Last Seen in London: Silver and Simm Victorian Mysteries, #20

By Cynthia E. Hurst

It was to be the society wedding of the season, but one crucial element was missing – the groom. The Honorable Thomas Stoddard was last seen on a rail platform in London, preparing to embark for Oxford, but he never arrived. Meanwhile, a laborer with a connection to Stoddard has met a sticky end on a farm in west Oxfordshire. With two bereaved fiancées, two furious fathers and a pugnacious newspaper editor involved,  clock repairer Jacob Silver and his wife Sarah are called upon to help the police separate the warring parties and unravel the mystery of Stoddard's disappearance.

 

'Last Seen in London' is the 20th novel in the Silver and Simm Victorian Mysteries series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lilax Books
• Release date: Oct 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215616659

Cynthia E. Hurst

Cynthia E. Hurst is the author of two mystery series set in present-day Seattle, the R&P Labs Mysteries and the Zukie Merlino Mysteries, and the Silver and Simm and Milestone agency series, which both take place in Victorian England. Like her characters, Cynthia grew up in Seattle, then earned a degree in journalism and worked on several newspapers and magazines in the US and UK. The R&P books are based on her time spent in the small research lab where her parents both worked, and many of the R&P staff's projects are ones actually undertaken by the lab. The Zukie books were inspired by her Italian relatives. She now lives in Oxfordshire, the setting for the two Victorian series. She is also the author of the Time Traveller trilogy, which visits various bits of English history, and which stemmed from an unfortunate incident.

Book preview

LAST SEEN

IN LONDON

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CYNTHIA E. HURST

Silver and Simm

Victorian Mystery 20

Copyright © 2023  Cynthia E. Hurst

All Rights Reserved

Lilax Books

Cover photograph by ha11ok for Pixabay

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Author’s Note:

Witney in the 1870s was a thriving Oxfordshire market town, centered around the wool and blanket-making trades. This forms the background for the novel, but it is a work of fiction and the characters and situations portrayed here do not depict any actual persons, businesses or organizations.

Likewise, Jackson’s Oxford Journal existed at this time, but its depiction here is entirely fictional. Rupert Pomeroy first appeared in ‘Writing on the Wall’ and ‘Ghost on the Green’, the third and fifth novels in this series.

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This book uses American spelling.

Table of Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

ONE

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"It must be considered to be the social highlight of the autumn season. Distinguished guests are expected to arrive in Oxford soon from London and indeed the rest of the country for the wedding on fourteenth September. It is not only an occasion for celebration for the happy couple and their families and guests, but a great honor that they have chosen our city for their nuptials."

Jacob Silver looked up from the book he was reading. Whatever are you referring to, Sarah?

His wife pointed to an article in the newspaper spread on the kitchen table.

This wedding. The Honorable Thomas Stoddard and Miss Emily Bickerstaff.

Who are they?

"Oh, Jacob, you must have heard about them. They’ve been mentioned in the gossip column of the Oxford Journal for ages, even before they announced their engagement."

She looked at Jacob, who retained an expression of polite inquiry, and shook her head.

I s’pose you don’t read that part of the paper, so maybe you haven’t heard of them. Her family’s ever so rich, even if the money does come from trade, and he’s got a title of sorts and they’re being married in Oxford, ’cause her family’s from there. St Mary’s Church, in the High Street. Like the paper said, it’s quite a compliment to Oxford, I reckon, since they could have got married in some big fancy London church.

Sarah paused to take a breath and Jacob smiled indulgently. He had no interest whatsoever in the social lives of the upper crust of society, but he knew Sarah enjoyed reading about them. There were only a few representatives of that class in the small Oxfordshire market town where they lived, and no members of the aristocracy at all, so newspaper accounts were as close as she was ever likely to get to a high society wedding.

I doubt somehow we’ll receive an invitation, even if they have chosen to be married in Oxford, he said.

Folks like us? No, of course we won’t. But it’s still exciting.

"Well, the fourteenth of September is only a few days away, and the Journal is sure to report on the wedding, so you can find out all the fascinating details in next week’s issue."

