Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

  “That is not it at all, ma’am. Good God! Where did this idea come from?

  Mrs. Brereton regarded her niece suspiciously. “If you haven’t thought it yet, you’ll come to it sooner or later.”

  A rattle from the dressing room suggested that Frost had returned from her errand but was waiting tactfully for a moment less fraught in which to enter.

  “Aunt, I promise you I had no thought of it at all. The fire was set by someone, but as to whom, I cannot say at all. Certainly I have nothing I could lay before a magistrate, and even Sir Walter Mandif—I collect it is he you mean by my tame magistrate, although I don’t care for that label any more than he would—would require a good deal more proof than I can offer at this moment. I hope you know I would do my best to keep your house untroubled by the matter.”

  “Of a certainty you would. My clientele—” Mrs. Brereton took up the pot again and poured chocolate into her near-full cup so awkwardly that the lid of the pot dropped into the cup, breaking it and spraying chocolate over the papers and her dressing gown. “See what you have done!” She half rose from her chair, dabbing at her stained lace.

  Miss Tolerance suppressed the impulse to respond in kind. “Let me help you, Aunt.”

  “You’ve done enough!” Mrs. Brereton snapped. “Frost! Damn that woman, where is she?”

  On cue Frost appeared in the doorway, murmured soothing remonstrance, and began to clear away the mess.

  “Aunt, please be calm. This excitation—”

  “‘Tis all your doing, Sarah. Had I known when I took you in what sort of trouble you would bring upon my house …” Mrs. Brereton sat back in her chair, panting.

  Miss Tolerance regarded her aunt with distress. She felt as one might in a dream, as if she had stumbled into a conversation scripted beforehand, without any idea what her proper part was to be. For several minutes she said nothing, only watching as Frost took away the tray and returned with a fresh dressing gown for her mistress. In the same time Mrs. Brereton’s breathing slowed, and Miss Tolerance decided she might safely speak again.

  “Dearest Aunt Thea, I have never wished to bring trouble into your house. As to who set the fire, I cannot possibly say; I have not even been out to the cottage this morning. Let me ring for more chocolate—”

  “Stop fussing!” Mrs. Brereton ordered, but her color was more nearly normal. “Frost will get me more chocolate, won’t you, Frost?”

  The maid nodded, straightened her mistress’s collar, and gave Miss Tolerance a look of proprietary triumph: See who is indispensable in this household? Then she swept serenely from the room again.

  “I shall go, then,” Miss Tolerance suggested.

  “Go? From the house?” Mrs. Brereton looked shocked. “I don’t want that, Sarah!”

  “No, ma’am, nor do I. I only mean to go across and look at the damage to the cottage and see what repairs will be necessary.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Brereton’s relief was manifest. “Well, then, I suppose you ought to do so. And for the love of heaven, take someone with you to carry out your clothes and clean them. The sooner you’re out of Marianne’s castoffs, the better. What room were you put in?”

  It was as though the entire argument had not happened. Mrs. Brereton was now looking at her niece with some of her usual fondness.

  “I slept upstairs in the servants’ quarters, ma’am—I did not wish to put one of the staff out of a room—”

  “That was very thoughtful of you, my dear, but I think we can put you in the little yellow room at the end of the hall for a night or two, until your house is put to rights.” Mrs. Brereton turned her face for her niece’s kiss. “Run find out where Frost is with my chocolate, there’s a good girl.”

  Miss Tolerance did as she was bid.

  Cole accompanied Miss Tolerance across the garden to inspect the cottage. The foul smell of charring was everywhere, but the fire had not done great damage. There were water and ice everywhere on the kitchen floor; the table, cabinet, writing box and chairs which had been at the center of the fire were of course beyond repairing, but the room itself seemed sound. The floor beneath the fire was charred and would need to be replaced, and the whole room would require a quantity of whitewash. Miss Tolerance regarded the black mark of fire on the ceiling with a frisson of horror; how easily she might have burnt to death! It certainly appeared, from the placement of the fire just under her bed, that that had been someone’s objective. But why?

