Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

  Miss Tolerance agreed. “It puts us both in a horrid position, does it not, Sir Walter? How often do our livelihoods depend upon the misery our fellow man?”

  “Indeed. Not even the West End has avoided violence of late. Even in Rutland the news of that murder penetrated. Indeed, the Post screamed of it; the Times was fairly restrained, but as the victim held a government post—”

  Miss Tolerance nodded but did not immediately disclose her involvement with the d’Aubigny murder. She was curious to hear what Sir Walter had to say.

  “—and as the murder comes so hard upon the heels of that business of Cumberland and Sellis in August—”

  “Surely you do not think there is a connection?” The attempted assassination of a royal duke by his Corsican valet, who, when foiled, had fled, only to be discovered a suicide in his own chamber, seemed a markedly different affair from the murder of the Chevalier d’Aubigny.

  “I suppose it’s only the similarity of their being attacked in their beds that brings it to mind. But it has the public on edge. Gentlemen, to say nothing of royal dukes, are not supposed to be assassinated as they sleep. And when the public are on edge you may readily imagine that the magistracy hears of it.”

  “I can indeed.” Privily, Miss Tolerance resolved to inquire about the movements of the Chevalier d’Aubigny’s valet on the night of the murder. “Are you much involved in the case?”

  “I? No, Bow Street was not called. The Great Marlborough Street Public Office has jurisdiction. I believe Heddison is the magistrate in charge. His constables are making inquiries.”

  There was something—no more than a pursing of the lips as he spoke the name Heddison—which suggested to Miss Tolerance that her friend Sir Walter did not place his whole confidence in the abilities either of Mr. Heddison or of the men who worked for him.

  “Is an announcement to be expected soon?” she asked.

  “It would be a fine thing. The coroner’s inquest brought a verdict of willful murder but could not fix upon a culprit.” Sir Walter raised his eyes from the fire to meet Miss Tolerance’s own. He smiled, again lopsidedly. “The Times should have a report of it today.”

  “You will forgive me if I say that you sound … doubtful of progress. Is the case so difficult?”

  “I have only the slightest acquaintance with the case,” Sir Walter said. He pursed his lips, but this time he spoke further. “Heddison is a hardworking man, and I believe he is honest. But he has little imagination and a certain inflexibility of mind. I am not certain he has the mettle to solve such a case as this. And one of his constables is a man I should not like to have in my employ.”

  Miss Tolerance considered the constables who worked with Sir Walter to be as dubious a pair as could possibly be employed in the service of the Crown. To learn that there were constables who were still more dubious made her mind reel.

  But Sir Walter was regretting his candor. “I should not speak so of officers of the law! Is it not shocking how completely a good fire and a sympathetic ear makes me cast caution to the wind?”

  Miss Tolerance understood from this that she was not to make further mention of Sir Walter’s reservations.

  “I do not envy Heddison the case. Whatever he does is like to offend someone. My own business has been of the most pedestrian sort: pickpockets and cracksmen, as I said. A good deal of business, but not invigorating. What sort of work have you now? Did you defeat the blackmailer you told me of the last time we met?

  “Oh, Lord yes!” Miss Tolerance had barely given Mr. Waldegreen’s problem a thought after she had received her payment. “In truth I have been sadly idle for days. Look where you find me, dozing over the fire!”

  “Idleness clearly becomes you,” Sir Walter said gallantly.

  Miss Tolerance frowned.

  He apologized. “Would you prefer that I speak of nothing but crime and politics? I was concerned for you when I left Town. You have been working very hard, perhaps too hard. I am happy to see you with a little more animation.”

  Miss Tolerance flushed. Her first thought was to reject this very mild expression of concern; her second, that to do so would be churlish. “If I am more animated it is because I have work to do. If you had seen me in a state of idleness you would not be impressed. Indeed, I do not mean to be uncivil. I am out of the habit of having people fret over me.”

