of my own, I will hire him as my own personal errand boy.”

  “A place of your own?” Lady Ashton asked, her expression dripping with despair for another reason now.

  I reached out and wrapped a hand around her wrist, smiling at her. “Not immediately, dear aunt. But eventually, yes. I do not want to overstay my welcome.”

  Lady Ashton gave me a sad smile and then turned to her husband. “Do you wish to cost our niece a trusted servant? If we do not hire him, he will find work elsewhere and she will never forgive us.”

  “I would forgive—” I started to say but stopped when Lady Ashton cast a narrow-eyed warning my way.

  She then turned her attention back to her husband. “He looks like a healthy, capable boy. Surely there is something he can help with.”

  Lord Ashton’s face remained immovable, but his posture altered slowly from one of rigidity to a slouched, tired stance. It was clear he had waged too many battles with his wife to have any hope of winning this one. After a few seconds, he nodded, waved a hand as if to dismiss us both, and stomped up the cement walkway towards the house.

  “He puts on a show but he has a soft heart underneath it all,” Lady Ashton said, a conspiratorial smile on her lips.

  When I relayed the good news to Aseem, he thanked me repeatedly, insisting he would be nothing but loyal to me and my family.

  “How can I help you?” he asked eagerly, bouncing back and forth on his threadbare shoes.

  I smiled down at him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Today, I need you to settle into your new room, take a bath, and get some rest. I’ll have breakfast sent up in half an hour.”

  Aseem lunged out and wrapped his arms around me. It was an odd show of emotion from the boy. He had acted well beyond his years since the moment I’d met him, but it was clear to me now how desperate he’d been for my help. When he pulled away from me, he straightened his stained tunic and beamed up at me, brown eyes wide and glimmering.

  10

  The garden in front of the Beckingham’s house was well-kept, but the noise from the street made it difficult to relax there. Not to mention, Edward’s bedroom window looked out on the front of the house, and he apparently found it quite enjoyable to watch me amble around the garden. He wouldn’t even try to hide himself. He would pull the curtains back and stand in full view so I would know he was watching me. Given his rather ominous presence, I’d taken to circling the back garden several times a day. After first disembarking the ship, I thought I’d miss the dry heat of India forever, but the cool, damp London air was beginning to grow on me.

  A well-trodden path ran around the edge of the garden, along the wrought iron fence woven with yellow bursts of sweet-smelling honeysuckle. When I felt certain no one was looking, I would pluck a handful of honeysuckle from the plant and suck the nectar from the ends. That was what I was doing when I saw the chauffeur, George, shut the door to his room, which was connected to the garage, and then move around the back of the building. I pushed myself into the climbing flowers, even though I had every right to be in the back garden and didn’t actually need to hide. A few seconds later, the car roared to life and George reversed out of the garage and took off down the alley.

  Until that moment, I’d been doing my best to keep my mind on other matters. Which hadn’t been exactly difficult. Since moving to London, I’d had a lot to contend with, and the murder of a stranger wasn’t particularly high on the list. However, the more I interacted with George, the more I began to wonder whether he wasn’t the man I’d seen in the alley with the murder victim. At just over six feet tall, he was the right height, and the man I’d seen wore a similar suit and hat to George, though it was a common look and many men certainly dressed similarly. Still, try as I might, I couldn’t rule him out as a suspect. But here was my chance. His room was empty, and no one would know if I just snuck in, took a look around, and left quietly. It would put my mind at ease and help me to forget about Frederick Grossmith.

  I ambled along the fence as casually as I could, simultaneously keeping an eye out for anyone who could be watching me. Satisfied I was perfectly alone, I ventured off the path, cutting across the manicured lawn to George’s door. It was unlocked, and I quickly stepped inside.

  The space was dark and cold. Alice had told me the entire building had once been used as a carriage house, and I could tell. Beneath a thin carpet, the floor was cold stone. Large, drafty windows replaced what was once the door for the carriag
es to come in and out of.

