Newgate was a complex establishment, containing a Master Debtors and a Master Felons side for those who could afford to buy decent accommodations; a Common Side for Debtors and Felons, for those who could not; the Press Yard, the Castle and the Gate; and cells and dungeons beside. Lady Bligh was conducted to the Press Yard.
There the air was clean and warm and fresh, suited to the wealthy men and women who purchased their own rooms and provisions and lived in relative luxury. Leda sat at a small table, contemplating a bottle of wine.
“And so, Leda,” said the Baroness, and sat down. “You are looking well. I take it you are not existing on a diet of water and thin gruel?”
Leda eyed her visitor, resplendent in a dark gray cloth coat with a white collar, and a black felt bonnet with velvet ruches, a black satin ribbon and black ostrich plumes. From beneath this bewitching confection peeked silver curls. “Hardly!” she retorted, and rapped the wine bottle with her knuckles. “I am even allowed two blankets under which to sleep. Someone has made a financial arrangement with the Head Keeper for my comfort, it seems. Did I only wish it, I could obtain any comfort—or any vice. Frowning, Dulcie? Since when are you so prim? God in heaven, you must know that men can even have their own servants here, and that their wives and mistresses may visit when they wish! The gaoler makes a handsome income from his fees.” She pushed aside the wine bottle. “I suppose I must thank Ivor for his open-handedness, but I would have preferred he did not become involved in this.”
“I am afraid that wish may be denied you.” Dulcie sneezed and the plumes on her bonnet danced. “It’s time we talked seriously.”
“Do you, too, mean to ask me if I murdered Warwick? I’ll tell you what I told the others, that the lot of you may go hang.”
“Oddly enough, I am not as concerned with who killed Warwick as with why. There are a great many possibilities, and as many candidates.” The Baroness ran one gloved hand along the table’s edge. “You yourself can claim a great number of enemies.”
“I don’t deny it.” Leda seemed proud rather than ashamed of the fact. “So you think I’m innocent, Dulcie Bligh? That I did not, in fact, steal back into Warwick’s apartments and shoot him dead?” She smiled. “Did you see the item that Willie inserted in the Apocalypse? ‘Peer Interrupted Fatally in his Bath!’ It was masterful.”
“Willie?” queried the Baroness.
“Willie Fitzwilliam, my associate. The scamp went on to say that the noble efforts expended by magistrates and officers to capture the murderer have little hope of being crowned with success, and that an innocent female languishes in gaol while the actual perpetrator of the cold-blooded crime wanders around the city free.” Leda chuckled. “I must see that you make Willie’s acquaintance, Dulcie. Not that I imagine you’ll find him to your taste.”
“I believe I must indeed meet your Willie. However, you won’t make the introduction. Even if I wished to secure your removal from this place, I could not.”
“Pah!” retorted Leda. “If you wished, you could gain the release of every prisoner here, but I doubt even your rakehell husband would care to see you pay Prinny’s price! Never mind, I shan’t hold it against you, though I’d give a great deal to know what’s going through your scheming little brain.” She paused, but the Baroness said nothing. “How is Max? What a handsome devil he was, with that Mephistophelean smile.”
“He still is. Bat is just now in Paris, taking opium with Madame de Stäel—you will recall that she was denounced on the floor of the Convention for conducting a monarchist conspiracy while cuckolding her husband? Society frowns upon a woman who thinks herself as free as a man to sample romance!—and enjoying the conversation at La Recamier’s salon. She is a virtuous woman, Bat reports, and a lovely one. Do stop trying to throw dust in my eyes! I am perfectly aware that you are willing to hang rather than implicate Viscount Jeffries in your somewhat scurrilous activities. It won’t serve. With each moment of your silence, Ivor becomes more deeply involved. If you do not make an effort to help him and yourself, the pair of you will dangle from the deadly Never-Green.”
Leda leaned back in her chair, a genteel and rosy-cheeked figure in her old black gown. “We’ve come a long way, have we not?” she said. “I remember when you first appeared in Society, to such good effect that the rest of us might have been antidotes. It wasn’t long before the whole world discovered that you, a green girl from the country, had already ensnared the devilish Max. You must have broken half the hearts in London between the two of you.”
