“This afternoon Anne d’Aubigny was taken by Mr. Heddison’s constables and brought to Great Marlborough Street for question-ring.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Sir Walter said.
“So was I. For that matter, I expect she was as well. Mr. Heddison’s tame constables will not tell me what the evidence is that convinced Mr. Heddison to take such a step—”
“It must have been convincing—”
“To a man who was already half-convinced, I don’t doubt it was.”
Sir Walter frowned. “Do you believe this information is unreliable?”
“I do. I think someone has laid information in hopes of sharing in the damnable murder-bounty.” Sir Walter’s mild shock at hearing such language from her heightened Miss Tolerance’s own irritation.
“That may be so, but have you proof that the information is wrong?”
“I do not know what the information is, so I cannot refute it! But everything I know of Mrs. d’Aubigny says that the information must be wrong. Good God, Sir Walter, I could as readily believe a nursing baby guilty of treason as I can believe Anne d’Aubigny killed her husband. She doesn’t even know how her kitchen door locks.”
“That, in itself, is not proof infallible that she is innocent,” Mandif said lightly.
Miss Tolerance refused to be humored.
“I mention it only because it is indicative of her—” She sought the word. “Her childish reliance upon everyone around her. This is not a woman who would commit murder; she would have no idea how. And in any case, she was drugged asleep when her husband died. But this is beside the point, Mandif. If Heddison has such faith in Mrs. D’Aubigny’s guilt, why does he not make the evidence known? Because it might blow a hole in his neat case and force him to do the work to catch the real killer.”
“That is a very weighty accusation against a seasoned magistrate.”
She had offended him. Miss Tolerance drew a long breath.
“I mean no disrespect to the man or his office. But, Sir Walter, you said that you were not certain that Heddison was up to the pressures of this investigation. How easy might it be to throw Anne d’Aubigny to her fate on the basis of a casual information from an unnamed source! And they marched her out of her house before the mob. The mob roared! It was a fine show, so fine I doubt anyone is refining overmuch about the truth. But I was hired to be Mrs. d’Aubigny’s protector, and this information stinks of falsity to me. If I am too hot, I apologize. But until I know what the evidence is, I shall not know how to refute it.”
“Ah.” Sir Walter sat down and crossed his arms. “You have come in hopes that I can learn that for you.”
Miss Tolerance drew a breath and nodded. Her smile was apologetic. “I’m afraid that is so.”
“You know it would be difficult for me to do so. And Heddison would not appreciate it if I did tell you.”
“Does that mean that you will not do it?”
“I mean that it will be difficult. And that it will render any future attempts of mine to discover information—on my own account or on yours—more difficult if Heddison believes I betrayed professional confidences to you. You may wish to think if you want to spend your coin in this fashion.”
Miss Tolerance spoke slowly. “I would not ask this if I did not consider it absolutely necessary. If I did not believe Anne d’Aubigny to be innocent. I see no objection to spending my coin in such a cause. But if you think my judgment is so questionable—”
Sir Walter’s eyebrows, so fair they were almost invisible in the lamplight, drew down in a frown. “I do not wish to offend you. But what you ask will have repercussions, and I wished to make that plain. The next time—”
“The next time will take care of itself,” Miss Tolerance said flatly. “Please, Sir Walter. I pressed at Great Marlborough Street, but your friend Heddison could not be spared to speak to me. I have no legal standing, no way to pressure or bribe my way in.” She sniffed. “You may think Boyse is corruptible, but I assure you that he is not corruptible by me.”
“I am delighted to hear it.” Sir Walter smiled, and for a moment Miss Tolerance felt a return of something like their usual cordial understanding. After several minutes of thought he nodded, as if making a resolution to himself. “Very well, Miss Tolerance. I will do my best to learn what the evidence is. I will send a note round to Manchester Square if I can discover anything.”
Miss Tolerance smiled. “Thank you, Sir Walter. In the end, it will mean a greater credit for Heddison, you know. He would not want to be known for having the wrong person in custody.”