  Still, despite the circumstances, George had made his area homey. He had a winged armchair with a fringed reading lamp next to it. Shelves full of books filled a small nook next to a modest closet, and his bed was tucked away in a back corner, the sheets meticulously creased and wrapped under the mattress. The neatness of his space surprised me, not only because he was a man, and in my experience, men were rarely tidy, especially when living alone. But also because the neatness of the room stood in stark contrast to the small metal garbage can sitting in a corner of the room, black smoke swirling out of it.

  I grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the chair and ran across the room, prepared to smother the flames, but there was no need. The fire had burnt itself out—rather recently, I noted—leaving behind a pile of ash and cinders.

  I reached for the garbage can, but it was still much too hot to touch and I yanked back my hand, plunging my pointer finger into my mouth to soothe it. The smoke was still spilling out in thick clouds, but George wouldn’t have lit a fire in his room for no reason. Clearly, he’d been trying to destroy something, and I needed to know what. I fanned the smoke away, the rush of air flickering an ember in the bottom of the can. That tiny ember illuminated enough for me to see something that wasn’t ashes or cinder. It was solid and thick.

  George had a small kitchen sink in a corner of the room with a shelf above it containing a few dishes and, at the end, a stack of dish towels. I grabbed one and wrapped it around my hand and partway up my arm, trying to protect my skin as best I could. Then, before I could think about it and change my mind, I plunged my covered arm into the garbage can and pulled out a massive handful of debris.

  Ashes scattered across the floor and smeared along the hem of my skirt, but I knew I’d found what I’d been looking for. In my hand, I held the singed remnants of a black leather glove.

  I laid the glove on the floor and unwrapped my hand from the towel. Suddenly, my heart was racing. Hadn’t I just been wondering about George’s ungloved hand the day of the murder? Since that first day, I’d always seen him in brown driving gloves, but he’d been mysteriously barehanded that first day. Had I just solved the mystery of why?

  Aside from some singing around the wrist and a hole in the thumb, the glove looked in remarkably good shape for having been set on fire. The material was black, which I was sure hid a good many of the flaws caused by the flames. I wondered why George had sought to destroy it. First, I thought perhaps the glove had been part of a set and he’d dropped one in an incriminating location, but a second peek into the garbage can proved that was not true. The other glove lay at the bottom, in a similar condition to the first. So, I picked up the glove I’d managed to extract with my fingertips, trying to touch it as little as possible, and turned it.

  There was a small stain on the back side. It ran across one of the fingers almost like a paint drip. Upon closer inspection, it spread to several of the other fingers, as well. It could have been oil or some other car fluid—I knew remarkably little about cars or car maintenance—but that theory begged the question of why George would have chosen to burn the gloves if they had become ruined by something as commonplace as car fluid?

  The towel I’d used to pull the glove from the garbage was already ruined with soot. Since there would be no saving it and returning it quietly back to the shelf from whence it had come, I snatched it up again and dabbed at the stain. Nothing came up. I did it again, pressing harder, smearing across the stain to try and pull anything up. To try and see, at the very least, what color the stain was. My second attempt was more successful. The white fabric of the towel now had a faint smear of rust brown. I knew what dried blood looked like. Immediately, I dropped the towel and the glove to the floor and stepped back.

  “Miss Rose?”

  I’d been so wrapped up in the glove and the blood, I didn’t hear the door open behind me or a man step inside. I only just began to understand the danger I’d put myself in. George had the burned remnants of driving gloves in his room and they were covered in blood. And now, he was in the room with me.

  I spun on my heel and pressed myself against the back wall. The still smoldering garbage can was next to me. Residual heat hit my leg like warm, damp breaths.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked.

  George didn’t look like a murderer. Even then, standing in front of me, his eyes bouncing between my face and the gloves on the floor and the garbage can, he didn’t look enraged or violent. He looked scared. I couldn’t imagine him harming anyone. Still, I’d learned the hard way that murderers were never who you expected them to be.

  “Why were you trying to burn your gloves?” I asked, figuring it would be better to be bold with my line of questioning. There was no point in being shy now. He’d caught me snooping around his room and the evidence he’d sought to destroy was lying at my feet.

  He let out a strangled kind of laugh. “I recently received a new pair and I thought I’d get rid of those. I started to burn them, but it was too smoky.”

