“Oh, she paid for them when she was brought in, miss. Nice light ones, more like bracelets, you might say, hardly half a pound each. She’ll have passed the night quite comfortable.”
Miss Tolerance thanked the man. She did not look at William Colcannon’s horrified face.
Anne d’Aubigny had been quartered in a low-ceilinged, whitewashed room with no more than five other women who had arrived too late to be put into permanent quarters. They found her sitting upon the bandbox Miss Tolerance had last seen in Sophia Thissen’s hands; this served to keep her from sitting on the filthy floor, and to protect whatever remained in the box from Madame d’Aubigny’s cellmates. Miss Tolerance noted to Mr. Colcannon’s credit that the face he showed his sister was full of cheerful optimism and sympathy. Anne d’Aubigny was likewise composed; only a slight tremor in the hand she extended to Miss Tolerance suggested the effort it took to maintain that composure.
Mr. Colcannon assured his sister that she would soon be very much more comfortable, and asked if there was anything she wanted from her home. Anne d’Aubigny asked for her workbag. “One could go mad from lack of occupation here.”
“In the ordinary way, they’d put you to picking oakum or some other redemptive task,” Miss Tolerance said. “But your brother has paid to save you that, at least for now.”
Anne d’Aubigny nodded absently, as if the prospect of ruining her hands plucking apart old rope for use in caulking ship bottoms did not trouble her in the least.
“They kept asking me about a man named Millward,” she said. “I told them I knew no such person, but they insisted I should remember him. Have you any idea—”
“It appears that Mr. Millward told one of the constables that you asked him to kill your husband.” Miss Tolerance spoke the words with no emphasis at all, watching for reaction.
Colcannon and Mrs. d’Aubigny looked at her, shocked.
“I know little more than that, but I intend to learn enough to prove this Millward a liar. Do either of you have any notion who this man could be? Do you know of anyone who would have reason to say such a thing?”
“To lie about me?” Anne d’Aubigny shook her head. “His name is not familiar, and—I should not know where to go, how to—”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “Of course you would not. Mr. Colcannon, do you know the name? Is there anyone you can imagine with a grudge against your family who might—”
“Good Christ, no!” Colcannon said loudly. The other prisoners in the room tittered.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I did need to ask. And I entreat you to keep your voice low—any one of your sister’s companions might sell anything she overheard to the law as testimony. So: it seems that I must not only discover who killed the chevalier, but who this Millward is and how he features in the crime. Ma’am”—she turned back to Anne d’Aubigny—“can you give me no idea of how to reach Mr. Beauville?”
The question appeared to confuse the widow. “Mr. Beauville? But what has he to do—”
“I am not certain.” Miss Tolerance had decided not to say anything about the fire in her cottage. “I shall not be certain until I have spoken to him. Perhaps he will have some insight into your husband’s death. I should certainly like to know if he spent any part of that evening in your husband’s company, and at what time they parted.”
“You do not suspect him?”
“I must, perforce, suspect everyone, ma’am. At least until I know better.”
“But Beauville was my husband’s friend.”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “So it appears. But your husband seems to have been a man who cultivated drinking companions rather than bosom friends.”
“They drank and sported together. They were members of a club—”
“Tarsio’s,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “I’ve made inquiries there. If you—”
They were interrupted by a rise in the mutters and whispers of the other prisoners in the chamber; one of the gaolers had returned and was stepping through the crowded room to Madame d’Aubigny’s party.
“Beggin’ your pardon, missus,” he said. “Magistrate’s sent ’is men to bring you back to Great Marlborough Street. More questions.”
Anne d’Aubigny looked around her a little wildly. “More? But I’ve told them—”
The gaoler, a beefy man with rheumy dark eyes and a lugubrious mouth, shrugged and bent to unlock the chain which attached Anne d‘Aubigny’s fetters to an iron staple. “Is what they sent me up for: fetch you down and hand you over. You never mind about your things,” he added. “Your man here’s paid for a nice room, neat as widow’s lodgin’. We’ll move your box back there and you’ll have everything comfortable for your return.”
