Murder in the East End - Jennifer Ashley Page 0,30
to run to her, but there would be too many questions, too many explanations. I did not want to worry Grace or the Millburns yet about my change in circumstance.
The hansom moved with the many carriages, carts, and vans jammed in the City, all of us traveling under a thick pall of smoke. We passed the grand edifices that made up the financial world of London, through Cornhill and Leadenhall to Aldgate Street, and so to Whitechapel Road.
The cabbie kept up a foul soliloquy the length of the journey about the many vehicles and their incompetent drivers, shouting his disapprobation and being shouted at in return. At one point our wheels locked with that of a wagon, our driver raising his whip in threat.
The drover, a large man with giant hands, only said, “Steady on, mate,” and efficiently maneuvered his horse until the spokes slid from our hub, and the hansom jerked forward once more.
Cynthia looked back around the canopy of the hansom and gave the drover a good-natured wave.
“Whew,” she said under her breath. “We’ll hire a different man for the journey back.”
At the corner of Whitechapel Road stood the church of St. Mary Matfelon, which had once been whitewashed, I’ve been told, which was why this entire area was known as Whitechapel. Scaffolding covered the building’s walls today, as it was being rebuilt after a fire. From there, the cabbie turned south into Shadwell, an area bustling with traffic and shops, warehouses and workhouses. The bulk of the London hospital and medical college weighted down the horizon. Young men dissected unfortunate beings there, learning from the dead how to stitch and dose the living.
Mr. Fielding was vicar of the small church of All Saints on Christian Street, a fitting name for the road. I hadn’t been much to the East End and hadn’t seen this particular building before, but I liked it at once. It was elegant and devoid of the overly Gothic embellishments renovators seemed to have put on in the last few decades. The exterior was rather plain, with clear glass windows, reminding me of Grosvenor Chapel.
Cynthia handed me down like a gallant swain and tossed the cabbie a coin. He snatched it out of the air and drove sullenly away without looking at us. I wager he’d never realized Lady Cynthia was female.
I had no way of knowing whether Mr. Fielding was even about, and he wasn’t expecting me. Cynthia hoisted her satchel, and we went into the churchyard through a tall gate that squeaked.
The iron fence encircled the church, shutting it firmly away from the street beyond it. Urchins in ill-made clothing played some game on the road that involved throwing small rocks, and they jeered at us through the bars. Cynthia glanced at them in curiosity, but I took no notice. If we paid them too much mind, they might start chucking the stones at us.
A path led around the church to a small house I assumed was the vicarage. As it was a Friday, nearing noon by now, any vicar would be at home, consuming his lunch. A housekeeper with a round face and wisps of white hair across her chin began to tartly tell us just that—the vicar was at his meal and wouldn’t be disturbed.
“If you’ve come about his charitable works, I’m afraid you’ll have to make an appointment or see him after evensong. He’s very busy, is our Mr. Fielding.” She said it fondly and proudly.
“Please tell him Mrs. Holloway has come about the matter we spoke of on Tuesday last,” I said. “We will wait.”
The woman did not look surprised that I spoke instead of the gentleman behind me. Church and charitable work was usually the purview of the ladies.
Hurried footsteps sounded behind the housekeeper, and a moment later Mr. Fielding appeared behind her, beaming a smile at us. “Mrs. Holloway.” He greeted me as though he’d been looking forward to this meeting all week. “This is indeed a pleasant event.”
Mr. Fielding held a napkin but was formally dressed in a suit with a black shirtfront and white collar. “Come in, come in. No matter, Mrs. Hodder. Mrs. Holloway is helping me on business of great importance. Lay a place for her and her friend, if you please.”
“A cup of tea will do nicely,” I said quickly. “No need for more.”
Vicars, especially those of an East End parish, were notoriously poor, their livings meager. I did not wish to eat food the housekeeper might be saving for her