The Glass House clrm-3

by Ashley Gardner

  Lord Barbury had played a game of whist with Lord Alvanley and two other prominent gentlemen, who each swore that Barbury never left the table from three o'clock to six. Likewise, Barbury's coachman had been carefully questioned. He had not gone to Middle Temple, he said, nor had he been summoned to drive Mrs. Chapman there.

  I'd told Thompson when I'd arrived of my findings at Inglethorpe's and that Peaches had last been seen at The Glass House by young Jean, and about Kensington, who deserved further investigation. But when Thompson mentioned the name of The Glass House, the coroner immediately cut him off and bade him sit down. I remembered Thompson and Sir Montague saying that whoever owned The Glass House had several magistrates in his pocket, and I wondered if that were the case here.

  The coroner instructed the jury, who quickly brought back the verdict of murder by person or persons unknown. The inquest was at an end.

  From the look in Thompson's eye, he considered things far from over. He had no time to speak with me, however, because other cases awaited his attention, and he left at once for his house in Wapping.

  I departed public house to run my own errands, one of which was close by in the City. Thompson had seemed satisfied with Lord Barbury's alibi at White's, but I wondered if he truly believed Barbury's innocence to be established. I was sorry he had to rush away, and I would have to find him again and learn his ideas.

  A second errand I wanted to run today was to retrieve my walking stick from Inglethorpe. While I appreciated Grenville's generosity in lending me his walking stick, and my leg was now relaxed and warm from Barnstable's ministrations, I wanted my own back. Not only had it cost me a quarter's pay, but Louisa Brandon had assisted me in choosing it.

  We'd gone to a Spanish sword maker, who'd made the beautiful sword and its cane, adding a hidden latch in the handle that released the sword. Last spring, the cane had been broken in one of my adventures, and Grenville had ordered a replacement for it. The walking stick was no longer simply a prop for my lameness, it represented the kindness of my friends.

  My first errand, however, was with a moneylender.

  This particular moneylender had dealt with the Lacey family for generations. When the Laceys had been high in the world, the coffers of London had been open to them. My grandfather and father had each drawn on that tradition and managed to borrow enough to live a life of relative ease while squandering their fortune. The long war against France had not been kind to either my father or the estate, and now all that was left was the ruin of a house Norfolk and the tiny bit of land on which it sat. The remainder of the farms had been sold long ago to pay my father's mountain of debts.

  I was the last of the family, a gentleman of reduced means. In the Army, I had led a life of much activity, and sitting idly at home did not appeal to me. I had already begun keeping an ear open for circumstances in which a gentleman might earn his keep, as a secretary, perhaps, or an assistant, a sort of gentleman's aide de camp. I planned to recruit Bartholomew in the task of discovering whom might be willing to employ for me, since the lad seemed to know everyone in London.

  The moneylender I spoke to remembered my grandfather well, was his contemporary, in fact. I looked into the lined face, eyes undimmed by time, and wondered if my own grandfather would have lived longer had he not succumbed to hedonistic pleasures. The man facing me had suppressed his own desires with years of strict discipline. His fortune had increased while the Lacey fortune had faded, and now he was in a position to condescend to me.

  He lent me three hundred guineas. In return I'd have to pay him a percentage of the money, payable in increments. I was not fond of usury, but I had no choice. I signed myself into debt and left his house with the money.

  I visited my bank, paid it into my account, and wrote out a bank draft. I returned to the outside world and settled my uneasiness by purchasing coffee from a vendor. I took a hackney to Mayfair, heading for Inglethorpe's residence to retrieve my walking stick.

  I descended at Curzon Street at half-past three. Bartholomew left me there, jogging off to Grosvenor Street to visit his brother and wait for me at Grenville's. As I stepped up to the door, a gust of wind sent rain under my greatcoat, and water poured from my hat brim. I lifted the knocker.

  The door opened before I could let the knocker fall, the polished brass ripped from my hand.

  "Ah, Captain," Milton Pomeroy said. "I was about to send a lad to fetch you. Returned to the scene of the crime, eh?"

  Icy droplets slid under my collar. "Crime?" What crime?"