Both Mrs. d’Aubigny and her brother turned to Miss Tolerance. She felt a momentary quiver of impatience, shrugged it off, and nodded to the pair. “Go along,” she counseled Anne d’Aubigny. “Do your best to answer their questions. Your brother will speak to his solicitor and learn what the law can do for you and I shall work to turn up this Mr. Millward. I’m sure you’ll not be here long.”
Miss Tolerance took Mr. Colcannon’s arm and steered him from the room; Anne d’Aubigny and her gaoler followed after and farewells were said in the corridor. Mr. Colcannon was much affected by the parting, and Miss Tolerance found it necessary to guide him through the crowd at the prison’s entrance. They paused at the crowds’ edge to draw a breath of cold air, deliciously clean after the prison. Then she escorted him to his carriage, which waited in Farrington Street. There, he gave vent to his outrage. Miss Tolerance permitted him to rant for a few minutes, then briskly informed him that he would feel very much better when he was doing something to help, and advised him again to speak to his solicitor.
“And I have a good deal to do myself, sir. If it is not out of your way, might I ask you to drive me to Henry Street? And perhaps we may discuss a little business as we go?”
Colcannon handed Miss Tolerance into the carriage and seated himself, looking apprehensive. His relief, when he realized that Miss Tolerance meant only to ask for an advance of monies for her expenses, was patent.
“I am afraid I am a little more out-at-pocket than I had expected, sir. We could not have foreseen—” she waved her hand to indicate Cold Bath Fields Prison and its attendent fees.
“Good God, not at all, Miss Tolerance. It is we who are in your debt. My poor Anne. How much have you spent thus far?”
Miss Tolerance named a figure and Colcannon doubled it, putting a sheaf of paper money into her hands. She put the money in her pocketbook and they rode in silence to Henry Street.
She was greeted at Tarsio’s by Steen, who took her aside at once, saying, “Thank God you come quick, miss. He’s still here.” Miss Tolerance knew not what to make of this greeting until Steen explained that he had sent a note to her house not an hour past.
“Your Mr. Beauville is here, miss. In the gents’ cigar-room.”
“Is he so? There’s a stroke of luck—in a chore that has thus far been singularly lacking it. I hadn’t even seen your note.” She took out a coin and pressed it into the footman’s hand. “The Gentlemen’s Smoking Room?”
“Aye, miss. But you can’t go in there, not even dressed as you are.”
Miss Tolerance was well aware of Tarsio’s rules regarding the mixing of the sexes on club premises. “Of course not. But I can invite Mr. Beauville to take glass of wine with me in a private parlor. If a parlor is available?”
“Yes, miss. Number six is empty just now. I’ll ask Corton to invite him up, shall I?” Tarsio’s rules, primarily intended to protect the reputation of the establishment, specified that men and women might mingle in the Ladies’ Parlor or the Little Card Room; the rules likewise forbade women in the Gentlemen’s Smoking Room and men in the Ladies’ Withdrawing Room. What went on in the private parlors was, of course, the business of no one but the participants.
Miss Tolerance ascended to the parlor on the second floor, a small, cheerful room with a fire alre
ady lit, ordered wine and cakes, and sat back to wait. This was her second too-convenient brush with Henri Beauville, and she placed no faith in its accidental nature. Mr. Beauville, who for a week had been difficult to find, was now all but throwing himself in her path. Why? Perhaps he had information to share with her. But whether it was information in which she could place her trust was another matter entirely. If the man had set the fire in her cottage the night before, might he now be meeting to warn her with a promise of worse to come?
A tray with wine and biscuits was delivered and left on the table at Miss Tolerance’s elbow. A moment after, Corton appeared in the doorway and bowed Henri Beauville into the room, indicated Miss Tolerance to him, and departed. Miss Tolerance rose, bowed to her visitor, and invited him to sit. She thought, from the expression on his face, that M. Beauville was attempting to reconcile the woman from Mrs. Brereton’s hallway with the person standing before him in breeches.
“Monsieur, we have not met formally. My name is Tolerance.”
Beauville bowed. “Madame.”
“Mademoiselle,” Miss Tolerance corrected, and took a seat.
