Penelope’s stomach twisted at the implied insult. She didn’t dare look away from John, even as Agatha muttered outrage by her side.
John looked at Harry with a question in his eyes—Harry nodded, and together they reached out to seize Mr. Turner.
They hauled him to his feet—easy enough, for two sailors, either one of whom outweighed the man they held. Mr. Turner looked right at Penelope, andsmiled—that same smug, pleased expression that sent a bolt of pure terror lancing through Penelope’s gut.
Then he dropped.
It was so swift and total a collapse that Mr. Turner had to have done it on purpose: his legs simply gave way beneath him. John let go of him in surprise, and Mr. Turner clutched at one arm and began shouting agony and assault.
It was a shocking performance, and half the crowd whistled and hooted in reaction.
Mr. Painter bounded forward, sweaty and florid, and after a moment Mr. Turner permitted himself to be helped slowly to his feet. Mr. Painter scooped the subscription bag from the floor, glaring at John, while Mr. Turner put on his best stoic air as he walked toward the door, calling out to be taken to the physician.
A few scattered hands clapped, and one by one the usual conversations slunk back into the room.
Penelope walked over to Harry, who was speaking to Nell Turner in low, careful tones. “Are you alright?” she asked. “Do you need a place to stay for the night?”
“I’ll have to,” she said. “He’ll give me and Arthur no rest tonight if I don’t.” Her eyes were still fixed on the door, as if she expected her husband to return at any moment and harass her further. One hand crept protectively into the pocket where she’d poured tonight’s tips. “I was there when Lady Summerville’s steward asked him to take up the subscription,” she said. “They promised him a cut of however much he brought in. An inducement to exert himself, they said.” Something in her expression hardened, and her singer’s voice burned low and hot, a note in the same key as the fury in Penelope’s chest. “He was going to take everything I’d earned, and give it to people who already have more than enough.”
“What do you want to do?” Penelope asked.
“What else?” Nell lifted her head, eyes bright as fire. “I’m going to sing.”
She grabbed her guitar, moved to the musician’s corner, and plucked the opening notes of “Lady Spranklin.”
The audience shouted in recognition—cheers mostly, though a few dissonant notes were heard. John began stomping time, and Harry’s voice was—of course—one of the loudest when he joined in as Nell reached the chorus. A few of Mr. Painter’s friends harrumphed and left in a huff.
Mr. Thomas slipped away, too, shortly after, muttering something about seeing to Mr. Kitt.
Penelope resumed her seat beside Agatha on the bench. “Well, it could have been worse,” she said, grasping for any sliver of comfort.
“It’s going to get worse,” Agatha promised darkly. But all the same, she squeezed hard and didn’t let go when Penelope boldly slipped a hand over hers beneath the table.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Agatha and Penelope were sitting down to a late breakfast the next morning when they were interrupted by a knock at the door and the appearance of a very nervous Jenny. “Mr. Buckley and Mr. Painter, ma’am,” the maid said, teeth worrying her lower lip.
Mr. Painter Agatha knew—and the dour, square-faced Mr. Buckley she vaguely remembered from church at Christmas. He was clearly in charge, leading the way into the breakfast room with his jaw set and his mouth at an unhappy angle. “Pardon the intrusion, Mrs. Flood. We’re looking for Mrs. Turner, and we heard she was staying here with you.”
Mrs. Turner was in the kitchen, helping Mrs. Braintree with her distillery. There was a moment where Agatha was sure she could see the words to explain this truth arranging themselves on Penelope’s tongue.
But then the beekeeper stopped, put on a false, polite smile and said: “And what is it you want with Mrs. Turner?”
“I’m sorry to say we’ve been asked to bring her before the magistrates,” Mr. Buckley explained.
Agatha’s appetite vanished. She set her fork aside, tea and toast churning in her stomach.
Penelope, still smiling, sent her sharp little knife sailing through a piece of pound cake. “Whatever for?”
Mr. Buckley cast a nervous look at Mr. Painter, then back to the two women. “Her performance last night may have constituted a breach of the peace,” he said. “The justices are holding a special session this morning to inquire into the matter.”
“That sounds quite serious,” Penelope said sympathetically. Another few stabs of the knife. “But—pardon me for asking—what does it have to do with the two of you?”
Mr. Buckley’s dour expression doured further.
Mr. Painter puffed himself up like an irritable chicken. “We are special constables, of course. Appointed this very morning, by Mr. Oliver and Squire Theydon himself.”
“Of course you are,” Penelope said, so much honey dripping from her tones that Agatha’s own teeth ached to hear it. The blonde woman dabbed at her lip with a napkin and rose from the table. “If you gentleman will wait outside, Mrs. Turner and I will be with you shortly.”