  “And I do not wish to burden you with my concern. Only that—no, I shall stop now. I would not make you the recipient of attention which is unwelcome to you.”

  “Not unwelcome, from a friend. But unaccustomed. And I hate that anyone would ever think there was something amiss with me.”

  “Oh, as for that,” Sir Walter said carefully, “I suspect something has been amiss with you for some time. Since the trial of the Earl of Versellion, perhaps even from the night of his arrest.”

  Miss Tolerance studied her wine. “That was nearly a six-month ago. What could give you such an idea, sir?”

  “When we met, there was a—a light in you that the events of Versellion’s arrest left much dimmed. The trial could not but have given you pain. You have suffered a high cost for doing what was right. Testifying against—” He faltered.

  “Testifying against my lover? I testified against Versellion because he had murdered an old woman. No amount of affection could excuse that. I gave my testimony and the jury their verdict. The matter is done. I must endeavor to forget it.”

  “I do not think you are so hard of heart,” Sir Walter said.

  “I cannot afford to be less so,” Miss Tolerance replied. “I have my living to earn. Versellion … may I be frank, Sir Walter? After Connell died, I kept myself very guarded. I ought to have continued so. Of all men, why I allowed Versellion—”

  “What, a man known for all those qualities best calculated to appeal to a woman of discernment: good looks, position, intelligence, charm—”

  “A politician.” Miss Tolerance spoke the word with distaste. “Bred to preserve his power at any cost.”

  Sir Walter examined his wine glass with interest, then took up the bottle and poured out the last of the claret. “You seem intent to doubt your own judgment. I must point out that in order to punish yourself you are painting Versellion more darkly than he deserves. Your own testimony secured his transportation. And as I believe that your relationship with him had begun some time before he committed the crime, how are you to be blamed?”

  Miss Tolerance shrugged and smiled again, quite unconvincingly.

  “You gave your testimony. I hope you will not continue to punish yourself,” Sir Walter said. There was a little silence between them. Then he persisted. “I have spoken more freely than I ought, perhaps. I hope you will forgive it as the sincere concern of a friend. I should like to see that light I spoke of kindled again. But if you like, we will speak of it no further—except, you know, that if there is any way in which I may assist you—my friendship is very real.”

  A flush of feeling, compounded of gratitude and several other emotions less readily identified, swept Miss Tolerance. For a few moments she said nothing, striving to master the sudden constriction in her throat. She coughed, then raised her glass to him.

  “Thank you, Sir Walter. That, at least, is a happy consequence.”

  They drank in silence broken only by the snap of the fire.

  Sir Walter did not stay above an hour at Tarsio’s. They spoke of matters of no personal consequence: there was a new bootmaker in Jermyn Street; the Duke of Clarence’s mistress Mrs. Jordan had returned to the stage again; the Queen Regent’s health was slowly declining.

  This last had been a matter of public anxiety since June, when the Queen had suffered an apoplectic stroke. As His Majesty the King had been entirely mad for twenty years, and was now blind, deaf and sickly as well, the Queen Regent’s health crisis had precipitated the nation into a state of vehement debate. Who could the next regent be? The Prince of Wales had been removed from the succession; the Duke of York had died heroically at t
he siege of Valenciennes. The succession was not open to debate: the Duke of Clarence was heir apparent. But the regency was in Parliament’s gift, and every man in the nation, and most women, had an opinion upon the subject. Clarence’s domestic liaison with Mrs. Jordan had left him with a half-score of little FitzClarences and the reputation of a profligate. As commander of Gibralter the next prince, the Duke of Kent, had bullied the men under his command so mercilessly that they mutinied; he had sunk himself so low in public esteem that his name was suggested only to declare him impossible. The Duke of Cumberland, never a public favorite, had also been touched with scandal upon scandal; the attack upon his life in August was only the latest. In fact, of all the brothers, it was Wales, the darkest horse, whose name came most favorably to the public lip. The prince had been struck from the succession upon his marriage to the Catholic widow Maria Fitzherbert, but that marriage had apparently settled him, and with Mrs. Fitzherbert now ten years dead—and dead in the delivery of a living and legitimate son, too—there were rumors that a restoration of the succession might be possible. Wales had legitimate heirs; he had rather fewer blots on his character than his nearest surviving brothers; he had been profitably employed, since the death of his brother York, in establishing and encouraging the military colleges which had considerably improved the quality and effectiveness of the army; and unlike Kent and Cumberland, he was believed to be neither too liberal nor too conservative.

