I leaned back against the sumptuous cushions, suddenly exhausted and wanting to be done with it. “I’ll write Sommerville tonight and post it in the morning. I want to give Beauchamp time to confess. If he has an ounce of honor, he will take the blame and leave his wife out of it.”
“If he has any honor at all, he will already be dead,” Grenville said.
I wondered if the man with the rabbity eyes would have the courage to put a pistol to his own head and save his wife the pain of his trial and the public knowledge of his betrayal. “I wish I knew if he had. It is up to him now.”
As we made our way back to London, my tiredness lifted somewhat, and I told Grenville about my second visit to Denis and what I’d decided about his involvement in Jane Thornton’s abduction. I did not much want to talk about it, but I’d learned my lesson. If I hadn’t written Grenville that rude and angry letter, and if he hadn’t been magnanimous enough to forgive my idiotic pride and come looking for me, I’d probably be resting at the bottom of the Thames, Black Nancy with me.
Grenville was eager to interview Jemmy with me, but I told him I needed to run another errand, one I’d rather do alone. He did not ask me what, but he regarded me sharply as I descended the carriage.
What I had to face next pained me beyond thought. I left home shortly after dark and traveled to the house near St. Paul’s Churchyard. As before, I was shown to an upstairs parlor, and Josette Martin met me there.
She came forward and took my hand, lamplight shining on the thick braids of her nearly black hair.
“Captain Lacey. I am pleased to see you again. Will you sit?”
I remained standing, holding her hand. “When do you leave for France?”
She looked at me in surprise. “A week today. Why?”
“Can you leave tomorrow? Will Aimee be well enough to travel?”
“Tomorrow? I am not certain.”
“Even if she isn’t, I advise you to take Aimee and start for France immediately.”
“Why, Captain? I do not understand.”
I led Josette toward the worn divan and drew her to sit facing me. The room smelled faintly of old flowers, overlaid with the slightly stuffy scent of a room whose windows had long been closed.
“Because I know who killed Josiah Horne,” I said. “In all conscience, and following duty, I ought to tell someone everything I know.”
Josette’s face drained of color. “Please explain what you mean.”
“The Runners arrested Bremer, the butler. He went to Newgate, but he died before he came to trial. They are satisfied. But Bremer didn’t kill Mr. Horne.”
Her beautiful eyes shied from mine. “You cannot know that. How can you?”
I held her hands gently. “Alice must have told you that she believed Aimee was a captive in Horne’s house. She had no proof, but you did not let that stop you, did you? Going to the front door would not help the Thorntons and Alice, so you decided to approach through the kitchens. You began making deliveries to the Horne household, possibly offering a greengrocer or seamstress your services.”
“I did nothing, sir,” she said weakly.
“I’d been so concerned about who’d entered Horne’s house through the front door that day, that it never occurred to me to worry about who went in through the scullery. But the lad who lives next door to Horne saw you. You’d started making deliveries, he said, about four weeks earlier—right after Alice and Mr. Thornton discovered that Jane was living with Horne.
“The lad next door spent the day of the murder looking out the window, waiting for his tutor, who never arrived. He told me that two delivery men and a woman with a basket had gone down the kitchen stairs and entered the house. I thought nothing of it, and neither did he. That day, at last, you must have been able to go from the kitchens to the study upstairs. I imagine no one in that chaotic household noticed you. Am I right?”
Josette pressed her hands to her face, tears leaking from her beautiful eyes. “She did not mean to do it. Aimee was so frightened. And so desperate. She just struck out. She did not even know.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
I waited, my heart heavy, until Josette’s weeping quieted. When she looked up at me, her black lashes were wet with tears.
I said quietly, “You found Aimee in the study when you entered it.”
She nodded. “He was on the carpet, with the knife in his chest, and Aimee lay in a swoon beside him. It had happened only moments before I arrived. Aimee did not even realize what she’d done. He’d taken her from the wardrobe where he’d locked her that day. The knife had been lying on the desk—I suppose he’d used it for opening letters or cutting open books. She simply picked it up and struck him with it. There was very little blood. A little on her hand; that was all.”
