John found Mrs. Bainstoke in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in Smithfield. She’d had a wallop on the head, most likely from cut-purses, since she’d been found with neither money nor jewelry. She’d forgotten her name and where she lived. John recognized her from a small portrait Mr. Bainstoke had provided, and when he returned with the man himself, Bainstoke wept with relief and gratitude. She recognized her husband too, which the doctors felt was a sure sign her memory would return entirely.
It was a better outcome than anyone had a right to expect, and John couldn’t help feeling that he’d had an unusual streak of luck lately, first finding the angel figurine twice and then Mrs. Bainstoke. Whatever winds were blowing in his favor, he could only hope they continued and that there wasn’t a reversal coming along behind them.
With the Bainstoke case done, and nothing else pressing, John managed to attend dinner with his household for the first time in a fortnight. Mrs. Babbage made a lovely oxtail stew and fresh, crusty bread. There was a pear tart for dessert. All the household was there, a rare occurrence, so dinner was lively. And afterward they retired to the drawing room together for a glass of port, not quite ready to return to their lonely rooms.
Mrs. Simpson, John’s landlady, was dressed in a bright rose gown and was the belle of the gathering, as always. She ran the boardinghouse, John’s sanctuary of the past three years. He’d met one of its tenants, Mr. Stockbridge, at The Iron Hart, a pub that was not unfriendly to their sort. And Stockbridge had mentioned that the house where he took lodgings had a room available and had a landlady who minded her own business and had some reason for discretion herself.
It had been a godsend. Mrs. Simpson and her husband, the mousy and unassuming Mr. Simpson, proved to be all Stockbridge had said and more.
The old house, which Mrs. Simpson had inherited, had three floors. John’s rooms were on the top floor in the back, and consisted of a bedroom, pantry, and a good-sized sitting room with a fireplace. Also on the top floor, facing the street, were the rooms taken by Mr. Leo Dante, a handsome young artist of independent means who had a string of male models in and out of his artist’s studio and his bed. In the rooms below John’s lived Stockbridge, who was in his fifties with a head of thick, graying brown hair and an eye for pretty young men, but not the nerve to act upon it. And in the front part of the second floor resided the pair they all referred to as “the Misses”—Miss Emily Blume and Miss Jane Wilfred, two plain and earnest young ladies who were employed as a midwife and a barmaid, respectively, and who were very much in love. The lower floor of the house was reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Simpson and held the commonly used drawing room, dining room, and kitchen.
It was to this company, and in the companionable warmth of full bellies and a decent sherry, that John told the story of his mysterious angel.
Mrs. Simpson was delighted. “He let you keep it? So you have this angel figurine now?”
“I do.”
“Then please show us, Mr. Trent! You can’t whet our appetites and not show us.”
“Too right. I’d like to see it myself,” agreed Stockbridge.
“As would I,” said Dante in a bored voice whilst picking paint from under his fingernails.
“I’m ever so curious,” added Miss Wilfred hopefully.
So John fetched the angel from his rooms and brought her down. Mrs. Simpson was very fond of holidays, and a red velvet runner embroidered with gold bells already graced the mantelpiece for the yuletide even though it was early December. After a moment’s hesitation, John placed her in the center.
Mrs. Simpson came over to peer at her closely, her hands fluttering. “Ooh, she is exquisite, Mr. Trent!”
“You found that tossed in the Thames and then in the rubbish?” Stockbridge asked in a disbelieving tone.
“Just as I recounted. Every word is true.”
“What did the sculptor mean, that she’d chosen you?” asked Miss Blume.
“I suppose he was just being fanciful. I doubt he really believes that.”
“But she did choose you,” Mrs. Simpson said firmly. “There’s no other explanation.”
“Well then, perhaps she was determined to grace your tree this year,” John said gallantly, which made Mrs. Simpson shiver in delight.
“I wonder. Tell us about the sculptor,” Stockbridge said leadingly.
“What do you mean?”
“Is he young or old?” asked Dante, looking up from cleaning his nails with a spark of interest in his eyes. “Handsome? Fat? Plain?”
“Poxy?” Miss Wilfred put in with a titter.
John’s back stiffened. “He’s a fine man. You can see for yourself—” He waved at the angel. “—he’s quite gifted. The shop is the height of respectability. It’s on the Pall Mall. There’s no reason to disparage him.”
Miss Wilfred’s face fell. “Ooh, I do beg pardon, Mr. Trent. I was only teasin’.”
Dante was watching him closely. “Young and handsome, I’ll wager. Or handsome enough.”
“Handsome enough,” John agreed with a shrug. “Though I can’t see how that signifies.”
“Oh doesn’t it just?” Dante drawled.
John chose to ignore him. Dante’s mind thrived in the gutter, and while John’s frequently splashed in that pond as well, he had no interest in encouraging that line of conversation about Mr. Allston.
“Well, it’s Mr. Allston we have to thank for an extra bit of Christmas cheer,” he said, in a tone that said that was the end of the matter. He sat back down and picked up his sherry.
“That’s not the end of the matter, surely.” Mrs. Simpson regarded the angel thoughtfully, her lips pursed.
“What do you mean, dear?” asked Mr. Simpson.
“You’ve got to thank the artist,” Dante said leadingly. “I’d want to be thanked properly.”
John glowered at him.
“No, no, the angel,” said Mrs. Simpson. “You’re good at sussing things out, Mr. Trent. Isn’t that your profession?”
“I suppose.”
“It’s hardly a murder case,” said Stockbridge.
“Oh murder!” Mrs. Simpson waved a dismissive hand. “So sordid. So tedious. This is much more interesting. You must discover the angel’s story, of course.”
“But I’ve already done so,” John said, not getting her meaning at all.
“You found her maker. That’s not the same thing as her story. Why did Mr. Allston carve her like this? Look, look at her eyes. This was made with love. He poured his heart and soul into her. Why? Who did he make it for? And why was she floating in the river?”
“Yes, I see,” agreed Miss Blume. “Sounds like one of your gothic novels, Jane.”
Miss Wilfred blushed prettily. “Don’ it just. I’d buy that book. Bet she looks like his lost love, and after he carved her like, he couldn’t bear looking at her, so he throws her away.”
Dante snorted.
“For that matter, why did you find her again a second time?” said Stockbridge, getting into the spirit of the thing. “Mrs. Simpson is right. The story has some interest now, but it’s not complete. Find the answers, and you’ll have a yarn that can earn you drinks for a lifetime.”
Stockbridge was very fond of earning drinks.
“That’s not asking much,” Dante said sourly. “He’s supposed to spend his time traipsing up and down London asking questions about a bloody tree angel? I’m sure he’s got more important things to do.”
“My dear,” Mrs. Simpson said with a quirked brow. “If you ever produce any object d’art that’s made with this kind of love and pathos, then you’ll have a right to be so dismissive.”
Dante rolled his eyes and glanced up at the angel resentfully. His gaze held for a moment and he twitched his nose with irritation, but he said no more.
“But... it’s only a figurine,” John said.
Not a soul in the room seemed impressed by this sentiment.