Past Crimes: A Compendium of Historical Mysteries

by Jennifer Ashley

  With that, he turned his horse and spurred it cruelly. The horse leapt away, ears back, gravel flying from his hooves.

  Grenville was breathing hard. “Damn the man. He is an ogre. He doesn’t care that Lady Clifford might have died, only that her troubles have disrupted him.” He removed a handkerchief from his black coat, brushed away the dust Clifford’s horse had kicked up, and carefully folded the handkerchief again. “I will have to do something about him, I think.”

  “He is not wrong,” I said. “Our interference, especially mine, did lead to her distress of mind, but something does not quite ring true. I spoke to Lady Clifford last evening. She told me she’d changed her mind about Mrs. Dale being the culprit, and that she no longer wanted me to pursue the matter. She was agitated about it, but hardly in a state to go home and take too much laudanum.”

  “Unless she did not administer it herself,” Grenville said. “You did say that Lady Breckenridge believed Mrs. Dale drinks laudanum for pleasure. She’d have a bottle close at hand.”

  “Possibly, but why she’d want to kill Lady Clifford is unclear to me.” I told Grenville the theory about Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale being lovers, or at least former lovers, without implying that the idea had come from anywhere but my own head. Any mention of Marianne would likely turn this conversation in an uncomfortable direction.

  “You might be right,” Grenville said. “It’s a very insular household, and something like that would be kept quiet. But does it have any bearing on the lost necklace?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I hoped to speak to Lady Clifford today, but . . .” I broke off. “I will try to find out.”

  “I, for one, will be pleased to be quit of Clifford and his family. They are devilish melodramatic.”

  While Grenville, I realized, disliked personal drama of any kind. No wonder Marianne drove him distracted.

  “My boyhood home could be as melodramatic,” I said. “Histrionics seemed to be the sought-after state, in my father, the housekeeper, the staff—anyone he controlled. My father was a bit like Lord Clifford, in fact.”

  Grenville straightened his hat, his face still red, but he regained his composure as I watched. “Well, I am pleased you turned out as well as you did, my dear fellow. My boyhood home was devoid of emotion at all. We were calm and careful from sunrise to sunset, sunset to sunrise. My father tolerated no dramatics of any kind. I’m not certain which is more devilish uncomfortable—too many emotions or none at all.”

  “Perhaps that is why you and I rub along well,” I said. “I find your coolness restful, you find my volatility interesting.”

  Grenville raised his brows. “I do hope our friendship has progressed beyond that. Shall we ride on, Lacey? It is a fine afternoon, the park is not yet crowded, and I dislike to waste the opportunity simply because Clifford put me off.”

  He turned his horse and guided it onward, and I followed.

  I admired Grenville’s ability to brush aside bad encounters and continue serenely with his day, as though no one could possibly upset him. Perhaps he was practiced because he’d been raised to it, but I’d never learned the art of it, and doubted I ever would.

  I received word from Lady Breckenridge the next morning that I could call on her, but when I arrived at her house in South Audley Street, the lady she had in her front sitting room was Mrs. Dale.

  Annabelle Dale was much as Lady Breckenridge had described—red-rimmed eyes, past her first youth, thin and pale. She regarded me calmly, though her fingers twitched in her lap.

  I was introduced, Lady Breckenridge and I sat down, and Barnstable brought coffee with cakes—an innocuous gathering. When Barnstable departed, Mrs. Dale set aside her cup and lifted her gaze to mine.

  “Well, Captain Lacey. What did you wish to ask me?”

  “I wanted to express my regret for the harm this incident has done,” I said, “and to ask after Lady Clifford. Is she well?”

  “She will recover. She has done this before, unfortunately. Living with his lordship is a great trial to her. He does everything to set us against each other.” She smiled, and I could see that once, Annabelle Dale had been quite pretty. “It piques him that he cannot, not forever.”

  “But you and Lady Clifford must have had a bad quarrel,” I said. “She was willing to accuse you of stealing her necklace.”

  “It is nothing we have not weathered before. I’ve known Marguerite since we were girls. She feels things too deeply and can become so easily jealous. She sought to punish me for . . . well, let us just say it was jealousy. And hurt. She sought to punish her husband, as well. Two in one blow.”

