lower class of publication. Failing that, a search for poetic societies.
Peters showed no inclination to say anything further. Jackman tried to work out if the man was nursing a broken heart or if it was just that his pride was damaged. He thought of the way Peters had called his wife a bitch and told himself the answer was dead plain. Peters needed to reinforce his authority over his property.
Their destination this time was a crescent of stylish houses just off Belgrave Square. Once again Peters alighted. ‘Wait for me,’ he commanded Jackman. ‘If she’s there, I may need your help to bring her home.’
He was out of the cab before the investigator could query why a man as strong as Joshua Peters needed help subduing a small woman. Then he realised that Peters thought Rokeby might be there as well. He got down from the cab, told the driver to remain where he was and moved towards the house Peters had disappeared into.
Jackman decided to wait a couple of steps down the basement entrance. No need to advertise his presence.
It wasn’t long before Peters emerged, clutching his bowler and charging off up the road. Jackman followed. Peters turned on him. His face was livid with rage, his eyes pig-tiny. ‘That Fentiman bitch knows something, I’d bet the business on it. You can recognise her again?’
Jackman nodded. Rachel Fentiman was someone he would never forget.
‘Stay here, follow her. She’ll lead you to my wife.’ Peters now sounded full of confidence. ‘Then let me know where she is. I’ll make her regret the day she was born,’ he added almost beneath his breath. He swung himself into the cab and it moved off.
Jackman watched it and felt an urge to throw Peters’ business back in his face. Then he remembered the bills waiting for payment. Peters’ last cheque had only cleared the worst of them. He moved to a position where he had a good view of the house’s front door but was out of the direct line of vision of anyone on the steps.
From there he watched a number of women leaving the house. The way they huddled together, then moved off in twos and threes, throwing words between themselves, resembled a murmuration of starlings. Jackman liked collecting odd words.
There followed a long period when nobody came out of the house. Jackman began to think Miss Fentiman might have left from the rear and cursed himself for not having checked whether there was an exit there. But if he’d done that, he could have missed her departure by the front door.
He whiled away time by thinking again of Ursula Grandison. If she was in his place, he knew exactly what she would do: ensure that Alice Peters escaped her brute of a husband. What, though, would she think of Daniel Rokeby, poet and scandal-sheet writer?
Then his eye was caught by the opening of the front door. Rachel Fentiman stood for a moment on the top of the steps, then walked down and turned to the right. Jackman prepared to follow her, only to find she had taken up a position by the basement steps.
Even more surprising a little while later was to see climbing those steps and being accosted, nay, claimed by Miss Fentiman, Ursula Grandison.
Chapter Five
When Ursula looked again, Thomas Jackman could no longer be seen. She tied her shoelace, then rejoined Rachel Fentiman.
‘Now, where were we?’
The girl slipped her arm through Ursula’s. ‘I want to know why you opened that ostrich cage.’
Miss Fentiman looked to be in her mid-twenties, a few years younger than Ursula. She had an openness that was heartwarming. Ursula realised how long it was since she had had a friend. Was that one of the reasons Jackman had so disappointed her? Had she thought he could be a friend? Initially a reluctant partner with him in the investigation that had involved her so insidiously, she had grown to enjoy their sometimes acerbic discussions and to value his judgements. Ursula acknowledged to herself that she really had thought that in London they could meet as
Peters showed no inclination to say anything further. Jackman tried to work out if the man was nursing a broken heart or if it was just that his pride was damaged. He thought of the way Peters had called his wife a bitch and told himself the answer was dead plain. Peters needed to reinforce his authority over his property.
Their destination this time was a crescent of stylish houses just off Belgrave Square. Once again Peters alighted. ‘Wait for me,’ he commanded Jackman. ‘If she’s there, I may need your help to bring her home.’
He was out of the cab before the investigator could query why a man as strong as Joshua Peters needed help subduing a small woman. Then he realised that Peters thought Rokeby might be there as well. He got down from the cab, told the driver to remain where he was and moved towards the house Peters had disappeared into.
Jackman decided to wait a couple of steps down the basement entrance. No need to advertise his presence.
It wasn’t long before Peters emerged, clutching his bowler and charging off up the road. Jackman followed. Peters turned on him. His face was livid with rage, his eyes pig-tiny. ‘That Fentiman bitch knows something, I’d bet the business on it. You can recognise her again?’
Jackman nodded. Rachel Fentiman was someone he would never forget.
‘Stay here, follow her. She’ll lead you to my wife.’ Peters now sounded full of confidence. ‘Then let me know where she is. I’ll make her regret the day she was born,’ he added almost beneath his breath. He swung himself into the cab and it moved off.
Jackman watched it and felt an urge to throw Peters’ business back in his face. Then he remembered the bills waiting for payment. Peters’ last cheque had only cleared the worst of them. He moved to a position where he had a good view of the house’s front door but was out of the direct line of vision of anyone on the steps.
From there he watched a number of women leaving the house. The way they huddled together, then moved off in twos and threes, throwing words between themselves, resembled a murmuration of starlings. Jackman liked collecting odd words.
There followed a long period when nobody came out of the house. Jackman began to think Miss Fentiman might have left from the rear and cursed himself for not having checked whether there was an exit there. But if he’d done that, he could have missed her departure by the front door.
He whiled away time by thinking again of Ursula Grandison. If she was in his place, he knew exactly what she would do: ensure that Alice Peters escaped her brute of a husband. What, though, would she think of Daniel Rokeby, poet and scandal-sheet writer?
Then his eye was caught by the opening of the front door. Rachel Fentiman stood for a moment on the top of the steps, then walked down and turned to the right. Jackman prepared to follow her, only to find she had taken up a position by the basement steps.
Even more surprising a little while later was to see climbing those steps and being accosted, nay, claimed by Miss Fentiman, Ursula Grandison.
Chapter Five
When Ursula looked again, Thomas Jackman could no longer be seen. She tied her shoelace, then rejoined Rachel Fentiman.
‘Now, where were we?’
The girl slipped her arm through Ursula’s. ‘I want to know why you opened that ostrich cage.’
Miss Fentiman looked to be in her mid-twenties, a few years younger than Ursula. She had an openness that was heartwarming. Ursula realised how long it was since she had had a friend. Was that one of the reasons Jackman had so disappointed her? Had she thought he could be a friend? Initially a reluctant partner with him in the investigation that had involved her so insidiously, she had grown to enjoy their sometimes acerbic discussions and to value his judgements. Ursula acknowledged to herself that she really had thought that in London they could meet as
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