Stalking Jack the Ripper (Stalking Jack the Ripper, #1)(30)
“You’re hopeless.” I shook my head. He’d make for a horrible naturalist, constantly altering scientific data with his kindness. He brushed his gloved fingers off on a hand-stitched napkin, then sat back, watching as the little birds bobbed and plucked each morsel up, a satisfied smile plastered across his face.
I kept staring at the napkin. “I admit, I’m dreading the arrival of Aunt Amelia.”
Nathaniel followed my gaze and waved the napkin in the air. “It’ll be a grand time, I’m sure. Least she’ll be pleased with your embroidery. She needn’t know you practice on the dead.”
Aunt Amelia, aside from her daily lessons on tending a proper household and attracting a decent husband, had an inexplicable thing for stitching monograms in every bit of cloth she could find. I hadn’t a clue how I’d manage sewing a lot of useless napkins along with apprenticing for Uncle.
Between that and her constant religious outbursts, I was certain the next few weeks were going to be more tedious than I’d originally thought.
“Where was it you ran off to the other day?” Nathaniel asked, dragging my thoughts away from sewing and other roaring good times. He wasn’t about to let up his own inquest so easily. “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t trust me. I’m quite offended, Sister.”
“Fine.” I sighed, knowing I’d have to reveal one secret in order to hang on to more important ones. “I sneaked into Father’s study the other night and came across Alistair’s name. That’s all. Really.”
Nathaniel frowned, pulling at his soft leather gloves but not taking them off. “What in the name of the queen were you doing in Father’s study? I can’t protect you from your own stupidity, Sister. There’s no medical cure for that as of yet, much to my dismay.”
I ignored his jab, plucking a grape from our picnic hamper, which Nathaniel had ordered from Fortnum & Mason. It was packed full of mouth-watering delicacies, from imported cheeses to hothouse fruit.
To appear less eager for information, I slowly pulled the cheese and bread from the cloth bundle and set the plate on the blanket in front of us. “He was a servant, then?”
“Alistair Dunlop was Father’s old carriage driver,” Nathaniel said. “Surely you remember him now? He was kind, but very eccentric.”
A crease formed between my brows. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but Father changes staff so often it’s hard to keep everyone straight.”
I spread brie and fig preserves across toast points and handed it to Nathaniel, before repeating the process for myself. Each time I was certain I’d resolved an important item to my satisfaction, it became clear it wasn’t as it seemed.
I wished to find one blasted clue that could point me in a fruitful direction. It’d be even better if murderers, psychopaths, and villains simply held a sign up for inquiring minds to spot easily. It bothered me such a savage could be walking amongst us.
Nathaniel waved a hand in front of my face. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”
“Sorry?” I blinked as if emerging from a daydream—one that didn’t involve murders, and dying old men. My brother sighed again.
“I said Father fired him shortly after Mother’s…” Death was what he didn’t want to say. Neither one of us liked saying it out loud, the wounds still too raw to cope with, even after five years. I squeezed his hand, letting him know I understood.
“Anyway, he was dismissed abruptly. I never knew why,” Nathaniel said, shrugging. “You know how Father can be at times, though. Mr. Dunlop used to teach me chess when no one needed him.”
My brother smiled, the pleasant memory lighting his whole mood. “Truthfully, I’ve stayed in touch with him. He couldn’t continue as a coachman after being turned out by Father without a proper reference. I’ve met him a few times to play chess, wagering money and purposely losing, just to help him out some. His circumstances are sadly reduced, and I cannot help feeling responsible somehow. These days he works the deck on the Mary See.”
“Another life condemned to hard times, thanks to Lord Edmund Wadsworth and his own eccentricities,” I said. I wondered what the coachman could’ve possibly done to end up a lowly deckhand. His only crime was probably being too kind to my brother.
It seemed when Father dismissed servants, their lives were never the same in the very worst of ways. At least Alistair was still breathing. Miss Nichols would never inhale the unwholesome air of the Thames again.
Misinterpreting my silence, Nathaniel wrapped an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into a comforting embrace. “I’m sure he’s happy enough, little Sister. Some men live for the kind of freedom that comes with swabbing the decks of a great ship and hauling cargo chests. No responsibilities. No need to worry about teas and cigar rooms—white tie versus black tie and all that upper-class nonsense. The rush of wind through their hair.” He smiled wistfully. “It’s a noble life.”
“You speak as if you’d like to throw away your good name and swab the decks yourself.”
Nathaniel would make a terrible sailor, and we both knew it. He might entertain the notion of leaving behind the finer things in life for freedom, but he cherished his imported brandy and French wine too much. Giving all that up for cheap ale in dank public houses wouldn’t suit him in the slightest. I smiled just picturing him sliding up to a bar, ordering something as common as a pint, his hair in complete disarray.