Chapter Thirty-Five
It took them less than an hour to find what they were looking for.
Maison de Fortescue, a factory specializing in handkerchiefs, occupied a squat building in the heart of Spitalfield’s Petticoat Lane. It sat on a street crammed with shops on both sides, garments of every kind strung up along the low-hanging eaves. In this heart of industry, rules of civility gave way to commerce. A lady’s used corset dangled side by side with a pair of gentleman’s smalls. Morts sold stockings and garters from baskets on the street. Customers jostled one another as they tried on items, tugging them over their clothes.
Accompanied by Kent and McLeod, Gabriel entered the shop. Inside, Fortescue’s was more spacious and cleaner than its exterior might suggest. The front counter was polished, and the man who came to greet them had the glistening pink mien of one who never missed his meals. His waistcoat, patterned in a loud stripe, strained at the buttons. His thinning black hair had been meticulously combed to cover his balding pate.
He sized them up. His gaze gleamed like that of a man who’d been presented with a feast. He waddled over and performed an unctuous bow.
“James Fortescue, at your service.” Despite the French surname, the man’s Cockney accent was several generations thick. “How may I be o’ assistance to you fine gents today?”
Gabriel removed the handkerchief from his pocket. Placed it on the counter.
“Is this one of yours?” he said.
“As a matter o’ fact, it is, and it don’t belong outside the shop.” Fortescue frowned. “Don’t know as ’ow it fell into such fine ’ands as yours, but rest assured that that is a rough sample only. I’ve much finer examples if you wish to order a supply—”
“What I wish to know is if a woman by the name of Marie Fournier worked here.”
“Don’t know no Fournier,” the proprietor said. “But perhaps I could interest you in some o’ our fine merchandise—”
“She may have used a different name. The woman I seek is of average height, thin, dark hair and eyes. She is well-educated and speaks fluent French and English.” Seeing the sudden dart of the other’s eyes, Gabriel said evenly, “This is a matter of import, and I am offering a reward.”
Fortescue licked his lips. “A reward, you say?”
Gabriel removed a coin purse, letting the contents jingle.
“I might know the woman you’re lookin’ for.” His eyes on the purse, Fortescue said, “’Ad a seamstress by the name o’ Manette Fontaine workin’ for me.”
Gabriel’s nape prickled.
“How long ago?” Kent said alertly.
“She disappeared around three months ago. Left without a word.” Fortescue huffed. “Should ’ave listened to my gut and turned the hussy away from the start.”
Gabriel traded glances with the investigators. The timing matched with when Fournier—or Fontaine, rather—had started in his employ. This had to be the woman they were after.
“Why should you have turned her away?” Gabriel said.
“’Er manner. Hoity-toity, she was. Because she had a bit o’ book learning, she thought she was better than the rest.” Fortescue grunted—his comment on educated females, apparently. “Claimed she’d been a governess for a rich family and ’ad been let go when the children went away to school. Only a fool would believe that tale when she didn’t have a single reference to show for it.” Fortescue’s thin brows rose. “My guess is that Miss High and Mighty got herself compromised and was shown the back door.”
“Then why did you hire her?” Gabriel said.
The proprietor’s eyes slid away. “I’ve a big ’eart, I do.”
The heart wasn’t the part of the anatomy that had made the other’s decision, Gabriel thought with disgust. “After she left,” he said coldly, “you heard nothing else?”
“I’ve said all I know.” Fortescue held his hand out for the purse.
Gabriel kept it back. “We will need to speak to your employees who knew Fontaine.”
“My seamstresses are busy. They ’aven’t the time to—”
Gabriel emptied the purse, the gold clinking onto his gloved palm.
Fortescue’s avarice got the better of him. “All right. You may speak to Alice—she and Manette were as chatty as magpies.” He took the gold, stuffing it into his pocket. “Ten minutes only, mind you. I’ve a business to run.”
***
The woman named Alice was more than happy to talk.
“Well, beats bein’ up in that bleedin’ garret room, don’t it?” Batting her eyelashes, she untied her fichu, making a great show of fanning her exposed décolletage. “La, it’s so hot up there.”
Gabriel observed that the woman’s milkmaid looks were already showing signs of wear. Fine lines were etched around her eyes and mouth, and her gaze was as jaded and assessing as that of any trollop. In fact, her coy manner suggested that she had at least some experience in the world’s oldest trade.
