A Covent Garden Mystery

by Jennifer Ashley

  He nodded stoically. I stripped off my coat and handed it to Grenville. He shook it out and folded it carefully over his arm, like a good valet.

  "I, too, will go down," Auberge announced.

  "No," I said. "Let me see how safe it is first. I do not want us all plummeting down there and caving in a wall."

  "You should let one of us go, sir," the man who'd held the lantern said. "Mr. Denis will be angry if something happens to you."

  I eyed their burly, muscular bodies and shook my head. "You'll never fit. Now lower me until I tell you to let go."

  So saying, I lay on my belly and swung my legs into the hole, letting my booted feet drop in first.

  I had a sudden and vivid flash of one of my soldiers lowering me into a similar hole on a Spanish summer night, so I could rescue a group of Spaniards who had gotten trapped when the building above them collapsed under canon fire. Their eyes had gleamed in the darkness, teeth flashing in grins as I came tumbling in with ropes. They'd hidden in a cellar full of wine and had seen no reason not to indulge while they waited, believing themselves buried forever.

  That cellar had been dry and warm; this hole was foul with damp, rats, and rot. Denis's man got on his knees and held me under the arms. He strained his weight against mine as he lowered me slowly. When I judged that I was about four feet from the floor, I told him to let go.

  He removed his hands, and I slithered down through mud and earth, a little farther than I'd thought, then my feet landed, thud, on the hard-packed floor.

  "Lantern," I barked. My words fell flat on moist walls, close around me. The lackey lowered the lantern to me, and I reached up and grabbed its handle.

  The light showed me little but a narrow tunnel with mildew-encrusted brick on one side, rotten boards and mud on the other. The air was fetid and as Grenville had remarked, smelled of cesspits, but as I stepped forward, the smell receded, as though it had been trapped here but released when we opened the hole.

  I heard the voices of the men I'd left on top. "You all right, Lacey?" Grenville called down. "Please answer. I am the smallest man out here and do not relish climbing in to pull you out."

  I knew full well that Grenville would ruin his coat climbing down if necessary. He'd destroyed gloves, waistcoats, and fine suits in his adventures with me without a word, much to his valet's despair.

  "I am fine," I said. "I am moving forward, following the house wall."

  So saying, I took a few steps, hoping I did not come to a rotted part of the floor that would send me plunging into a far worse hole, or straight into the Thames.

  I moved on carefully, wondering if anyone had truly been down here in recent times. The air was still, but breathable, and I reasoned that there must be more holes in the bank somewhere.

  Darkness yawned before me. I took a few more steps, and then the brick wall angled sharply in front of me. "Damn," I muttered. I called back. "I've come to the end. There's nothing here."

  "Do you want me to shake up old Bill, Captain?" Denis's more talkative man shouted. "Make him tell what he knows about this place?"

  "No," I said, turning back. "Let him alone. He's terrified enough."

  "Right, sir." He sounded disappointed.

  "I'm coming back. You'll have to lift me out."

  I started forward, and then I heard it. Distinct, and behind me, soft in the close air, I heard a faint whimper.

  I hadn't imagined it. I couldn't imagine it down here in this horrible place with nightmare things crawling over my feet. I swung around, holding the lantern high.

  The brick wall, I found when I examined it again, didn't reach all the way to the ruined wall. There was a space between it and the dirt bank, just large enough for me to squeeze around. Or rather, almost large enough. I got caught between brick and mud and had to struggle and curse before I popped through.

  Beyond was a dugout space, black and close, not four feet square, beaten against earth and shored up with old brick.

  In this space lay two girls together. One sat against the wall, and the other leaned on her, her head on the older girl's breast. They wore dirty blindfolds tight against their eyes, their hands bound behind their backs.

  I did not know the girl sitting upright, but I did know the other one who lay on her--my own Gabriella.

  The cry that tore from my throat echoed in the still air. Tears blurred my vision, and I dashed them away, needing desperately to see.

  The girls lay motionlessly, not reacting to my presence. I banged the lantern to the floor, grabbed a knife from my pocket, and knelt, jerking the blindfold from Gabriella's eyes.