  Miss Tolerance forced herself away from the sight of the charred ceiling and went upstairs to her room. She pushed her bed from its accustomed place and examined the floor beneath it. Two of the boards were discolored and seemed to her to sag when she trod on them. She would need to have a joiner in to look at the floor—or rather, the ceiling below. And more whitewash, she thought. The mark of smoke, and the gritty stench of fire, was in everything. She opened the wardrobe, gathered up all her clothes save for a suit of men’s clothing, her boots, and her Gunnard greatcoat, and gave them all to Cole to give to the laundress. With sufficient water and soap, she hoped, they could be salvaged.

  She changed into her masculine clothes, hoping that exposure to fresh air would take the worst of the smell from them, and returned downstairs to look again at the furniture which had been piled up and set afire. One rail-backed chair, seemingly whole, crumbled when she tried to pull it away. The remains of two of her work ledgers sat under the chair, and Miss Tolerance spent several minutes trying to divine their significance: one was a set of her household expenses from several years earlier, and the other contained notes from her first cases in ’07. She could not ignore Mrs. Brereton’s suggestion that the arson had been accomplished by someone attached to a former case, but nor did she believe the fire had been set to destroy the ledgers. Why not simply carry them away instead? It seemed to her that her death, or at least the destruction of her house, was what had been intended. The ledgers were not clues, but tinder.

  Her fears regarding the footprints in the garden proved correct; the half-frozen mud looked as though an army had passed across it in the night. Examinations of the gate in the garden wall proved that it was locked; nor did the ivy which covered the wall appear bruised, as it would have done had someone climbed in or out of the garden. She must consider that her arsonist had come from the house or had a key to the gate—a highly disturbing notion.

  Miss Tolerance quit the garden and found Marianne in one of the parlors, knitting placidly. She returned the borrowed gown with thanks.

  “Is it bad out there?” Marianne tipped her head in the direction of the cottage.

  “It might have been a very great deal worse,” Miss Tolerance said. “I shall need a joiner, and some whitewash. And I shall have to see what I can find in the used-furniture warehouses, once the repairs are made. But the structure is sound.”

  “That’s luck,” Marianne said. “And how are you?”

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “Alive, for which I am most grateful. Particularly after having seen the damage and imagining what might have happened had I not waked up.”

  “What did wake you?”

  “There were sounds. Footsteps downstairs just as the blaze was set off,” Miss Tolerance said flatly.

  “Good God! Do you know whose?”

  She shook her head. “I must find out, mustn’t I?” she said lightly. “One question I do have: there was a gentleman in the group last night, one of the dancers?” Marianne nodded. “Of middle height, fair-haired, blue coat, neckcloth a bit askew. He was standing with the fellow who was waiting for you, watching us talk. Later—I don’t know who he went up with, but they were in a room in the back on the second floor—”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Beauville. He don’t come often—his custom is better suited to the whipperies. Bit of a bully-boy, and fancies himself a bit, as you may have noticed. What does—Sarah? What?”

  Miss Tolerance had begun to laugh.

  “All over London I was prepared to go to find the man, and here he is on my doorst
ep! What a convenience! I have been longing to ask him some questions about an inquiry. It’s such a convenience it makes me wonder: did he come seeking me?”

  “If he did, he made a very expensive job of it. Played in our revels a bit, as you saw, spent the night with Lisette, drank deep, didn’t blink when Keefe gave him the reckoning. I don’t like to disappoint you, Sarah, but it certainly appeared that his aim was pleasure, not—”

  “Not me.” Miss Tolerance finished. “He didn’t ask anyone about me? Lisette or one of the others? I find it hard to trust a coincidence that is so … coincidental. Did most of your patrons last night come into the garden to help with the fire?”

  Marianne nodded. “Fire’s a serious business. There was likely a few that didn’t—in the throes, belike, or too old or feeble. But most of them. Didn’t you see?”

  “I did. And was most grateful to all of them. But I did note that Mr. Beauville was not among them. Was he seen inside before the alarm was raised?”