“If it is done correctly, a blow like that does not bleed much.”
“But I knew that if Aimee was found there, she would hang. No matter what the man Horne had done to her, it would be Aimee who paid.” Fire burned in the depths of her beautiful eyes. “I could not let that happen.”
“No,” I agreed. “You could not. So you wiped off her hands, renewed the bonds on her wrists, and locked her back into the wardrobe. Aimee was frightened enough and confused enough to obey you. You knew that she would likely be found after the murder was discovered, and of course no one would suspect her, when her hands were tied so tightly and the wardrobe was locked from the outside. If they didn’t find her, you would return to the house as the concerned aunt, looking for her. It must have been difficult to leave her.”
She nodded fervently. “It was, oh, yes, it was. But if I’d taken her away then, we might have been discovered. They’d find Mr. Horne, and Aimee would be accused of the crime. I had to leave her.”
“It was wise of you.” Locking Aimee back in the wardrobe would have served two purposes—the obvious one of making it seem that Aimee could not possibly have committed the murder; and second, the discovery of her in the wardrobe would expose Horne for the bastard he was. A man having sport with a maid was one thing. Making a slave of her was something else.
Josette swallowed. “I had to make certain that the bonds cut into her flesh, and then I had to walk away from her. I had to go home and wait, not knowing who would find Aimee and when. It was the next morning before Alice sent word that she was safe. I had no idea, all that night, if I’d done right. No way to know—” More tears spilled from her lovely eyes.
I pressed Josette’s work-worn hand between my own. “But your deception worked. I voiced my opinion loudly to everyone who would listen that it was impossible for Aimee to have killed Horne. It wasn’t until I speculated that two people might have been involved that I realized Aimee could very well have stabbed him. Her accomplice would have to have been coolheaded, brave, and utterly devoted to her. And I remembered that Aimee had an aunt who had raised her and was preparing to take her away to France.”
“You are right,” Josette said softly. “I am devoted to her. And I’m as guilty as she.”
“You did one more thing before you left that room.”
She whitened. “I barely remember it.”
I smoothed my fingers over the back of her hand. “I would have been in a howling rage myself.”
“I was.” She raised her head, words angry. “He had hurt Aimee so deeply, and there he lay, dying, beyond my reach. I wanted to hurt him back. He’d already taken down his trousers, and there he was, exposed for the world to see. I am not certain what happened then. But the knife was in my hand, and I—”
I saw again the yellow carpet bathed in blood, smelled the pungent odor of it. I saw Josette of the beautiful eyes, the knife in her hand, rage twisting her face, savagely cutting the man who had raped her beloved niece. Blood had poured from his body, exposing his sins. He had bled the same as any other man would bleed, though his soul was foul and black.
“What will you do, Captain?” Josette asked in a quiet voice. “If you go to a magistrate, please, I beg you, let
me take the blame. Tell them I killed Mr. Horne. Let Aimee go.”
I stood up, leaning heavily on my walking stick. “In two days, I will confess what I know to one other person and decide then what is best to do. If I wait longer, I will be tempted to hide it forever, and let the innocent Bremer be labeled the culprit. In two days, you can be in France. I advise you to tell no one exactly where you are going.”
Josette looked at me for a long time before she nodded. “It will be as you say. I believe Aimee will be well enough to leave tomorrow.” She paused. “You must think me hard, Captain, to do what I have done. But she is my only family. And what he did was unforgivable.”
I cupped her cheek. “I think you are courageous, Josette. And quite beautiful.” I leaned down and pressed a kiss to her parted lips. “God bless you,” I whispered, then I left her.
*** *** ***
The next day, James Denis sent a carriage for me, and when I climbed into it, I found Denis himself waiting for me.
“Upon reflection,” he said, settling a rug with fine-gloved hands, “I decided I wanted to be present when you interviewed my former coachman.”
I was not pleased at this turn of events, but I had no choice. If I wanted to find Jane Thornton, I needed Denis’s assistance.