“I imagine he would not,” Mandif agreed drily. “May I give you a glass of wine and ask how your aunt does?”
Miss Tolerance was guiltily aware that she had not thought of Mrs. Brereton all day. “I have not been back in Manchester Square since I saw you this morning.”
“You have been very busy.”
“And I have not the temperament for the sickroom.” Miss Tolerance shook her head. “No wine, thank you, Sir Walter. Now that you have reminded me of my duty, I must go home and inquire after my aunt. You will let me know what Heddison says?”
Sir Walter stood. “I will. I hope you will not place too much reliance upon my ability to ferret out the informant. Heddison and I are not friends, and he may look askance at my curiosity; the habit of professional secrecy dies hard between the magistracies.”
“You have told me that you will do what you can. I place every reliance upon that.” Miss Tolerance smiled with warmth and offered her hand. “I am sorry if my anxiety for Anne d’Aubigny should have—”
“Your enthusiasm is one of your greatest charms.” Sir Walter bowed over her hand.
Miss Tolerance flushed. “I look to hear from you.” She took her hand from his and turned for the door. Mandif called her back.
“What will you do if the information truly implicates. the widow?”
She shook her head. “I’ll do what I must. But I am sure it cannot. Thank you, Sir Walter.” She curtsied and left him.
The light from the house on Manchester Square glowed in the dark street as Miss Tolerance alit from her hansom carriage. She did not trouble to walk around the corner to Spanish Place, but knocked on the door and was admitted by Keefe. Song of a particularly riotous sort issued from one of the parlors. Miss Tolerance rolled her eyes and inquired after her aunt; Keefe informed her that Mrs. Brereton appeared to be on the mend, and had left word that her niece should call in the morning. Miss Tolerance thanked Keefe and was about to proceed toward the garden steps when she was stopped by a crowd of merrymakers who erupted into the hallway, surrounding her. The men looked alike in dark coats and pale breeches, the evening uniform of the fashionable male; the women, all recognizable as Mrs. Brereton’s whores, wore a variety of garb from formal evening dress to transparent chemise. The entire party appeared in a state of merriment, playing a parody of that nursery staple, blindman’s buff. First among them was Miss Tolerance’s particular friend, Marianne Touchwell.
Miss Tolerance was uncomfortably aware that she might be mistaken for one of the whores. She felt as well some awkwardness at the sight of her friend, flushed and laughing, playing at using her fan to protect her from the importunities of one of the men. She did not often encounter Marianne at work.
For a moment Miss Tolerance stood still in the midst of the merrymakers, as if inaction itself could differentiate her from the crowd. This subtlety—and the fact that Miss Tolerance wore a coat and bonnet and not the Hellenic draperies of some of the whores—was lost on one fellow, who came up behind her and snaked his arm about her waist, attempting to slide his hand into her coat and tweak her breast. Miss Tolerance reacted more quickly than thought: she had the man’s arm twisted behind his back before she recalled where she was and whose business she was depressing. The game abruptly stopped.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said at once, and released the man. “I’m afraid you startled me. I did not think—”
“
Didn’t think?” Chloe, one of the whores in the crowd, pushed forward. “I should say not, Miss Sarah! My poor Mr. N, are you quite all right?” She fluttered around the man, who stood rubbing his arm. He had caught sight of her bruised face, and stared in fascination.
“I quite understand, miss—” He paused. “I ought not, that is; I mistook you—”
“Quite understandable,” Miss Tolerance said. “I did not hurt you?”
“Really, Miss Sarah!” Chloe put her arm about her patron’s shoulder and ran a caressing hand across his shoulder. “Don’t you fret, Mr. N. It’s quite—”
Marianne pushed through the crowd. “That’s all right, Chloe. He wasn’t to know that Miss Sarah isn’t one of us—” This to Mr. N, who was now watching Miss Tolerance with some interest. “And she was naturally startled, being … embraced in that fashion. I’m sure there’s no hard feelings to either,” she finished briskly, and extracted Miss Tolerance from the crowd, pushing her brusquely down the hall.
