The Body in the Garden

by Katharine Schellman

  “Perhaps it concerned something between London and Nevis,” Jack suggested, looking thoughtfully at Miss Oswald as he mentioned the island of her birth. He still thought it possible that Miss Oswald knew something about Finch’s blackmail business; after all, what man would follow a woman who had thoroughly rejected him across the entire ocean? If the letter concerned a matter in the West Indies, then she might be hiding something after all. “It might have do with the war with America. The Treaty of Ghent was signed last year, of course, but treason remains treason, even after peace is declared.”

  Lily frowned. “It is a possibility … but the letter also mentioned the Continent. Perhaps whatever happened concerns both.” She shook her head. “No, something is still missing. The letter mentioned another party that was involved, you recall. A firm of some kind. I suspect this firm is a London business. Hence the directory.”

  “I do not recall that part of it,” Jack admitted. “Was there any hint of the name?”

  “It began with L-A-C.” Lily sighed. “But we have no clue as to the type of business. I do not suppose you have any ideas?

  Jack shook his head, wishing he could be of more help. “I’ve not spend much time in London, which limits my knowledge of its business world.”

  “Then, we shall simply have to hope the directory provides some hint—” Lily broke off. “Miss Oswald, are you even attending?”

  “No,” came the agitated answer. The young heiress’s eyes were fixed on a point in the distance. Her lips moved almost soundlessly, as if she was reciting something to herself.

  “Do you think that—” Jack began, but she cut him off.

  “Be quiet, sir. I am trying to remember.”

  “Remember what—” Lily began, but stopped abruptly upon receiving a very expressive scowl.

  The young woman tugged on one of her dark curls without seeming to notice and murmured something over and over to herself. “Lace. Lace, lace, lace. Lace and … oh, drat it. Lace and …”

  Lily gave Jack a perplexed glance, and he shrugged, crossing his arms and settling his back in his chair. They stayed that way for several moments, until Miss Oswald snapped her fingers, her face glowing with a triumphant smile. “I have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “Well.” The smile faded a little. “At least, I think I have it?”

  “Have what?” Lily repeated impatiently.

  “The name of the firm,” Miss Oswald said as she held up the letter, tapping her finger against the relevant passage. “Lacey and West. It fits, do you see?”

  Lily plucked the letter from the girl’s fingers and read through it. “It could.” She passed the paper to Jack, who nodded. “Who are they?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t any idea.” Miss Oswald sighed.

  Lily stared at her. “I’m quite confused, Miss Oswald, and I assure you, that does not happen often.”

  The girl fidgeted with embarrassment. “I know it’s not very helpful. But I remember the name from some of my father’s correspondence. He never had any business with them, which is why I don’t know more. But I know it’s a firm in London, and they have to do with imports, or shipping, or something of that nature. And look.” She scowled impatiently at Jack as she held out her hand for the letter, and he managed not to shake his head at the petulant expression as he handed it over. “See what is written. It starts Lac—, but there is not much space between that and the next word, which ends—est. Lacey and West works. I doubt we will find another firm in London whose name fits so neatly.”

  “It does make a good deal of sense,” Jack said, nodding slowly.

  Lily raised her eyebrows. “Do my ears deceive me? Do the two of you agree?”

  Jack began to protest, but stopped, embarrassed, when he realized Miss Oswald was doing the same thing. It didn’t seem to matter, though. Lily was already ignoring them to flip through the business directory. It did not take her long to find the relevant entry. “I have them. Lacey and West …” She paused. “Are shipping agents.”

  “Oh.” Miss Oswald let out a long sigh. “Well, that makes perfect sense, I suppose.”

  “Excellent. Excellent. I was hoping you would say that.” Lily dusted her palms off against each other. Her lips pursed, and she sounded put out as she admitted, “Unfortunately, I haven’t any idea what a shipping agent is.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Fortunately, thanks to her work with her father, Miss Oswald was well versed in the nuances of the shipping industry, and Lily was a quick study. She frowned at the listing for Lacey and West in the directory—owned solely by a Mr. Hyrum Lacey, the entry said, since the death of his partner, Mr. Charles West, six years before. “So they don’t ship things themselves, merely contract with ship owners and handle their cargo and interests?” She looked at Jack. “What does that have to do with the war effort?”