  Miss Tolerance amused Sir Walter with the thought that if Queen Charlotte really did recover, the careful plotting of politicians on both sides of the aisle would be thrown into disarray.

  “You seem to relish the idea for its own sake.”

  “You know how little love I have for politicians.”

  “Then I must be glad I am a mere magistrate,” Sir Walter said.

  “And a magistrate who must leave this pleasant company and return to his work.” He rose and took his leave, and Miss Tolerance called for the Times.

  As Sir Walter had suggested, there was indeed a report on the Coroner’s Inquest upon the death of the Chevalier d’Aubigny. The witnesses were few; the first to be called was James Wandle, the surgeon who had observed the corpse.

  “The chevalier had numerous bruises about the shoulders and neck, but principally upon the head, where he had been struck by some heavy object with such force that the bones of the skull had been shattered. I cannot tell which blow fell first, but from the absence of bruises arguing self-defense—that is, no apparent blows to the hands or arms—we may conjecture that the first blow or blows were to the head. The left parietal bone and the nose and left cheekbone had been smashed almost beyond recognition, with a concomitant loss of brain matter. The object with which these blows were struck would appear to be heavy and with a dull edge. It was not a blade. There is no evidence of any other wounds than those mentioned, nor of asphyxiation. The blows to the head would have been sufficient to cause death.”

  Miss Tolerance, finding herself unpleasantly affected by this dry explication of horror, asked a waiter to bring in fresh tea. She read onward. The statement of the officer of the watch was short and businesslike, and suggested nothing of much use to Miss Tolerance; he had been summoned, arrived, and found the man dead, whereat he sent a message to Bow Street at once. He had not, apparently, thought to examine the premises or the victim, whose appearance “made me come over all faint.” It was Miss Tolerance’s surmise that the officer, like most of his sort, was an elderly pensioner, half-blind and half-drunk, and therefore of very little use. She read on to the statement of Mary Pitt, the maid who had first found the body.

  “I went about as usual, lighting first the fires in mistress’s room, then the little salon downstairs, then back up to the master’s room. It was then about seven in the morning. Master didn’t like to have the fire lit early, for he was often out late, nor he didn’t like waking to a cold room. I went in quietly. I went straight to my work and swept out the fireplace and laid the fire new. I had just catched the fire and turned to leave when I saw it.” Here the witness began to weep, but when asked if she wished to return later, she refused, stating that she preferred to have the business done with at once. “First I saw that one of the bed curtains was all upon the floor. I thought there would be a great to-do about that. Then I saw there was spots on it, of blood. I felt near to swooning, and screamed, and ran out of the room. Mr. Beak [the manservant] found me screaming and went to look what had happened. Yes, I saw the master on the bed. He was all over blood, most of it on his pillow under his head, where there was great gashes, and brains all in the hair—” Here the witness was again overcome, and was excused by the coroner.

  As well she might be, Miss Tolerance thought. She read the final testimony, from the footman, Adolphus Beak.

