This was so startling that Winnie spun round on the stool, so that Martha’s brush and comb were left stuck in Winnie’s hair. “Not all of them? You know of a gentleman who abandoned an illegitimate child?”
“Forget I spoke, Miss Winnie, please. It’s supposed to be a big secret, I shouldn’t’a said nothin’”
“We are speaking about your sister Maisie, I take it,” Winnie said musingly. “John is sixteen now, so…” It was not Walter, that was her first thought, as relief washed through her. Not any of the younger generation. But who else? Surely not the earl… theold earl? He would have been a very elderly man at the time. Then, with a squeak of alarm… “Not my father!”
“No, Miss Winnie, no! Not any o’ your family.”
The Franklyns had not been there, then, so it could only be the earl’s family… or someone from further afield, or even a stranger.
“Why was it supposed to be a secret? Are not these things usually known, somehow?”
“Aye, but Maisie said nowt, just that he were important an’ married, so no one knew until a few months ago, when Jack Wishaw gave her a whole bottle of his ma’s gooseberry wine, an’ she got snuffy an’ told everyone it were— Oops. Better not say, Miss Winnie. There’s enough trouble at the castle without stirrin’ up old tales, an’ besides, he’s dead now.”
“Martha, if it involves the castle, I had much sooner know.”
“Oh, Miss Winnie, Maisie’ll be so cross wi’ me!”
Winnie turned back to face the mirror. “Then I shall not ask any more about it, Martha. I would not dream of insisting you break a confidence. Besides, if I am late for dinner tonight, everyone will be cross withmeso we had better get on with it.”
“Yes, Miss Winnie. Thank you.”
But Winnie was satisfied. There were only two gentlemen who had lived at the castle at the appropriate time who were now dead — the old earl and the chaplain. She could not be certain which of them it was but she was very sure that, armed with this information, Captain Edgerton could find out. And if it should emerge that Mr Nicholson had had an illegitimate son with Maisie Whyte, that would be a matter of great interest to the captain. She would write to him first thing tomorrow.
***
‘To Captain Michael Edgerton, Corland Castle, nr Helmsley, North Riding. Captain, I hope your investigations are proceeding well. A discussion with my maid, Martha Whyte, revealed some information that I believe will interest you. The Whyte family is long established at Birchall, and Martha’s father, Joe, is the blacksmith. Martha’s sister, Maisie, has an illegitimate son, John Whyte, now aged sixteen or so. He works as a groom at Westwick Heights, the home of Mr George Atherton, the earl’s brother. Martha told me that the identity of John’s father, long held secret, was recently revealed to the family, at least. She would not tell me who it was, except that he was someone important, who was married, lived at Corland Castle and is now dead. I can think of only two people who fit all of these criteria — the old earl, and Mr Nicholson. I am sure you will be able to find out which of them it is. With good wishes and my regards to Mrs Edgerton, Miss Peach, Mr Alexander and to you. Respectfully yours, Winifred Strong.’
***
One day, when Winnie had written yet another long letter home and took it down to the hall to be taken to the post, she found Uncle Edmund on the point of departure, all the day’s outgoing letters in his hand, as Percival held the door for him.
“Are you going to the Post Office now? Can you take this one, too?”
“Of course. It is a bit late in the day, I know, but I have an important letter to send, and if I can get it to Lombard Street in time, it will go off tonight. I am only waiting for the carriage to be brought round from the yard.”
“Oh… the Lombard Street Post Office. I should so like to see it, but—”
“Then run and get your bonnet,” he said, with a smile. “Percival will tell your aunt where you have gone.”
Winnie ran up the stairs at an unladylike rate that would have given her mother an apoplexy, and was downstairs again, ribbons still dangling, just as the carriage arrived at the door. The early part of their journey was along streets she had seen before, but then they came upon the magnificent edifice of St Paul’s Cathedral, and Winnie gazed in awe as they rattled past. Then they reached a narrower, much more crowded street, where Edmund halted the carriage.
“We will walk the rest of the way. John Coachman will wait for us round the corner in Cornhill. The Post Office is just along here.”
The pavement was crammed with hackney carriages, wagons, a few private carriages and a great multitude of people, all rushing hither and thither, and Winnie and her uncle only made progress because the flow of people was largely in one direction. They came at last to the imposing frontage of the General Post Office and made their way inside, where they halted, dismayed. The main hall was a sea of people, all jostling to get near the counters at the far end as the final hour for that day’s collections approached.
“Hmm. I do not like to take you into such a mêlée,” Uncle Edmund said. “If you step aside, just over there where it is a little clearer, you may wait safely for me. I shall be as quick as I can.”
Winnie stationed herself against the wall in a corner that was outside the usual flow of customers, and gazed in admiration at the noble proportions of the hall. When that palled, she amused herself by watching Uncle Edmund’s hat disappear into the crowd and inch its way towards the counter where letters and parcels were being assessed and stamped and sent on their way. Where might they be going to? All parts of London, or perhaps to Penzance or Edinburgh or Dublin. Or beyond Britainaltogether… Paris or Brussels or Constantinople or Moscow or Charleston or… what was the name of that place on the far side of the earth? New South Wales, that was it, but she could not remember the names of the settlements there. Where was Uncle Edmund’s hat? There it was, almost at the counter.
She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not notice the group of ragged urchins chasing each other around the pillars nearby, until one of them barrelled into her.
“Beg pardon, mum,” he said, grinning at her, and at that precise moment, she felt a sharp tug on her wrist. Her reticule! One of the boys had hold of it and was trying to pull it off her arm.
“Stop that!” she cried, grabbing the reticule with her other hand and pulling it hard. But the urchin had a firm grip, and she failed to dislodge him. “Go away!” This time she gave him a firm shove in the chest.
She was only partly successful. The boy toppled backwards, but his grip on the reticule was so great that Winnie herself was pulled forwards, falling to her knees. By this time she was so incensed that she gave the boy’s wrist a violent blow with the side of her hand and with a shriek of pain he released her reticule. Scrambling to her feet, boiling with fury, she prepared to do further battle, but unexpected reinforcements arrived in the shape of a finely dressed young man wielding a cane with vigour. Within moments, the urchins had fled, the startled faces watching the altercation turned away, and Winnie was left staring at her rescuer.
He had a pleasant countenance, but he was not handsome, or at least, not nearly so handsome as Walter, and was not above average height. If it had not been for his fashionable attire, she would not have noticed him in any gathering. As it was, his high shirt points, wide lapels, brightly coloured waistcoat and multitude of fobs would turn heads anywhere.