  “Then she felt remorse when Waters was arrested,” I said. “But she was still angry at you, which is why she accused you to me. I think she hoped that I, with my reputation for running down criminals, could find an outside party on which to pin the crime. A known housebreaker or jewel thief. That person would be arrested, and you and Waters would be cleared.”

  Mrs. Dale pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, but she only clutched it between her fingers. “You have the right of it. Marguerite can be a fool sometimes. When you spoke to her at the musicale, she realized that you were unraveling her lies, and she panicked. She drank enough laudanum to make her dangerously ill, and of course Lord Clifford went to shout at Mr. Grenville. Mr. Grenville would tell you to leave it alone, and all would be finished.”

  Lady Breckenridge, who sat with her elegant legs crossed, her cup held daintily, broke in. “Lady Clifford does not understand the captain, then. He is like a bulldog—does not let go once he sinks his teeth in. He will have the answer to the problem, no matter who does not wish him to find it.”

  I winced a little at her assessment, and she raised her brows at me over her cup.

  “I realized that,” Mrs. Dale said. “And so I felt you deserved the truth. Please understand, and leave Marguerite be, Captain. She was silly to approach Mr. Grenville in the first place, and now she is paying for her foolishness.”

  “I understand,” I said. “Lady Clifford is a most unhappy woman, and she is lucky she has you to look after her.” I leaned forward, resting my arms on my knees. “The necklace was never stolen, was it?”

  Mrs. Dale glanced quickly at Lady Breckenridge. “I can hardly answer that.”

  “I have no interest in telling Lord Clifford,” I said. “Neither, I am certain, has Lady Breckenridge. Yesterday, Clifford went so far as to try to assault Mr. Grenville in the park. My loyalty was never to him. It was Lady Clifford who asked for my help, and to Lady Clifford that I answer.”

  “And I am most discreet,” Lady Breckenridge said. “You may tell Lady Clifford that she will remain on my guest list, no matter what happens. Clifford is a brute and a bully, and she deserves more than being her husband’s creature.” Which was one of the most generous things I’d ever heard Lady Breckenridge say about another woman.

  “I am right, am I not?” I asked. “If the necklace truly has been stolen, then I will find it and the culprit. If not, I will leave it alone. But no search of your house, not by you and your servants or by Pomeroy and his patrollers has turned up the necklace. What became of it, Mrs. Dale?”

  Mrs. Dale pulled a bit more on the handkerchief, and her face burned red. “I threw it into the Thames.”

  I stared at her. Lady Breckenridge quickly set down her porcelain cup. “Dear heavens,” she said. “Why?”

  “Marguerite asked me to. She hated the thing. She loves the little strand of diamonds her mother left her, but Lord Clifford has forbidden her to wear them, saying they are not prominent enough. Marguerite decided that if she pretended the large necklace had been stolen, she’d never have to see the bloody thing again. She had no way of knowing things would escalate into such a mess, that her husband would be goaded into hiring a Runner who would arrest poor Waters. Marguerite gave the necklace to me, and asked me to drop it into the river. So I did.”

  “Good Lord.” Lady Breckenridge lifted her cup and took a lar
ge swallow of tea.

  De la Fontaine’s legacy, swimming in mud at the bottom of the Thames. “Mrs. Dale, you do know those diamonds were worth thousands of guineas, do you not?”

  Annabelle Dale shrugged. “What is that compared to peace, Captain Lacey? Thousands of guineas well spent, I think.”

  Her voice was calm, her hands quiet around her handkerchief. Mrs. Dale, stuck in the Clifford household, too poor to live on her own and subject to Lord Clifford’s unwanted attentions, could have hidden the necklace, planning to use it to fund her way to freedom. But watching her, I didn’t think she had. I saw understanding for Lady Clifford in her eyes, and fierce devotion.

  This, in other words, was a gesture of love from Mrs. Dale and one of defiance by Lady Clifford. A gesture they could reveal to no one but themselves. The necklace had become a symbol of victory of two women over the man who held them in thrall.