“Not yours, Leda,” said the Baroness.
“No, not mine. I’d already made my choice. Worse luck, I married him. But that’s all water under the bridge.” Leda folded her hands in her lap. “Why would you wish to help me, Dulcie Bligh? What can you know of this damnable fix I’m in, you with your jewels and your bold Baron, your excesses and your intrigues? I daresay you’ve never wanted for anything in your lifetime.”
“True,” said Dulcie calmly. “Which is precisely why I’m here. Your predicament is the perfect antidote to any possibility of my becoming bored. No more distractions, I beg you! If you do not mean to cooperate, tell me so, and cease wasting precious time.”
Leda twisted a loose strand of hair around one finger in a curiously girlish way. “Very well. I suppose I must trust you. Ask your questions, since you’re so determined. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Lady Bligh propped her elbows on the table and cupped her forceful chin. “There is a rumor that you claim to have been elsewhere at the time Warwick was killed. I suggest you tell me the name of the person you were with.” Leda wore an obstinate look. “Warwick’s valet is prepared to go into the witness-box and give oath that it was you who killed his master! Can you imagine the repercussions were you to hang?”
“Mary Elphinstone,” said Leda sourly. “I doubt you will remember her, for Mary was as timid and insignificant a chit as ever appeared in Society. However, she once rendered me a small service and I am in the habit of occasionally visiting her. She lives in greatly reduced circumstances now, in a small cottage near the Ratcliffe Highway.”
“You are a wretched liar, Leda!” Frowning, Dulcie rose. “And a very foolish one. Would it have been so terrible if your timid Mary revealed your secrets?”
Leda grasped the wine bottle as if she meant to hurl it at her visitor. “How the devil did you guess that, Dulcie? Just how much do you know?”
“A great deal,” replied the Baroness, “and a great deal less than I would like. This is a pretty kettle of fish you’ve landed yourself in, Leda. I don’t like the appearance of things at all.”
“Do you suppose I do? I’m at my wit’s end. Each day I’m urged to make a full confession of my guilt, to be take down in writing by a clerk and signed. I vow I’d do it, too, if I thought the matter would then end.”
* * * *
The highway from Charing Cross to St. Paul’s was thronged with elegant carriages, well-mounted horsemen, and handsomely dressed foot passengers. Through the arch of Temple Bar rattled the Lord Mayor’s coach on its way to the Guildhall. Lady Bligh, jostled by innumerable tradesmen and their customers, gawked at by all who saw her, paid as little heed to the wickedness and bustle of Covent Garden as she did to the elegant shops of the Strand. She moved gracefully through the throng, applying an elegant elbow or a fashionable shoe to those who barred her way, apparently unconcerned that this solitary rambling could have easily led to social ruin.
She paused to look upon the old courts and alleys that lined Fleet Street, and then walked toward the shop that housed the London Apocalypse.
The front room was deserted except for one slender young man who sat on the floor before a monstrous piece of machinery that he was eyeing with great gloom. His attire proclaimed him no follower of fashion. Uncombed brown hair sprang from his skull, and a monocle magnified one pale eye. “One must accept the goods that the gods provide,” remarked the Baroness, and sneezed.
Willie sprang to hi
s feet. “Zounds! Lady Bligh!” Beaming, he advanced on her. “Never did I think to see a Baroness grace these humble premises.”
Dulcie glanced inquisitively around the room. She sank down onto a rickety chair.
“I would like to shake your hand,” said Willie, extending his own, which was gloved. “A custom which is loathsome to me, but I do admire you, Lady Bligh! Ah, I see you wonder why I wear gloves. It is for the better preservation of my fair white skin, to which I, like Lord Byron, attach great importance.” He gazed upon the gloves, which were a great deal more pristine than the rest of him. “These are the hands of a genius, Baroness. They have penned a melodrama that I hope to see produced at Drury Lane. I call it A Sop To Cerberus, and I have found a brilliant though unknown provincial actor who would be perfect in the lead role. I shall become both famous and wealthy, and then you will be pleased to boast of how you made my acquaintance in a humble printer’s shop.” He paused, somewhat theatrically. “The name is William Fitzwilliam, alias the Bystander. You may call me Willie, Lady Bligh!”
