Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

  By the end of her third day of liberty, Miss Tolerance was aware of the imminence of a sort of mental languor which dismayed her. She had experienced this state only once before, after the death of Charles Connell, the man who had taught her to fence and had, coincidentally, ruined her. They had been living abroad when Connell died. She had fallen into a state of melancholy which nothing, not even the hazards of being English in French-occupied Belgium, had been able to pierce. She had slept for days on end; forgotten to eat; sat with a pen in her hand, poised to write to whom she knew not. It was only when her landlord threatened to turn her out, or worse, denounce her to the French authorities, that she had broken from this stupor and arranged to return home on one of the privateers which plied the waters between England and the continent.

  Misliking as she did the idea of slipping into this drowsy fog, Miss Tolerance embraced a feverish routine of fencing drills. Her gender barred her from public practice at the salles des armes around town, and while she was known to several of the maitres defence and sometimes went to work with them privately, it was not often enough to keep her skills honed. In warm weather she drilled up and down the garden; now it was too cold to work out of doors, so she pushed the furniture against the wall of her cottage and drilled, stocking-footed, across the room and back for hours until she was exhausted and the paper target she had pinned on the back of the door bristled with tiny holes. When she was done, she could spend an hour cleaning, filing and oiling her blade, by which time she had generally disposed of the better part of a day.

  Out of deference to her aunt and other neighbors she forbore to practice with her pistols in the garden, and thus target practice generally meant retiring to some secluded place in the near-countryside. The unusually cold November weather made this a less than appealing notion, and Miss Tolerance did no more than clean and oil her pistols in the evening as she sat before the fire.

  At the end of a fortnight Mrs. Brereton, having heard of her niece’s activity, sent to invite her for tea. Miss Tolerance presented herself in her aunt’s parlor quite careless of her appearance. Mrs. Brereton was never less than elegantly dressed herself, her short dark hair lightly pomaded and styled and her complexion improved by the discreet touch of the haresfoot.

  “You look more hoydenish than usual, Sarah. Have you nothing better to do than thrash about with your sword all day?”

  Miss Tolerance shrugged. “Apparently not, Aunt.”

  “You might help me with my bookkeeping,” Mrs. Brereton suggested briskly. “You have an aptitude for it.”

  Miss Tolerance interpreted this suggestion as a part of the ongoing attempt by her aunt to interest her in managing the brothel. As the family to which both women belonged had cut them off entirely at the time of their respective ruins, each was the only relative who would acknowledge the other. Mrs. Brereton often spoke of someday transferring management of her business to her niece. Despite a face and figure that belied the fact, the madam was well into middle age, and could speak most feelingly upon the subject of advancing years and the property she would leave behind. That Miss Tolerance had no interest in assuming the role of madam, as she had resisted her aunt’s attempts to interest her in turning prostitute, grieved the dynastic-minded Mrs. Brereton deeply.

  “Ask Marianne,” Miss Tolerance suggested. “She has a practical mind, and I’m sure she could do the sums.”

  “I don’t want the girls involved in management of the house.”

  “Why not, Aunt? Have you something to hide?”

  Mrs. Brereton’s chin went up. “I built this house with my savings and my wit, both earned on my back. I run it as I see fit, and the girls in my house have no cause for complaint. I offer to make you a part of it because we are family—and because you’ve a mind for figures and for managing things. Marianne is just a whore.”

  “You limit yourself if you believe that, Aunt—”

  Mrs. Brereton shrugged. “Then I limit myself.”

  They sat in Mrs. Brereton’s private salon, a chamber expensively and handsomely furnished in the classical style favored by the former empress of France. A tray, upon which the remains of a light meal were evident, sat between them, and beyond that the Gazette, the sight of which reminded Miss Tolerance that she had not looked at a newspaper for more than a week. Half the windows in the room were still curtained, despite the advanced hour: Mrs. Brereton was of the opinion that sunlight was injurious to a woman’s complexion. The remaining light, bright as it was on this clear day, did not dispel the chill between the two women.

