Jane Steele(35)

“Your husband asked for our testimony regarding a recent murder,” Clarke attempted.

Mrs. Grizzlehurst’s smile spread towards her ears; this time she stepped back, and we followed.

The place was shabby, but so impeccably kept that no one could sneer at it; the hearthstone shone like a riverbed, and the irregular panes of glass fitted into the windows had been carefully cut, sparkling in a frenetic rainbow of tonic greens and medicinal ambers and bottle blues. The chimney leaked smoke in a friendly fashion, as if it wanted to join in the conversation, and a misshapen iron pot was just coming to the boil.

“Lodgings.” Mrs. Grizzlehurst jerked her head upwards; her voice proved harsh but friendly, like the buzzing of a bee.

“Excuse me?” I replied.

“Low rates, breakfast gratis. He’s only been gone these two days, has Mr. Buckle, but I’ve cleaned it plenty thorough.” Mrs. Grizzlehurst waved her knife at a narrow staircase, then dropped a coarsely chopped onion into the pot. A pair of lobsters from a basket followed, flailing against their demise as they were boiled alive.

Clarke and I ascended the staircase, confused but equally curious. There we found a half-height garret room complete with bed, pot, washbasin, and—wonder of wonders—a skylight through which the coral and violet sunset yet gleamed. My friend sucked in a happy breath.

“Might we—”

“I hope so,” I agreed instantly.

“But how will—”

“I’ve a plan,” I discovered.

Our hostess, when we returned downstairs, lifted a cleaver as she prepared to make two lobsters do for four bellies. In our absence, a skillet of roasted potatoes had appeared along with a cask of porter, two glasses already poured.

“Day after tomorrow,” Mrs. Grizzlehurst concluded, as if she had been conducting a conversation between her ears.

“Beg pardon?” Clarke requested.

“He’ll trade two nights for two accounts. You can start paying the day after tomorrow.”

Holding up my hands, I said, “We’ve only modest—”

“The room can’t be empty.” Gooseflesh sprang to life along Mrs. Grizzlehurst’s wiry arms. “You’ll pay the day after tomorrow.”

I took this to mean that the Grizzlehursts danced upon the lip of penury. My conscientious Clarke had just opened her mouth to explain our own lack of gainful occupation when Mr. Grizzlehurst burst through the door, booming exultations in great volleys.

“If I never see such a day for hexceptional sales, it ain’t my fault.” Laughing, Hugh Grizzlehurst showed teeth resembling indifferently worn pencils. “This young lady with the fey looks is a good homen, Bertha—a positivical homen, I tell you.”

His wife set out potatoes and a modest pat of butter.

“Is this the other heyewitness?” Mr. Grizzlehurst captured Clarke’s delicate hand, which I found myself irrationally resenting. “An ’onour, miss.”

“Likewise,” Clarke managed.

“Mr. Grizzlehurst,” I interjected, “I should like to propose that we lodge upstairs; in exchange, rather than pay you directly, I would assist you.”

A silence fell; our host’s twiglike masses of eyebrows descended.

“’Ere now.” Mr. Grizzlehurst thrust his face into mine, jowls swinging like pendulums. “True enough Mr. Buckle hasphyxiated down at the granary, but you’ve habsconded from school by your own hadfession. Now I’m to suffer the keeping o’ you?”

Clarke bristled, and I pressed her toe with my boot.

“You write up murders for a living,” I reminded him. “Well, I’ve read the Newgate Calendar back to front, and I’ve been educated by the renowned Mr. Vesalius Munt. I know you didn’t believe me, but it’s true. I offer stylistic improvements and new material in exchange for room and board.”

“’Eavens above us, hexisely what manner of improvements are you a-thinking of?” Mr. Grizzlehurst growled. “My customers dote on my turn o’ phrase.”

“Think what fields we could expand into together!” I coaxed. “Gallows ballads, last confessions!”

“They live upstairs and will work for breakfast,” Mrs. Grizzlehurst said.

Hugh Grizzlehurst slammed a fist upon the table, still vigorous despite his bowed back and drooping face. “Why them? We’ve money enough for the room to be hempty a few nights.”

“They live upstairs,” Bertha Grizzlehurst insisted, though her face paled to match the lobster flesh peeking from the shells.

“I’ve no need o’ hassistance when it comes to my broadsides! My broadsides is known ’ither and yon and every street betwixt!”

“I don’t think positivical is a word,” Clarke observed.

“Can you prove positivically that it hain’t?” he shouted in high dudgeon.

“No,” I hastily owned, “but wouldn’t it be better to employ words which actually exist?”

“Hexistence nothing.” He regarded me with an outraged eye. “You lot will hexplicate how Mr. Vesalius Munt came to have his neck spitted like a guinea fowl, and then—”

“The room can’t be empty!”

The shriek—high but thin, like the feral cry of a shrew—rendered all three of us mute. Following this decree, Mrs. Grizzlehurst, three plates balanced on her left arm and a fourth in her right hand, set the meal upon the table.