“What is it you wished to speak about, mademoiselle?” Beauville had a light, melodic voice and a pleasant suggestion of an accent. He eyed Miss Tolerance from boots to a crown in a way she imagined was meant to intimidate.
“I thought, given the good fortune of finding you here today, that perhaps you wished to speak to me,” Miss Tolerance said mildly. Beauville’s eyes moved to her face. “When someone I have been seeking for a week twice appears at my doorstep, as it were, I must consider that a possibility. No? Ah, well. Perhaps you have heard that I am investigating the death of M. le Chevalier d’Aubigny? I am everywhere assured that you were a friend of his.”
“Poor d’Aubigny,” Beauville said without a note of regret. “A very sad end. Yes, we were friends.”
“Perhaps you have an opinion as to why he was murdered, sir?”
“How can one know such a thing? He was not an easy man, Etienne. He could be—harsh.” He lingered over the word as if it bore contemplation.
“The world is harsh. Is that alone a reason for murder?”
Beauville shrugged. “D’Aubigny was not a conciliatory sort; and he was expensive.”
“And yet, before he died, he paid his debts. Even the tradesmen’s bills.”
“Did he? Do you think he expected to die?” Beauville asked.
“I can only guess. You knew the chevalier. Do you think so?”
Beauville shook his head. “We were engaged for the evening at Madame Touvois’ two nights later. He was looking forward to it.”
“And you have no notion how he found the money to pay his debts, sir? As you say, the chevalier was expensive.”
“Not the least in the world.” Beauville waved a hand airily.
“When was the last time you saw him, sir?” Miss Tolerance took from her pocketbook a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil and scribbled thoughtfully. Beauville watched her for a moment before he answered.
“He and I spent the earlier part of the night of his death at a cockfight in Bankside, but we left early—before ten. He had an engagement with his mistress.”
“Which mistress is that, sir?”
“The same one as always. The only one who put up with d’Aubigny’s pleasures.”
“Mrs. Vose? Do you know where?”
Beauville raised an eyebrow. “You have been thorough. Yes, with Josette Vose. And at his house, I imagine. Her accommodations would not have suited him.”
“And yet she says that they were quits with each other a fortnight or more before his death.”
“Josie’s never quits with anyone with money.” Beauville slouched in his chair and regarded Miss Tolerance critically. “These clothes go better with the damage done to your face than the gown you wore last night.”
“And I had been fancying that the bruises were fading,” Miss Tolerance said. “I’m afraid the fire in my little house left most of my other clothes unfit for wearing. To return to the subject, sir: after this sporting event, where did you go?”
“A whorehouse. I don’t recall which one; they’re all alike, and I am more flexible in my pleasures than poor d’Aubigny.” Beauville leaned forward. He was not a big man, and rather mild-featured, but his shoulders were broad and at this proximity and in this posture he appeared slightly menacing.
“There is no one can place you there that evening? Perhaps someone at Mrs. Lasher’s establishment in Green Street?”
Beauville’s mouth contracted for a fraction of a second. He said again, “You are thorough.”
“One must be, in my profession. Well, sir?”
He blinked. “Well?”
“Did anyone in this brothel see you there, or were you by yourself the whole time?”
“Not by myself. But whores, like whorehouses, are all much alike.”
“Doubtless whores feel much the same way about the men they service,” Miss Tolerance said blandly. “I only have a few more questions, sir. Have you seen Josette Vose since the murder? Or Camille Touvois? I did not see you among her guests when I was there the other night.”
Beauville leaned further forward and showed his teeth. “I do not hang about Madame Touvois’ neck, mademoiselle.”
Irritated by these attempts to intimidate her, Miss Tolerance leaned forward also, until she was close enough to feel his breath upon her face. She smiled. “How fortunate for you. I imagine that would be a very uncomfortable place to hang.”
Beauville blinked, then sat back, wheezing with laughter. “You are right, without a doubt. As for Mrs. Vose, she’s far too busy being taken up by royalty these days, from what I hear. Have you any other questions, mademoiselle?”
“Just two. Have you ever met a man named Millward?”