  Pomeroy's flat yellow hair was dark with rain. "The crime of murder, sir. Mr. Simon Inglethorpe, gentleman. Laid out flat in his own reception room, dead as stone. And curious thing, Captain. It's your sticker that has him pinned to the floor. It's in him all the way through to the carpet."

  Chapter Eight

  Inglethorpe lay spread-eagled on the gold and cream carpet of the reception room, the same small, uncomfortable room had housed me yesterday while I'd waited for the footman to admit me upstairs.

  Inglethorpe's expression was one of astonishment. The dead man's face was chalk white face, a thick rivulet of dried blood creased his chin. He was naked from the waist up, his white skin stark against the carpet. Below the waist he wore tight black pantaloons that buttoned at his ankles, silk stockings, and pumps. His stomach showed that he had slightly gone to fat, and his chest muscles were limp.

  The sword from my walking stick stuck straight out of Inglethorpe's chest, the blade surrounded by a circle of dried blood. The handle, which doubled as a hilt, shone faintly in the candlelight.

  I turned to Pomeroy, dumbfounded. "When did this happen?"

  "Just an hour gone, sir, since he was found. I was sent for right away and arrived not much before you did. Butler last saw him at two o'clock this afternoon, upstairs. At half past, butler glances into this room and sees that." He gestured to the corpse.

  I looked into Pomeroy's ingenuous blue eyes. He liked to lay his hands on a culprit, and I had the feeling that he would not scruple to arrest even his former captain on the slim evidence of my sword in the wound.

  "You a friend of Mr. Inglethorpe, Captain?" he asked me.

  "No, I met him for the first time yesterday."

  "Lent him your stick, did you?"

  "I left it behind," I said in a hard voice. "I was returning to fetch it."

  "Yesterday, while you were calling on Mr. Inglethorpe. He'd invited you?"

  I eyed him narrowly. "Yes."

  "Butler says, too, that you were here with a gathering of Mr. Inglethorpe's friends. Butler says he saw you come in with your walking stick, that very one that's stuck in his master."

  "I did not stick it there, Sergeant."

  Pomeroy shrugged. "Sometimes you get into a rare temper, sir. I have seen what you are like when you're enraged. Ready for murder, sir, you are."

  "If I had been that angry at Inglethorpe, I would have challenged him," I said.

  "Not necessarily. I've seen you draw a pistol on a cove, and I've seen you knock a chap down, easy as breathing. No mention of duels then. Dueling would be too good for them, you said."

  I held onto my temper. "I was not angry with Inglethorpe, and I was not here today. I barely knew the man."

  "That's as may be, sir. But that is your sticker. You weren't his friend, but you looked him up yesterday. Struck with fellow feeling, were you, sir?"

  "Do not question me, Pomeroy. I do not like it."

  "Just following orders, sir, same as always. You came here yesterday. I want to know why."

  I observed the room, trying to shut out Pomeroy's prying questions. Little had changed from when I'd paced in here the day before, except that a neatly folded pile of clothing now lay on the chair. I unfolded and examined each piece-a frock coat, a waistcoat, shirt, collar, and cravat. Fine materials, fine tailoring. The cravat smelled of lavender oil.

  "The dead man's," Pomeroy said. "So the butler says. Neither of us can decide why he was standing bare-brea
sted in his reception room."

  "What do the servants say?" I asked.

  "Very little, sir. Inglethorpe was right as rain all this morning, then he came in here and that was that."

  "Inglethorpe must have entered this room for some reason. To greet a visitor, most likely."

  "Servants didn't open the door to anyone all morning, they say."

  That did not mean no one arrived. Gentlemen of Inglethorpe's wealth let their servants answer the front door, but that did not mean he could not have admitted someone himself. Perhaps Inglethorpe had spied the person arriving and hadn't wanted to wait for his butler to open the door.

  The removed clothing suggested a romantic liaison-I could think of no other reason for Inglethorpe to so tamely remove his coat and shirt. The visitor, then, might have been a woman, although I remembered Grenville in the Rearing Pony, his mouth twisted in distaste, proclaiming, "I honestly do not believe Inglethorpe cares which way the wind blows." A woman or man, likely a man, from the strength of the blow.

