Murder in St. Giles

by Ashley Gardner

  “Your task is to keep me whole and alive so His Nibs can have me run errands for him, not to keep me from badgering him when I please,” I said as we walked down South Audley Street past the brick walls and arched, clear windows of Grosvenor Chapel. The chapel was very much along the same lines of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, austere but elegant, pleasing to the eye.

  “He’ll differ with you there, guv.”

  “If he proves to be busy or out, I will fix an appointment instead of insisting to be admitted. Will that soothe you?”

  “Probably not.” Brewster eyed me. “You’re in a bit of a temper, I can see.”

  “I am quite annoyed with Mr. Denis, yes.”

  I closed my mouth, saving my breath for the walk.

  When we reached Curzon Street, I saw Denis alight from a landau, its top up against the rain, and stride inside his house. His men surrounded him, so that I barely saw the flash of his greatcoat and hat between carriage and front door.

  I’d once reflected that I pitied a man who had to be guarded in his own house, who could never ride alone in a city park or tramp through country fields as I did without thinking a thing of it. Even a ride through the city was perilous, never mind any time he descended from his coach.

  The empty landau was rolling off by the time we reached Number 45. The butler opened the door before I could raise a hand to knock.

  “He saw you coming,” the man said stiffly. “Inside. I’m to let you up in a few minutes.”

  He indicated I was to wait in the lower hall, and then he walked upstairs with a heavy tread and vanished. Brewster deserted me as well, heading for the backstairs, likely off to see his cronies.

  I paced the hall, not resting on the upholstered settee with gold carvings and crimson cushions as the butler had obviously wanted me to. I had not seen the settee here before, and I paused to study it. It was not a copy, I realized, or a modern piece made to look like something from an ancient civilization. I would wager it had come straight from the Ottoman Empire itself, possibly a gift from a grateful vizier.

  The butler emerged in the upper hall and gave me a curt gesture. Obediently I climbed the stairs, holding on to the railing, and nodded in passing to the painting of the maid with a cream jug on the landing.

  Denis sat at his desk, reading a book. He continued to read as I came in and took my place, though today I was offered no brandy.

  Presently, Denis came to the end of a chapter, marked his place with a strip of paper, and closed the book.

  “A treatise on the properties of gasses,” he said, sliding the book aside. “I find it most interesting. Now, Captain, from your expression, you have come here to berate me. What about this time?”

  The mild curiosity with which he asked stirred my already uncertain temper. “Marcus Lacey. You sent him to Lincolnshire to lead Stanton St. John there. Didn’t you?”

  He gave me one of his brief nods. “I suggested to Mr. Lacey that you and your wife would be pleased if Mr. St. John took himself elsewhere, and remarked upon the resemblance between you. Mr. Lacey thought it a fine idea, and made a show of hiring a coach for a village on the Lincolnshire coast. From there one can arrange passage to Amsterdam, I believe.”

  “And so Stanton, believing me absconding with the viscount, hied to Lincolnshire to stop me.” I sat back, my anger dispersing. “A neat plan.”

  “Just so.”

  “Did you offer Marcus a fee for this task?”

  “Of course.”

  Bloody hell. I was annoyed with the pair of them, but I had to admit the ploy had worked. “Marcus does not know his danger, agreeing to work for you.”

  “Mr. Lacey is a man of the world, possibly more than you, and has survived on his wits a long time.”

  I knew I could not keep control of Marcus, and I likewise knew I had no right to. “Are you also helping him prove he is the Lacey heir?”

  Denis shook his head. “I am not interested in that dispute. He insists his story is true and that he can produce documents. But whether he is indeed your cousin or an illegitimate son of your father or other male relative means little to me. I judge each man on his own merit.”

  “I believe you,” I conceded. “Well, you have solved the problem of Stanton—temporarily. Were you aware that he tried to kill his cousin, Robert, by deliberately damaging his vehicle?”

  “Mr. Brewster told me. Mr. St. John is dangerous. What do you want done about him?”

  “I’d like to have him arrested and tried,” I said impatiently, though I knew this was a forlorn hope.

