Murder in St. Giles

by Ashley Gardner

  I enjoyed the musicales most of all, partly because many of them took place in our South Audley Street home, but mostly because I was partial to music. Perhaps not having any talent for music whatsoever myself made me appreciate it in others.

  Tonight we adjourned to the theatre in Covent Garden to listen to a lecture on the beasts of India, complete with drawings cleverly projected by a magic lantern onto the large wall, followed by a troupe of tumblers.

  Donata, in our box with ten of her friends, was as cool and satirical as always, but I saw that her brittleness, which had all but disappeared in the last year, had returned.

  I’d not had time to speak to her further about the matter of Peter. When Donata had returned from her calls this afternoon, she’d closeted herself with her maid and then departed to another engagement, arranging to meet me at Covent Garden afterward. We sometimes did this, as Donata had reams of invitations each day, and she did not expect me to escort her to every event she accepted.

  At the interval, after the tumblers had exited the stage by means of handsprings, Donata remained conversing determinedly to her friends, they dissecting all who fell within the sights of their lorgnettes. I left them to it, making my way downstairs and outside to breathe in the cool of the night.

  Ladies of the demimonde lingered under the portico, enticing gentlemen whose wives were even now in their boxes upstairs. I was a familiar sight to these ladies, as I’d lived nearby for years, and they knew me well enough to know I was not beguiled by their charms. I nodded at a few of the friendlier ladies, but they passed me to chase easier prey.

  Brewster materialized from behind a pillar.

  “Tread carefully,” I said, keeping my voice light. “You might be taken for a ladybird.”

  He ignored my feeble humor. “You tread carefully. If you’re harmed as you wander about, it’s me what answers for it.”

  “Shall we adjourn to my old rooms, in that case?” I said. “I’ll be safe enough once there, and it’s a few short steps.”

  Brewster said nothing, only hunkered into his coat and followed me.

  I thought it unwise to take Brewster down Bow Street, and he never felt comfortable on that lane, so we went west the short way to James Street, then south to Covent Garden itself, skirting the square and its night dwellers. Someone had started a bonfire on the cobblestones, and a group of acrobats—ones who’d never have the privilege of performing in the large theatre behind us—flipped and tumbled around the flames.

  My rooms above the bake shop were cold and deserted. When I’d returned from Egypt, I’d allowed my cousin Marcus to stay here, but he’d gone to Norfolk at the New Year and not returned. Marcus was another matter I’d need to attend to this spring.

  “What do you want to ask me, guv?” Brewster said as I struck a spark to the kindling my landlady, Mrs. Beltan, kept stocked for me in case I wanted to use the rooms. “You’d not bring me out of the way of your lady wife if you didn’t plan to put me to the question.”

  I blew on a small flame until the kindling caught, and then I gently eased it with the poker over the stacked logs. “What I wish to ask first is why Denis sent for you today.”

  “Wanted me to find the surgeon,” he answered readily.

  I jumped, the poker clattering from my hand. “Why?”

  “Mr. Denis don’t waste his time telling me why. He only says do this, and I do it.”

  “But you’re not a fool.” I retrieved the poker, jabbed at the logs until they were burning nicely, and set the poker back in its holder. “It occurred to me that your brother-in-law returned from imprisonment across the ocean, and so did the surgeon. I imagine that Denis, like me, wonders if there’s a connection.”

  Brewster’s stoic expression didn’t change. He folded his arms, leaning on the doorframe of the bedchamber. “He might.”

  “And did you find the surgeon?”

  I moved to the wing chair and sat down heavily, stretching my leg with its old injury toward the fire.

  “No.” Brewster closed his mouth, and at first I thought the information would cease, but then he said, “Appears he’s been gone to the Continent for the last several weeks.”

  Which let him out as Finch’s murderer, unless he had surreptitiously returned.

  I let out a breath. “You know I must ask you, point blank, whether you killed your wife’s brother.”

  Brewster’s face set. “You asked me that before.”

