Fallen Grace - Mary Hooper [67]
‘They won’t be that easy to counterfeit. And in the meantime we’ll be finding out more and gaining time in which to prepare our own case.’
Grace was quiet for a moment. ‘But how much chance do we really have of defeating people as devious as the Unwins?’ she said. ‘Who’s going to believe me over someone who’s being hailed as the next Lord Mayor of London?’
‘The truth is on your side,’ James said, ‘and we must trust in that.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Grace said fervently. ‘I’ll look through keyholes and watch for messengers coming and going and listen in to conversations.’
‘But you must take great care,’ James said, catching hold of her hand. ‘Remember that beneath the Unwins’ air of respectability they are completely unscrupulous. Don’t let them suspect for a moment that you know what’s going on.’
‘I won’t,’ Grace said.
James smiled, bent his head and kissed her hand before releasing it.
Grace didn’t know what to think about this gallant gesture, so decided to think nothing at all. The Unwins, the inheritance, the whereabouts of Lily – all these filled her mind to the brim. There was little room for anything else.
James did not leave The Mercury with Grace, but put it on to a pile of rubbish left against a lamp post, where it was taken by a tramp and put inside his jacket as a form of insulation against the bitter cold. Grace did not, then, read the small advertisement in the personal column:
x
‘Mrs Smith’ urgently seeks ‘Mary’. Last seen in Westminster Bridge Road, London, SW on 7th June 1861. If this date and address is pertinent to you, please contact: Box No. 236, The Mercury, London, regarding a matter of great importance.
x
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘I was thinking,’ said the widow, ‘of having pine for my dear husband’s coffin.’
‘Were you indeed?’ George Unwin said, sounding shocked to the core. ‘Pine! Such a flimsy and insubstantial wood. I wouldn’t say that it was at all suitable for a beloved husband.’ He shook his head reflectively. ‘If he was very dear to you, I fear that nothing less than polished oak will do. Of course, if he was not so important in your life . . .’ His voice trailed off and the sentence hung in the air, unfinished, accusing.
It was a few days after Grace had heard the astonishing news about the inheritance, and she was once again standing in the red room, waiting to be produced as a living example of the type of conscientious funeral mute who might be supplied to enhance a leave-taking of this world.
The woman sighed. ‘It’s just that I find myself in some difficulties regarding the expense.’
‘The expense should not be a consideration,’ said Mr Unwin, sadly shaking his head.
‘Have you considered the Necropolis train?’ Mrs Unwin put in. ‘Some of our more modern widows are finding it the very thing – and it can prove most economical.’
‘A train?’ said the widow. ‘Certainly not. My husband couldn’t abide the noisy things.’ She sighed again. ‘No, as for the casket wood . . .’
‘Madam!’ said Mr Unwin. ‘I would be failing in my duty as a caring undertaker if I let you choose anything less than best-quality polished oak.’
‘Oh dear, then, perhaps . . .’
Grace, hearing this with eyes lowered, hardly knew whether to rail aloud at George Unwin’s deviousness, or applaud his ingenuity.
There being no funerals that day, she’d been embroidering another human hair brooch (the deceased’s hair formed into a bay wreath and appliquéd on to silk) when she’d been told by Mrs Unwin to don bonnet and streamers and wait, looking tragic, in the red room. Now, as the Unwins and the widow went into the other room to reassess the question of wood, Grace took a good look around the red room, which she was seldom permitted to enter. She saw a substantial mahogany desk, some leather chairs and a tall cupboard standing slightly open. Above the desk were two large shelves, one of which was tightly filled with paper files bearing the names of the recipients of past funerals, the other holding trade periodicals and copies of the Bible. On the desktop there was a paperknife, inkstand and five