Oh, arr.

That west Oxfordshire country phrase could cover any number of situations, depending on the inflection, and Jacob took this one to mean Sarah agreed with his assessment. He returned to his book while Sarah re-read the Journal’s gushing account of the upcoming wedding. From the rapt expression on her face, he supposed she was envisioning a blushing bride in a beautiful white dress, perhaps with a wreath of orange blossoms or a filmy veil on her head, and a handsome groom in a smartly tailored suit.

The guests would be wealthy, aristocratic, or both, all elegantly dressed and eager to be seen, even if the groom was lowering himself to marry a bride whose family was engaged in trade. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time a wedding had been prompted by the size of the bride’s dowry rather than the couple’s feelings for each other.

A lavish wedding breakfast would no doubt follow the ceremony and then the happy couple would be waved off by their guests as they started their married life together. The wedding might well be followed by a leisurely trip to the continent, seeing the sights of Paris and Rome before returning to a luxurious home in London.

It was a far cry from Jacob and Sarah’s own wedding, a modest civil ceremony attended by the bare minimum of witnesses, to which they had simply worn their best clothes. The day had concluded with a simple meal at a public house, and since they were both already living in Jacob’s house, they had then taken the train back home and life had gone on more or less as it had before.

The only similarity with the Stoddard-Bickerstaff nuptials was that Jacob and Sarah also had been married in Oxford, and in Jacob’s opinion, Sarah was at least as lovely as any high society bride.

Finally she closed the newspaper and sighed.  I wonder if anyone from Witney will be invited to the wedding.

I wouldn’t have thought so, unless they are friends of the bride’s family, Jacob said. If their money comes from trade, does it have anything to do with weaving or blankets? Or has the gossip columnist retained a tactful silence on that subject?

I reckon they know, but I don’t think they’ve said.

Sarah sounded frustrated not to be able to supply this information, which could prove critical. Most of the wealthiest people in their market town could trace their fortunes to the blanket making industry, Witney blankets having established their reputation as the finest in England for at least two centuries. The weavers’ trade association even had a royal charter, granted by Queen Anne in 1711. But it was a fairly inclusive business, and although the blanket factory owners all knew each other, they wouldn’t necessarily socialize with magnates of other industries.

Jacob inserted a bookmark and closed his book, knowing he would get no peace while Sarah was still speculating about the Stoddard-Bickerstaff wedding. He didn’t mind, because he felt she deserved some entertainment – even if second-hand – after spending her days in a never-ending cycle of housework and looking after their two small children.

Suggestions that they engage a housemaid to help had been steadily brushed aside, since Sarah considered it a privilege to have a home, husband and family to look after. As she had informed him many times, it was more than she had ever expected when she had first arrived in his house as a refugee from both the town workhouse and the police, and as a result, she never complained.

Young housemaids were often illiterate, but Sarah Simm had been the exception to most rules, and during her early days, she had spent her rare moments of leisure time poring over penny romances and ghost stories. He’d never had the heart to object, and indeed it was those fictional romances that had indirectly led to their own marriage.

Although the demands of motherhood had now curtailed her reading activity, her imagination was as lively as ever, and the upcoming wedding had the advantage of being real, rather than fictional.

So he said simply, "Well, I’m sure the wedding will be a memorable occasion and the Journal will do the happy couple proud with its coverage. Perhaps they will even manage to print a photograph of them."

Sarah brightened at this, picturing the possibility of actually seeing what the wedding or the newlyweds looked like. Cameras were expensive and photographs reserved for the most important events, but Jacob suspected the Journal’s pompous editor, Rupert Pomeroy, had managed to get his hands on one and would use it to advantage.

Oh, I do hope so. It’d be lovely to see what it looked like, ’specially the bride’s dress. Now, do you want a cup of tea before we go upstairs?

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There was no further update on the society wedding in the following days, not that Jacob had really expected any. Witney was about ten miles from Oxford and news from the larger city filtered through only via the weekly newspaper unless someone had traveled there and brought information back with them.