  “And you said you didn’t believe you had. Is there a doubt?”

  More silence, then Brewster opened his lips a crack. “I might a’ done.”

  Damnation. I’d hoped he’d stare at me and wonder aloud what had given me that idea.

  “You gave me your word,” I growled. “On the strength of that, I brought in a Runner, for God’s sake.”

  “I said I might a’ done. I don’t know if I killed him all the way. But I beat him when I found him in our flat this morning and trying to grab hold of Em, and I carried him away to where I took you. That’s the only thing we lied about—we didn’t find him in the street.”

  “Bloody hell, Brewster.”

  “Let me finish, guv. I decided to give Finch money to take himself out of the country and never come back. I left him where I showed you to fetch some coin, and when I reached the house again, he were stone dead. I locked the door and went home. Em and me, we talked things over, and Em convinced me to ask your advice. I’m sorry she did now.”

  I came out of the chair, my temper rising. “You ought to have told me from the start. I can’t help you if I don’t know everything.”

  “I promise you, guv, he were alive and breathing when I left him.”

  But a man could die of his wounds, and the person who inflicted the wounds could be found guilty of murder.

  “Well, now that you’ve landed me in it, damn you, tell me all.”

  Brewster’s eyes widened. “I didn’t land you in anything, begging your pardon, Captain. You told a magistrate and showed the dead man to a Runner. You’re out of it.”

  Meaning I could wash my hands of the affair and walk away. Let Mr. Quimby rush about St. Giles and learn nothing. I had not let on that the dead man’s name was Jack Finch or told Quimby of his connection to Brewster and his wife. Finch had likely been gone from these shores for years. I could retire from the field, let Denis protect Brewster, and have done.

  “Devil take it, Brewster, Quimby—the Runner—is very bright. He’ll discover Finch’s identity and that he was your relation. I can’t let you be hung for this. Give me every detail.”

  Brewster shrugged. “I did. He turned up on our doorstep out of nowhere while I was off getting our breakfast. Don’t know how Finchie knew where Em was, but she don’t keep her whereabouts secret. He wanted money, and when Em didn’t have it, he started to hit her. I came home right about then and tore into him. He were always a good fighter—used to be on the circuit. Took me a while to wear him out, as weary and broken as he seemed to be. Finally I got him knocked down, and like I say, I hauled him away. But I knew he’d never leave Em alone, so I went and fetched a packet of me own money to give to him.” Brewster rubbed the end of his nose. “And when I came back, there he lay, dead and gone. Saved me a bit of coin, I have to tell you.”

  “Did anyone see you wandering about the streets with an unconscious man over your shoulder? Or rushing to fetch your cash? If you keep it in a bank, they’ll have a record of you coming to withdraw it. So would a man of business.”

  Brewster gave me an incredulous look. “I don’t keep me money in no bank, or with a fraud of a man who’d charge me for looking after it. I have me own ways, me own places.”

  “Even so, someone might have seen you go there.”

  He shook his head. “They did not. Trust me that I know how to keep me funds safe from all eyes, including a bank’s—God help us.”

  “Then we are back to who might have seen you carry Finch through the streets of St. Giles.”

  “No one.
I do know how to go about things, as you’d say, covertly.” He stretched out each syllable.

  I relaxed, but only a bit. “Then our best recourse is to find this other person who came upon Finch after you left him, and prove he committed the murder.”

  “’Fought that’s what you were already doing.”

  I curled my hands. “Do you know what the word obdurate means, Brewster?”

  “Happen I do.”

  “Good. Shall we move on to who you might think wanted to kill Finch? Or at least give him another beating? What does Mrs. Brewster think? Finch likely made enemies among pugilists and fellow convicts. What was he convicted for, by the bye?”

  “Don’t know. I imagine you could find out. There’ll be records, like as not.”

  Blast the man. He was trying himself to wash his hands of the matter, but neither of us could.

  Both Brewster and I today had received unwelcome visits from unwelcome members of our families. Brewster had dealt with his in a way I wished I could have dealt with mine.

