Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

  “Why is that?” Madame Touvois paused to refill the glasses.

  “As you say, his work was not likely to provide him with information that could have commanded money. And, too, with all the unpleasantness of which it appears the man was capable, I have not heard that he was ungrateful to the nation which took his family in. You are an émigré, Madam. Would you betray England?”

  “What a question!” Madame Touvois pursed her lips. “Perhaps, then, d’Aubigny learned a secret in one of the birching houses—”

  “You think he threatened to expose a patron? But would that be such a dire exposure, ma’am? When you consider the sorts of dissipations with which many of our leading men are credited, mere birching seems rather tame. But let us suppose that your notion is correct.” Miss Tolerance nodded amiably and tasted her wine. It was very dry. “Using a secret learnt in a whorehouse creates a sort of reciprocal effect did he try to blackmail one party, he might be blackmailed in return. But a person who can turn tables on his oppressor is less likely to resort to murder himself. And, of course, I am looking for a murderer. Therefore, I am looking for someone who could not exert a reciprocal pressure on his blackmailer.”

  “Nicely reasoned, Miss Tolerance. Except, you appear to argue away every venue where the chevalier might have learnt a valuable secret.”

  “Do I? I wonder if perhaps he learned something in the drawing room of a friend.”

  “Here? Should I resent the implication, Miss Tolerance?”

  “Not in the least, ma’am. I have no wish to offend you. Yours is, after all, not the only drawing room to which the chevalier was a visitor. Nor can you be expected to control what your guests murmur to each other out of your earshot.”

  That, Miss Tolerance thought with some satisfaction, was a palpable hit. She was not certain which her hostess disliked more: the assertion that there was something in her circle that she could not control, or the reminder that hers was not the only salon of note in the city.

  “But perhaps lesser drawing rooms would not yield the sort of visitors capable of supplying M. le Chevalier with his needed cash,” Madame Touvois countered. “But you see how I am confused! Do I truly wish to convince you that mine is the only house in which the chevalier might have blackmailed another of my guests? Of course I would have been horrified had that been so.” She fixed Miss Tolerance with guileless regard.

  “I am certain of it, ma’am.” Miss Tolerance returned her look. “But you have been generous with your time. I must not trespass on that generosity further.” She stood, took up her gloves and reticule. “Thank you, ma’am. It has been very informative to speak with you.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Tolerance. And pray—” Madame Touvois tilted her head solicitously. “Pray do take care that no more men follow you home from your interviews.”

  Miss Tolerance left Audley Street convinced in her mind of three things: that Etienne d’Aubigny had found relief from his financial troubles in blackmail; that Camille Touvois had been aware of it; and that she had also known of the attack upon herself. Now all she needed was proof.

  From Audley Street she shouldered into an icy wind to walk to the d’Aubigny house. Closed carriages plied the streets, but there were no idle strollers out. She found herself one more scurrying figure amid erranding maidservants and footmen. The gutters were inches deep in half-frozen muck, but crossing-boys were scarce, all hiding from the cold regardless of the pennies they might have made. In Half Moon Street it appeared that cold had diminished the thrill of notoriety in some who had thronged around the house—the crowd in the street was notably thinner.

  But there was something else: as she neared the house she was struck by a familiar and unpleasant smell of sewage, more noisome than usual even for the London streets. Somewhere behind the houses a privy was overflowing.

  Miss Tolerance took her handkerchief from her reticule and held it before her nose, where it slightly lessened the awful smell. She knocked upon the door of the d’Aubigny house and was greeted by Beak, who blinked once at the sight of her injuries, then admitted her with an expression of studied blankness.

  “Mrs. d’Aubigny is out,” he said. “She is expected to return shortly, however. If Miss would care to wait in the back salon?”

  Miss decidedly disliked the notion of waiting in the back salon, which overlooked the garden: she had concluded from the evidence of her nose that it was the d’Aubigny backhouse which required cleaning. Perhaps she could use the time more profitably.

  “I will wait, thank you, Beak. But before I sit, I should like to look again at the room where the chevalier—” She paused out of respect for Beak’s sensibilities, which appeared to her much tried by events.