“To prevent Jemmy from telling me the wrong things?” I asked.
“Something like that.”
Denis did not much like sharing the carriage with me either, if his fidgeting with his gloves and his walking stick were any indication. Also, he’d squeezed one of his massive footmen into the seat next to me, and this man watched my every move.
We went to a house in a lane that opened from the Strand. I realized as I entered the house’s dark interior that this might well have been the house to which Jane had been lured by the procuress.
Jemmy sat behind a plain wooden table in a ground-floor room. Two of Denis’s large men stood near him, waiting for us. Jemmy started when he saw me, then sank back into his chair, his face pasty white.
A fire had been lit, and the room was warm, but the only light came from the flames on the hearth. When I sat down opposite Jemmy, red light illuminated his pocked face and glinted on his filed teeth.
“Where is Jane Thornton?” I asked him.
Jemmy looked, not at me, but over my shoulder to where Denis waited. “Why is he here? I don’t understand this.”
“Answer his question,” came Denis’s voice, smooth as silk.
“I don’t know. I don’t know nothing.”
“Horne must have met you in his dealings with your employer,” I said. “Perhaps he asked you if you wanted to make a little extra money doing a favor for him.”
“What of it? No harm in making a bit of the ready.”
Denis broke in. “If you needed more money, you should have told me. I would have found extra work for you.”
His quiet, matter-of-fact tone made Jemmy blench.
“You contacted the procuress,” I said. “You thought of the girl you’d abduct—the young friend of Mr. Carstairs’s daughter—and let the procuress make the plan. She lured away Jane and her maid, probably with the help of an accomplice, and after the fervor had died down, you returned to help carry them to Horne. Horne paid you, and you thought no more of it. Until the night he sent for you again.”
Jemmy clenched his hands. “I won’t listen to this.”
I don’t know what look Denis gave him, but Jemmy subsided at once. Behind me I heard Denis walk softly to the window.
“That night, about four weeks ago, you drove whatever conveyance you had to hand to Hanover Square,” I continued. “You carried Jane Thornton from Horne’s house. Where did you take her?”
Jemmy wet his lips. “I can’t be sure. A place he directed me to.”
“Where?”
“I don’t remember, I tell you.”
I started over the table for him. Jemmy slammed back in his chair, giving me a half-belligerent, half-fearful look.
Denis turned from the window. “Tell the captain what he wants to know, Jemmy.”
Jemmy swallowed nervously, firelight gleaming on his sweating face. “I can’t explain it. I’d have to take you.”
“Take me then.”
Jemmy’s gaze darted to Denis as he stood up. I moved aside to let him around the table, and we left the room. One of Denis’s thugs led the way, then Denis himself, then me, then Jemmy, the second large man bringing up the rear.
When we reached the street, Jemmy tried to bolt. The two servants locked themselves on either side of Jemmy and manhandled him to the top of the coach. While they held him there, Denis and I were assisted inside by Denis’s stone-faced footman.
Denis instructed the coachman to follow Jemmy’s directions, but I asked that we stop by the Thorntons’ nearby house first. I needed to ask Alice to accompany us. I wanted there to be no mistake in Jane Thornton’s identity.
Alice looked nervous about joining me and Denis inside the carriage, but she came all the same, hope in her eyes. I asked her about Mr. Thornton.
“He’s mending, sir. But slowly. If we could find Miss Jane, it might make all the difference.”
The ride was tedious through snaking traffic and the rain. The coach was as sumptuous as Grenville’s with velvet walls, gold leaf on the windows, and cushioned stools for our feet. Denis looked out the window as though Alice did not exist, and the bulky footman watched her with his cold, blank stare.
The carriage wound its way to London Bridge, and thence across. We entered Southwark.
“Where the devil is he taking us?” I asked, peering out at the gloom.
Denis shrugged, with the air of a man who is always surrounded by a bubble of safety. I fully expected a gang of toughs to be waiting at the end of the journey, Jemmy taking us straight to them. Or Denis might have recruited Jemmy to lead me into the lion’s den, but I didn’t think so. The terror in Jemmy’s eyes had been real, and Denis and I seemed to have called a truce of sorts.
