A Dangerous Fortune(164)

Maisie sat down heavily. “Solly!” she said, and she felt faint. “Micky killed Solly? Oh, poor Solly.” She closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands.

“You need a sip of brandy,” April said. “Where do you keep it?”

“We don’t have any here,” Maisie said. She tried to pull herself together. “Show me that paper.”

April handed her the newspaper.

Maisie read the first paragraph. It said the police were hunting for the former Cordovan Minister, Miguel Miranda, to question him about the murder of Antonio Silva.

April said: “Poor Tonio. He was one of the nicest men I ever opened my legs for.”

Maisie read on. The police also wanted to question Miranda about the deaths of Peter Middleton, at Windfield School in 1866; Seth Pilaster, the Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank, in 1873; and Solomon Greenbourne, who was pushed under a speeding carriage in a side street off Piccadilly in July of 1879.

“And Seth Pilaster—Hugh’s uncle Seth?” Maisie said agitatedly. “Why did he kill all these people?”

April said: “The newspapers never tell you what you really want to know.”

The third paragraph jolted Maisie yet again. The shooting had taken place in northeast London, near Walthamstow, at a village called Chingford. Her heart missed a beat. “Chingford!” she gasped.

“I’ve never heard of it—”

“It’s where Hugh lives!”

“Hugh Pilaster? Are you still carrying a torch for him?”

“He must have been involved, don’t you see? It can’t be a coincidence! Oh, dear God, I hope he’s all right.”

“I expect the paper would say if he had been hurt.”

“It only happened a few hours ago. They may not know.” Maisie could not bear this uncertainty. She stood up. “I must find out if he’s all right,” she said.

“How?”

She put on her hat and stuck a pin in it. “I’ll go to his house.”

“His wife won’t like it.”

“His wife’s a paskudniak.”

April laughed. “What’s that?”

“A shitbag.” Maisie put on her coat.

April stood up. “My carriage is outside. I’ll take you to the railway station.”

When they got into April’s carriage they realized that neither of them knew which London terminus they should go to for a train to Chingford. Fortunately the coachman, who was also the doorman at Nellie’s brothel, was able to tell them it was Liverpool Street.

When they got there Maisie thanked April perfunctorily and dashed into the station. It was packed with Christmas travelers and shoppers returning to their suburban homes. The air was full of smoke and dirt. People shouted greetings and farewells over the screech of steel brakes and the explosive exhalations of the steam engines. She fought her way to the booking office through a throng of women with armfuls of parcels, bowler-hatted clerks going home early, black-faced engineers and firemen, children and horses and dogs.

She had to wait fifteen minutes for a train. On the platform she watched a tearful farewell between two young lovers, and envied them.

The train puffed through the slums of Bethnal Green, the suburbs of Walthamstow and the snow-covered fields of Woodford, stopping every few minutes. Although it was twice as fast as a horse-drawn carriage it seemed slow to Maisie as she bit her fingernails and wondered if Hugh was all right.

When she got off the train at Chingford she was stopped by the police and asked to step into the waiting room. A detective asked her if she had been in the locality that morning. Obviously they were looking for witnesses to the murder. She told him she had never been to Chingford before. On impulse she said: “Was anyone else hurt, other than Antonio Silva?”

“Two people received minor cuts and bruises in the fracas,” the detective replied.

“I’m worried about a friend of mine who knew Mr. Silva. His name is Hugh Pilaster.”

“Mr. Pilaster grappled with the assailant and was struck on the head,” the man said. “His injuries are not serious.”

“Oh, thank God,” said Maisie. “Can you direct me to his house?”

The detective told her where to go. “Mr. Pilaster was at Scotland Yard earlier in the day—whether he has returned yet, I couldn’t say.”

Maisie wondered whether she should go back to London right away, now that she was fairly sure Hugh was all right. It would avoid a meeting with the ghastly Nora. But she would feel happier if she saw him. And she was not afraid of Nora. She set off for his house, trudging through two or three inches of snow.

Chingford was a brutal contrast to Kensington, she thought as she walked down the new street of cheap houses with their raw front gardens. Hugh would be stoical about his comedown, she guessed, but she was not so sure of Nora. The bitch had married Hugh for his money and she would not like being poor again.

Maisie could hear a child crying inside when she knocked on the door of Hugh’s house. It was opened by a boy of about eleven years. “You’re Toby, aren’t you,” Maisie said. “I’ve come to see your father. My name is Mrs. Greenbourne.”

“I’m afraid Father’s not at home,” the boy said, politely.

“When do you expect him back?”

“I don’t know.”