  Miss Tolerance filled the silence by checking the teapot, although she knew very well that it was empty. In recent months her relationship with her aunt, once easy and affectionate, had become awkward. Miss Tolerance could not trust her aunt to keep a confidence, and the necessity of guarding what she said made her cross in her aunt’s company. Mrs. Brereton, for her part, treated her niece with the resentment common to those who have done wrong and dislike to be reminded of it. Miss Tolerance missed the communication of a six-month ago but had not the least idea how to restore it. Even maintaining a conversation with her aunt was now fatiguing.

  “Have you any news from the warehouses?” Mrs. Brereton asked politely.

  Miss Tolerance shook her head. Discussing bolts of dress-stuff would have been a safe topic, but her most recent intelligence from her wharf-side contacts had long ago been discussed with her aunt.

  “The new figured muslins at Beady’s is all that I have heard of recently. After the new year, when mantua-makers are planning for the season, I’m sure there will be more to hear.”

  “And more buyers to drive the prices up,” Mrs. Brereton objected.

  That appeared to be the final conversational coffin-nail. It was a fortunate moment for an interruption. Cole, the junior of the footmen at Mrs. Brereton’s, entered and announced that Miss Tolerance had a caller.

  “Here?”

  “Aye, miss. I put him in the little salon, as it’s unoccupied just now.”

  “Did the caller give a name?”

  “Colcannon, miss. Matter of business, the gentleman said. Very agitated.”

  The effect of this intelligence upon Miss Tolerance was considerable. Curiosity and the hope of occupation energized her: Colcannon was the name of the young man whose finances she had investigated a fortnight before. So this was either the young man himself, or a member of his family. What reason could he have for calling? And why call at Mrs. Brereton’s, when she kept up her membership at Tarsio’s specifically to have an address to which inquiries could be directed.

  Whatever the reason, she had no intention of talking to her visitor under her aunt’s eye or in her aunt’s house. This meant she must walk him to Tarsio’s—or take him through the garden to her cottage, a place which she generally tried to keep free of business.

  “I will be down directly, Cole.” Miss Tolerance made a curtsy to her aunt and begged her leave.

  “By all means, my dear.” Mrs. Brereton, turning her cheek to receive her niece’s kiss, was already reaching for the Gazette.

  Mr. Colcannon was a man of about Miss Tolerance’s own age of eight and twenty, bandy-legged and stocky, as if he were not unacquainted with physical effort. He was neatly dressed in riding coat, buckskin breeches and plain-topped boots, all well made but none modish; his brown hair was worn longer than the fashion; his long, flat cheeks were as rosy as if he had just come from a brisk ride. Country-bred, Miss Tolerance knew from her investigation, and without any Town-polish to speak of. He jumped to his feet when Miss Tolerance entered the room, clearly anxious, and uncertain of what to expect.

  Miss Tolerance dropped a curtsy; Mr. Colcannon bowed.

  “I beg your pardon for coming unexpected,” he said. “You are Miss Sarah Tolerance? I was told I would find you here—but this is not—that is—” He looked around the small room a bit wildly. “Perhaps I have—”

  “Mr. Colcannon, if we have business to discuss, we will both be more c
omfortable speaking in my little house across the garden. Will you follow me, sir?” Miss Tolerance smiled and turned to lead the man to the conservatory at the rear of the house, thence across the garden to the door of her cottage. Mr. Colcannon had the appearance of one already bewildered, now grappling with a further confusion.

  “You are—I was given to believe—” he stopped. “That is, I did not know you were a part of a …”

  A mischievous impulse took Miss Tolerance. “You did not know you had been referred to a pushing academy, sir?” She used the vulgar expression deliberately to shock, hoping that with the worst out of the way Mr. Colcannon would speak more rationally, but she smiled kindly as she took the key from her pocket and opened the door to her tiny cottage.

