“A valid point,” Helen conceded. “If you had asked about nearly anyone else, I would have told you to pike off. But today our interests coincide.”
“You haven’t answered the question,” Martha replied. “And you’ll have to explain yourself before we go charging into the Lord Mayor’s parlor accusing his wife of adultery, and perhaps of murder.”
A look of annoyance passed across Helen’s face, and I counted it as a small victory. After a moment she replied. “Since last summer’s killings, the beadles and Justices have been nothing but a hair in my neck. They’ve arrested my doxies and closed my alehouses. As if my girls were the cause of all the trouble! Things cannot get much worse for my business, and if you bring down the Lord Mayor they might get better. Besides, I’ve never had much use for that miserly old cuff.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced that Helen had told us the truth, but at least we had a name. We managed to take our leave without further exchange of insults (no small achievement there), and began the journey back through Micklegate to our side of the city. We now walked into the wind, and our cloaks billowed behind us.
“Why should we believe her?” I asked as we passed through the bar and into the city. I was being peevish, but I could not help myself.
“Aunt Bridget, if you weren’t going to accept her answer, why did we come all this way?” Will demanded.
“She admitted that she wanted to see the Lord Mayor fall,” I replied. “And she would have no problem lying if it would serve her needs.”
“You asked her who Mr. Breary’s mistress was, and she told us,” Martha cried. She could not hide her exasperation with me any better than Will. “We should follow the scent and see where it takes us. If for some reason Helen Wright has deceived us, so be it. We discover Agnes’s innocence and move on.”
I knew I could not allow my antipathy for Helen to obstruct my better judgment and grumbled my agreement.
“Why don’t we call on her right now?” Martha asked. “They’re on this side of the river, aren’t they?”
“They’re on the same street as my brother’s house,” Will replied. “And if Agnes is innocent, we could pop in at my brother’s for dinner and ask Mark Preston whether he murdered Mr. Breary.”
I smiled a little at the image and said a prayer of thanks that Will could attempt such a jest. For some time after his father’s death Will was loath to even mention his brother. I agreed with the plan, and we turned toward the Lord Mayor’s home.
“How will you get her to see you?” Will asked. “She’s not one of your clients.”
He was right, of course. Why would a newly married girl want to meet with a midwife? I considered the question and felt a smile play across my lips. “I think I have the answer for that.” By the time we arrived at the Greenbury’s home, my plan was complete.
The Lord Mayor’s footman bowed when we approached and admitted us to the entry hall where another servant greeted us. He was dressed in fine silks that announced the Lord Mayor’s wealth, and he had a haughty air about him. As soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew my plan would work.
“Lady Hodgson, how are you this morning?” he asked. “I am afraid the Lord Mayor is not in. Would you like to leave him a message? I will be sure that he receives it today.”
“Thank you, but I am here to see Mrs. Greenbury,” I replied. “It concerns … a private matter.” I allowed my voice to trail off and cast my eyes to the floor.
“I’m afraid it is impossible,” he replied. “Mrs. Greenbury does not like unexpected visitors. Perhaps you would tell me what this concerns.”
“Very well,” I said. “Please tell her that I have come to discuss her menstrual discharges, and the best course for retention or restoration.”
In a welcome irony, the blood drained from the servant’s face and he stared at me, mouth open but unable to speak.
I smiled and waited as his Adam’s morsel bobbed up and down.
“I will see if she will speak to you,” he said at last. “I will take you to the drawing room and have her meet you there. Your gentleman will have to wait here, of course.”
“Of course,” I said.
Will looked annoyed, but he could hardly object. A man could not be a part of the conversation I’d proposed.
Martha smiled approvingly as we followed the servant into the drawing room, and why not? I’d learned such tricks from her, after all. It seemed strange how naturally deception came to me, but we lived in strange times.
Agnes Greenbury flew into the drawing room, a tornado of silk, lace, hair, and fury. She strode past Martha without a glance in her direction and stopped with her face mere inches from mine. Despite, or perhaps because of, the fury that burst from every pore, I could see why Matthew Greenbury had risked universal scorn to marry this girl. She was astonishingly beautiful, and she exuded so much energy that even I found it a bit unnerving. What man—especially one nearing the end of his life—could refuse such a combination? Marrying this girl would be akin to seizing lightning in his hand.