  “The War Office has worked with several shipping agents over the course of the war,” he said. “They were responsible for arranging how and when goods were sent to the Continent when navy ships were unavailable. Food, boots, munitions—whatever the army needed.”

  “What sort of crime do you think Mr. Finch discovered, then? Smuggling?”

  Jack shook his head as he poured himself another finger of brandy, then one for Lily, who took it with a nod of thanks. “Smugglers would need direct access to the ships, especially when they landed, to offload the goods. A shipping agency would not have that during wartime.”

  “What could they do, then?”

  Miss Oswald answered promptly, clearly in her element now that the talk had turned to business. “Any number of things. If they owned their own ships, they could sink them en route to collect an insurance payout from the government, for example. But the most lucrative would be to falsify shipments or provide incorrect papers. A shipping agent could alter the docking manifests and the bills of shipment, so that what Whitehall thinks they have paid for is not what is actually shipped. Most likely so that they could be compensated for supplies they never bought, but it would also be possible to skim goods off the cargo and sell them a second time.”

  Lily raised a brow. “You seem remarkably enthusiastic about such a plan.”

  The girl looked embarrassed. “I’ve not had many opportunities to discuss business matters since I came to London. It seems I have missed it. And in any case …” She shook her head. “If that is what they did, I suppose I am impressed. It is a brilliant scheme.”

  Jack scowled at her. “It is a dastardly scheme, Miss Oswald. Men would have died without the equipment they needed.”

  “I did not say it was good. But you cannot deny it is clever. The whole business would be nearly impossible to prove.”

  Lily’s stomach twisted as she took in the implications. “So they could be stealing from the soldiers who fought against Bonaparte, from the British government itself.” She did not add that it was no surprise someone would kill to keep that secret.

  “But we’ve no way of knowing for sure,” Jack pointed out, a frown creasing the spot between his eyebrows as he stared into his glass.

  “Someone knew,” Lily said. “Someone had proof of what was going on, and it was sufficient for blackmail.”

  “Augustus.” Miss Oswald was still holding the business directory, and her hands clenched around it as she spoke. “He knew what was happening. Otherwise …” She blinked back tears. “Otherwise he would not be dead.”

  “So he attempted to blackmail the shipping agent instead of reporting them?” Jack shook his head. “As I said, dastardly.”

  “No.” Lily’s calm voice made them both look up in surprise. She was staring at the fire, her eyes narrowed. “You forget, Mr. Finch was murdered during the Walters’ gala. Why would he arrange such a meeting with a shipping agent?”

  There was a pause; then Jack said quietly, “There is another player.”

  “In the very heart of Mayfair society,” Lily said.

  “Could it be a member of Parliament?” Miss Osw
ald said, shivering. “Or someone from the War Office itself? That would certainly be worth blackmail.”

  “Yes.” Lily hesitated, then stood abruptly. She could feel Jack’s eyes on her as she paced toward the fire, but he said nothing. She did not know whether to be grateful or not. Turning back, she squared her shoulders. “Miss Oswald, there is something you should know. The day after Mr. Finch’s murder, I saw Lord Walter bribing the magistrate in charge of your friend’s case. And when Captain Hartley and I visited the Marlborough Street Magistrates Court later that day, we discovered that the magistrate had suddenly ordered the investigation halted.” Miss Oswald had gone silent and still, the fingers of one hand pressed against her lips. “There is indeed a chance that this other player is in Parliament,” Lily continued, “because it may be Lord Walter himself.”

  “But …” Miss Oswald shook her head. “But he was so kind to me. And the husband of your friend! Surely you cannot …”

  “I wish I did not.” Lily turned back to stare into the fire. “But I’ll not be blinded by my own wishes. If Lord Walter is involved in treason and murder, he must be found out.”