  “He would evade justice,” Denis replied. “Especially if he can prove he was nowhere near Dulwich or even London when the accident occurred. A more permanent solution must be found, or he will certainly try to harm his young lordship.”

  I shifted in my chair. “As much as beating him to a pulp would satisfy me, I cannot condone murdering another man. I would be as bad as he is.”

  “No,” Denis said, a dry note in his voice. “You have too much honor.”

  “Which is a worthless thing in these times, I know. Nevertheless, I must think of something. We cannot keep Peter hidden forever, poor lad. He will have to grow up and take his place in the world.”

  “And learn of the world as he grows,” Denis said. “It is the best way to survive its slings and arrows.”

  “He will have many arrows because of his position and his family, and the way his father abused people, not to mention the rumors surrounding his stepfather …”

  “He will have many to help him weather it,” Denis said, finished with the discussion. “Your stepson may stay where he is until you decide how to settle things with Mr. St. John. I heard that you climbed into a prison hulk and took away Mr. Quimby, who had been forced there.”

  I could not feel surprised that Denis already knew every detail. “Yes, poor chap. He is a resilient fellow. What do you know about Captain Steadman? He had his men seize Quimby and row him to his fate.”

  Denis did not change expression. “I have heard of Steadman—the merchant who will smuggle humans for a price. I have never met him, nor do I employ him, before you ask.”

  “He apparently charges high fees for his services and is merciless to those who cannot pay. It explains why Finch approached the women of his family for money. I suspect he went to Mr. Shaddock, Brewster’s trainer, for the same. Shaddock was quite fearful when we mentioned Finch, and relieved he was dead. Perhaps Captain Steadman had Finch killed because he could not come up with the money for his passage.”

  Denis rested one hand on his book as though wishing to get back to it. “Steadman would not kill someone who owed him—he would beat and terrify a man into paying instead. He prefers money to bodies he’d have to dispose of. But laying hands on a Runner and throwing him into a hulk, even for the amusement of it …” Denis shook his head. “I believe I will speak to Captain Steadman.”

  He studied the air behind me as he said this last, as though slotting the thought into a pigeonhole in his mind. I’d noticed that Denis rarely wrote anything down, likely so that there would be no record of his involvement in whatever happened in his demesne.

  “Have you or your men found anything more about Mr. Blackmore, Finch’s friend?” I asked. “I discovered that Blackmore is dead, killed in an illegal pugilist match in the garden of Lord Mercer.”

  “Yes, that information came to me as well.” Denis moved the book an inch closer to him. “Blackmore and Finch were both pugilists, as you know. They formed an unlikely friendship, but from all accounts, they were loyal to each other. When Finch was arrested five years ago and sentenced to transportation, Blackmore carried on their habit of thieving and extorting, and at last was also arrested and convicted, a few months ago. Sentenced to transportation, spent a few weeks in Coldbath Fields, then was taken to the hulk at Sheppey. There, as you discovered, he died.”

  “Perhaps that is the reason Finch died as well,” I said, turning my cane as I thought this through. “Finch escapes h
is imprisonment in Van Diemen’s Land, procures a passage to England on Steadman’s ship, and journeys to London, only to find that Blackmore has been arrested and sentenced. Finch investigates Blackmore’s whereabouts—or perhaps he found all this out before he ever left the docks at Sheppey—and discovers Blackmore is dead. More importantly, how he died. Though Finch is angry at what happened at Lord Mercer’s, he still must pay Steadman. So, he comes to London to collect money, planning to give it to the captain, and then take his vengeance on Mercer for Blackmore’s death. Lord Mercer gets wind of this, and sends someone to kill Finch.”

  “That is possible,” Denis said. “I do not know how Finch thought to murder Lord Mercer in any quiet way. That would get him hanged without doubt, and Finch had just gone to the trouble to find passage back to England. Murdering a peer of the realm is a different thing from killing a man in a scuffle. Even if Finch decided to beat Lord Mercer to relieve his pique, it would be an unwise decision. Finch even being in England would send him to the gallows.”

  “A man enraged might not think this through,” I pointed out.

