by Tracy Grant
"I could scarcely not respond to a letter from Archie." She gave a smile that somehow warmed her face without quite touching her eyes. Her gaze moved over Harry. "There's no need to introduce yourselves. You're very like your uncle in the days when I first knew him. He was always exceedingly proud of you."
"You're kind, ma'am. I trust my uncle had more interesting things to discuss with a beautiful woman than my schoolboy exploits."
"On the contrary. He was eager to share them, and I found them most entertaining. I understand he's about to become a father himself now."
"To his surprise and, I think, delight."
"Odd where life can take one. Though hearing him talk about you, I always thought it a shame he didn't have other children." She gestured to the chairs. "Do sit. As agreeable as it is to meet Archie's nephew, I know this isn't a social call. I assume you're here about Miranda."
"Our condolences," Malcolm said.
Mrs. Hartley met his gaze as she sank into a chair and settled her skirts. Her own showed neither surprise nor irony. "Thank you. I was fond of her, as I am of all the girls I employ."
"How long had she worked here?" Malcolm asked.
"A year. No, more than two. It was late in '16. Daisy Singleton told me she had a friend in need of employment. I have to be careful about whom I take in, but Daisy's been with me a long time, and I trust her judgment."
"Do you know where Miss Spencer came from?" Malcolm asked.
Mrs. Hartley's hand stilled for a moment on the ruched folds of her gown. "She said she was a widow whose husband had fallen at Vitoria, that she'd worked as a governess but had lost her employment when her charges' father took an interest in her. That she'd scraped together a living as a seamstress for a time but could no longer do so."
"But you didn't believe her?" Malcolm asked.
Mrs. Hartley studied a sapphire ring on her left hand. "It's a common enough story. Perhaps too common. Some girls go into this life because it's preferable to the life they're born to. But Miranda Spencer was clearly born to something better. For girls like that, there's always a story. Sometimes it's the obvious one. But more often I've found there are more layers."
"Did you have any clues as to what Miss Spencer's true story might be?" Harry asked.
Mrs. Hartley twisted her ring round her finger. "She was clearly educated. She could read, and she wrote the sort of copperplate hand that's learned from a governess. Quite unlike my own cramped fist. She also spoke French fluently."
"Do you think there's any chance she was French?" Malcolm asked, keeping his voice conversational.
Mrs. Hartley's finely arced brows drew together. "Mr. Rannoch, are you asking me if Miranda could have been a French spy?"
"Do you think she was?" Malcolm returned.
"I wouldn't have thought it. But I know your reputation. I know the reputation of Lord Carfax, who stands accused of her murder. I can guess what might lie behind your question. Better to confront it head on than to have you thinking my establishment is cover for a French spy ring." She folded her hands in her lap, her gaze steady on Malcolm's own. "It isn't, by the way, though I suppose I'd say that even if it were."
"Yes, very likely. Though I'm not sure you'd be so quick to admit to the possibility. Unless you were very cool headed indeed." Which, in point of fact, Rosamund Hartley showed every sign of being.
"This business takes a cool head. But I'm not sure I'd have the temperament for the spy business. In any case, as to Miranda herself—she came to me over a year after Waterloo."
"Which was far from the end of the spy game." Malcolm settled back in his chair. "Leaving aside your own role, did you have any reason to believe Miss Spencer was French, and/or a spy?"
Mrs. Hartley frowned again seemingly in genuine consideration. "She had no trace of an accent. But her French was also without noticeable accent—at least to my ear, and I've spent a fair amount of time round French dancers and French émigrés. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say she probably had a French governess or had spent time in France. As to her being a spy—as I said, it never occurred to me. But she was rather secretive. She wasn't the only one of the girls to be so. In this business, one often needs to find something of one's own to hang on to."
"Did she have friends outside of Miss Singleton? Or family?"
"She had a brother who visited her several times. At least, she said he was her brother. I confess, I wondered, though if he was her lover there was no need for such secrecy. What the girls do on their off days is their own business, and several of them have young men. It's not unheard of for them to leave to get married." She smoothed the ruffle on her sleeve. "I suspect that shocks you."