He’d sent Kent and McLeod back to the carriage so as not to intimidate their only lead to Fontaine. He and Alice were out in the alley behind Fortescue’s. Squeezed between buildings, the corridor was stifling and reeked of garbage. The back doors of the other businesses swung open now and again, letting out people or buckets of refuse.
It was the most privacy they were going to get.
“I’m told you know Manette Fontaine,” Gabriel said.
“Knew. ’Aven’t ’eard from ’er since she left this place.” Alice gave him a flirtatious smile. “What’er she did for you, sir, I reckon I can do better.”
“Manette is a prostitute?”
“You’re not one o’ ’er fancy coves?” Alice’s eyes thinned. “Who are you then?”
“Someone who wants to find her.” He held out a quid. “This is yours if you answer my questions.”
“Double that, and I’ll tell you everything I know,” she said.
He gave her half of what she asked. “The rest when you’re done. So you and Manette—you both worked in the streets?”
“I ain’t no common streetwalker. I’m a good girl, I am,” Alice said unconvincingly. “Work my fingers to the bone in my God-given trade, but sometimes it ain’t enough and if there ’appens to be a job or two on the side…” She shrugged. “A girl’s got to make ends meet, don’t she?”
“Manette was doing these side jobs as well?”
“She’s the one who ’ooked me onto the idea. We started ’ere ’round the same time and got friendly like. One day she says to me she knows o’ a way to make some extra blunt and am I interested? I says, do birds ’ave wings? That’s when she tells me o’ this ’igh-kick place in Covent Garden called the Tickle and Fancy. There, a girl can work whene’er and howe’er much she wants. The nobs there like it that way; they don’t fancy long-toothed whores.” Alice smirked. “They prefer fresh goods—seamstresses and maids wot only do it now an’ again and nicely like. Pay more for the likes o’ us, they do.”
“You said Manette knew some fancy coves.”
“She was a favorite, she was. The gents liked ’er since she was pretty and clever.” Alice arched a brow. “Why, before all this she used to work as a governess—but the masters, she said, they all ’ad wandering ’ands. Why give it away for a governess’ wages, when you could make ’em pay properly for what they’re getting? Manette always said. ’Ad brains, that one.”
“Do you know the names of the gentlemen she kept company with?”
Alice shook her head, her fat brown curls flopping beneath her cap. “Manette kept as quiet as a clam about ’er affairs. Discretion, she said, is the difference between us an’ the common run whores. Gor, she ’ad class, make no mistake about it. Makes sense that she’d land ’erself a nob.”
Gabriel stilled. “What nob?”
“Don’t know ’is name—like I said, Manette knew ’ow to keep her gob shut. But one night, she and I got a bit top ’eavy, and she said she’d got ’er ticket to a better place. Some toff ’ad given it to ’er. Thought it was the bottle talking, but sure enough, a fortnight later she was gone. Gor, by now she could be a Lady-So-And-So,” Alice enthused.
Gabriel did not share the other’s optimism. “You can recall nothing else she said about this man?” he said tersely.
“No, sir. I’ve said all I know.”
Gabriel handed over the rest of the money. “Thank you for your time.”
“Are you certain I can’t ’elp you with anything else?” Alice said coquettishly.
“That is all,” he said firmly.
“Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.” She gave a good-natured pout, sashaying back into the building.
The door closed behind her. Gabriel remained, his thoughts racing.
Was Heath the nob Manette/Marie had met? Had he been the one to hire the Frenchwoman, not for carnal purposes as Alice believed, but to spy and kidnap? Gabriel’s gut told him that the governess was somehow the key to everything. He would go next to the Tickle and Fancy and see if anyone there knew Manette’s whereabouts or could identify Heath as one of her customers.
The door to the adjacent building swung open. A sandy-haired man emerged, and as he turned, shock spread like frost through Gabriel. He stood, frozen, as the vision closed the distance between them.
The familiar face bore a wry smile. “Hello, Trajan.”
“Marius?” Gabriel whispered.
Quick as lightning, the other moved. Even as Gabriel’s arm came up instinctively, he knew it was too late. Powder wound into his nostrils and lungs, choking, inescapable. He staggered backward, away from the ghost, and this time he was the one to tumble into oblivion.