  “You certainly would not.” Denis gave me a cold smile. “Finch had gotten away with many crimes before he was caught. He’d be canny.”

  “Which makes me wonder how Finch managed to be arrested and convicted at all,” I said, my thoughts beginning to stir through my tiredness. “Pomeroy told me the judge was afraid of him, but I don’t know the exact circumstances of his arrest. Did one of his victims finally have the courage to prosecute?”

  “You can inquire,” Denis said, giving me a pointed look. “Your magistrate friends will know those details, as well as the circumstances of Blackmore’s arrest and trial.”

  They would indeed. My interview here was at an end. Denis slid the book all the way in front of him and opened it again, ignoring me completely.

  I craned for a glimpse inside the book as I rose, and saw that the page was covered with equations and diagrams. It might indeed be a treatise on chemical gasses as he claimed.

  I departed, Brewster joining me as soon as I walked out of the house in greatcoat and hat. The social whirl I was now expected to attend would not begin until later today, so I decided to act upon an idea.

  I returned home briefly, and then set off in another hackney with Brewster and Oro.

  Brewster thought me highly amusing. “You expect to have the dog track the killer with his nose? After a week, when it’s been raining? Because he happened to stray into the street that day?”

  “He knows something.” I patted Oro’s head where he sat at my feet, warming my legs better than a rug. “He likely witnessed the entire affair. Was he Finch’s dog? Or the killer’s?”

  “Jack Finch with a dog?” Brewster snorted. “He’d kick it, more like.”

  I rubbed Oro’s ears, and his tail gave a thump. “The killer’s then? He’s a well-bred water dog, even if he was rough when we found him. Perhaps when the killer ran away, Oro couldn’t follow for some reason. He remained at the door, waiting for his master to return, except his master never did.”

  “Maybe in an opera, guv. Or one of them Greek stories you go on about.”

  “Not quite the same thing,” I said. Or was it? Would Oro, like Odysseus’s dog, have waited twenty years for his master?

  We descended at the church and wended our way through the warren to the lane where Finch had been killed. It was as usual, deserted. Even the inhabitants of this area did not like this passage.

  As we neared the black-painted, worn door of the narrow house at the end, Oro stopped. I tugged on his lead, but he would not take one step forward. He sat down on his haunches and began a strange, whining howl.

  “He remembers, all right,” I said.

  “Captain Lacey?” A voice came from behind us. “Mr. Brewster? Thought that was you.”

  Oro ceased his cries. He turned around with us, calming as the young man who’d called out came toward us. It was Mr. Oliver, the boxer who’d been Shaddock’s student.

  He walked toward us in curiosity, as though wondering why the devil we’d come down here, but his gaze riveted to the dog, his perplexity growing.

  “Captain Lacey, whatever are you doing with Mr. Blackmore’s dog?”

  Chapter 24

  He’s Blackmore’s dog?” I asked in astonishment. I stared down at Oro, as though he could answer whether Oliver spoke the truth.

  “Aye.” Oliver put his hands on his hips as he studied the dog. “He took it everywhere he went. We all know Demon.”

  Oro waved his tail once. He looked up at Oliver, his forehead wrinkling.

  “Demon?” I repeated. Oro moved his tail again. “A dog less deserving of the name I’ve never met.”

  Oliver grinned. “Blackmore liked to call him that, pretend he was vicious. When he weren’t, of course. He’s a friendly chap.”

  While I disliked the name Blackmore had hung on Oro, the fact that he’d taken care of the dog was a point in the man’s favor. Oro had been scruffy and flea-ridden when I’d found him, but not starved, hurt, or terrified.

  “Where on earth did Blackmore get him?” I asked.

  Oliver shrugged. “Dunno. Blackmore just turned up with him one day. Demon would sit and watch the matches.”

  “What matches? Blackmore was still fighting?”

  The young man flushed. “No. The ones Mr. White organized. Blackmore was in on it with him, wasn’t he? Mr. Shaddock didn’t want nothing to do with him, or White. Wanted well out of it. Don’t blame him. But a bloke has to make a living, don’t he?”

