Free Let's Talk of Murder by Joan Smith Page B

the carriage. Harmony prevailed when they were deposited at the doorway of an extremely plain, new brown brick building on a short street in Lambeth. It held no air of gothic horror or decay. It might have been a school house. It was well built, but no money had been spent on garnishing the exterior. No columns, pediments, statuary or other ornaments interfered with its plain lines. It rose four floors, each punctuated with windows that gleamed in the autumn sunlight. A small swath of grass and a pair of ancient fir trees whose size and age suggested they predated the building, one on either side of the walk leading to the door, lent an austere note of welcome.
    They entered into a wood floored lobby that smelled of turpentine and beeswax and carbolic soap. The place was almost unnaturally clean. Not even a dust mote floated in the shafts of sunlight that shone through the windows. The plaster walls were innocent of pictures, but held a framed sheet of printing in heavy script. A closer look revealed that it was the ten commandments, with some printing below that outlined the tenets of the Morgate Sect.
    In an alcove to their left, a female of middle years dressed all in black with a white cap and collar sat bent over a desk, writing. Her outfit suggested she might be a nun. Her grim expression told Corinne she would not want to be under the woman’s care. But perhaps it was just her beetling black eyebrows and incipient moustache that made her look so intimidating.
    She rose, revealing a broad-shouldered figure nearly six feet in height. “I am Mrs. Bruton, the manageress of the home,” she said in a deep voice. Mrs. — she was neither nun nor nurse, then. “Can I help you?” Corinne had the feeling her sharp gray eyes saw all there was to see of the visitors.
    Prance stepped forward to make the request. He handed her his card. “Sir Reginald Prance, and these are my friends, Lady deCoventry, Lord Byron, and Mr. Pattle. We hoped we might be allowed to have a look at the facilities.” Mrs. Bruton offered her well-muscled hand to them each in turn for a crippling shake. Corinne noticed that despite the Mrs., she wore no wedding band. Many unmarried female servants of the higher orders gave themselves an honorary Mrs., however, so this was not unusual.
    “Do you have permission from Doctor Harper?” she asked. “He is the Director of the home.” After a mere flickering glance at the others, the gray eyes were drawn, like needles to a magnet, to Lord Byron. As she was looking at him, he undertook to reply.
    “I have not had the pleasure yet of meeting Doctor Harper, but I’m an admirer of Reverend Morgate. We thought there might be some way in which we could help with this marvelous work he’s doing.”
    This suggested to Mrs. Bruton that a donation might be forthcoming. The visitors all looked well-to-do. The handsome one was certainly Lord Byron. She had seen dozens of cartoons of him in the journals and shop windows. He really did have a club foot, too. The sole of one boot was built up higher than the other, it wouldn’t do for him to be writing up one of his nasty poems about the Morgate Home. Best oblige him.
    “We usually have advance notice of a tour, but we have nothing to hide. I’m sure you are welcome. Of course you appreciate there are portions of the building we use as birthing facilities. A certain degree of privacy is necessary there.”
    “I assure you we’re not voyeurs, Mrs. Bruton,” Byron said, with a twinkling eye that actually brought a smile to her harsh visage.
    While the dame was smiling, Corinne put in her request to speak to Fanny Rowan. Mrs. Bruton’s eyebrows rose half an inch, but in the end, she agreed without argument. “I’ll get her.” Corinne thought she would ring a bell to summon a servant for this errand but she went herself. It popped into Corinne’s head that the girl was to receive some instructions, or warning.
    When Mrs. Bruton returned, visibly panting from