Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

  Josette Vose, who had broken with d‘Aubigny over money, had met with him on the night of his death and—if Mrs. Lasher was to be believed—quarreled and left. She would need to talk to Mrs. Vose to confirm this story; it contradicted Mrs. Vose’s earlier statement that she had not seen d’Aubigny for several weeks before the murder. If d’Aubigny was still alive when Mrs. Vose left, it was possible that her being there at all was just an unhappy coincidence. Possible, but how likely?

  Miss Tolerance was conscious of a strong, instinctive mistrust of Beauville, and a conviction—which she was well aware might be based in dislike—that if d‘Aubigny was involved in blackmail, Camille Touvois was likely to know who his victim was. Miss Tolerance suspected, with no more proof than she had of her feelings about Beauville, that Josette Vose knew more than she had said of d’Aubigny’s murder, but she did not believe the woman had done the murder herself. All ideas, none of them based upon anything more than instinct.

  I used to require rather more in the way of evidence, she thought to herself. Still, if I cannot trust my own judgment, I am in a sorry way to do business.

  She returned to the idea of blackmail. If d‘Aubigny had blackmailed someone he would need to have proofs of some sort which he would have kept hidden. If the murderer had not found the proofs, they might still be hidden in the house at Half Moon Street. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine where a man such as d’Aubigny might hide such a thing. His library, perhaps, or—

  “So I find you here.” A pleasant voice broke her concentration. Miss Tolerance opened her eyes to the sight of Sir Walter Mandif smiling at her. “I came to learn how I could be of assistance.”

  The idea which had been forming in Miss Tolerance’s mind was lost. She rose up, curtsied, and begged that her visitor would join her.

  “I had no thought that you should seek me out,” she apologized. “I know you are particularly busy. I meant to come to you—”

  “So your letter said. But I felt a strong wish to get up and away from my desk. Court does not meet again until later this afternoon, so I gave myself the pleasure of calling upon you.” Sir Walter took the cup of tea Miss Tolerance offered to him. “How is it I may assist you?”

  Miss Tolerance smiled. “At the very least, I need your guidance. Can you tell me how best to go about impeaching Mr. Boyse’s testimony against my client?”

  Sir Walter raised an eyebrow. “You wish to impeach the constable, not his source? I hope you understand that that will incur considerable ill will from the magistracy—”

  “The magistracy, saving yourself, does not bear me any great love now. But if one of the magistracy’s officers is bearing false witness, I should think they would prefer to know of it.”

  “Perhaps so.” Sir Walter sipped his tea.

  “Perhaps? Sir Walter, would you not prefer to know if you had a dishonest man working for you?”

  “I would, yes. But, my dear Miss Tolerance—” Sir Walter passed a hand over his face. “I may not like Boyse, or want him in my service, but he is an officer of the court. He has Heddison’s trust. And the law gives its officers a good deal of latitude in the matter of how they gather evidence—”

  “Surely the law does not permit its officers to invent witnesses and their testimony,” Miss Tolerance said firmly.

  Sir Walter looked at her. At last, “You have proof of this?” he asked.

  Miss Tolerance sniffed. “It had never occurred to me before how much easier it is to prove someone’s existence than nonexistence.”

  “Meaning there is no proof.” Sir Walter put his teacup down on the table near at hand and pressed his hands together, rather as if he intended to pray.

  “It is not that dire; certainly what I have learned convinces me. May I tell you?”

  “I wish you will, else I shall not know how to advise you.”

  In a few short sentences Miss Tolerance reviewed her investigation with Sir Walter. The magistrate listened without interrupting, with so fixed and thoughtful an expression that Miss Tolerance could not be certain what he made of her tale.

  “You believe that Boyse made Millward out of whole cloth,” Sir Walter said at last. “Because a prostitute who wished to give him an alibi told you that he was with her, and saw no one named Millward, on the seventeenth night?”