“I am sorry,” Miss Tolerance murmured. She was very aware that several of the gentlemen were still staring after her. “Should my aunt ever ask, you have now seen an excellent demonstration of why I do not yield to her pleas that I join the house.”
Marianne grinned. “I shall be sure to tell her. But in the morning; Frost says she’s sleeping now. Are you well? You look tired.” Her eyes shifted back and forth as she examined Miss Tolerance’s face.
“’Tis only the cold and the bruises, and an eventful day. A night’s sleep will put me right. Your party looks for you.” Miss Tolerance shrugged away from the concern in her friend’s voice and looked over her shoulder to the hall, where two gentlemen, one fair and one dark, were still watching them.
“My Mr. C and … well, I hope the other one hasn’t taken a fancy to you! No, Lisette’s come for him,” Marianne noted approvingly.
“Do not let me keep you. I’m for my own bed.” Miss Tolerance, oppressed by the emotions of the day, was as good as her word. She returned to her cottage, went up to bed, and even without recourse to that notably soporific text, Mainley’s Art of the Small-Sword, she was very soon deeply asleep.
She waked in the dark, sitting upright in her bed without any notion of what had pulled her out of sleep. She listened intently and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Was that footfall downstairs? Now there was a soft, billowing sound. Moonlight could not penetrate the clouds, but the light from Mrs. Brereton’s house across the way danced on the frame of the tiny window that overlooked the garden.
No. Not from Mrs. Brereton’s house. At the same moment that smoke began to curl under her door, Miss Tolerance realized that the orange light that danced on the window lit the upper sill only: it came from below. Miss Tolerance grabbed for what clothes she could find—a pair of breeches, a waistcoat—and pulled them on over her shift. She did not open the door of her room; with a fire belowstairs, she might die trying to escape by the stairs. She opened the window next to her bed and looked down, seeing the orange glow of fire through the window below. There was a tree bough perhaps five feet from the window, but it would be a hard enough task to climb through; jumping to the tree and climbing down would be impossible. She resigned herself to the drop and, taking hold of the sill above, put first one foot, then the other, out the window. She began to lower herself down. It was a tight fit, particularly at the hip, and required some careful placement and replacement of her hands. After a few moments she hung from the lower sill, feet braced against the side of the house, looking down.
It seemed as good a moment as any to start a cry of “Fire!”
There are few actions one can take in London which will evoke a more immediate response. After her second cry Miss Tolerance dropped to the ground; when she had regained her feet again people had already begun to run from the back of Mrs. Brereton’s. Keefe, at the forefront, had a bucket of water to hand. Behind him came various men in different states of dress or its lack.
Miss Tolerance looked in the window on the first floor of her cottage; the blaze was in the center of the room, directly under the spot where her bed stood. Before she could note more than that, she was jostled out of the way by Keefe, who dashed the first bucket of water through the door and turned to take the next one. Miss Tolerance took a place in the line and was very busy for a few minutes. She did not begin to feel the cold until the fire was put out, when she realized with dismay that she was all amuck from exertion and soot and soaked through with water. She could barely feel her bare feet in the icy water. Shivering, she turned to thank the men who had come to help her—including the man who had accosted her earlier, and was quite pleased to have played the hero as part of his evening’s pleasures. All of them, servant and client, demurred thanks. Marianne, who appeared in a prosaic dressing gown, invited all back into the house where hot water and hot drinks were waiting for them. It appeared that the crisis was over.
Miss Tolerance went into the cottage to examine the damage. The fire had been remarkably contained, burning, as she had noted, directly under her bed. That this was ten paces from the grate suggested that the fire was not the result of a flying ember. More to the point, Miss Tolerance saw, were the remains of several charred pieces of furniture: a chair, the dish cupboard, her writing box, and several ledgers, piled in the middle of the room at the fire’s center. The fire had been set. Someone had apparently intended her death.