  “I was in the pantry laying out the breakfast plate when I heard screaming. I went at once upstairs, and found Mary Pitt, almost insensible, in the hallway a little way from Mr. d’Aubigny’s room. It was at first not apparent what had caused her distress, but when I made out that some harm had come to Mr. d’Aubigny I went at once to his room. I found the bed curtains much disarranged, with one of them lying on the floor smirched with blood. Mr. d’Aubigny lay in his sheets, much bloodied. He wore his nightgown; the nightcap still clung about his head. I approached near enough to the bed to see that he was not alive. I then ran from the room and called to Peter Jacks, the underfootman, to fetch the officer of the watch. I summoned Mrs. Sadgett [the cook] to assist Pitt, who was still much affected by her discovery. When the officer of the watch arrived I brought him to Mr. d’Aubigny’s chamber. The doors were always kept locked at night, after Mr. d’Aubigny had returned for the evening. Most nights he returned before one in the morning. On the night before the murder he came home by eleven, and the house was locked up then. The doors were locked in the morning, which I know in consequence of Jacks having to throw the bolt in order to leave the house and fetch the watch.”

  The coroner was reported to have thanked all the witnesses for their time and cooperation in recalling an event so obviously distressing. The jury was charged and adjourned, and in short order had returned a verdict of willful murder against a person or persons unknown, the obvious conclusion under the circumstances. Still, the reports left Miss Tolerance with more questions than answers. The single most striking one, to her mind, was this: why, in the testimony of these witnesses, was there no mention at all of summoning to the site of the murder the person most closely connected to the chevalier: his wife, Anne d’Aubigny?

  Four

  William Colcannon called the next morning to escort Miss Tolerance to Half Moon Street personally. He apologized half a dozen times to her as they made their way to the d’Aubigny house, and wondered aloud who Mrs. Vose was. This struck Miss Tolerance as odd: the woman had seemed fully at home in the d’Aubigny household; the servants had evidently taken her word as law. How should the widow’s brother not know Mrs. Vose?

  “Were you not in the habit of visiting your sister, sir?”

  They walked along Duke Street, which at this hour was thick with tradesmen seeking out the service entries of the great houses to which they brought food, flowers, casks of ale, and cases of wine and sundries. Miss Tolerance let herself seem to be watching a pair of carters carry a pianoforte, but observed her companion closely.

  Mr. Colcannon flushed.

  “I did not—that is, I am so much in the country, Miss Tolerance. It was not always convenient to visit.”

  Miss Tolerance nodded. “But you and your sister are on comfortable terms?”

  “We are on most affectionate terms, ma’am.” His tone was just short of protest.

  “And you and your brother-at-law?”

  Colcannon colored yet more deeply. “He and I—were not friends, if that is what you mean.”

  “You will pardon me if I ask why, sir?”

  “I did not like his treatment of my sister,” Colcannon said. “I know one cannot interfere between a man a
nd wife, but it made it damned uncomfortable to visit and see Anne—” He broke off, his eyes focused on some scene in his mind.

  “She was unhappy? What did the chevalier do to cause her unhappiness?”

  “What did he not?” Colcannon said with bitterness. “You know, at the first their marriage seemed promising. It took nearly a year for d’Aubigny to change—”

  “Change, or revert to previous behavior?”

  Colcannon looked blank. “I cannot say. I did not know him before he married my sister. My father had inquiries made—”

  “But they largely concerned his income and his prospects, I collect. Please go on.”

  “At first he seemed merely thoughtless, taking her for granted. Then he became discourteous, and in the last years, brutal. There is no other word for it. He humiliated her. He made fun of her country accent and how she ordered the household. If I took dinner with them he would mock what was served and what she wore and what she said—all in a tone which invited me to be scornful too. Anne told me if I tried to speak to him it would only make things worse. Finally I stayed away, Miss Tolerance. It is not to my credit—”

  “But perhaps not to your discredit, either,” she said.

  “And there is worse.” His voice dropped low. Miss Tolerance had to make an effort to hear him over the clamor of carriages and vendors around them. “When I visited her I saw—several times, I saw marks. Some on her wrists, twice on her neck: the marks of fingers, as if he’d held her down …” Colcannon paused to recover himself. “That was when I asked my solicitor what I might do to help my sister, but the answer was very little. Unless he beat her bloody on the steps of Parliament it is unlikely the law would have taken notice. And Anne would say nothing against him; she feared to do so, I think. He was the Devil to her.”