  “Because she later told me that there was no Millward at all. That, coupled with the fact that no one—not Mrs. Nab or Noah Abraham or Black Wiggin in Creel Lane—had heard of him. The idea is rather confirmed by the fact that he beat Mrs. Strokum savagely when he learned she had spoken to me. And consider: how would a woman like Anne d’Aubigny know to find a man like Millward?”

  “You did tell me that the family was pawning things—”

  “I think someone was, but I doubt it was the widow herself. And if it was she, would she not go to her jeweler or banker to sell her trinkets? I’m not certain she would know how to find a pawnbroker, let alone an assassin! And supposing that she did go looking for someone to kill her husband, how would she avoid making a great wonder of herself, looking for a man like this Millward? What did she do, ask a barman if he knew anyone who could oblige her with a murder for hire? I wish you had met Mrs. d’Aubigny. I think you would understand why I find the whole notion so ridiculous.”

  “I believe that you believe in her, and that carries great weight with me. But—”

  “I have not convinced you.” It cost Miss Tolerance some effort to keep her tone even.

  “Even if the prostitute—Mrs. Strokum—is telling the truth, and Boyse did not meet with Millward that night, all your story tells me is that she invented the Millward she sent you chasing. Why should not Boyse have met with the real Millward that night?” Perhaps he saw the frown Miss Tolerance struggled to hide. “I am only attempting to explain the construction I believe Heddison could put upon the matter. The law would generally prefer to believe that the law is honest.”

  “I’m sure the public would prefer it as well! Sir Walter, no one I spoke to who saw Boyse that night saw him with anyone other than Betty Strokum. When did he meet with Millward, then?”

  “Why must the interview have been so late at night?”

  “According to the information you gave me, Boyse reported that he had spoken to Millward at a tavern the night before the arrest, but could not remember what he looked like, which tavern it was, or any other particular than his information against the widow.”

  “Boyse would not be the first man to spend an afternoon in an alehouse instead of about his duties.”

  A memory fell into place in Miss Tolerance’s mind. With a pardonable expression of triumph she said, “But I saw him and Mr. Heddison that evening in Half Moon Street, at the widow’s house. He was sober then, and the barman at the Duke of Kent—and how should he not remember the alehouse he most often visits, no matter how drunk he is?—said he was sober when he came in at eight o’clock of that same evening. And he joined Betty Strokum there, and stayed with her until cock’s crow the next morning. When did he see Millward in all that time? When did he become so drunk that he could not remember the place or time or any other particular except Millward’s story?”

  “Perhaps after cock’s crow,” Sir Walter began.

  “Would you have me believe that Boyse left Mrs. Strokum’s rosy bower at six in the morning, went off to drink himself nearly blind so as to conveniently find Mr. Millward and hear his tale?”

  “I am only saying that the matter is not as cut-and-dried as you would believe it.”

  “Nothing is. But, Sir Walter: if Boyse had told Mr. Heddison about an early-morning meeting with Mr. Millward, would he not have done so first thing in the morning? But they did not come to arrest Anne d’Aubigny until early that evening. Because he did not think to invent the story until that afternoon. I only wish I knew why he wishes to implicate my client—who has, God knows, suffered quite enough already. He might have come up with a story which was more convincing upon its face.”

  “
Miss Tolerance.” Sir Walter leaned forward and regarded her earnestly. “Sarah. There may be a good deal to what you say, but I am not certain you will receive a fair hearing from Heddison. He trusts Boyse—however ill-advised that might seem to you, a magistrate must trust the men who work for him—and he does not trust you. If you will let me make my own inquiries—”

  “But that is all I ask!” Miss Tolerance felt nearly giddy with relief. “I assure you, I am quite aware that Mr. Heddison dislikes me. If you can use your influence to persuade him—”

  “I have no influence at all with Heddison. I can make some inquiries of my own, and I will do that. I cannot promise that I will reach the same conclusions.”

  “You will,” Miss Tolerance said with assurance.

  “There is one thing more,” Sir Walter said gravely. He was truly worried, Miss Tolerance realized. “What is it you think to achieve by impeaching Boyse?”