  It must have been she who whimpered, because she did it again, screwing her eyes shut at the glare of the lantern. I pulled her up from the other girl, who did not move, and sliced the bonds that held Gabriella's hands.

  I gathered Gabriella into my arms, holding her against me, kissing her hair and face, tears wetting my cheeks and smearing mud against hers.

  "Gabriella," I whispered over and over again. "I found you. My sweetest girl. I found you."

  * * * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Lacey!" Grenville's cry rent the air. "Where are you? Answer, damn you."

  I choked on sobs, rocking Gabriella in my arms. I could not tell if she knew who I was, but she relaxed against me, limp, and did not fight.

  The other girl moaned and stirred. Alive, thank God. Holding Gabriella, I reached over and wrenched the other young woman's blindfold away. As Gabriella had, she cringed from the light, making noises of panic.

  "It's all right," I said hoarsely. "You're safe now. You're safe." I turned and shouted through the gap in the wall, "They're here. I found them!"

  My voice came out a croak. I couldn't project it all the way to the hole in the roof.

  "Lacey?" Grenville's voice sounded closer, as though he'd stuck his head through the opening. "Shout again."

  "I found them," I said, tears in my voice. "Bring rope, for God's sake."

  There was a stunned moment of silence, then Grenville scrambled up and began shouting orders. More noise at the entrance, argument, this time Auberge's voice, and then I heard someone scramble into the hole.

  "You're safe," I whispered into Gabriella's hair. "Oh, my dearest love, you're safe."

  She looked up at me, coherence entering her eyes. "You," she whispered, sounding puzzled, her voice cracked.

  "Sweetheart, I have been looking everywhere for you." I squeezed my eyes shut and simply held on to her.

  "Gabriella." Auberge panted on the other side of the gap.

  Gabriella shoved me away. Joy lending her strength, she flew to her feet, flung her body through the hole in the wall, and threw her arms around Auberge. "Papa!"

  The word struck through my heart. Auberge caught Gabriella, crying and kissing her.

  The other girl was squinting at me through the lantern light. "Who the devil are you?" she asked in a weak voice.

  "Captain Gabriel Lacey," I said. "At your service, ma'am." I sliced the ropes from her wrists, and she sagged against the wall. "Are you Black Bess?"

  "Aye, it's me." Her eyes were haggard rather than hopeful. "I'm that glad to see you, whoever you be. Lord, but I could murder a beefsteak." Then she fainted.

  *** *** ***

  We lifted the two girls from the foul hole with the aid of ropes Grenville had fetched. Gabriella was boosted out first, Auberge holding her until Grenville could hoist her up. Gabriella tried to hold the rope herself, but her grip slipped in her exhaustion. Grenville and one of Denis's men caught her and eased her onto the ground, moving as gently as could be.

  I carried the recumbent form of Black Bess, limp in my arms, she having endured a longer burial than Gabriella. She opened her eyes again as we lifted her free, and she reached for the brawny arms of Denis's man, who pulled her to the open air.

  As I dragged myself from the hole, the last one up, I saw Grenville's carriage, his matched grays pale smudges in the night, pull up at the end of
the street. The lane was too narrow to admit the coach, and Jackson climbed down from the top.

  Auberge cradled Gabriella in his arms, crooning something softly in French. She leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed, her body melding to his, as though it knew the source of safety. I laid my hand on her head, smoothing her hair, but she never responded to my touch.

  Black Bess stood on her feet, but she leaned heavily against Grenville. "I can walk on me own," she insisted. She took a step, and her legs crumpled. "Devil take it."

  Grenville lifted her without a word and began to carry her to the carriage. One of Denis's men grabbed Bottle Bill, who still rocked and wept against the house, and dragged him along with us.

  At the end of the street, the shadow of Jackson strode toward us, on his way to lend assistance.

  Black Bess raised her head and saw him. She gave a hoarse cry and a moan, and struggled to get away from Grenville.

  "Stop," Grenville said. "You're all right."

  Gabriella lifted her head to see what was the matter. Her eyes widened in fear, and she clung to Auberge. "No, Papa."

  Jackson neared us, took in the two girls, and exhaled in relief. "You've got them, sir? Thank God Almighty."

  Black Bess looked up at him, her eyes still round in fear.