  “Do you mind if I speak more with Mrs. Brewster about Finch?” I asked.

  “You can.” Brewster gave me a ready nod. “She won’t know more than me. She ain’t seen him in years.”

  “Perhaps, but she might remember something that is relevant.” And perhaps Mrs. Brewster would tell me something out of her husband’s hearing that she did not wish him to know.

  Brewster and I remained in uneasy silence for a few more moments, then I banked the fire and we departed.

  When we arrived at Covent Garden I learned that Donata had already gone, having left with an acquaintance for another gathering. I was not alarmed, as she sometimes did this—she had far more stamina for gadding about all night than I did.

  What alarmed me more was that though I bunked down in her soft, feminine bed to wait for her, she was not there when I woke in the morning.

  At times Donata spent the night with her friends, particularly Lady Aline, if the hour grew late and she was too tired to ride home in the coldness of dawn. I’d also requested she do this after an altercation we’d had last year, so I could be assured she wasn’t wandering about dark, deserted London streets, even attended by her coachman and maid.

  But she always sent word when she’d stay the night out, and this time, she had not.

  Most alarming of all, when I went upstairs to fetch Peter for our morning ride, I found him missing as well.

  Chapter 7

  Devil take it, woman, are you saying you never noticed?”

  I roared at the poor nurse who struggled to keep Anne quiet. My daughter objected to my loud voice and tried to drown me out with hers.

  “Miss Anne was colicky all night, and I slept next to her cot,” the nurse said, tears running down her plump face. “I looked in on his lordship, and he was sleeping right as rain before Miss Anne and I fell asleep.” She openly sobbed as Anne continued to bawl.

  I tried to calm myself and reason things out. Peter had been fast asleep when I’d looked in on him and Anne before retiring last night, so if Peter had been taken, it had been well into the small hours of the morning.

  An abductor would have to get past the rather burly footman who stayed on the front door all night—or, if he entered via the scullery stairs, the servants in the kitchen, who rose very early to begin cooking and cleaning for the day.

  The man would then have to pass the ever-vigilant Barnstable and the sturdy Bartholomew, if he even made it that far. The nurse—or at least Anne—might have woken at any noise in Peter’s bedchamber, and Peter himself, a strong little boy, would have struggled and called out. I myself, snoring in my lady’s chamber, had heard nothing.

  If Peter had been quieted with laudanum or opium, he might not have made a sound, but then there was the problem of getting him to take the stuff.

  That would point to a person already inside the house slipping laudanum into his drink or food, and I doubted any of the servants here would assist in kidnapping Peter. Many of them had come from Donata’s home in Oxfordshire, and they doted on her. Their loyalties were to Donata and her son, not the Breckenridge side of the family.

  My suspicions fell on Peter’s tutor, Cyril Roth, a clever young man for his dithering manner. If Mr. Roth had asked Peter to walk out of the house with him, Peter would see no reason to object. Mr. Roth sometimes took him to the British Museum or to view other collections of historical interest. Could Stanton have bribed Mr. Roth to bring Peter to him?

  That theory evaporated when Mr. Roth arrived, his face draining of color the moment he heard that Peter was gone.

  “Good Lord!” He stared at me, wisps of hair on top of his head trembling as he removed his hat. “Have you sent for the Runners? His lordship does like the horses—perhaps he slipped out to the mews? And he’s heard you brought home a dog. He will dart out there on occasion, I am afraid, sir. His young lordship is quite crafty.”

  “We have already checked the stables,” I snapped. It had been the first place I looked. “Are you certain you know nothing of this business?”

  Mr. Roth looked so bewildered and taken aback that I was inclined to dismiss the notion he was complicit. I could always ask his landlady whether he’d been in all night, in case he was simply a brilliant actor.

  Bartholomew had grabbed his hat, ready to race forth and tear up London looking for Peter. “Want me to send for a Runner, sir? Mr. Pomeroy would be very keen.”