  “Anne d’Aubigny’s release from prison, of course.”

  “You must understand that impeaching Boyse may not achieve that end,” Sir Walter said. “She remains Heddison’s most likely suspect. I understand that she is your client, and you may like her, but that alone is no reason to acquit her of murder.”

  Fifteen

  I do not acquit her of murder because she is my client—you of all people must know better than that! I acquit her because—” Miss Tolerance considered. “I acquit her because it makes no sense to believe her the murderer. It is against reason.”

  “One might as well say it goes against reason to believe the Earl of Versellion was a murderer,” Sir Walter said quietly.

  Miss Tolerance felt suddenly breathless. Sir Walter looked apprehensive, as if he had crossed a line with her and was not sure what she would do. She was not certain either. Nor could she determine the nature of the strong emotion which flooded her: one moment it felt like rage, the next, deep hurt, the moment after, frustration. She clenched her hands.

  “I beg your pardon,” Sir Walter said. “Please—I only meant that in my experience anyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances.”

  Miss Tolerance un-fisted her hands and strove to keep her voice even. “Capable of murderous thoughts, indeed. But you have only to look at the woman to know she is not the murderess. She could not overpower her husband, indeed, she was terrified of him, with good reason. You have not met her, and perhaps cannot take my word in the matter—” she waved away Sir Walter’s attempt to reassure her upon this point. “But Mr. Heddison has spoken with her often, yet appears unable to see no farther than his mechanical notion that she must be guilty because she was in the house—”

  “Heddison may not be a man of great imagination, but he is thorough, and according to his lights, fair. Are you accusing him of bias? And to whose advantage?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Miss Tolerance put her cup on the table, carefully. “I am accusing him only of prejudice and lazy thinking. I believe he made up his mind that my client was guilty on the day he was first called to the house.”

  “If the evidence—”

  “The only evidence I have heard of that points to the widow alone is that which Boyse provided, and I have thrown a grave shadow upon that. And all of a sudden Mr. Heddison seems to be moving at great haste: Anne d’Aubigny has been in custody for only a day and already they are threatening to press her to bring her to trial—”

  Sir Walter frowned. “It is very likely a threat only—I cannot believe Heddison would use the press until he had exhausted all other options. I do not see how it can be helped.”

  Miss Tolerance glared at her friend. “You are mighty easy about it, Sir Walter! A gently reared woman of three and twenty years, shut up in prison and threatened with the press if she does not confess to what she has not done—is that what you would wish for a daughter of yours? For a wife?”

  Sir Walter’s eyebrow crooked. “If the wife were also my murderer, I’m sure my scruples would be less fixed upon the point.”

  If he had thought the jest would distract her, Sir Walter was mistaken. “You are pleased to joke,” Miss Tolerance said coldly. “I tell you that your colleague has judged the case without regard to the character of his suspect. How probable is it that a woman who comes barely to my shoulder should be able to dash out the brains of a man of whom she was terrified? It makes me wonder if there is a bias in the law, or at least among the magistracy against women. You were quite eager to believe that I was guilty of murder, when first we met.”

  Even as she said it, Miss Tolerance knew it was a comment that would bring pain. Sir Walter frowned and took up his teacup between his fingers.

  “Eager I was not,” he said gravely. “But my feelings were the last evidence I could trust. I had no other suspects, and there were several things which suggested your involvement. You will recall that I was very happy to find you were innocent.”

  “Shall I thank you for your faith in me?” Miss Tolerance inclined her head. “But the evidence of your own judgment was not sufficient to speak for my character.”

  She became aware that her voice had risen. Across the room three elaborately pretty women—actresses—had turned from their conversation to stare at Miss Tolerance and her guest. She lowered her voice and sat back. “I beg your pardon,” she said.

  “And I yours,” Sir Walter said. “I do not deny your experience, but my own tells me that the simplest solution is most often the correct one. That evidence is the surest aid to a true verdict.”

  “But the evidence in this case is tainted! And you are saying, it seems to me, I cannot rely upon my judgment but must accept evidence I know to be false.”