  "They're afraid of Jackson," Grenville said. He looked at his coachman, his eyes going flat. "Why should they be afraid of you, Jackson?"

  Jackson looked taken aback. "Couldn't say, sir."

  Denis's men crowded him, belligerent. Gabriella buried her head in Auberge's shoulder.

  "No," I said suddenly. "Not Jackson." I was looking hard at him, in this light only his costly tail coat, gold braid, brass buttons, and his tall hat with upright brush distinguishable, his face in shadow. A costume distinctive all over London. "They are not afraid of Jackson. They are afraid of his coachman's livery."

  The others stared at me in surprise, including Jackson. "A coachman, sir?" he said. "I'll be damned."

  "Yes," I said. "We were looking in the wrong direction. Not Stacy or McAdams. Payne."

  *** *** ***

  Pomeroy was kind enough to allow me, Auberge, and Grenville to accompany him when he went to arrest Payne, coachman to Mr. Jeremiah Stacy.

  "Payne?" Stacy said in confusion when Pomeroy announced his errand. "I do not understand."

  It was early morning, and Stacy received us in a sitting room in his house on Upper Grosvenor Street. His attire had been hastily donned, his hair still tousled with sleep. I imagined that when his valet had announced to him that a Bow Street Runner had come to call, Stacy had tumbled out of bed in tearing hurry.

  The sitting room was pleasant enough, with paneling picked out in gold trim, chairs upholstered in rose damask, and paintings of pretty landscapes lending their colors to the white walls. Touches of beauty that soothed the eye.

  Stacy faced us in the middle of this lovely room, his blue eyes slightly red from however many bottles of port he'd consumed the night before.

  "Your coachman, one Lewis Payne, has kidnapped three young women and killed one," Pomeroy said with good humor. Pomeroy was always happy when about to make an arrest, particularly one certain to lead to conviction and reward. "We would like very much to speak to him."

  "These are the girls you quizzed me about at Tatt's, Lacey? You are saying that Payne did this?"

  "I am afraid so," I answered. "Both of the young ladies we recovered have sworn that a coachman answering to the description of Payne waylaid and kidnapped them, held them hostage in a filthy hole, and killed Mary Chester. Mary's death seems to have been accidental, but he was responsible."

  Stacy gaped. "Good God."

  "Could not have pegged him without your evidence, Mr. Stacy," Pomeroy said. "The Runners are always grateful for cooperation."

  "My evidence?" Again Stacy looked to me for enlightenment.

  I removed his journal from my pocket, the leather a little more creased than when I'd received it. "It makes interesting reading, Stacy. I'd keep it well hidden. But it made me understand why Payne did it."

  Stacy's face whitened, and he snatched the journal from me. "Where did you get that? This is a personal diary, Captain, how did you come by it?"

  "Payne gave it to me. You mean to say you did not tell him to?"

  "No. Good Lord, why would I?" Stacy went red. "I suppose you and Grenville spent a merry evening over it."

  Grenville shook his head. "When Captain Lacey told me of its contents, I admit that I did not wish to read it. What a gentleman does in his private life is his own affair. Lacey is a man of honor, I assure you. He will not breathe a word of it."

  "No?"

  "No," I said. "An odd hobbyhorse you have, but I have been told by the young ladies of this book that you are harmless."

  Stacy held the journal close to his chest, as though protecting it. "But you say Payne is not?"

  I said, "You must remember that while you were riding through Covent Garden observing game girls like a naturalist observing flora and fauna, Payne was observing them as well. You like the girls because they amuse you, or perhaps you enjoy feeling a bit lofty, playing benevolent lord to them. The point is, you like them, and they are fond of you in an indulgent sort of way. But there are men, as I was reminded by Felicity, who hate game girls, who see them as objects on which to take out their rage and disgust at women in general. Payne must be that sort of man."

  Stacy stared at me in shock. "Mary and Bess were girls that I . . ." He bit his lip.

  "You favored them. Perhaps Payne justified taking them because you'd been kind to them. I imagine that he loathes you as much as he loathes them."

  Auberge, who'd been very quiet since we'd returned Gabriella last night to her weeping mother, cleared his throat. "But my daughter, why did he take her?"

