I ignored the mud sucking at my boots. Franny tiptoed behind me, lifting her skirts as if she might get the hems dirty.
We rounded the back of the building, then turned and trod down a short flight of stairs that led belowground. Kitchens in Victorian times were always on a lower level. Saint Nicholas might be a private facility now, but I’d be willing to bet they still had kitchen staff. I rapped on the door. A middle-aged woman with her hair pinned in a bun and wearing a knee-length, faded orange dress answered the door, wiping her hands on a stained apron.
“Good morning. I knocked at the front door, but…” I let the sentence trail off.
“Oh, do come in. I can’t hear the bell ring from back here. I’m Mrs. Cathstone. I do a bit of cooking and cleaning for the sisters,” she said. “I’m abo
