The House of Beardsley

Chapter Twenty-seven

The rest of the week I didn't see Eugene at all. However, as promised, he left illustrations on his nightstand. They were neatly drawn with ink, and they were usually of his pets, flowers, or imaginary horses. I took each of the papers and gathered them into the only book I owned: a bible a nun gave me after I left the church.

On Sunday Mister Kupka informed me and the girls we all were having the day off.

"Be grateful," he said. "Because many of them are out today, your masters gave you girls a day off too. Even the valets are off, while Otis and I still have to stay home—"

"That's wonderful!" Beth cheered.

"Yes," Clo agreed, the two cutting off Mister Kupka to his annoyance. "I've been thinking of going to the post office to send some things back home to my family."

"You should ask Harper to go along," Beth said with a wink. "It's dangerous for a girl to go out alone, especially if you're carrying money."

"Shall I go with you?" Rhiannon asked.

"No and no," Clo said, scowling. "Don't you have all anything to do?"

"I don't," Rhiannon said.

"Me neither," Beth said. Then she turned to Rhiannon. "Want to shop together?"

"Again?"

"Please? I always wanted to go to Bond Street—oh yes, about about you, Shuyan?" She turned to me, and I had to think quick.

"Oh, I have to buy something," I lied, "it's pretty far, so I'll go alone."

"Will you be fine alone?" Beth asked.

"Rudy is coming along," I lied again. But he probably was free and knew it was a facade and would help.

As expected, he did. He walked me to the train platform, and there he told me good luck and left. I only had to ride for fifteen minutes to Tudor Square, and despite being nearly thirty minutes early, there was Tobias, waiting at a park bench, reading a newspaper.

"Master Tobias," I said, walking up to him. "Good morning. I didn't know you were here so early or I would've—"

"Don't call me 'master' outside," he said, folding his newspaper. It was wrinkled and I was surprised he still read it. Apparently for nobles, their valets ironed each and every newspaper they read. "I don't want to draw attention."

When he stood up, I realized what he meant. He had dressed down—or at least tried to. He was wearing a brown twill sports-jacket and matching trousers, white shirt, beige vest, brown hat, paired with beautiful leather oxfords, shined to the point they reflected our image. I've never seen him wear something actually fit for going outside, not just for studying chess in his room, so I was surprised. He also seemed to look healthier, less pale, against the warm-colored outfit.

"What's wrong?" he asked, noticing my staring.

"No," I said quickly, "it's nothing."

"Then let's go. We are visiting a man who was entrusted with Father's journals after his death. He goes under the pseudonym Humpty-Dumpty."

"What?" I frowned. "Do we not know his real name?"

"The thing is, he has so many names that it doesn't even matter anymore. His main trade is keeping things people have entrusted to him, anything from money, jewels, to secret documents. Con-artists and thieves work with him, but because of that he doesn't exactly have the best reputation either."

"Do you know if he uses any fake names with the initials R.M.?" I asked. "I heard from Robert Miller Thompson that Mister Silas is looking for a man with the initials R.M. for some reason."