  "I imagine that Gabriella was a mistake," I said. "Payne saw Stacy speaking to her in Covent Garden. That is what you usually did, isn't it, Stacy? Spoke to the girls beforehand and set appointments with them for later. You were on your way to the theatre that night. Payne dropped you there, drove round the corner to Russel Street, found Gabriella again, and took her." The anger in my voice rose. "I do not know how he lured her away, but I mean to ask him, quite closely."

  "Dear God," Stacy said, dazed. "Those poor girls. Are they all right?"

  "Black Bess and my daughter are recovering. Mary Chester, of course, is dead. Bess told me that Payne tried to rape Mary, she resisted, and she died when he wrestled her down. Probably suffocated in mud or earth; there were patches quite deep down there. I had wondered why Mary had soil stains on her gown, as though she'd been buried, but I understood once I had a look in the place he'd kept them. It is almost like a grave. The bruises on Mary's neck were put there by Payne, likely when he took her in the first place."

  Pomeroy broke in. "But then he sees he has a dead body on his hands and knows he can swing for murder. He already knew that Bottle Bill liked to stash gin by the empty house. He sees his chance--he can dump the body on Bottle Bill, and then if the other girls are found, well, there's good old Bottle Bill with his pile of gin and his violent tempers when he's drunk. Poor old sod. I wager Payne even took off his coachman's livery and pretended to be a gentleman-- Bottle Bill regards anyone not in the gutter with him as well above his station."

  "Payne did his best to shift the blame to you in several ways, Stacy," I said. "Not only did he offer me your journal with all your secrets, he lured Bess and Mary away with the hint that you were willing to take them up and be their protector. With the temptation of a large amount of money dangling before them, they gladly agreed to meet Payne in Covent Garden--thinking, of course, that he would drive them to you. Their friends would remember them chattering about a wealthy man who planned to do well by them, which pointed attention to you."

  "The bloody man," Stacy said, his anger rising. "This is the thanks I get for giving him good employment. By all means, Mr. Pomeroy, arrest him."

  "He'll b
e in the mews, then, will he?" Pomeroy asked. "We'll have a walk round there and speak with Mr. Payne." He bowed. "Captain, Major, will you accompany me? But I must ask you not to murder the fellow. I won't get my reward money unless he stands more or less upright in the dock, and is still breathing."

  *** *** ***

  Grenville elected to stay inside with Stacy. "You are a man in sore need of brandy," he told Stacy. "And a bit of a convivial chat. We'll allow the army men to tend to the messy work."

  Stacy looked grateful, and he and Grenville moved to Stacy's dining room, Grenville signaling to a footman to bring brandy on the way.

  "He's a kind gentleman," Pomeroy observed. "Mr. Grenville, I mean. Shall we?"

  Stacy's townhouse was located in Upper Grosvenor Street near Park Lane, an address that reflected his wealth. We went around the corner to the King Street Mews, a collection of stables and outbuildings nestled between the houses of Upper Brook and Upper Grosvenor Streets. In the coach house behind Stacy's home, we found Payne.

  Payne was busily inspecting the right front wheel of Stacy's elegant town coach, crouching to observe the lay of the axle. The man's livery coat was unbuttoned, his coachman's hat hanging on a peg near the door.

  "Good morning to you," Pomeroy sang out.

  Payne started, and rose. He saw Pomeroy, he saw me, and he stopped.

  After a moment of silence, he tugged his forelock. "Captain. What can I do for you this fine morning?"

  "Allow me to introduce Milton Pomeroy," I said. "He was my sergeant during the Peninsular War and is now a Bow Street Runner. He has come to arrest you."

  "Bow Street," Payne said hesitantly, his lined face paling.

  "For the murder of Mrs. Mary Chester," Pomeroy broke in. "And for the kidnapping and assault of one Mademoiselle Gabriella Auberge and one Miss Bessie Morrow."

  Payne stared as one amazed. "Not I, Mr. Pomeroy. Mr. Stacy did that."

  "Not according to the witnesses, Mademoiselle Auberge and Miss Morrow. They give very--what you might call, vivid--descriptions of your build and your face. Not to mention an exact account of how Mrs. Mary Chester died."