  I had left my walking stick in the sitting room upstairs. Had Inglethorpe found it? Brought it down here with him, where his killer had used it as a convenient weapon? Or had the murderer been a member of yesterday's gathering, taken my walking stick away with him, and returned with it this morning?

  My heart went cold. Mrs. Danbury had been in the room when I'd gone off without my walking stick. I remembered her, flushed with the magic gas, staring at me in bewilderment as I hurried after Lady Breckenridge.

  Lady Breckenridge had not taken the stick away with her; I would have seen it. That left Mrs. Danbury and the few gentlemen who'd still remained when I'd gone. I could not remember through the haze of the laughing gas which of the gentlemen still had been there, though Inglethorpe's servants would probably know.

  I did not want to think of Mrs. Danbury returning this morning and stabbing Inglethorpe when he made advances upon her.

  Common sense cut into this dire scene. Inglethorpe had removed and folded his clothes, not torn them off in a frenzy of passion. I doubted Mrs. Danbury would stand still and wait for him to undress before stabbing him in panic.

  Also, I could see no reason for Mrs. Danbury to return to Inglethorpe's at all. If she had taken my walking stick, she could have had it delivered to my rooms or given it to Sir Gideon Derwent to give to me when I next visited him. Lady Breckenridge had said that Inglethorpe's gatherings were held on Mondays and Wednesdays only, and that Inglethorpe was most regular in his habits, which meant he would not have had a gathering today.

  Why Mrs. Danbury had attended Inglethorpe's party the day before still puzzled me. She had not known how to breathe the air in the bag, which indicated she had not done it before. Had she, like Peaches, come to Inglethorpe's in search of a new sensation? Or out of curiosity? Or had she been Inglethorpe's friend, and he had invited her personally?

  I felt cold again. She being a close friend of Inglethorpe brought me back to the possibility of her murdering him. I could imagine Inglethorpe eagerly hurrying to open the door for the pretty Mrs. Danbury without waiting for the servants. I certainly would have. I also would have been happy to pull her into the tiny reception room to speak with her alone. Perhaps Mrs. Danbury had come for a liaison with Inglethorpe, and they'd quarreled. No, I could not overlook the possibility that she had deliberately stabbed him.

  I dropped the clothes back on the chair. Inglethorpe's death must be no coincidence-Peaches had come here the afternoon before she'd died. Had she told Inglethorpe something that the killer worried about? Had she been on her way to The Glass House to meet someone and had told Inglethorpe who? I'd planned to question Inglethorpe about Peaches yesterday, and of course had missed the opportunity through my own folly. I'd planned to ask him again today, and his death had put paid to that.

  "Has Sir Montague Harris been informed?" I asked.

  "Couldn't say, sir. I imagine he will be."

  I walked out of the room with Pomeroy following. "Bloody hell, Sergeant," I said heavily.

  "It's a nasty thing, sir, people sticking each other."

  He sounded cheerful and confident. He'd never had a day of melancholia in his life.

  "I did not kill this man, Pomeroy," I said. I took up my hat, clapped it back to my damp hair. "But I intend to find out who did."

  "Probably in your best interest, sir."

  "Thank you, Sergeant."

  I strode out into the rain. Pomeroy said something jovial behind me, but I did not stop to respond.

  I continued walking to Grosvenor Street, angry and worried, wondering what Inglethorpe had known-and what I had overlooked. I needed to know more about Inglethorpe's household and his friends, and I thought over ways in which I might find out.

  When I reached Grenville's house, Matthias admitted me but told me his master was out. When I informed him and Bartholomew of the news of Inglethorpe, they both stared at me with stunned blue eyes.

  "Lord, sir," Bartholomew breathed. "With your sticker?"

  "Yes. It's a bother, that." I went over the plan I'd formed as I'd walked between Inglethorpe's and here. "Bartholomew, I'd like you and your brother to poke around Inglethorpe's a bit, get the servants to confide in you. Find out who was in Inglethorpe's house yesterday and this morning. Discover if any of the staff saw what became of my walking stick between the time I left it and the time it ended up in Inglethorpe's chest. I want to know any gossip about Mrs. Chapman-who she knew and what she did whenever she went to Inglethorpe's, how well she knew Inglethorpe, and what they talked about."