  “And then you quarreled,” I said gently. “And in her burst of anger, she accused you of stealing the necklace. No proof, of course. Lady Clifford must not have truly believed you would be arrested, or at least did not think about it too much. Waters would not have been taken either, except that Pomeroy likes to arrest people. You then asked Lord Clifford to use his influence to save Waters.”

  Mrs. Dale nodded. “Marguerite was so fond of her, was so heartbroken, and of course Waters was entirely innocent. I have some little power with Lord Clifford, and so I used it.”

  “It was kind of you.”

  She met my gaze again. “Please leave it alone, Captain. Let her be at peace.”

  I nodded. How I would explain to de la Fontaine that his beloved family heirloom was at the bottom of the Thames, I did not know. Some waterman would find the necklace in the mud, years hence, and consider himself lucky. He’d either turn it in for a reward or try to keep it.

  A strange ending to a strange problem.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dale, for being so candid,” I said. “You may assure Lady Clifford that I understand and will cease with the matter altogether.”

  Mrs. Dale folded back into her seat and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

  When Barnstable had seen Mrs. Dale out, Lady Breckenridge rose and plucked a cigarillo from a box on the mantelpiece. She lit it with a spill from the fireplace and blew out a gray plume of smoke.

  “You do like to keep your friends in the dark, Lacey. I had the wrong solution all this time. Why would Mrs. Dale do such an odd thing? She hasn’t two coins to rub together—why not tuck the necklace under her cloak and run off with it? Gracious, I would have.”

  “I would have been tempted to do the same,” I said. “But Mrs. Dale is devoted to Lady Clifford. Very much so. She’d never have left her alone to face Lord Clifford.”

  Lady Breckenridge drew again on the cigarillo, and her brows rose as she released the smoke. “It is like that, is it? I know now why Grenville grows so frustrated with you. You like to keep the most interesting tidbits to yourself.”

  “If I must.”

  She gave me a steady look. “Well, I will decide whether to grow offended or to admire your integrity. But in the meantime I will call in another favor for my assistance on this problem. And no, I will not tell you what it is until time.”

  I saluted her with my teacup. “I will wait with anticipation.”

  “I highly doubt that.” Lady Breckenridge smiled. “I will write when you are to call on me again, and then the balance might be paid. Now I must bid you good afternoon. So many things to do.”

  I had not thought to leave so soon, but I conceded that a dowager viscountess would have a full schedule during the high season. She softened the dismissal by kissing me again, this time pressing her lips to my mouth.

  And that, I thought, was the end of it.

  Lord Clifford still hung out a reward for the return of the necklace but made clear he wanted no one else in his household accused. Pomeroy continued to try to hunt down a thief, but because he could turn up no evidence of anyone else having taken the necklace, he soon moved to other, potentially more lucrative cases. I hadn’t yet told de la Fontaine that his daughter’s legacy had been tossed into the river, trying to decide how to impart this without betraying Lady Clifford.

  Not half a week later, James Denis sent me a letter—brief and to the point—instructing me to pay him a visit. He’d send a carriage for me to avoid my excuses of not having enough shillings to pay my way across town.

  I disliked obeying commands from Denis, but this time, I was interested in what he had to say. Denis’s sumptuous coach carried me to Curzon Street, and once inside the house, I was ushered into his uncluttered study.

  Denis waited, his hands folded on the blank surface of his desk while one of his pugilist footmen gestured me to an armchair and poured a glass of brandy for me. As soon as he and a second footmen took up their places—one at the door, one by the window—Denis spoke.

  “I have found the diamond necklace belonging to de la Fontaine,” he said.

  My brows shot up. “Found it? Muddy, was it?”

  Denis’s eyes flickered, and for the first time since I’d met him, I sensed that I’d puzzled him.

  “I located the necklace in France,” he said.

  “France?” My turn to be puzzled.

  “In the possession of a minor aristocrat in the court of Louis XVIII. A minor aristocrat willing to give up the necklace for a fraction of its worth, because he was too ignorant to understand its value. According to his story, he bought the necklace from an Englishman in London three years ago and carried it back to France with him when the Bourbon king was restored to power.”

