Page 165
“Where does the spiritual resonance come from?”
“A medium from Whitechapel infuses it,” Ned replied. “Runs a proper séance circle, she does—speaks reg’lar with Cleopatra.” He reached into the wagon, retrieved a small cloth bag, and gave it to John. “Sample for Miss Martin, compliments of Crindle and Blink.”
John smiled and pocketed the bag. He went to unlatch the grate over the coal chute, and propped it open with a hook. “Maddock,” he said over his shoulder, “I’ll go down to the cellar and stack the coal sacks if you’ll drop them in—carefully—so the sacks don’t split.”
“Aye, Mr. Pembroke.”
But just as John began to descend the iron-reinforced steps, someone burst out of the kitchen door as if the house were on fire.
It was Norman, wild-eyed and panting. “Mr. Pembroke! Mr. Pembroke—”
“What’s the matter?” John asked, swiveling to face him.
“The—the—he’s here!”
“Who’s here?”
“S-supervisor.” Norman paused to suck in a few panicked breaths. “Constable. Compliance inspection—for ticket-of-leave.”
“Fuck me,” John muttered. “What did you say to him?”
“I asked him to wait inside the entrance while I informed you.”
“Why today?” John asked of no one in particular. “Why the bloody hell today?” He groaned softly as he realized he wasn’t wearing his butler’s uniform.
“I’ll handle the coal with Ned,” came Maddock’s quiet voice.
John sent him a questioning glance. “You know how to stack the sacks with the iron hook and—”
“Yeah,” Maddock said easily. “Go on, Mr. Pembroke, don’t give it another thought.”
“Mind you wipe the tools clean and sweep the cellar floor,” John said. “Then go to the stable and make sure it’s in order. After that, come find me in the house.” He turned to Norman. “Goodluck, find Enid and Belinda, tell them to tidy up any obvious messes and make themselves presentable. Most importantly, tell them the supervisor will want to speak with each of us. Make sure they understand: Do not volunteer any information. Whatever he asks, give a simple and polite answer. If he asks whether we’ve all got on well with each other, say yes. If he asks whether there’s been any violence, or anyone’s missed their curfew, say no.”
“So . . . you want us to lie?” Norman asked.
Aware of both Norman’s and Maddock’s questioning gazes, John struggled to come up with an answer.
Help came from an unexpected quarter. Ned, who had started to pull the first coal sack from the wagon’s bed, paused to observe in a philosophical tone, “Sometimes lying’s just a slow way of telling the truth.”
Despite the direness of the situation, John let out a breath of amusement before he headed into the house.
He went up the servants’ stairs, taking them two at a time.
Just before entering the main hall, John paused to compose himself. Back and shoulders straight, chin level, expression calm.
He approached the inspector, a stocky older man with white hair and a mustache curved like a pair of violin scrolls. He stood with a bowler hat tucked beneath his left arm, brim facing back. A professional of the old school. One who valued details and let nothing slip by him. The kind who didn’t touch liquor before six and would never leave his post even if the city had neglected to pay him.
“Good morning,” the officer said in a tumbled-gravel voice. “Inspector George Grindal, Metropolitan Police, here for a compliance inspection of ticket-of-leave prisoners. Kindly inform the mistress of the house.”
“Good morning, Mr. Grindal. May I see your credentials?”
Grindal extracted his police warrant card and showed it to him.
“Very good, sir,” John said, taking note of the signature and stamp. “Miss Martin is out on a walk but is expected to return soon. Would you care to wait in the parlor?”
“No indeed, I will begin the compliance inspection immediately, as there is much ground to cover. Let’s start with you—you’re John Pembroke? The butler?”
“I am, sir.”
