A Gentlewoman's Guide to Murder by Victoria Hamilton

Author:Victoria Hamilton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: CVR05152018;gentlewomans guide to murder;the gentlewomans guide to murder;gentle woman's guide to murder;gentlewomen's guide to murder;gentlewomens guide to murder;london;regency;regency london;historical;historical fiction;historical mystery;historical mystery book;historical mystery series;victoria hamilton
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2019-01-08T15:19:39+00:00

Eighteen

Gillies, on the lookout for Tommy, departed the carriage on Samuel Street. Josephs turned onto Chandler Lane, where the antiquated and rarely used carriage of Miss Philberta Honeychurch, as described in the note from Dorcas, was pulled close to the edge of the narrow lane by the open green space. The driver leaped down gracefully and stood by the carriage door. With Josephs’ aid, Emmeline climbed down from her carriage, gathered her cloak around her, and approached the other coach, evading a laundress carrying a stack of linens on her shoulder.

The driver ignored her, staring straight ahead, so she rapped smartly on the door. It was flung open from within. Dorcas grabbed her arm and hauled her into the cracked and worn dark leather interior. Her fellow Crone appeared disheveled, red-faced, and unnerved. She mumbled introductions and Emmeline turned to regard Miss Honeychurch, not sure what to expect.

The woman was indubitably well into her eighties, as Dorcas had once confided in a Crones meeting. Her face was wizened, and her mouth drawn together into a meager, wrinkle-circled gash. Her teeth had all been pulled out many years ago, Emmeline supposed. Her eyes were dark, like currants set in folds of pale flesh, but they glittered with awareness.

“Go away, Dorcas, to the tea shop and get yourself a bun,” the woman said, her voice creaky, like an unoiled door hinge. “Miss

St. Germaine and I have much to discuss.”

“I’d rather you stayed, Dorcas, and—”

“Afraid of me, girl?” the woman said, and cackled, a croak that ended on a wheeze. Her wig and cap slid sideways. Dorcas righted it and then retreated toward the door, watching them, her eyes narrowed.

Looking at Miss Honeychurch, Emmeline was vividly reminded of a rude image that had been printed ten or so years earlier, entitled Old Maids Leading Apes. It depicted several old maids in that endeavor, the central one with a nose arching down and a chin arching up, and referred to the old proverb stating that an unmarried woman’s fate was to lead apes to hell.

“I’m not afraid of you, ma’am,” she replied calmly. “You can go, Dorcas, if you like, but not on my account.”

“She’ll do as she’s told,” the woman said coldly. Dorcas scuttled out, the carriage rocking, and slammed the door behind her.

“Henry Claybourne was my nephew, you know … or what is called a great nephew, I suppose, the son of my niece. She was a stupid girl with stupid children, who have all gotten killed in one ridiculous way or another,” Miss Honeychurch said, her tone sour. “Why would you wish to find his murderer when the fellow did our country a great favor by removing him? Probably did his widow a favor too, given what I know of the gibbous dunce.”

Emmeline burst into laughter, somewhat relieved. “Ma’am, I thought you wished to join me out of an outraged sense of justice, so that your nephew’s murderer would swing from the gibbet.”

“I’d be more likely to shake his hand.” The woman was dressed in black and wore a powdered wig many years old with a black hat pinned to it.

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