  “No, I have a closer resource. Dash down the road to Mr. Denis. If he wants me obligated to him, he will certainly have my obligation for this service.”

  Brewster arrived as Bartholomew ducked out the front door. “What’s the fuss, guv?”

  “Peter has disappeared,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I am very much afraid Donata’s cousins have abducted him.”

  “No they ain’t.”

  I halted. So did Bartholomew, who’d run a few steps down the road. He whirled back. “What are you saying, man?” Bartholomew demanded. “Out with it.”

  Brewster gave us a stolid look. “Her ladyship sent for me last night, after I saw you home all right, Captain. She wanted me to hire a coach that would take her out of London, with guards for the same. She had me bring her here from Berkeley Square, then she let herself inside through the kitchens and came back out with his young lordship. Hired coach was waiting, and off she went.”

  I grabbed Brewster by the lapel of his coat and pulled him into the house. Brewster walked in readily enough, but he removed my grip with a very strong hand once we were inside.

  “Before ye shout at me for not telling you,” he said, “she paid me a fair amount to wait and bring you the news this morning. Ye rose earlier than I expected, is all.”

  “Damnation, Brewster!” My voice rang to the top of the house. “Did you not think I’d be off my head with worry? Why the devil didn’t you come to me immediately? And why didn’t you stop her?”

  I saw a flash of fury in Brewster’s eye, the brutal rage that must have awakened when he’d beaten his brother-in-law for threatening his wife. He remained calm, however, his patience grating on me.

  “Her ladyship is well,” he said firmly. “The blokes I sent with her won’t let a hair on her or his little lordship’s head be disarrayed. Any road, she paid me, guv. Not you.”

  “Bloody, bloody …” I turned away and kicked the bottom step of the staircase multiple times before I swung back to him. “If she gave you a destination, you had damn well better tell me.”

  “She didn’t,” Brewster said without hesitation. “Like as not, she knew you’d try to pry it out of me.”

  “God, give me strength.”

  Donata was not a lady to wait and ask her male relations what to do. She made up her mind, and she acted.

  I tried to calm myself and reason through what she must have decided.

  If she feared for Peter, she would take him to the place where he would be the most protected—her father’s house in Oxfordshire. Cousin Stanton
would not prevail against Earl Pembroke, and even less so against the very formidable Lady Pembroke. Donata had acquired her icy stare and cool wit from her mother.

  Stanton, however, had recruited Donata’s cousin Edwin, the earl’s nephew, most likely to intercede with her family. Not that I believed the ambitious Edwin would succeed, but would this dissuade my wife from taking Peter to her father’s?

  And why the devil hadn’t she told me what she was about? My rage flared.

  Because she believed I’d make a hash of it, I realized. Donata had known exactly how to slip into and out of her own house without any in it—including me—being the wiser.

  The maids and footmen surrounded me now, anxious, all waiting to see what I’d do. Barnstable, noticing, at last slid into his butler’s dignity and coldly informed them to go about their business.

  Brewster remained planted in the hall as the servants reluctantly dispersed, a rough boulder in a place accustomed to marble statuary.

  “Em says she’ll speak to ye,” he informed me. “That is, unless ye want to rove England looking for your wife.”

  I closed my mouth over more swearing. As much as I wanted to race after Donata, I knew it would do me no good. I’d lead Stanton straight to her, which was no doubt another reason she’d refused to tell Brewster her destination.

  “Please give me your word that Mrs. Lacey and Peter are perfectly safe,” I made myself say.

  “I’d have gone with them meself,” Brewster answered calmly. “But she instructed me to stay and look after you. I chose the blokes who went with her, no one else. Prize fighters they used to be, and now they’re fists for hire, but once you buy them, they stay bought.”

  Excellent, I thought wryly. I assumed he’d recruited Denis’s best men—I saw much of Denis’s hand in this arrangement.

  As angry as I was at Brewster for the moment, I knew he’d acted in Donata’s and Peter’s best interests—at least he believed so.