  My mind swam as I struggled to rearrange facts. “What Englishman? Clifford? Three years ago? He was certain?” But what then had Mrs. Dale thrown into the Thames?

  “I had the necklace examined by a jeweler,” Denis continued. “One of mine. He is the best in the business and quite reliable, I promise you. He proclaimed the diamonds real and the necklace de la Fontaine’s. That means, Captain, that the stolen necklace you and Mr. Grenville have been chasing all over London is a copy, a paste replica. You have been led down the garden path.”

  “By whom? Clifford?”

  “Assuredly, since he is the man who sold it to the Frenchman.”

  Bloody hell. No wonder Clifford had been so furious with Grenville and me for trying to find the necklace. Lady Clifford had made a fuss and gained the attention of Bow Street, but then Lord Clifford had done everything in his power to stop the investigation and deter Pomeroy. I wagered that Clifford didn’t care two figs for how much we’d disturbed his household; he was only worried that we might reveal he’d been forced to sell his wife’s jewels and humiliate him. Damn the man.

  Denis opened a drawer, drew out the necklace, and laid it on a velvet cloth on top of his desk.

  The diamonds glittered against the dark cloth, facets white and sharp blue in the candlelight. The center stone was the size of a robin’s egg, perfectly cut from what I could see. The surrounding pieces, large diamonds encircled by smaller ones, were just as fine. I was no expert in jewels, but even the slowest person could see that this necklace was remarkable.

  “It could be yours, Captain, if you wish it.”

  I lifted my eyes from it, entranced. “What on earth would I do with such a thing?”

  “Sell it, give it to your lady, restore it to de la Fontaine . . . Whatever you like.”

  I sat back, my enchantment with the jewels gone. “For what price?”

  “You are a resourceful man, Captain. I could use you, as I’ve told you before. Pledge yourself to me, and the necklace is yours.” His voice held nothing, no emotion, his face, even less.

  “You’d never believe I would agree to that, would you?” I asked.

  “Not really.” He nearly smiled, as close to amused as I’d ever seen him. “But I thought it worth a try.” Denis closed the cloth over the magnificent diamonds and slid them bac
k inside the drawer.

  “That belongs to de la Fontaine,” I said.

  “De la Fontaine does not have the resources to buy the necklace back from me, nor does he have much to offer me in kind. He has cut off all ties to anyone who might be useful to me, preferring to live quietly in middleclass London with his daughter and grandchildren. He at least has found contentment with his family.”

  “Which is why you should return the necklace to him,” I said in a hard voice. “He wishes to give it to his daughter.”

  Denis pressed his palms flat on his desk. “You have a strong sense of fairness, Captain, which is why I continually attempt to recruit you. I have not said I would not give the necklace to de la Fontaine. His son-in-law has a political bent. He hopes to win a seat in the House of Commons as soon as he can. Perhaps I can help him with such a thing.”

  Which meant that Denis would control that seat in Commons, and de la Fontaine’s son-in-law would back any bill Denis wanted him to, vote the way Denis wanted him to—jump up and touch the ceiling whenever Denis wanted him to.

  “For once, could you not do something out of benevolence?” I asked. “Imagine what such a gesture would do for your credibility.”

  Denis signaled to the pugilist at the door, who came forward. The interview was at an end. “I told you about the necklace as a courtesy, Captain. What I do with it is for me to decide. I imagine de la Fontaine will have it in the end.”

  “Leave him alone,” I said with heat. “He has lost everything. Let him die in peace.”

  Denis’s brows rose the slightest bit. “The Comte de la Fontaine used to be a great tyrant. He is one of the reasons the revolution in France began at all. He fled as soon as the tide began to turn, because he would have been among the first to the guillotine. The cry for his arrest had already gone out.”

  “He lost his only son, in our war.”

  “Fighting the republican bastards who drove him from his home,” Denis said smoothly.

  “Perhaps.” I stood up, finding myself next to the pugilist who’d halted beside my chair. “But he’s had to live thirty years in poverty in the damp of London, and is now a poor relation to his rather thick English son-in-law. That is enough of a punishment for any man, do you not think?”