Part 11 (2/2)

'Twice a day, Mrs Jenkins,' Felblade creaked, holding up a bottle filled with a viscous brown liquid. Opiates, I supposed, mixed with mola.s.ses. Or coal tar, knowing Felblade.

'I must speak with Miss Burden before she drinks that,' I said from the doorway.

Mrs Jenkins gasped as she saw me. 'Oh! You devil! Have you come to murder us?'

It was only then that I realised I was still clutching the dagger. Unfortunate. I slipped it in my coat pocket. 'No indeed, Mrs Jenkins.'

'My heart! I shall die of shock!' she declared, clutching her bosom and looking st.u.r.dy as a carthorse.

Judith sat up as if waking from a dream. Her dark hair hung lifeless about her face, falling into her soft grey eyes. She seemed shocked and frightened just as she had the night Sam had stolen into the house. The night she'd discovered her father was sharing a bed with Alice.

I gave a short bow. 'Miss Burden. My deepest condolences.'

Her brows furrowed. 'You were arrested.'

'A misunderstanding. I have been charged with investigating your father's death.'

'But you hated my father. No . . . no . . . do not deny it.' A desolate look crossed her face. 'I hated him too sometimes. There were times when . . . When I wished him dead.' She began to s.h.i.+ver. 'Wicked,' she murmured under her breath. 'Such a wicked girl.'

I sat down upon the bed, in the warm dent left by Mrs Jenkins. Judith cast me a timid look, pus.h.i.+ng the hair from her face. Her left eye was bruised and swollen.

'Who did this?'

She twisted the sheets beneath her hands. 'It was my fault. I couldn't stop crying. Stephen had to strike me, to calm me down . . .'

'Stephen's a good boy,' Mrs Jenkins interrupted. 'I'm sure he feared you might have another fit.' She gave me a sharp look. 'Judith is a delicate girl. We must all be very gentle.'

'Unbalanced. Melancholic,' Felblade agreed, packing away his bag. He slurped his tongue across his teeth. 'A bleeding will restore her. I shall return tomorrow . . .'

'No . . . no!' Judith cried in alarm. 'No more blood. No more blood.' She closed her eyes and began to shake.

'Shame on you, Mr Felblade,' Mrs Jenkins tutted. 'We will have no more talk of blood and knives, or corpses butchered like pigs in a market. We must not speak of such things! Murderers creeping about the place in the dead of night. Poor Mr Burden stabbed and stabbed again with a vicious blade. Murdered in his own bed while everyone slept! Where is your sensitivity, Mr Felblade? Miss Burden is not sick she's tired and frightened. And who can blame her after what she saw this morning? Oh! It makes me dizzy to think of all that blood . . . You've been very brave, my dear,' she called across to Judith. 'I'm sure I should have fainted clean away if I had seen my father with a blade plunged in his heart. Warm broth and bed rest, that's what's needed.'

'Quite right, Mrs Jenkins,' I said. There had been quite enough blood spilt in this house.

Mrs Jenkins' face scrunched. 'I'm sure I don't need his approval,' she huffed, and began scolding Felblade over the price of his opiates.

'I'm sorry I accused you before, sir,' Judith whispered. 'I was . . . not myself. I am quite certain that you are innocent.'

I smiled thinly. Easy enough to whisper my innocence in a private room. She had already shouted my guilt to the whole street. I leaned closer. 'Miss Burden. Who do you think killed your father?'

Judith stared at me in surprise. 'Alice Dunn, of course.'

'I see . . . But . . . I believe your father planned to marry her?'

'Never!' she snapped. She sat up very straight, her eyes fierce and dark as storm clouds. 'My father would never marry that filthy wh.o.r.e. It was a jest a silly jest. Alice Dunn mistress of this house? No, fie not in a thousand years! She killed my father, I am quite certain. And may she burn in h.e.l.l for it!'

Silence, as Felblade and Mrs Jenkins stared at each other in surprise, and then at me. Mrs Jenkins rubbed her palms together. 'Warm broth,' she trilled, in an anxious voice. 'And rest.'

I rose from the bed, shocked by Judith's outburst. For a moment I had seen pure rage burning beneath her dazed, dreamy surface. Had that rage erupted last night? Could Judith have murdered Burden?

'Alice ran away, Mr Hawkins,' Judith called as I left. 'Did you not know? She left this morning. So she must be guilty, don't you see? She must be.'

In the workshop, Ned was sanding a stool, running his fingers softly against the wood to check for imperfections. There was no sign of his earlier outburst, save for a broken chair propped in one corner. I stood in the doorway, studying the tools hung neatly upon the back wall. They reminded me of the implements of torture hanging in the Marshalsea gaol. My throat constricted and I felt the iron collar fastened about my neck, biting deep into my skin. I put my hand to the door frame to steady myself, forcing myself back to the present.

Ned knew I was there, but he continued working, keeping his back to me. Stephen had been reckless and confused, muddled with grief and fear. Judith was dazed, and fixed upon her hatred of Alice. Ned's anger was contained, focused.

There were only a few pieces of work on the benches a half-finished side table, an oak tallboy. These were small projects, made for practice not profit. Burden had been a master carpenter and joiner, his business construction. The grand new squares west of Bond Street were built of brick, but they still needed joists and rafters, wainscots and doors. Ned had talked about his work with pride and pa.s.sion at Moll's the night before: the need for both strength and precision, an eye for a pleasing design, an understanding of geometry when building wall part.i.tions and staircases. 'An occupation for the body and the mind,' he'd said, eyes bright. I'd envied him then, for finding a vocation that gave him so much satisfaction. I was without question not cut out for the clergy. Nor was I created to sit at a desk, translating wh.o.r.es' dialogues. What would make my eyes s.h.i.+ne, I wondered. Punch. Kitty.

I had no doubt that Ned would find a good position with another master. If not, surely the Carpenters' Company would help him set up his own business. a.s.suming he had not killed his old master, of course.

'I must speak with you, Ned,' I said at last.

His back stiffened. 'There is nothing to be said.'

'I did not kill Mr Burden.'

Ned lifted the stool from the bench and turned slowly. 'Those men at the coffeehouse. None of 'em dared look you in the eye. They was afraid of you.'

I leaned against the door frame, bone weary. 'Because they were fool enough to listen to your master's lies. I am not a murderer, Ned.'

'Gonson arrested you.'

'What is that proof of my guilt, then? He hates me you know that! He confuses a disreputable life with a wicked one. They are not precisely the same.'

'If you had lead a decent life you would not be in trouble now.'

'Oh indeed that is how the world works. You were a model apprentice for seven years. How were you rewarded?'

Ned frowned. He thought I was taunting him. 'Ask what you want and leave. Before I lose patience.'

Ned's years of hard labour had left him strong and fit and solid as a Roman statue. There was also a wall of heavy tools at his back. I took a step back towards the workroom stairs, ready for a hasty retreat. 'Did you kill Mr Burden?'

I asked only to watch his reaction. But I had asked him before, and this time he was not even angry. He resented the question, of course, but beyond that I saw only sorrow and a bone weariness.

'You had good cause to hate him.'

He glanced away. 'I have good cause to hate you, sir.'

'Do you think I wish to be here, troubling you with these questions? I must prove my innocence, Ned.'

'Aye by placing the guilt upon my shoulders. Tell me, sir how many gentlemen have you seen hang at Tyburn?'

<script>