In the absence of further developments, he concentrated on his work of repairing timepieces and jewelry, which he carried on in the front room of their small Cotswold stone house, and Sarah was kept fully occupied with housework and childminding.

Her usual help in these areas was Mrs Tucker, a middle-aged mother of six who had originally been Jacob’s housekeeper after the death of his first wife and their small daughter. And as it happened, it was Mrs Tucker who brought startling news of a different event four days later.

Sorry I’m late, Sarah, she said, lumbering into view as they were finishing their breakfast. Somethin’ was happenin’ down on Pitt’s farm and so’s I tried to see what it was. Mornin’, Mr Silver.

Good morning, Mrs Tucker, Jacob said gravely. He was amused that she still gave him a title while Sarah was always just Sarah, as if Mrs Tucker could never completely accept that the girl who had been her subordinate was now married to the master of the house.

So what was happenin’ at Pitt’s farm? Sarah asked. She had worked hard to lose much of her country accent, but usually reverted in Mrs Tucker’s presence. Jacob assumed that was to allay any suspicions that she was getting above herself, despite the marriage.

I don’t rightly know, being as they wouldn’t let me get very close. Mrs Tucker sounded offended. All I know is Inspector Carey and that Sergeant Bell come by the cottage ’fore we’d even had breakfast and said Bobby was to come with them to Pitt’s farm. So he grabbed a piece of bread and butter to eat on the way and they was off. I went along behind them but the inspector told me it was a police matter and nothin’ to do with me, so to go away and leave them to get on with it.

She paused and added, He were more polite about it, but that’s what he meant.

Jacob read between the lines of this announcement without much trouble. Mrs Tucker’s eldest son, Bobby, was a recent recruit to the small Witney police force. Whatever had happened at Pitt’s farm must be a rural matter, and the London-bred inspector knew his sergeant and newest constable were far more conversant with the countryside, farms and their occupants than he would ever be.

Jacob also deduced that if three members of the local police were attending, something serious had happened. It probably wasn’t an agricultural accident, because that wouldn’t require a police presence and wasn’t likely to occur first thing in the morning.

So it was an incident that needed investigation by several officers and that might well mean a death. And just possibly, a suspicious death. A murder.

He looked up and caught Sarah’s eye, seeing that she had come to the same conclusion he had. She hadn’t paused in her effort to get one-year-old Eva and Joshua, nearly three, to finish up their food without making a fuss about it, but her blue eyes were sparkling at the idea of a mystery and he knew her mind was working at top speed.

Well, maybe we’ll find out later what it’s all about, she said, wiping crumbs from Eva’s face. Drink your milk, Joshua, there’s a good lad. Was Dr Sheridan there as well?

Didn’t see him, Mrs Tucker said. Course they could have sent for him after they had a look at whatever it was.

Might not have been anything needing a doctor, Sarah said. It could be someone was stealin’ a horse, or something like that.

Jacob doubted the theft of a horse would require three police officers, but he appreciated Sarah’s effort to steer Mrs Tucker’s speculations away from the more gruesome possibilities.

Are you familiar with Pitt’s farm? he asked her. Is it a farm with crops, or livestock?

Mrs Tucker wrinkled her forehead, thinking. Bit of both, I reckon. They’ve got sheep, I know, two hundred or more, and two or three good-sized fields of barley. Mebbe some cabbage and potatoes as well.

And is there currently a Mr Pitt? Jacob knew that the farm name didn’t always indicate the owner, as names were passed down over the decades and the original owners and their descendants might no longer have anything to do with the property. Even if a family died out altogether, the name would linger unless someone changed it.

Oh, arr, there is. Mr Stephen Pitt. And his two sons lendin’ a hand, too. Michael and John, they are.

And a Mrs Pitt?

Arr. And a daughter. She’s called Ebony.

Jacob raised his eyebrows. Ebony? That’s an unusual name.

On account of her havin’ black hair, like ebony wood. Least that’s what I’ve been told, not that I’ve ever seen any pure black wood. Her hair’s black enough, though. She’s ’bout the same age as my Millie, I reckon.