  “But how?” Jack demanded. “We could follow him, I suppose, and see what he does—”

  “But we cannot be by his side every hour of the day.” Miss Oswald frowned. “And who knows but he has stopped whatever Augustus was attempting to blackmail him for.”

  Lily shook her head and made a tsking noise, as if she were scolding children. “We find out by not limiting ourselves to only one method of inquiry. Think! We believe the murderer may be Lord Walter. We know the murderer was at the Walters’ party that night. And we also know that he worked with the shipping agents”—she thumped the directory—“so we look in both places at once. Where is the overlap between them? That is where we shall find our killer.”

  There was silence in the room for a moment; then Jack let out a low whistle. “You are right, ma’am. It’s the only way forward. And a devilish good thing we found that letter, too, or we should have no way of figuring it out.”

  “But how do you propose we do that?” Miss Oswald asked, more practically. “Walk into the offices of Lacey and West and ask after their associates in Parliament and Whitehall?”

  “I’ve not figured that part out yet,” Lily admitted. “But I can pay them a visit tomorrow and, as they say, get the lay of the land.”

  “No,” Jack said sharply.

  “No?” Lily’s eyebrows rose.

  “Did you see the address?” he asked. “Henrietta Street, right across from Drury Lane. Can you imagine the attention you would attract if you visited an address in Covent Garden, waltzing through and asking questions? Give me a day,” he continued when she started to protest. “Let me see what I can find. If nothing else, I can look around without standing out the way a lady will.”

  Lily did not like it, but he was right. That part of the city, away from the elegant homes and parks of Mayfair, was an area of business during the day and pleasure during the night. At no point was it a place where ladies of quality would walk unaccompanied. Reluctantly, she agreed.

  It was not until Miss Oswald had bid them farewell and Jack was gathering his hat and gloves at the door that Lily caught his arm. “I want your word that whatever you discover you will share with me. Don’t pretend you found nothing in an attempt to keep me safe, or to make me give this up for my own good.”

  “Do you think I would?” Jack protested, but there was enough shiftiness in his eyes that Lily knew she had hit close to the mark.

  “I think you have been considering how likely you are to get away with it these last ten minutes. The answer to that, if you are curious, is not at all. You can attempt to pull the wool over my eyes, but I shall only continue on my own, without asking for your help again.”

  “You know, Freddy never mentioned that you were so stubborn,” Jack said crossly.

  “Really? I am astonished.” Lily smiled, but she took a quick breath against the pain in her chest. “He pointed it out himself nearly every week.”

  Though she had spoken carelessly, Jack laid his hand over hers in silent apology. Lily wasn’t sure whether to be gratified or annoyed that he saw through her so easily. But if he did, it was because he felt the same. That would be at least partly to blame for his overprotective behavior: grief for a friend who had been like a brother, and guilt that he had not been there at the end.

  “On my honor,” he said. “As soon as I learn anything, you will be the first to know.”

  She let out the breath she had been holding. “Then I wish you luck, Captain.”

  CHAPTER 11

  At half past seven the next morning, Jack hailed a hackney carriage and made his way to Covent Garden.

  It was a busy, if not entirely fashionable, part of town, full of shops, banks, and theaters. Fruit sellers hoping for a sale stood on every corner, while children begged for pennies, and London’s growing middle class went about the business of trying to make their way into the upper class. At night, the streets would fill with London society, men and women dressed for pleasure, attending plays and rout parties, and the Cyprians—women who lived by their wits and their bodies—would come out to play. Only a short walk away stood the squalid, impoverished neighborhoods of St. Giles and the Seven Dials.

  It was too early for most members of London’s upper class to travel to Covent Garden, which suited Jack just fine. Turning his collar up and pulling his hat down, he slid into an alley just off Henrietta Street. It was a dingy, narrow passageway, but it offered a view of those coming and going from number eleven, the offices of Lacey and West, Shipping Agents.

  Sighing at his folly—it was as bad as shipboard hours, and he could have been comfortable, at home, in bed—Jack settled down to watch and wait as the businesses of Covent Garden came alive.