  “You never think he lit the fire!” Marianne raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What reason would he have to do it?”

  “I don’t know,” Miss Tolerance said frankly. “I have been eager to speak to him—he may have some information about a recent murder. Beyond that, and the fact that he is—what was it you said? A bit of a bully-boy? I know nothing worse. Perhaps he has something to hide and feared I would come too close.”

  “If that’s so, ’twould be a stupid thing to set a fire, wouldn’t it? I mean, why draw attention to yourself that way?”

  “If he believed I would die in the blaze, who would know the connection? I saw him looking down from the window last night after the fire was out, and I swear he looked amused. As if it all was a great joke.”

  “A joke?”

  “Not one I find amusing.”

  This line of thought was interrupted by Cole, who informed her that the laundress had been put in possession of her clothes and was shaking her head with professional dismay as she prepared to go to work.

  “She instructed me to say she could promise nothing. But I think she likes the challenge, Miss Sarah.” He also offered her two letters which had come for her that morning. Miss Tolerance thanked him again for his heroic assistance the night before, and for the morning’s more prosaic help, and examined the envelopes.

  The first was from William Colcannon. He had learnt of his sister’s incarceration and was on his way to Cold Bath Fields Prison; would Miss Tolerance do him the kindness to meet him there—no, he would call upon her—no, he would meet her at the Public Office in Great Marlborough Street. She was left with no particular idea of where she was to meet the man, but a very good idea of his state of mind.

  The second note came from Sir Walter Mandif:

  I have spoken with Heddison and contrived to learn something of the evidence against your client. Aside from the matter of motive, which I understand to be rather more substantial than the usual reasons a wife might wish her husband dead, Mr. Boyse interviewed a man named Millward who says Mrs. d’Aubigny approached him in hope that he would kill her husband. The man apparently refused, and thus raised Mrs. d’Aubigny’s ire. Heddison has asked Boyse to bring Mr. Millward in (it seems this interview took place in a pothouse) so he may hear the story himself. Although I am sure you will wish to interview Mr. Millward, I have no description to give you, nor could I discover the pothouse where they met, Boyse having drunk rather deeply in the process of attaining the statement.

  I know this will not please you. I trust, however, that you will take this information at its value. I have exhausted, for the moment, my influence with Heddison, but if there is any other way in which I can assist you, I beg you will let me know.

  Your faithful servant—

  “Perfection!”

  “You don’t look it.” Marianne bound off a stitch.

  “Sir Walter informs me that my client has been taken up for questioning on the word of a man one of the constables met in an alehouse—and as the constable was too foxed to remember which house, or what this witness looked like, I have little hope of discovering him.”

  “Well, that is the way of these things.” Marianne shrugged. “Although if the informant was hopeful of the reward, you’d think he’d have given the constable his direction.”

  “‘Tis vague, yes. And another thing that’s too convenient. I do not believe for a moment that Anne d’Aubigny could have tried to hire this Millward. How would she find the sort of man who would entertain such a proposal? But that leaves me with the vexed question of why this Mr. Millward would lay false information.”

  “The reward,” Marianne said practically.

  “Well, yes. But if he’s risking a charge of perjury for money which will be paid only after conviction, why not give his address to the constable?”

  “P’raps he has an ax to grind with Mrs. d’Aubigny and wants to bring her down.”

  “Yes, perhaps. But if Millward is honest, why seek out a constable in a tavern rather than present himself in Great Marlborough Street?”

  “The sort of man gets approached to do murder is mayhap not the sort of man wants to see the inside of the Public Office.”

  “You would be surprised by the sort of deep-dyed rogues who hang about the Public Houses telling outrageous lies in hope of making five pounds,” Miss Tolerance said. “It is all too convenient. No description of the man, no idea even of which alehouse. And if this Millward is never found, his testimony cannot be contested.”

  “You think he’s one of those lying rogues.”