“If I were to call you anything,” responded the Baroness, “it would be damned impudent.’“ Willie stared at her. “So you have written a play. Not a moment too soon, considering that you have been borrowing money on nonexistent future prospects and signing post-obits at ruinous rates. I suppose that you may hope to be confined to the King’s Bench Prison, which is principally for debtors, rather than to be lodged with Leda in Newgate. The Bench is not a bad place, I believe, with cook shops and circulating libraries, coffeehouses and artisans, for all they’re lodged behind thirty-foot walls.” With a flick of one wrist, Lady Bligh opened a dainty enameled snuffbox. “However, though one may live agreeably there, one is still behind bars.”
Willie, whose eyebrows had leaped wildly up and down during this speech, leaned against the edge of a rickety table. “I begin to think I’ve misjudged you, Lady Bligh.”
“Indeed you have.” The Baroness took snuff. “I suspect we might deal fairly well together, young man, if you will refrain from treating me to any more of your infernal prose.”
“Infernal prose! May I remind you, madam, that the sword is less mighty than the pen? Even now I plan an exposé of three very high officials at Bow Street who have conspired with a gang of swindlers. It will come as a thunderclap to the City and spread over Europe the greatest alarm.” Willie clasped his hands and gazed heavenward. “Of course, Leda’s release from prison might make me change my mind.”
“Even now,” retorted Dulcie, though with a hint of amusement, “there are those who wish to see you committed to Newgate to await trial for complicity in murder and robbery.”
Willie lowered his gaze. “That wretched Crump has been hounding me.”
“It is no more than you can expect,” the Baroness replied severely, “when you go out of your way to antagonize him. Contrary to what you may believe, Crump is a very clever man. He may reach the truth through incredibly tortuous routes, but reach it he does.”
Willie sighed. “I have a very unpleasant vision of myself taken into safekeeping for a variety of crimes. Is there nothing we can do to avert this great calamity?”
“Are you a gambler, Willie? Among your other sins? If so, you may be of some assistance.” Dulcie paused. “I don’t suppose you know how to read the Tarot cards?”
“The what?”
“I thought not. Ah, well! You are fond of Leda, I gather, and even fonder of the opportunity to publish your columns. This newspaper might prove useful, if you print what I tell you.”
Willie crossed his arms. “The difficulties of newspaper publishing are great, Lady Bligh, and the rewards small. The tax on printed matter will soon reach four pence per sheet on every newspaper of one and one-half sheets. Many small businesses have already gone under. Leda may have had unexpected resources at her disposal but, as you have already pointed out, I hardly have the funds to undertake such an expensive enterprise. Nor do I care to be set up in the pillory at the Old Bailey, there to be saluted with garbage from Fleet Street.”
“You are sadly lacking in courage, are you not? Very well, I will supply you with what you need.”
“Are you suggesting that I can be bought? I am a true artist, Lady Bligh!”
“You,” retorted the Baroness, “are a jackanapes. You’ll have the money you need to produce your play, but I expect more than ample return for my investment.”
“You’ll have it.” Willie slid off the table to clasp and pump her hands. “You are a woman after my own heart, Lady Bligh.”
The Baroness regarded her new associate wryly. “I doubt that very much. Cease your capering, Willie, and listen to what I would have you do.”
Willie dropped to his knees at her feet. “Baroness, for you I will do anything.”
“You may have cause to regret that remark,” Dulcie retorted. “Do get up off the floor. First, you will not further antagonize Crump. Secondly, you will ferret out for me the truth of those ‘unexplained resources’ of Leda’s to which you referred. And thirdly, you will mingle freely with your theatrical connections and report to me all you may hear.”
“My theatrical connections?” Willie, rising, resembled a long-legged spider. “What link can there be between Warwick’s murder and the stage? Can it be you have an urge to tread the boards, Lady Bligh?”
“What I have,” retorted the Baroness, “is a most unpleasant hunch. You need know no more than that.”