  Colcannon blushed. He nodded. “Perhaps this was someone’s idea of a joke,” he said. He followed Miss Tolerance into the cottage and looked about him, blinking. There was little enough to see: a table and several straight-back chairs, a settle on one side of the fireplace, the fireplace itself, walled in old Dutch tiles, and a cupboard of dark old wood. There were shelves on two walls that held an assortment of books and papers, and a second cupboard under the window opposite the fireplace. Candlesticks were grouped atop each cupboard; on the one next to the fireplace a small neat stack of dishes also stood. At the back of the room a narrow stair led to a chamber above.

  Miss Tolerance’s visitor recalled himself.

  “You see me somewhat confounded,” he said. “I was given the address of—that bagnio—and told that I might find a Miss Tolerance there, who was accustomed to make inquiries of a confidential nature. Perhaps it was naive of me, but it never occurred to me that you would be a—”

  “A whore, sir?”

  Colcannon nodded.

  “Please rest your mind upon that point; I am Fallen and I keep this little house here because it is convenient for me, but I am not one of Mrs. Brereton’s employees. I generally meet prospective clients at Tarsio’s club, where I am a member—”

  “Should I have gone there? I am sorry if I did this improperly, Miss Tolerance, but my business is very urgent. The man who sent me to you—”

  “Who would that be, sir?”

  “Mr. Gregory Wheelock.”

  “And what did Mr. Wheelock tell you about me, sir?”

  “That you undertook investigation for a fee, that he had used you and found you reliable and discreet—more discreet then those men who advertise themselves as thief-takers might be. That you might be willing to, that is, that you, but I don’t imagine—” Colcannon seemed in danger of lapsing into complete incoherence. Miss Tolerance rescued him.

  “In what way may I be of assistance, Mr. Colcannon?”

  Colcannon at last sat opposite Miss Tolerance upon the settle. The afternoon light from the window lit his face as he leaned forward to confide in her.

  “It is murder, Miss Tolerance.”

  Miss Tolerance hid her surprise in an expression of polite interest. “Murder done, sir, or murder to be done?”

  “Murder done, ma’am,” Colcannon said. Then, as he realized what she had asked, he sat back shocked. “You do not think I want you to kill someone?”

  “Not at all, sir. Perhaps it was the dramatic way in which you spoke which startled me into imprudent speech. Even when the matter is murder,” she added, “it is more useful to me to hear the tale without flourishes.”

  Colcannon nodded seriously, then sat regarding Miss Tolerance. After a few seconds he put his head in his hands and began to rub his forehead, as if he could scrub away his troubles. Miss Tolerance found herself growing impatient, and prodded him.

  “So, there has been murder done, Mr. Colcannon? Might I ask how it involves you?”

  Colcannon was shocked. “I am not involved, Miss Tolerance. How could you—”

  Miss Tolerance spoke very gently. “Mr. Colcannon, will you start at the beginning of your tale and proceed direct to the end? I will save my questions until later, if you will save your agitation and scruples. If I do not apprehend the matter I will be useless to you. Please tell me what has happened.”

  “Do you not read the papers? The Chevalier Etienne d’Aubigny, killed in his bed four days ago.”

  The last time Miss Tolerance had opened the Times had been more than a week earlier. She had found the news depressingly full of the Queen Regent’s illness, reverses in the Peninsular campaign, and the latest brangle in Parliament over the Duke of Cumberland’s War Support Bill. Yet the name d’Aubigny was familiar to her. A second’s more thought and she had it.

  “D’Aubigny is—was—married to your sister, I collect. That is how you come to be concerned. Permit me to condole with you, sir.”

  Colcannon nodded.

  “Can you tell me the particulars? And may I offer you some refreshment?” Colcannon did not reply, but watched dumbly as Miss Tolerance got out two glasses and poured a small amount of Jerez wine into each. He tossed his back at a gulp and began his story.