“Millward? I do not believe so.” Beauville let his theatrically honest expression drop. In consequence, Miss Tolerance believed him. “And your last question?”
Miss Tolerance took a sip of wine.
“What amused you so much last night about the fire in my house?”
Thirteen
Mr. Beauville studied the sleeve of his coat. He had reacted to her mention of Mrs. Lasher’s flagellary; he had distanced himself from Camille Touvois. But to this question Mr. Beauville evinced a studied lack of reaction which piqued Miss Tolerance considerably.
“Is that what happened?” Beauville asked at last. “I observed a great ado in the garden.”
“Yes, sir. I observed you observing, and you were mighty amused by what you saw, I thought”
“The scurrying of my fellow man always amuses me,” Beauville drawled. He looked up from his coat sleeve and grinned like a dog.
“Does it? I find the willingness of my fellow man to keep my house—and the rest of London around it—from burning to the ground to be more laudable than amusing,” Miss Tolerance said. “I am rather surprised that when the alarm was sounded you did not join the scurrying yourself. You appear to be a hale enough fellow.”
“I was occupied.”
“Indeed? May I ask how?”
“Fucking the jade I was with.”
“Quite reasonable.” Miss Tolerance did not oblige him by reacting to his language. “It is interesting, is it not, that when I saw you observing your fellow man you were fully dressed, even to your neckcloth. The sight gave me the oddest notion.”
“Yes, mademoiselle?”
“It could not be that you set the fire yourself, sir?”
If Miss Tolerance had wished to remove the grin from his face she had succeeded in her object.
“Why should I do such a thing?”
“I really do not know. Do you?”
“I was with a whore. You may ask her.”
“I’m sure Lisette will commend your performance, sir. And I will, of course, ask her. As to why you decided to grace Mrs. Brereton’s house—where you have never been a frequent patron—on the very night when someone tried to roa
st me in my bed, I shall simply have to reserve judgment.”
She rose to her feet.
“I thank you for your time, Mr. Beauville. Now I must take myself off to Mrs. Vose’s.”
“Mrs. Vose’s?”
“Investigation is an additive and subtractive process, sir. If I add your testimony to Mrs. Vose’s and subtract what I know to be untrue, I may perhaps come upon a clue to the chevalier’s death. So it seems I must talk a little more with Mrs. Vose.” Miss Tolerance rose and bowed. “I thank you very much for your time, sir. If anything else occurs to you, I hope you will let me know of it. A note here will always find me.”
She left the room before Beauville had time to rise. She would have liked to have seen the effect of her final shot, but felt strongly that its effect relied on her leaving before he could respond. Miss Tolerance left Tarsio’s quickly and stepped onto the street, invigorated as if she had spent an hour fencing in a salle. As she walked north toward Balcombe Street, however, the invigoration faded and her footsteps slowed until she found herself stopped on the corner of Oxford Street, thinking. She had two immediate tasks: to find the chevalier’s killer, and to secure Anne d’Aubigny’s release from Cold Bath Fields Prison; discovering who had set fire to her cottage came after those. The Chevalier d’Aubigny was unlikely to become more dead; his wife’s situation, however, could very well worsen if no steps were taken. Before she could convict Beauville, Miss Tolerance must first impeach the mysterious Mr. Millward. With a little regret, Miss Tolerance turned south toward Covent Garden and Bow Street.
The Brown Bear had been for nearly half a century the chiefest public house catering to Bow Street’s officers and their private counterparts, the thief-takers. Since the inception of the seven Public Offices patterned upon Bow Street, many of the constables of those offices also came to the Bear, to drink, brag and gossip. Miss Tolerance had been to the Bear once or twice before, and knew enough about the competitive nature of law enforcement to be certain that no Runner or constable would willingly share information with anyone who might reap the statutory rewards before himself. She was also aware that the patrons of the Bear regarded her not as a colleague but as an annoyance, an unfeminine abomination. They were unlikely to be charmed, or paid, for information. She did not hope to learn anything about the case against Anne d’Aubigny, but thought she might gain some insight into the habits of John Boyse.
Petty Treason Page 20