Oh, I see. Jacob thought that someone, possibly Mrs Pitt, was revealing an imaginative streak by choosing the name for her daughter. Certainly the male members of the  family had common enough names. Do all the family members live at the farm?

I reckon so. It’s a big enough farmhouse, anyway. Plenty of room for them all. Not like us.

Mrs Tucker’s comment was one of fact, not envy. Her oldest daughter, Millie, was now married and had moved away with her husband, but the remaining seven family members were wedged into a cottage far smaller than Jacob’s house. However, he knew the Tuckers were just grateful to have a roof over their heads, and didn’t begrudge the Pitt family their larger accommodation.

I’ll start on the parlor if you do the washing up and mop the kitchen floor, Sarah said, and Jacob kept his face straight with an effort. He knew she was volunteering to clean the parlor because it faced Corn Street, and if anything or anyone of interest passed by the front window, she would see it.

Come on, you two, she said to Joshua and Eva. You can play on the parlor floor whilst Mama dusts and polishes.

Joshua scrambled off his chair and bounded down the hallway, followed more unsteadily by Eva, who had only begun walking a few weeks earlier. Jacob left Mrs Tucker to tackle the kitchen and started for his workshop.

He caught up with the others at the parlor door, where Sarah murmured, D’ye think someone’s been murdered at the farm?

I’ve no idea. It’s possible, although from Mrs Tucker’s description, they sound a blameless enough family.

Ah, but you never know what goes on behind closed doors, do you?

No, and that’s probably just as well. I’ll get on with my work now whilst you clean the parlor and watch the street for anything interesting.

Sarah wrinkled her nose at him for guessing her motive. Jacob grinned and went into his workshop across the hallway.

He had been working for almost an hour, and Sarah had exhausted all possible tasks to be done in the parlor, when a rumble of wheels and hooves on the cobblestones made him look out of his workshop window. A sturdy wagon was moving down the street, and Jacob recognized it from previous events.

Sarah shot into the room, not even bothering to see whether he was working on some delicate task that required complete concentration.

That’s the undertaker, isn’t it? So someone died at Pitt’s farm, I reckon.

It is the undertaker’s wagon, I agree. But they may be going elsewhere.

Oh, I don’t think so. People don’t die that often, do they, and if it was just someone ordinary, like, they’d be laid out at home, not brought back from somewhere by the undertaker. I reckon they’re going to get the dead person and bring them back to Dr Sheridan’s surgery so he can take a closer look.

It was hard to argue with that assessment. As Witney’s only Jewish resident, Jacob was not intimately acquainted with Christian practices following a death, but he knew enough to realize Sarah was probably correct. Ordinary deaths were a matter for the family and the local vicar to deal with. The undertaker would supply a coffin, but he wouldn’t transport the body through the streets before the funeral was arranged. 

So will you be scrubbing the front step until they return? he asked. Not that you’d necessarily learn anything new by viewing the wagon.

Sarah frowned. I could be. I s’pose, though, if it was anything out of the ordinary, Inspector Carey will come by later and tell us.

That was true, too. The inspector had long since acknowledged that the two people on the fringes of local society brought a different perspective to crime, and they had been helpful several times in resolving difficult investigations.

So if someone had died that morning at Pitt’s farm, and there was  anything at all unusual about the death, they could expect to be consulted before the day was out.

So I would suggest that we both simply get on with our work and await developments, he said.

Oh, arr.

Despite following his own advice, Jacob found himself glancing out of the window more often than was strictly necessary, assuming that the undertaker would be returning by the same route he’d gone by. If the cause of death was not obvious or straightforward, the first stop, as Sarah had said,  would be at Dr Sheridan’s surgery, where an autopsy would be performed.

He was rewarded not long afterwards, when the undertaker’s wagon rumbled back up Corn Street. It was moving a little more slowly now, and Jacob could glimpse a prone figure in the wagon bed, body and face covered discreetly with a blanket.

He waited some more, and then saw the police van go by, with the burly figure of Sergeant