Miss Tolerance turned back to the house, conscious of a queasiness born of ebbing excitement and a new, deep sense of menace. She looked up at the face of Mrs. Brereton’s house, which appeared entirely as usual. Or almost as usual: in one of the upper windows a man stood, looking down at her. In the light from the windows below she could see that he was fully dressed and unsmirched by soot or smoke. He was the fair-haired man who had watched her speak with Marianne earlier; and as their eyes met, the man inclined his head in acknowledgment and smiled broadly.
Twelve
Miss Tolerance spent the night in Mrs. Brereton’s servants’ quarters; the better bedchambers were, by the nature of the house, at a premium. The room in which she slept was tiny but clean and quiet; Miss Tolerance locked the door and slept soundly. In the morning, bathed and in a morning gown borrowed from Marianne, she presented herself in Mrs. Brereton’s room.
“What are you wearing, girl?” Mrs. Brereton had so far recovered from her indisposition that she was seated at her table with her ledgers and writing box to hand, a tray of chocolate and toasted bread at her elbow. She still wore a heavily laced dressing gown and cap, and gave no sign that she meant to go downstairs that day.
“Marianne loaned me the dress, ma’am—we differ somewhat in the matter of breadth and height.” In fact she had had to sash the dress twice, and it displayed considerably more ankle than was fashionable. “I have not yet had a chance to inspect my own clothes. You may have heard I had a little excitement in my cottage last night.”
“Of course I heard. Of all people, Sarah, I would not have expected you to be careless with fire.” Mrs. Brereton poured chocolate into her cup; Miss Tolerance noted that she did it with particular care and one-handed. Her left hand rested in her lap.
“I was not careless, Aunt. I made no fire last night; the only candle I had was by my bed and I extinguisned it before I slept. The fire was set.” Miss Tolerance offered this information without heat. Mrs. Brereton pursed her lips thoughtfully, then sent Frost to fetch another cup for Miss Sarah.
“I don’t drink chocolate, Aunt,” Miss Tolerance pointed out.
“Don’t be stupid, girl. I don’t want Frost to hear this. The fire was set?”
“There can be no doubt. Half my parlor furniture had been shifted to the middle of the room, and the fire was lit there. I think it was meant to kill me.”
Mrs. Brereton stared at her niece. “My God.”
“Indeed.”
“Someone climbed the wall, do you think? Some enemy you have made in doing your work?”
“I have not inspected t
he garden for any sign of an intruder, and unfortunately, after the crush in the garden last night to put the fire out, I doubt that any tracks I might have found will be legible this morning. Still, I shall look. I might have better luck trying to determine who would want me dead.”
“Who would not” The question seemed to have been asked without irony, in the spirit of inquiry. Mrs. Brereton sipped at her chocolate and gazed at her nonplussed niece.
“Good Lord, Aunt; while I may have a few enemies, I suspect most of those would prefer to see me horsewhipped than burnt.”
“In your profession—” Mrs. Brereton began. She stopped and said thoughtfully, “I suppose the two with the greatest cause to wish you dead would be Versellion and his cousin.”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Versellion is on his way to Australia, if he is not there already. Henry Folle was hanged a fortnight after his trial. I think we can acquit them both. As for the rest—I cannot think of anyone else who would so dislike me as to desire my death.”
“Well, who then?” Mrs. Brereton put her chocolate cup down and looked at her niece. Gradually her eyes widened and she sucked air through her teeth. “You think it was someone here.”
“What?”
“It is perfectly clear to me. You mean to lay some new crime at my door. All right, then. Whom do you suspect? What is your evidence?” Hectic color mottled Mrs. Brereton’s cheeks; her eyes were wide and angry. Miss Tolerance felt a pang of concern, remembering how recently her aunt had risen from her sickbed.
“My dear Aunt Thea, I have laid nothing at your door. I said that I did not know I had made so deep-dyed an enemy as would set my house on fire. Please calm yourself; this kind of vehemence cannot be good—”
“You will go to your tame magistrate and involve him, and have my patrons taken up and ruin my business, is that it?”
Petty Treason Page 18