  By half past nine, he had slipped out to buy two questionable pasties from a street hawker, cheerfully cursed himself for not bringing anything to drink, lost feeling in one leg, pissed against the wall, and discovered a few things about the firm of Lacey and West.

  There were no other doors into the building, though there was a cellar entrance around the back. Mr. Lacey, well dressed but pinch-faced and lacking any air of actual fashion, had arrived at eight o’clock on the dot. He hadn’t left the building since, but there had been a number of other comings and goings, including a wily-looking porter who would probably be impossible to sneak past, two deliveries, and a messenger.

  The messenger, a gangling figure who seemed to be an odd-jobs boy for the firm, was the one Jack found himself watching. He arrived with a parcel, stayed to sweep the front steps, and went out on two more errands, one for what looked like Mr. Lacey’s morning meal.

  Now, as Jack watched, he emerged once more, package under one arm, arguing with the white-haired porter. The boy held his own against the porter, scowling fiercely, and Jack grinned as the old man threw his hands up and retreated back into the office. Nodding in satisfaction, the boy pulled his cap down and hurried across the street, dodging between two carts while the drivers shouted at him. He passed by the alley without glancing left or right, intent on his errand. Swinging his cane and whistling, Jack sauntered onto Henrietta Street.

  He didn’t move so quickly that he drew attention but kept the boy in sight. It was not a short errand, he discovered. They passed St. Martin-in-the-Fields and went through Charing Cross before Jack realized what the boy’s destination must be: Whitehall and the War Office Building.

  Jack’s step quickened, though he knew that if the messenger was actually admitted past the front gates, there was no way to follow. “You clever thing, Mrs. Adler,” he murmured. She had been right—there was something going on.

  The boy was stopped at the front gate, as Jack expected, and had a brief argument with the guard there. Jack hung back, leaning against the side of a building with his hat pulled down once more. At last the boy delivered his package, said something impertinent, dodged a cuff from the
guard, and began to retrace his steps.

  Jack choose his moment carefully, stepping into the boy’s path with a grin. “In a hurry, lad?” he asked, his voice friendly.

  The boy was thin, made up mostly of angles and feet with dark skin and curly hair cropped short. Jack guessed him to be around twelve or thirteen. His coat sleeves were too short and his shirt sleeves were too long, but he was clean and well turned out. “You’re the gent as was follerin’ me.” The boy scowled. “What d’you want?”

  The accusation caught Jack by surprise; it took him a moment to recover, and when he did, he laughed. “Observant fellow, I see. And I thought I had done so well.”

  The boy’s scowl deepened. “Anyone grew up in the Dials knows when they’re being follered. What d’you want?”

  Hit by a sudden idea, Jack leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I am trying to find a murderer, and I think you may be able to help me.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “A murderer!” he breathed. Then his frown returned. “You ain’t from Bow Street?”

  “No indeed.” Jack gave a small bow of the head. “Jack Hartley, captain of His Majesty’s Navy. And quite famished at the moment,” he added, realizing the truth of the statement as he said it. “Do you know a decent public house nearby?” He eyed the boy’s thin frame and grinned. “My treat, if you help me.”

  The combination of mystery and food was too much for any boy to resist. “The George an’ Pie is just ’round the corner, sir, if that suits?”

  “Excellent.” Jack resettled his hat and swung his cane expansively. “Lead the way, lad. What name do you go by?”

  “Jem, sir.”

  “Lead the way, Jem. One should never discuss serious matters on an empty stomach.”

  “Yessir.” In a few years, Jack thought, Jem’s cheeky grin would be as roguish as his own. “That’s what I always says m’self.”

  * * *

  Years of navy service had taught Jack a thing or two about dealing with boys: he knew to start with food rather than questions, though he did drop a hint or two about the murder. Jem hung on to every word while devouring two servings of beef and carrots, plus a good amount of small ale, and within fifteen minutes he was eager to give whatever assistance he could. For his own part, Jack was surprised by how interesting the young fellow was. With a little prompting and a well-timed order of a treacle pudding, he soon had Jem telling his own story between sticky bites.