"On the contrary." Malcolm kept his gaze steady, while in his head he heard his debate with his wife about whether or not he'd have married her if he'd known she'd worked in a brothel. "I grew up in the beau monde, after all."
Mrs. Hartley gave a faint, appreciative smile. "In any case, if this young man was Miranda's lover rather than her brother, I saw no sign of romance between them. But I can't say there was much family resemblance. He has brown hair, while she was very blonde. And he's stocky, where she was fine boned."
"Do you know his name?" Harry asked.
"Gerald Lumley. According to Miranda. She said he had a farm in Devon. But as to why he couldn't help her in her straitened circumstances—that was never clear."
"Had she seen Lord Carfax before?" Malcolm asked. He said it abruptly, hoping to catch Mrs. Hartley off guard. But she didn't so much as blink.
"No. At least not here. Not unless he climbed in a window."
"Had Lord Carfax ever been here before?" Harry asked.
"No. I was shocked to see him in my drawing room."
"I don't imagine it's easy to gain entrée to your house," Malcolm said.
"It isn't." Mrs. Hartley folded her hands in her lap. "One has to have an introduction from someone already known to me. Needless to say, you wouldn't have got past my footman without Archie's card."
"I don't doubt it," Harry said.
"Who brought Carfax in?" Malcolm asked.
"Lord Waitely. He's been a frequent guest here for years. I couldn't refuse him. Not that I'd have refused Lord Carfax if he'd simply walked in my door. I know enough about him to have a healthy respect for his powers."
"Did you speak to him?" Malcolm asked.
"I speak to all the gentleman in my drawing room. He was polite. Thanked me for admitting him." She cast a brief glance at Harry. "He mentioned that he understood I was an old friend of Archie Davenport's. I didn't realize they were much acquainted."
"I don't believe they are," Harry said. "But Carfax has certainly met Archie at the Rannochs', and I'm sure elsewhere." And Carfax might know Archie had been a French agent.
"I didn't want to linger or appear overly interested," Mrs. Hartley said. "But I confess I wondered if Carfax had come in search of information."
"Did he ask to meet Miss—Mrs. Spencer?" Malcolm asked.
"He didn't ask me, but later in the evening I looked across the room and saw him speaking with her. It looked innocuous enough. Hardly the stuff of seduction. But then, I've found some men are more interested in someone to talk to, who'll listen to their problems, than in the more obvious reasons for visiting a brothel. Not that it stops them from indulging in other activities. Thinking back—" She shook her head. "If I could tell you how many times I've gone over my glimpse of them talking, of the moment I saw them leave the room together. Asked myself what clues I might have missed, what clues might have got me to intervene—" She put her hand to her mouth, gaze sharp with grief and self-reproach.
"You saw them leave the room together," Malcolm said. "Did anyone see them go into Mrs. Spencer's room?"
"I don't know. But obviously she was found there, with Carfax beside her."
"Which makes the question of whether they were in the room together until the murder particularly interesting."
Mrs. Hartley's gaze locked o
n his own. "You don't think Carfax killed her."
"I think the facts as we know them don't quite add up. I'm quite prepared to find Carfax guilty if the additional facts we uncover point that way."
"You used to work for him," Mrs. Hartley said.
"We all have things in our past we're ashamed of."
Her brows lifted and she inclined her head in acknowledgment.
Malcolm settled back in his chair. "I understand you're also well acquainted with Lord Beverston."
This time, he'd swear he caught her off guard, though she concealed her faint start of surprise with admirable aplomb. "What does Beverston have to do with this?"
"I'm not sure. But as a member of the Elsinore League, he can't but be of interest."
Her gaze locked on his own.
"You must know we're aware of the League," Malcolm said. "My— Alistair Rannoch was one of the founders, after all. Along with Beverston."
Her hands locked together in her lap. "Archie confides a great deal in you."
"We're passably good at uncovering information on our own," Harry said. "It seems several members of the League are frequent guests in your establishment."