  Beak’s understanding seemed to encompass both her business purpose and the stench from the yard; clearly he would not want to sit in the back salon himself. “Madame did say you was to be cooperated with. I suppose there could be no objection.” He turned and was about to lead the way up the stairs when the younger manservant, Peter Jacks, appeared and said something in Beak’s ear, of which Miss Tolerance made out only the word “goldfinder.” From this, and the expression of relief upon Beak’s face, she apprehended that a man had arrived to clean the privy. Beak muttered something to Jacks and turned again to the stairs, motioning Miss Tolerance to follow. She did, musing upon the dire financial straits which would have led Anne d’Aubigny to neglect so vital (and inexpensive) a service until matters had reached a crisis point.

  The chevalier’s chamber was as cold and untenanted as she remembered it. From the fact that the drapes were still missing from the bed, Miss Tolerance concluded that they had been destroyed. There was a rime of dust on the top of the chest; after the initial effort to remove the signs of violent death, perhaps no one in the household wanted to clean here.

  Whereas the first time she had examined the room Miss Tolerance had wanted merely to see the murder scene and had not expected she would find clues that the diligence of Bow Street had missed, now she had a specific question in mind. If the chevalier had been a-blackmailing, he must have had proofs to use as leverage. If the murderer had sought, but not found, evidence which rendered him vulnerable, it must still be there to be found. Where would a man such as Etienne d‘Aubigny hide his secrets? It took only a few minutes to look in the most obvious places—the writing table, the drawers of the chest and the garderobe, the small box which proved to hold a case of razors. If d’Aubigny had hidden something in any of those places it was gone already.

  Miss Tolerance shivered. No one had lit a fire in the room since the chevalier’s death. The fire tools she had noted upon her first visit to the room stood orderly by the grate. Miss Tolerance examined the fireplace, wishing for a convenient romantic article such as a trap door or secret cupboard, but found none. The grate had been swept, a fire neatly laid but unlikely to be lit anytime soon. The brass fittings shone dully.

  Something caught her eye. She dropped to one knee—a little clumsily, as the red dress was not designed for such a movement—and tried to prize the bit of something white that had been caught in the pinched joint of the grate. She lamented that she did not have a knife with her with which to work the thing loose—and then Beak was at the door.

  “Mrs. d’Aubigny has returned, and asks that you join her downstairs in the back salon, miss.”

  Miss Tolerance sighed, rose to her feet and started after the manservant. As they reached the stairway she saw Anne d’Aubigny below her in the hallway, handing her coat and bandbox to Jacks. The widow looked up, saw Miss Tolerance, nodded slightly, and began to say something.

  There was at that moment a considerable noise from somewhere in the rear of the house, the sounds of persons both male and female shouting. Madame d’Aubigny was drawn away to the conflict and Beak all but ran down the stairs to find out what had disturbed the peace of the house. Miss Tolerance, no less curious, followed down the stairs and to the rear of the house, through the green baize door which separated the
worlds of servant and served, and stopped on the stairway just outside the kitchen.

  An interesting tableau was there. In the doorway to the kitchen garden stood a short man, amply padded against the cold, with a filthy smock over all, high boots, and gloves. He was pocked and toothless, and would have been ugly even had he been clean and well dressed, but the mark of his profession was everywhere upon him, rendering him repellent. Further, the smell which had penetrated the house was concentrated in his presence. The privy-man stood in an attitude of combat with something, perhaps one of his tools, tucked under his arm. The cook, Ellen Sadgett, stood in opposition to him, a rolling pin clutched in one hand as if to smite him if he despoiled the cleanliness of her kitchen. Beak advanced upon them, ready to chastise both for making such ado. Beside him Anne d’Aubigny stood, watching.

  The privy-man was yelling, “Well you’d better let me talk to someone, you oul’ besom! What I got ’ere ain’t just the wrecking of a perfectly good jakes—it may be vallable! What it was doing down there, backin’ matters up, I can’t say.”