  “My sister Anne married the chevalier four years ago. He is the son of an excellent old French family of the ancien regime, quite important in France before the revolution. His family—an uncle and his mother and d’Aubigny himself—escaped and came to England when he was a boy. Here his prospects were quite different, of course. But he was educated in England, and his uncle had some influential friends. He was regarded as a promising man. And there was always the chance that, given the successful conclusion of the war, he might come into significant property in France. I tell you all this so you will understand that my sister was flattered when he began to particularize his interest with her. D’Aubigny’s fortune had been lost in France, but there was nothing to suggest that he would not make his way in the world. His friends secured him a post in the government, and he still had the title. My father was alive then; he liked the match, and so did Anne. The settlements were made and the wedding celebrated.”

  “My felicitations. When did your family discover that they were mistaken in d’ubigny?”

  Colcannon frowned. “I never said—”

  “Sir, when someone goes to such trouble to make it clear why a suitor was agreeable to his family, it suggests that there is bad news to come. Was the marriage not a happy one?”

  “We thought it would be. Even a man who marries for money may make a good husband. But after a time …”

  “The chevalier showed a different set of colors.”

  Colcannon nodded. His lips pressed together in a thin line.

  “His death was then a release for your sister?” Miss Tolerance suggested sympathetically.

  “Release? Had he fallen from his horse or died of a fever, even numbered among the casualties in the Dueling Notices, I should agree, Miss Tolerance. But he was beaten to death in his own bed and left among the bloody sheets for anyone to find. You may imagine how fearfully this has overset my sister—her nerves are not strong. Somehow someone gained entry to my sister’s house and did this monstrous thing—and who knows but that they might not come back and serve her the same way?”

  Miss Tolerance considered. “Is there any reason your sister should fear such a thing, sir?”

  “A reason? You mean threats against her? No, who would threaten Anne? But such a murder is beyond reason; what might such a madman do? If the villain did not get what he wanted on his first visit he will surely come back again.”

  “The murder was a robbery also?” Miss Tolerance asked. “What was taken?”

  Colcannon blinked. “I don’t know that anything was taken. But the threat—”

  “Your sister should hire guards for her house. Or you might hire them for her.”

  “And tell my sister she must live like a captive in her own house? While she is in mourning? And the authorities, the magistrate and his constables, make free of the house in their investigation, in and out with barely a by-your-leave, bullying the servants. Imagine how such people would rub along with hired guards! I must tell you, Miss Tolerance, I have only the
smallest reliance that Bow Street will find the culprit in this killing, and until the murderer is found, how can my sister—indeed, how can anyone in the neighborhood—sleep sound at night?”

  Miss Tolerance observed the man before her. He was plainly in earnest despite his overwrought expression. She thought back to what she knew of him: the only son, he had come into his fortune upon the death of his father three years before. He had, as she had told Mr. Wheelock, extensive estates which he managed well, and realized a fine income from them. And he was older than his sister, and had probably been taught that she was a fragile blossom in need of his protection. Whether Anne d’Aubigny was fragile or not remained to be seen, but clearly Colcannon was distressed by his sister’s situation.

  “Why do you place so little reliance upon Bow Street, sir? Some of the Runners are not genteel fellows; it is not a genteel calling. Yet it is, in the main, as honest and efficient an organization as you are like to find for the purpose in all Europe.”

  “I told you this seemed to me the work of a madman, Miss Tolerance. Can plodding effort hope to catch such a villain?”

  “It may well—certainly better than no effort at all. But are you sure your brother-in-law had stirred up the enmity of a madman, sir? Are there no other reasons why he might have been slain?”

  Colcannon considered. By his expression Miss Tolerance deduced that he was weighing his answer carefully.

  “He was French,” he said at last.

  Miss Tolerance judged this a bad time to laugh. “There are a good number of émigrés in London, sir. Since most are not murdered in their beds, I cannot believe mere nationality is sufficient cause for so difficult and deliberate an assassination. And if the murderer was simply a madman who targeted Frenchmen in their beds, your sister is English-born and thus not in danger.”