Mrs. Hartley drew a breath, as though armoring herself. "If you know anything at all about the Elsinore League, you must realize their members are to be found at many establishments such as mine."
"But not all such establishments are run by people who number members of the League as former protectors."
"I assure you, the Barque of Frailty is under my control, not some sort of operation of the League's. Though, I suppose, as with being a front for French spies, I'd say that in any case. But I somehow can't bear to have you think something I built myself is the province of others."
"I have no doubt the Barque of Frailty is entirely yours," Malcolm said. Which didn't account for what else Rosamund Hartley might be involved in.
She held his gaze in a moment of acknowledgment. "I can understand your interest in the Elsinore League. But surely it's a side issue to what happened to Miranda."
"Not when one considers that Carfax is a sworn enemy of the League."
Mrs. Hartley's eyes widened in surprise. Or a good counterfeit of surprise. "You think Carfax was here in search of information about the League."
"I think it's highly probable." Malcolm paused for a moment as that information settled in Mrs. Hartley's eyes. "Did Mrs. Spencer have League members who were regular clients?"
Mrs. Hartley's fingers stirred against the folds of her gown. Keeping the secrets of her clientele would be as ingrained in her as keeping sources secret was ingrained for a spy. So when she spoke, Malcolm sensed it was a sign of how very much she wanted to learn the truth of what had happened to Miranda. Unless she was playing a very complicated game indeed. "Lord Beverston took an interest in Miranda," she said. "She wasn't the only girl in my employ he patronized, but he definitely sought her out more than once. He's always had a taste for delicate blondes." She hesitated a moment, then added, "You might not credit it, but I had something of that look when Beverston first knew me."
"If Beverston had a scrap of sense, ma'am," Harry said, "he wouldn't have looked away from what was before him."
"You're very kind, Colonel Davenport."
"I'm nothing of the sort, Mrs. Hartley, as you must know if my uncle was remotely accurate in what he told you about me."
"Did she ever attend any Elsinore League parties?" Malcolm asked.
Mrs. Hartley drew a breath.
"We know about their parties," Malcolm said. "Being a Hell Fire Club may be cover for the League, but it's not entirely without truth."
"Archie says you're to be found at their parties still," Harry added.
"Upon occasion. Though I haven't seen your uncle at one since Mr. Rannoch's aunt entered his life. I don't supply girls to the parties, if that's what you're asking. And I never saw Miranda at one. But it's true she was out a number of evenings in Lord Beverston's company. I can't swear to where they went."
"Was she close to other League members?" Malcolm asked.
"My dear Mr. Rannoch, even I don't know every League member. Miranda had spent time with Riversby and Dunstable, but she wasn't as close to either of them as to Lord Beverston."
"Were any of them here the night she was killed?" Malcolm asked.
Mrs. Hartley's gaze locked on his own. But then she seemed to give it honest consideration. "Beverston and Riversby were." Mrs. Hartley twisted her ring round her finger again. "Beverston was most distressed when Miranda's body was discovered. The house was in chaos, as you can imagine. I can't be sure of where everyone was. I was trying to keep Miranda's room clear until Bow Street arrived, but Beverston pushed his way in and dropped down beside her. There were tears on his face."
Which said a lot about Lord Beverston's relationship to Miranda Spencer. But did not, in Malcolm's estimation, in any way prove he hadn't killed her.
"I'd like a list of everyone who was in the house that night," Malcolm said.
He half thought she would deny she kept such a list, but Rosamund Hartley nodded.
"And we'd like to speak to Miss Singleton."
Again he thought she might protest, but Mrs. Hartley got to her feet. "I thought you would," she said. "I warn you, she's taken it very hard, but I think she'll be willing to talk to you." She moved to the door, but turned back, gripping the handle. "Mr. Rannoch. Colonel Davenport." Her gaze moved between them.
"Yes?" Malcolm asked.
"Find out who did this to Miranda. And try to make sure some sort of justice is done."