  “Why would you burn them?” I repeated.

  “I’ve always had a love of fire,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

  That didn’t explain away this situation and he knew it. I could tell George was simply hoping I’d drop the matter and leave. I probably should have, but even backed into a corner, I had to ask the questions I’d come there to answer.

  “I saw you at the docks the other day,” I said, gauging his face for a reaction. “With Frederick Grossmith.”

  Something flickered behind his eyes at the mention of the dead man’s name, but his face remained calm. “I frequent the docks. What day would this have been?”

  I slid away from the garbage can, my shoulder-blades dragging along the wall. I wanted to get to the middle of the room and away from the corner so I would have at least two escape routes. George shifted his weight to the left, mimicking my movements.

  “The day I arrived in London. The day Frederick Grossmith was murdered,” I said.

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever met a Frederick—”

  “I saw you quarrelling with him.” This was not entirely true, but again, I was testing George’s reaction.

  George’s face fell. His thin body sagged forward as though he were carrying around a heavy weight atop his shoulders. “You’re right. I don’t know how you could know about Frederick, but I was at the docks with him that day.”

  I gasped. Even though I’d suspected as much, it still felt shocking to hear him admit it out loud.

  He took a step towards me, arm extended, and I crushed back against the wall, pulling away from him. Seeing the fear on my face, George folded his arms over his chest, tucking his hands against his sides. “I was with Frederick that morning, but I did not kill him,” he said, looking at the floor and shaking his head, as though trying to push away a memory.

  “There is blood on your gloves,” I said, pointing to the evidence still lying on the floor. “And you tried to burn them. I don’t know many innocent men who burn bloody gloves.”

  “Then you have never met a nervous man,” he said, his eyes heavy with sorrow. “Or an innocent one who has much to lose. If there is even a hint of suspicion that I killed Frederick, I could lose this job. The Beckinghams would not keep me around. They have children and a reputation to uphold.”

  “Are you saying you did not kill the man?” I asked.

  He nodded his head quickly, his wavy hair bouncing on top of his head. “Yes, I did not kill him. I fought with him that day, but it was because he came and attacked me. I fought him off and then left. I don’t know what happened after that.”

  I wanted to believe George, but how likely was it that two men could fight and then, minutes later, one of them end up dead by the hand of another party? It seemed like a stretch, to say the least.

  “He came and attacked you? Why?”

  George sighed. “It’s silly, really. Recently, I went out to a jazz club and started up a convers
ation with the singer. She was an attractive, friendly woman, and I enjoyed her company. What I didn’t know was that she was Frederick Grossmith’s sweetheart. I’d been to the club a number of times and seen Frederick there. He worked as a bartender, but also liked to cause scenes—fighting and screaming and throwing men out of the club. As soon as I realized I’d stepped on his toes, I apologized and tried to leave, but it was too late. He shouted at me all through the club and into the street, claiming that he would kill me if I ever so much as looked at his girl again. I only stopped in for a quick drink, so I left at the first sign of trouble and planned never to return.”

  “So, how did you two come to fight at the docks?” I asked.

  “He was following me,” George said. He placed his hand over his heart. “I arrived a few minutes early to pick you up, Miss, but decided to park a few blocks away from the ship. I didn’t want to inhibit the flow of traffic. I was standing next to the car and enjoying the cool air when Frederick blindsided me. He pressed me against the car and began shouting. People were staring, and I was afraid you or someone who recognized me would see the argument and word would get back to Lord and Lady Ashton. So, I walked down the nearest alley and Frederick followed me, screaming all the while. He had become convinced I was after his girl, though I swore I wasn’t. Honestly, Miss, I don’t even remember the woman’s name.”

  “When I saw you with him, he shoved you and it looked like things were escalating pretty quickly,” I said.

  His eyes were wide. “You saw me leave after that, right?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. The situation seemed dangerous, so I left.”

  George took another step towards me, his eyes desperate. “He pushed me and I defended myself, Miss. I swear that was the end of it. I punched him and I think it broke his nose. He began bleeding heavily, and I used the opportunity to make my escape. I must have been just moments behind you as you made your escape.”