  I recalled Denis’s man, Lewis, saying, Sometimes it’s sensible to take a few coins to go down when we probably would have gone down anyway. There are a few champions, but most of us are just fighters.

  “Blackmore and White,” I said, as pieces fell together in my head. “But Blackmore is dead now, killed a few months ago in a boxing match in Kent. Tell me, Mr. Oliver, did Mr. White organize the matches for Lord Mercer? The ones using convicts from the hulks?”

  Oliver’s flush deepened, and he swallowed, as though realizing he’d said more than he should.

  Brewster surreptitiously stepped behind him, blocking his way out of the lane.

  “He did. Only never tell him I said so. But you ain’t a Runner, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “I am only interested in keeping Mr. Brewster from becoming one of the convicts on the hulks. Did Lord Mercer hire Mr. White? Or is this a long-standing association?”

  “You’d have to ask him that,” Oliver said, troubled. “But yeah, Mr. White goes about the country, organizing matches for all sorts. Mr. Blackmore used to go with him, ’til he were arrested himself.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  Oliver shook his head. “Never heard. But he were a thief and liked to use his fists to get his own way. Might have punched the wrong man, or hurt a bloke so bad the Watch or the Runners had to arrest him.”

  I would indeed have to find out the particulars. I had the feeling that Denis, with an eye on every incident in London, probably already knew why both Finch and Blackmore had been arrested, who’d come forward to accuse them, what judges had tried them, and the exact wording of their sentences, but he’d left it to me to plod slowly along.

  “Is this why Mr. Shaddock closed his school?” I asked. “Because of Mr. White and Mr. Blackmore?”

  “I dunno,” Oliver said. “He argued with Mr. White, yes, yelled at him to go away. But Shaddock weren’t scared when he talked to him. When he told us he were retiring for good, then he was afraid. I never found out why. Mr. Shaddock wouldn’t speak to me after—angry I’d taken up with Mr. White. But what else could I do?”

  Had Shaddock grown fearful because he’d heard Finch had escaped and was returning to London? Quimby had told me they were sent notices when a convict broke free, even from as far away as the penal colonies. Steadman would take his time sailing back—he’d stop to carry on his trade—and the notices could have reached England before Finch.<
br />
  Perhaps Shaddock had heard the news from a magistrate or someone he trained having seen the notice in a magistrate’s house. He’d dismissed his students and shut himself away, planting his garden so his wife would not have to leave the house often.

  “Mr. Oliver, will you take my advice?” I said. “Stay well away from Mr. White and men like him. Go back to Shaddock and ask for more lessons. Find matches that aren’t rigged or for prurient entertainment. Life will be far less complex for you.”

  Oliver, his brow furrowed, nodded. “You’re probably right, Captain Lacey. White left me in the dust, as you saw, anyway. Think Shaddock will speak to me?” He directed this last at Brewster.

  Brewster didn’t soften. “You can only ask him. He’s an old man, and he’s done bad things, but maybe he can steer you right.”

  Oliver squared his shoulders. “I’ll take a chance. Thank you, sir. Captain Lacey.” He tipped his hat, a squashed affair, and pulled it straight on his head.

  Brewster moved aside. “Go on, then.”

  “Mr. Oliver,” I said as Oliver prepared to make a dash for it. He turned back, wondering what I was on about now. “If you ever wish to speak to me about Lord Mercer, please do. You can leave a message for me at the bake shop in Grimpen Lane, Covent Garden. No one has to know my information came from you.”

  He looked relieved. “Right you are, sir.” He saluted us again then jogged around the corner and was gone.

  As he disappeared, Oro sat down and began to howl. He kept it up until I stroked his head and ruffled his ears, saying words to soothe him. Finally Oro blinked, as though coming to himself, and lipped my hand in apology.

  “Depend upon it, he witnessed the murder,” I said with conviction.

  Brewster only grunted, still skeptical.

  The next person I wanted to visit was Charlotte Finch. Oro was quiet and curious as we walked the few streets to her rooms.

  Again, we caught Charlotte in bed with her young man, but from the groggy look Ned gave me when he opened the door, they’d only been sleeping. Charlotte was heavy-eyed and cross when she came to discover what we wanted.