  “You get right out, you smelly varmint, or I’ll—” Mrs. Sadgett waved her rolling pin menacingly. “I don’t care what you ’ave there. Madame’s not to be bothered by—”

  “Mrs. Sadgett!” Beak roared over both. “And you!”

  “Willis, sir.” The privy-man happily turned to report to masculine authority. “A man in my position is liable to all manner of abuse, and if I finds something looks as it might be a’ value, I’m bound to turn it over as soon as possible. I don’t want no misunderstanding about that, sir. I keep nothing what ain’t mine, no matter where I finds it. Not to mention your jakes will back up do you go heavin’ furniture into it!”

  Willis reached under his smock and produced a handkerchief, incongruously white against the stains of his smock. He shrugged the object under his arm forward and wiped it all over with the handkerchief before extending it toward Beak.

  “What’s a thing like that doing in your cesspit is what I want to know,” Willis scolded, and bounced the thing at arm’s end by way of emphasis.

  Beak regarded the object with revulsion. It was a wooden box, perhaps two hands high and four hands broad, about the size of the box in which Miss Tolerance kept her own writing materials at home, but of a far more aristocratic origin. Mr. Willis’ ministrations had barely lessened the crusting of filth on it, but she could see that the box was carved upon the lid and sides; there was a brass latch on one side.

  Anne d’Aubigny gasped and stepped forward as if to examine the box. Then she crumpled to the kitchen floor in a profound faint.

  The effect upon the occupants of the room was electric. Mrs. Sadgett forgot about the privy-man and dropped to her knees, fluttering over her mistress. Beak hurried forward, barking for Jacks’ assistance, then for Mrs. Sadgett to leave over fidgeting and fetch Madam’s vinaigrette. Mr. Willis, apparently much gratified by his effect upon the household, dropped the offending box upon the table and hurried forward to give advice, being careful not to rub against any of the kitchen furnishings. Within a moment Jacks had appeared and gathered up Mrs. d’Aubigny. With Beak leading the way they started up the stairs, followed by Mrs. Sadgett, who waved a bottle Miss Tolerance assumed to be sal volatile, and Mr. Willis, giving helpful suggestions. For a moment Miss Tolerance was left alone in the kitchen.

  And there, upon the table, was the box.

  She took up one of Mrs. Sadgett’s kitchen cloths and used it to wipe the worst of the muck from around the latch. It lifted easily, and in a moment the box was open to her. It was a nice piece of workmanship; despite its immersion in the privy, the box’s contents were dry and clean, although disordered. With one finger Miss Tolerance carefully pushed the contents from one side to the other, examining them and the box. As Anne d’Aubigny had told her, it was lined in red silk, worn napless in spots and specked, here and there, with rusty flecks. There were several silk scarves and what looked at first to be a number of whips but proved, when she took it up, to be one whip with many ends, each finished with a small lead weight. Imagining the impact of this object upon tender flesh, Miss Tolerance shuddered. Below the cat was a case with six tiny pearl-handled blades, one still wearing a brown stain of blood. There were several lengths of heavy silk cord, and some other objects the use of which Miss Tolerance could only guess.

  Miss Tolerance poked through the box’s contents until she reached the bottom, a matter of a minute or so. What she did not find were letters or evidence which might have been used for blackmail. She returned the cat and scarves to the box. The filth on the box’s exterior, and the sight of the box’s contents, acted unpleasantly upon Miss Tolerance’s stomach. She was almost grateful to be interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Please, Miss.” The abigail, Sophia Thissen, stood in the doorway, looking not at Miss Tolerance but at the box. “Madame asks will you join her in the rear parlor.”

  Miss Tolerance closed the lid of the box and stepped away from the table.

  “I’ll see to that,” Sophia said. “Madame would not like to have it sitting out”

  She was certainly correct in that, Miss Tolerance thought. She noted that Sophia recognized the box and understood its contents—which made sense, for certainly Sophia must have been the one to patch up Anne d’Aubigny when her husband had finished disporting himself. Perhaps I should talk a little with Sophia Thissen, she thought. What she knows of the late chevalier’s life is like to be unflattering but informative.