“Tell me one thing.” Willie abandoned his posturing to reveal himself as a very worried young man. “Do you think Leda innocent?”
“As innocent as you are yourself.”
“I’ve sometimes wondered if Warwick’s death is somehow connected with these robberies,” Willie said unhappily. “No, hear me out! It’s not as farfetched as it sounds. A considerable amount of money was stolen from Warwick’s quarters. It is common knowledge, though apparently not to Bow Street.” Willie watched the Baroness pace back and forth. “I don’t know what to make of it, Lady Bligh.”
Dulcie paused in her perambulations. “Are you trying to tell me that there was something unusual about those notes?”
“Unusual, indeed, Baroness.” Willie’s crinkled up his face. “If what I hear is true, those stolen banknotes were very clever forgeries.”
“How quick-witted you are, Willie.” Lady Bligh’s eyes met his. “And it is equally clever of you to wear those gloves. But I fear Crump will soon learn nonetheless that there is more than printer’s ink staining your hands.”
Chapter 10
“How dreadful for you!” gasped Mignon, fluttering her eyelashes in good imitation of her aunt. “I should never have been able to close my eyes without again seeing the horrible scene!”
“It was not so terrible as that, Miss Montague.” Lord Barrymore smoothed the sleeves of his dark brown frockcoat, which he wore with a buff kerseymere waistcoat and light blue merino trousers, and smiled. “Though of course you should be grateful to be spared such a ghastly experience! After all, I have witnessed death before, having been a member of the Prince Regent’s own regiment. But you, my dear young lady, can have had no experience with such unhappy things.” His blue eyes were warm. “Which is the way it should be. For an innocent young girl to have stumbled as I did into so unpleasant a scene would have been dreadful.”
“I should say so!” grumbled Culpepper, who was playing chaperone. “What would Miss Mignon be doing going to Warwick’s quarters in the first place? Are you suggesting she’s the sort of shameless chit who would visit a gentleman’s lodging, Lord Barrymore?”
Tolly stared at Lady Bligh’s abigail, startled not only by her accusations but also that she should have dared to speak to him at all. Mignon stifled an impulse to laugh at her swain’s discomfort. “Lord Barrymore was speaking hypothetically, Culpepper. I’m sure he didn’t mean that I am in the habit of visiting gentlemen like Warwick.”
“I should hope you’re in the habit of visiting no gentlemen at all, miss,” Culpep
per retorted. Mignon flushed, recalling her lost love. She had not visited his lodgings, precisely, but she had met privately with him. Numerous times. Ah, but he had been a handsome rogue.
They were in the Music Room, a large chamber with windows of Mexican onyx and rose-garlanded friezes, a Pompeiian ceiling and Persian tiles. A Roman fountain spouted water in the exact center of the room. Culpepper sat rigidly erect on an uncomfortable looking carved chair, while Lord Barrymore lounged on a satin-covered settee. Mignon, clad in a green silk tunic over a lingerie skirt with lace edging, was posed gracefully at a beautiful grand piano inlaid with ivory and tortoise shell.
Lord Barrymore judged from Culpepper’s remote expression that it was safe to speak again. “How progress your aunt’s endeavors, Miss Montague? I’ve told you of the episode at Warwick’s, and that the valet admitted Leda Langtry but didn’t see her leave. He believes she hid herself somewhere on the premises and emerged to commit the foul deed after he had left his master alone.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I have the greatest sympathy for poor Miss Langtry. Although she didn’t impress me as a woman suitable to associate with one as young and innocent as yourself, I cannot but pity someone driven to such lengths. It is a sad reflection on Warwick’s character, I fear.”
Culpepper sniffed. Mignon agreed. Lord Barrymore’s frankness had not extended to acquainting them with the reason for his visit to Warwick’s lodgings that fateful night. “You seem convinced of Leda’s guilt. Why is that? For I must tell you that my aunt is not. Or,” she added honestly, for the motives behind Dulcie’s actions remain wreathed in mystery, “she doesn’t seem to be.”
“You forget that I was there. The murderer could have been no one but Miss Langtry, by the valet’s own word.”
Maggie MacKeever Page 8