  “I am telling you to consult the same faculties which told you the Earl of Versellion was capable of murder, despite your feelings for him.”

  Miss Tolerance shivered. “I should think that as I was able to set aside my feelings for Versellion, to bring him to Bow Street and to testify against him, you would have a higher regard for my judgment.”

  Sir Walter studied his cup. “I have the highest regard for your judgment. But is it not possible—” He hesitated. “Is it possible that it is you whose mind is made up?”

  “You are accusing me of bias? But I have no reason to care more for Anne d’Aubigny any more than any other client. I have a professional interest, but that is all. I cannot help, of course, feeling sorry for her situation—” Miss Tolerance broke off to take a note which a liveried boy offered to her on a salver. Somewhat relieved to have an excuse to break off a conversation which was becoming more and more painful, Miss Tolerance took the note and read it quickly. Her anger was forgotten.

  “Josette Vose is dead,” she said. “You will doubtless hear of it when you return to Bow Street. Beaten, and her throat cut. Mrs. Lasher sent a note to Mrs. Brereton’s, and they forwarded it here. I must go.”

  “You believe it connected to d’Aubigny’s death?”

  “She was one of the last persons to see the chevalier alive, and I always thought she knew more than she would tell me. Perhaps someone else thought so, too.”

  “Is there anything I can do to—”

  “You offered to inquire after Boyse and his ‘Millward’ testimony. I would be very grateful if you would do so.” Miss Tolerance put Mrs. Lasher’s note into her reticule.

  “Of course,” Sir Walter rose. “But is there any way I can help you?”

  “I require nothing, Sir Walter. Happily, no one can suspect Anne d’Aubigny of this crime: she is safe in gaol.” Miss Tolerance rose, bid Mandif good afternoon, and had left the Ladies’ Salon before he could return the courtesy.

  Miss Tolerance went at once to Mrs. Lasher’s house. She found the house little disturbed by what had happened, although the man who admitted her confided that the madam was in a right fuss about something. It was a sign of the household’s disarray that the man merely told her in which chamber Mrs. Lasher was to be found, and let Miss Tolerance direct herself. She found Mrs. Lasher in the room on the first flo
or in which they had first spoken. The madam was bent over a writing desk, scribbling something with fierce attention; her face, when she looked up to greet Miss Tolerance, was bare of paint and looked its full complement of years.

  “How did you learn of Mrs. Vose’s death?” Miss Tolerance asked, once they had greeted each other and exchanged pieties.

  “The constable come and asked me questions. Not that I had much I could tell ‘im. Wanted to know where Josie’d spent last night, and in course I couldn’t tell ‘im. Not for certain.”

  “But you said last night she was with the Duke of Cumberia—” Mrs. Lasher put her finger across Miss Tolerance’s lips to seal the name inside. “You want to get yourself killed? Or me? Beside,” she added. “I don’t know, not for certain. Josie called him ‘the duke,’ and ‘my royal,’ and”Is Grace of C.’ Could as easy have been the Duke of Clarence or Cambridge, or Cartwheels, come to that.”

  Miss Tolerance was not in a mood to be patient. “You told the constable you had no idea where she had been?”

  Under stress, Mrs. Lasher’s aitches fled. “They don’t need me to tell ‘em where she was. Found ’er dead in Cleveland Row, just a jump from the palace. With evidence, if you please. A note from ‘Is Royal Such-and-Such, crested stationery and all, clutched in ’er ‘and. Constable said Josie was dressed for a party, but cut up and beat.” Mrs. Lasher shook her head wisely. “Lost control of ’isself, I’d say. They do, sometimes; ‘tis why we generally ’ave someone near by, just in case. But ‘ow would you stop a royal person …” She put her finger to her own mouth this time and looked at Miss Tolerance archly.

  “Lost control and cut her throat? And then left her with a note that implicated him? I don’t think much of the duke’s aides, if that’s the case. Did your constable give you any idea of what the note said?”