  “I shall go up, then.” Miss Tolerance wiped her hands on a clean towel—alas for Mrs. Sadgett’s orderly kitchen—and went past Sophia to the stairs. Some prudent instinct caused her to turn and instruct Sophia to put the box somewhere safe, just in case. “Perhaps I shall need to look at it again,” Miss Tolerance told her, and went upstairs.

  In the hall Miss Tolerance met Mr. Willis, apparently quite pleased to have started such a fuss, with Mrs. Sadgett following him to the kitchen and maintaining a steady flow of expostulation. In the back parlor Anne d’Aubigny sat in an armchair, eyes closed, the pallor of her faint beginning to recede. A decanter stood at her elbow with an empty glass next to it.

  “Are you recovered, ma’am?” Miss Tolerance asked.

  “Nearly so, Miss Tolerance. You must think me very weak and easily overset!” Anne d’Aubigny essayed a smile. It did not convince.

  “Not at all. You had sustained a shock.” She waited for a moment, then asked, “May I sit, ma’am?”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive my shabby manners, Miss Tolerance, and—good Heaven, what has happened to you? Are you all right?”

  Miss Tolerance put her hand to her cheek as if to remember her bruises. “Please don’t think of it. I had a bit of trouble on my way home last night, that is all.” Ready to talk of anything but her injuries, she asked the first question that occurred to her. “Was it you who put the box in the necessary house, or Sophia?”

  Anne d’Aubigny gaped.

  “It takes very little to come to that conclusion, and to hit upon the reason. It must have been painful to you to know it was in the house.”

  The widow nodded.

  Wholly understandable, if perhaps a little ill-advised. Now, let me tell you of my progress, and ask you some questions quite unrelated to the box.“Miss Tolerance took on a soothing note of false heartiness, like a nursery maid calming a child with a cut finger.”It is the belief that you are awake to the whole of your husband’s character that encourages me to speak freely. I think the chevalier was blackmailing someone, and I believe that when I learn who it was, we will know who killed him. If I’m right, the murderer can have no designs upon your safety, which should give you some ease, at least.”

  Miss Tolerance watched as Anne d’Aubigny took in the whole of this intelligence and considered it. At last she smiled a crooked smile.

  “My poor husband. He will have no character left at all. You say you have questions, Miss Tolerance?” She sat very st
raight in her chair, with her hands folded in her lap, as she had done when questioned by Mr. Heddison.

  “Only a few, ma’am, and you need not fear them. Did your husband have a safe or some other place he might have hidden blackmail proofs?”

  “At his desk, in the library. He had a locked box. I thought it held things like the lease to this house, and his passport, perhaps a little money. When he died I looked for it but could not find it—”

  “You did not inquire of—”

  Miss Tolerance’s question was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. Beak was thrust into the room, his mouth open. The massive form of Boyse, the constable who worked with Mr. Heddison, pushed past him and stopped, legs spread as if he were establishing a claim upon the space. A smaller, younger man in a bright blue coat was just behind him, frowning at Boyse.

  “I beg pardon, ma’am—” the second constable began, but Boyse cut him off.

  “In the name of the King, we’re here to bring you to the Public Office, Anne Dobinny, for questioning in the willful murder of E-ten Philleep Dobinny. You come along quiet with us, ma’am, and I shan’t have to put the irons on you.”

  Eleven

  Anne d’Aubigny gaped up at Boyse.

  “There has been information laid against you, ma’am,” the second man said.

  “Ah, shut it,” Boyse said out of the corner of his mouth. The slighter man, whom Miss Tolerance took to be Mr. Greenwillow, Boyse’s partner, stepped back.

  “Who has laid the evidence?” Miss Tolerance asked without much hope of a reply. The constable was not required to answer, and in practice the law often preferred to keep the accused ignorant of their accusers.

  Boyse said nothing, but glared at Miss Tolerance and ran his hand through his fringe of white hair, cupping the back of his head gingerly. She turned to Mr. Greenwillow and asked the question again.