  Bartholomew nodded, as did his brother. They'd both assisted me last year in the affair of Colonel Westin and looked eager to involve themselves in my adventures again.

  Before I departed, I pulled out a bank draft I'd made to Grenville for three hundred guineas. "Give this to your master," I said to Matthias. "And do not let him tear it up or put it on the fire. He'll likely try."

  Matthias raised his brows, mystified, but he took it and promised.

  I returned to Grimpen Lane, impatient and depressed. Thompson was busily investigating Peaches' murder, of course, but everything was moving too slowly for me. I preferred the Army method of spotting the enemy and charging him, rather than the slow process of asking questions and piecing together what had happened, while the killer had the opportunity to flee. Or strike again.

  Inglethorpe's death worried me greatly. Peaches's death had seemed almost simple; she had likely been killed by one of three men: her husband, Lord Barbury, or Kensington. Inglethorpe's death opened more possibilities. Any of the three men already mentioned might have stabbed him, or any of the gentlemen at the magic gas gathering might have, or Mrs. Danbury, or even Lady Breckenridge. While I had some difficulty picturing the ladylike Mrs. Danbury wielding a the sword, I had less difficulty picturing Lady Breckenridge doing so. Lady Breckenridge was a woman of determination, who'd viewed the death of her husband with relief, who retained her independence of thought in a world in which a woman was not encouraged to do so.

  I remembered her lying against me, her head on my shoulder, how comfortable that had been. Had her motive been comfort, or duplicity? She had been kind to me last evening, in her own way, but I still did not trust her.

  I tried to sit still and write everything out, but I was too moody to concentrate and pushed away the feeble notes I'd begun when Mrs. Beltan brought up my post.

  One letter was from the Derwents, reminding me of my dinner with them Sunday next and assuring me that young Jean was doing well. She was an orphan, they said, and Lady Derwent was looking into what sort of employment for which she might be trained.

  I was pleased that at least the little girl would do well out of this tragedy. I knew the Derwents would be diligent in looking after Jean and make certain she came to no harm.

  My second letter set my teeth on edge. It was from my former colonel and invited me to dine at his Brook Street home that very night.

  Last summer, Colonel Brandon had got
ten himself caught up in one of my adventures and had acquitted himself well, helping me catch a killer. After that, he'd pretended to thaw toward me. All through the autumn, he'd invited me to his house to dine or for cards, to talk of our campaigns in Spain, Portugal, and India. He would drink plenty of port and pretend that the uglier incidents between us had never happened.

  As autumn waned, however, the air between us became more and more strained, and we had returned to stiffness and veiled insults. By December, Brandon had had enough of me. He'd taken Louisa with him to a shooting party in the north, without sending me his good-byes.

  Now this invitation. I did not doubt it had something to do with the fact that I'd become involved with yet another Bow Street problem. Brandon still regarded me as his junior officer, the man he'd made.

  But I was no longer his man. I was on half-pay, semi-retired. I could perhaps get myself transferred to another regiment, if another captain were ready for half-pay or wanted my place in the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons. But the long war was over, I had little to offer another regiment, and there were plenty of half-pay captains wandering about at loose ends. Also, cavalry nowadays was used to put down riots, a practice I disliked. Firing at enemy soldiers doing their best to kill me in battle was one thing, firing at women and children, no matter how unruly they might be, was something else.

  Additionally, the regimental commander of the Thirty-Fifth Light had made it plain to Brandon and me on that last day in Spain that we had better take our feud away from the Army. I could have brought charges against Brandon for what he had done, but I had not wanted his wife to face that shame. Our commander had snarled at Brandon and me as though we'd been recalcitrant schoolboys and called us a disgrace to the regiment. Brandon had taken the reprimand hard.

  So here we were in London, both of us fish out of water. We were alternately painfully polite and boiling furious with each other. Louisa bore the brunt of it. She tried her best to heal the breach, because she blamed herself for the breach in the first place.