The stink of the river hung heavily in the air, as did the smoke from an ironworks. Stagnant pools of noisome water reflected the black of coal smoke and the dreary sky. The carriage ground to a stop in a back lane that fronted the river. From here, steps led down to the shore of the Thames, where fishermen clung to their trade.
The footman assisted me down, and I handed Alice out myself. A wave of rain swept over us. Alice tented her shawl above her head. Jemmy had descended from the top of the carriage and now stood uncertainly between Denis’s two servants.
“Down there,” he said, pointing to the river.
“Where? Show me.”
He didn’t want to. But his fear of Denis overcame his fear of me, and Jemmy plodded down the muddy, slippery steps. I followed with Alice.
Denis remained inside the carriage. He could easily tell his coachman to drive away and leave us stranded, and I think the same thought occurred to Alice, because she melted close to me and stayed there.
Jemmy led us to a fishing shack that looked no different from the others that dotted the shore. The Thames rolled away beyond us, the far bank lost in the mist and rain.
Before he reached the door, Jemmy stopped suddenly. “It’s the beaks!” he shouted into the shack. “Run!”
A man came boiling out and sprinted down the beach. A woman followed him, but too slowly. One of Denis’s men leapt forward and caught her as she slipped on the rocks. He dragged her back to us. Hanks of gray hair hung limply about her face, which was lined and worn.
Her eyes held fear but also defiance. “We didn’t do nothing. Makes no difference what ’e said.”
“Where is Miss Thornton?” I asked.
She looked bewildered. “’oo?”
“This way,” Jemmy said.
He tramped around the shed and down a path that led to the shore. Jemmy led us along this, myself and Alice trailing him, Denis’s servant following with the woman, who kept up a constant patter about nothing being her fault.
At the end of t
he path, behind a stone staircase that led back up to Southwark, lay a pile of debris, looking like nothing more than a caved-in shed and a tarp held down by rocks. Jemmy made for the tarp.
“No!” the woman shouted. “It weren’t me.”
Jemmy lifted pieces of the debris and hurled them aside. One of the footmen stepped in and helped him. After a space had been cleared, Jemmy reached down and tugged back a fold of tarp.
Beneath it lay a small, white hand, palm up, fingers curled in supplication to the uncaring sky.
Alice gave a sharp cry.
“It weren’t us,” the woman bleated. “He brought her to us, told us to hide her. We wanted to dump her in the river, but he said no, we had to hide her. She were already dead when she came.”
I moved to the debris as Alice clung to my coat. I slid my walking stick under the tarp and turned it back.
A woman’s body lay there, covered in muck and mud. What had once been a nightdress clung to her chest, which was sunken with time and the piles of board that had rested atop her. Her face was pale, serene, eyes closed, mouth limp, but the skin of her neck was puckered with decay.
Alice sank to her knees beside me, a wail tearing from her. The fisherman’s woman darted back, as though afraid of the sound, and pointed a thin finger at Jemmy. “He brought her ’ere. ’E’s the murderer.”
“I didn’t murder no one,” Jemmy said. “She were dead already when he sent for me.”
I believed him. I’d seen what Horne had done to Aimee. Possibly Horne hadn’t meant to kill Jane; possibly it was pure accident. Perhaps when Horne had seen what he’d done, he’d panicked. He’d sent for Jemmy, remembering the young man’s help abducting the girls in the first place, and bade him get rid of her. Young Philip Preston had told me someone had carried a bundle, like a carpet, to the dark carriage that night. A carpet, yes, but with Jane’s body rolled inside it.
Alice’s sobs turned to a wordless keening. I covered Jane’s body with the tarp, then I straightened and faced Jemmy.
Jemmy stepped back in alarm. I stared him down, the man who’d caused Jane Thornton’s ruin and death, even if indirectly. Jemmy had made the abduction possible and was as much to blame as Horne.
The Hanover Square Affair (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 1) Page 22