  “It hardly matters what I think. The magistrate won’t release Mrs. d’Aubigny unless this man’s statement is refuted. My strong mistrust of Mr. Boyse—the constable who took the statement—is unfortunately not evidence of wrongdoing.”

  “Well, you’ve got yourself a proper coil,” Marianne said placidly.

  “I do. And I shall not unravel it sitting here. But before I go: Marianne, have you noticed any change in my aunt since her illness began? I went up to see her just now and she was—odd.”

  “She’s been a mite touchy, yes. I suppose it chafes her not to be downstairs and managing everything.”

  “Touchy?” This seemed an indifferent word to describe Mrs. Brereton’s erratic mood.

  “But she is much recovered, you know. The doctor says the weakness in her arm is wearing off nicely, and we have only to keep her from overdoing when she does leave the sickroom.”

  Miss Tolerance nodded, not wholly satisfied. It was possible, she thought, that she was simply viewing her aunt’s behavior with sensibilities affected by the stresses of the last several days. Marianne seemed confident that Mrs. Brereton was recovering well. She must put her faith in that, take up her greatcoat and hat, and herself off to Cold Bath Fields Prison to meet with William Colcannon and Anne d’Aubigny.

  Cold Bath Fields Prison was a squat gray stone structure in Farrington Road. It was newer than its more celebrated neighbor prisons of Bridewell and Newgate, but was in no regard a dainty accommodation. Miss Tolerance found William Colcannon pacing the street opposite the prison gate, working himself into a state of extreme excitement. His long, earnest face was ruddy with distress, and he looked as if he had slept in his clothes. He barely looked at Miss Tolerance, but at once laid the blame for his sister’s detention at her feet.

  “I hired you to keep her safe! Imagine my shock to receive your note, writ in the coolest way possible, as if it were an everyday occurrence that a woman of one’s family should be hauled off to Newgate—”

  “Cold Bath Fields,” Miss Tolerance murmured under her breath. She struggled to subdue a contrary spirit which wanted to respond to his panicked outrage with dry humor. “I am sorry if my letter seemed to you out of tune with what has happened. I hoped, by taking a calm tone, to encourage you to remain calm likewise. I am more affected by these events than I appear, but I assure you, your sister needs you to be in command, to deal with the gaolers politely but firmly—to act, in fact, as tho
ught the whole matter is merely a stupid mistake. Which I firmly believe it is,” she added.

  Colcannon drew a long breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he appeared to have mastered his emotions.

  “What must I do to help? Is there anything I can do?”

  “Have you been to visit your sister yet, sir?”

  “Not yet. I did send a purse of money to her, as you suggested.”

  “We must hope it reached her and purchased her some comfort last night. This morning we should first speak to the gaoler and do what we can to secure Mrs. d’Aubigny comfortable accommodation and food. I sent her maid with my purse last night, and told her to promise more money in your name if necessary. It will be expensive—I’m told you can spend as much a night for a decent room in prison as at Claridge’s Hotel.”

  Colcannon looked mildly shocked, but murmured his assurance that he would pay whatever was required to see his sister comfortable.

  “Then take out your handkerchief—the stench inside will appall you until you become used to it—and let us see what sort of night your sister passed.”

  Inside the gates of the prison they were met, not only by the smell of which Miss Tolerance had spoken, but a sudden hush, as if a woolen cloak had been cast over the whole establishment. Prisoners at Cold Bath Fields obeyed a rule of silence—or disobeyed it at their peril; after the clamor of the street, the difference was remarkable. Miss Tolerance and Mr. Colcannon went first to the Warden’s office, where, after a brief interview with the gaoler, Mr. Colcannon secured for his sister a more pleasant room with a window facing away from the common area of the prison and offering some untainted air; a lamp, a fire, a bed with clean sheets, and some decent provisions. The extortionate hire of these modest accommodations being arranged for a week, Miss Tolerance and Mr. Colcannon were permitted to pay an additional fourpence each to visit Mrs. d’Aubigny.

  As they walked down the corridor Miss Tolerance remembered one last detail. “What of her fetters?” she asked the man who was escorting them.