Chapter 10
Daisy Singleton had a heart-shaped face that would have been bewitchingly pretty were it not blotched with tears, her nose red and eyes puffy. She wore a simple muslin dress, with a blue sash that had been hastily tied, and her dark hair was pinned up in a haphazard knot. Mrs. Hartley had taken Malcolm and Harry to a small sitting room hung with blue-striped paper and filled with white-painted furniture, very different from the other rooms they had seen in the house. She brought Miss Singleton in and introduced her, but then did not stay. Another sign, perhaps, that she was more interested in learning the truth about Miranda's death than in controlling the investigation.
"This is where we receive our family and friends on our off days," Miss Singleton said, as though noting their reaction to the room. She put her fist to her mouth abruptly. "Miranda—"
"Miranda used to receive Gerald Lumley here?" Malcolm asked. "Mrs. Hartley told us about him."
Daisy nodded. "She was lucky, having someone to visit her. We don't all."
Malcolm started to put out a hand, but given her profession, he was even more reluctant to touch her than he would have been most people he was interrogating. She had little enough ability to keep herself to herself. "Tell us about Miranda," he said.
Daisy Singleton dropped into a straight-backed chair with a chintz cushion. Malcolm and Harry sat opposite her. "I met Miranda at one of the coffee stalls in Covent Garden," Daisy said. "I'd been to a masquerade. Miranda had a basket of flowers she was selling. I was tired and tripped over the basket and sent the flowers sprawling all over the pavement as well as spilling Miranda's coffee. I helped her pick up the flowers and bought her another coffee, and we sat and drank our coffee in the shade of the Piazza. Miranda had the sort of accent I try to affect, but her skirt was patched and her cuffs had been turned more than once. She told me her husband had been killed at Vitoria."
"Did you believe her?" Malcolm asked.
Daisy frowned. "I did at first. She was very convincing as she told it. But I couldn't make out why a girl with her background wouldn't have someone she could turn to. I thought there must be more to it. But not my place to ask questions. I saw her again the next week. Out late again," she added. "Mannerling's this time. We shared our coffee again. We took to meeting regularly. Miranda's clothes looked more threadbare, and she was obviously losing weight. And not in the way a girl wants to. Finally she confided in me that sh
e was thinking about trying the streets. That was when I offered to introduce her to Mrs. Hartley. I'm not sure I would have otherwise. I mean, I don't mind this life, but I'm not sure I'd pull anyone else into it."
"How did she react?" Malcolm asked.
"She looked relieved, truth to tell."
Mélanie had said much the same about her own recruitment into a brothel. Food and a roof seemed like the promise of heaven, she'd said.
"Miranda always seemed nervous," Daisy said. "She'd glance round sometimes when we were sitting in Covent Garden. Almost as though she was afraid someone was following her."
"Did you ever ask her about it?" Harry said.
"I did once. A man crossed in front of us towards one of the coffee stalls, and Miranda went white as bleached linen. For a moment I thought she'd stopped breathing. Then he turned and she got a look at his face and let out a breath. When I asked her what was wrong, she said she'd thought he was a friend of her late husband, and she didn't want anyone from her old life to know what she'd come to. But I got the feeling it was more than that. Or at least, more than that she was ashamed of where she was now."
"What did the man look like?" Harry asked.
"Not too tall. Not stout, but not too thin, if that makes sense. Dark hair, I think. He was wearing a hat. Dressed like a gentleman. Quite a fine gentleman. One gets used to recognizing a good tailor in my line of work. He walked in a sort of brisk way—I think that might be what caught Miranda's attention, made her think it was the man she knew." Daisy frowned over the memory for a moment. "I think part of the reason Miranda may have been relieved at working at the Barque of Frailty wasn't just to have food and a roof over her head, though she needed both, but to be away from this man. Mrs. Hartley's careful about whom she'll take on," she added. "But she trusts me, and I told her I knew Miranda. Told her I'd known Miranda a bit longer than I had, actually. And she liked Miranda. Mrs. Hartley runs an elegant house, but even here Miranda was something out of the common way."
"How did Mrs. Spencer adapt to life in the house?" Harry asked. It was a blunt question, though put as tactfully as possible. Malcolm doubted he'd have managed it so well himself.
