The Glass House clrm-3

by Ashley Gardner

  He was displeased with me, and I had a good idea why. I merely said, "Thank you for the invitation to dine. I look forward to hearing what Bartholomew has to say."

  Grenville finally turned from the window and looked me up and down, brows together. "For God's sake, Lacey, why did you give me that bank draft?"

  I knew he'd become high-handed about the three hundred guineas, and I was not about to let him.

  "To replace what you gave Kensington at The Glass House." I said. "Do not dare to try to return it to me."

  "You know I cannot accept it. I paid that money to assist with the investigation. And if it helped take that little girl out of The Glass House, it was worth it."

  "Perhaps," I said. "But I have no wish to be in debt to you. I've paid the debt, and that is the end of the matter."

  Grenville glared at me. "You are bloody stubborn and too damned proud, Lacey."

  "I know that. Plenty have been happy to tell me so."

  We regarded each other steadily, he in his impeccably tailored suit not a week old, me in my worn clothing topped with a frock coat that had been his gift to me last September. I appreciated all Grenville had done for me, but I'd come to know that he rather liked to own people, and he used his forceful generosity to do so.

  "I don't want to quarrel over this, Lacey," Grenville said.

  "Than accept the money and have done."

  He stared at me for another angry moment then stiffly changed the subject, but I knew he'd open the argument again when he could.

  "Mrs. Chapman's funeral is today," he said. "Barbury sent me word."

  "The coroner has released her body, then," I said. "I would like to attend. It will be interesting to see who appears."

  Grenville said he'd come with me, and we fell into strained silence. Fortunately, the drive to Grosvenor Street was short.

  Matthias let us out before Grenville's house and Bartholomew ushered us inside. Not long after that, I sat in Grenville's dining room eating the fine repast his chef, Anton, had created for us. Grenville spoke lightly on neutral topics-Anton took offense if we discussed anything that pulled too much attention from his cooking.

  When we'd finished, Grenville bade Bartholomew and Matthias sit with us and share their findings. The two big lads cleared the table, served us port, and sat down to slurp glasses of bitter and rest their elbows on the table in a comfortable manner that was in no way impudent.

  Bartholomew pulled a paper out of his pocket, words on it written in careful capitals, and handed it to Grenville.

  "Mr. Inglethorpe's cook is a relation of my aunt's husband," he said. "She's quite chatty-the cook, I mean. So was Mr. Inglethorpe's footman. I also talked to some of the slaveys of the men who were at Inglethorpe's Wednesday afternoon. I wrote it all down, so I wouldn't forget."

  "Excellently done," Grenville said, smoothing the paper on the table. "Let us begin with Robert Yardley. Who said today he remembered the walking stick but not whether anyone took it. Most helpful of him."

  Bartholomew took a drink of ale. "Mr. Yardley is a bachelor, sir. Lives in Brook Street. Has only one footman, who is a country oaf in satin."

  "Would Yardley be likely to stab Inglethorpe through the heart with a sword?" I asked.

  Bartholomew rubbed his nose. "Wouldn’t think so, sir. Not much wherewithal, I'd say. According to his footman, he likes a soft chair and a footstool, and his cup and saucer handed to him even when it's on the table right next to him. Mr. Yardley was at home yesterday afternoon, so his footman says, at the time in question."

  "Unless the footman is lying for him," Grenville said. "Now, what about Mr. Archibald Price-Davies-who saw nothing, knows nothing? Another helpful gentleman."

  "Friend of Mr. Yardley," Bartholomew said promptly. "Likes horses, don't talk of much else." He chuckled. "Got Mr. Grenville into a corner one afternoon and plagued him about nearly every horse in London, wanting his opinion and such."

  Grenville grimaced. "I remember."

  "So, a nuisance full of his own opinion," I said. "But a murderer?"

  "Could not say, sir. Maybe if he and Mr. Inglethorpe disagreed about a horse."

  "An unlikely motive for murder," I said. "Although any of them could have exchanged heated words with the man and killed him in a fit of rage."

  "Mr. Price-Davies was at Tattersall's, yesterday, all day," Matthias said. "If you can believe his groom."

  "Very convenient," Grenville said. "Next is Lord Clarence Dudley. I know him but only in a vague way. Different schools."

  "Marquess of Ackerley's youngest brother," Bartholomew said. "Would not do anything to mar his manicure, I would say. And I hear he is an unnatural."

  Grenville and I exchanged a glance. So had Inglethorpe been. Grenville said, "At the inquest, Dudley claimed to have been at home in bed until three."

  "Certainly he was," Bartholomew answered, and chuckled. "His valet says with the next gent on your list."

  Grenville raised his brows, consulted the paper. "Arthur Dunstan. Truly?"

  "Mr. Dunstan goes about everywhere with this Lord Clarence Dudley. If you see what I mean, sir."

  "No wonder they both mumbled a bit about where they'd been," Grenville said.

  "Last gent I asked about is Mr. Carleton Pauling, MP," Bartholomew said.

  "I know him a bit better than the others," Grenville said. "But I haven't the remotest idea whether he would kill Inglethorpe or why."

  "He is a radical, sir, at least that's what everyone says," Bartholomew said. "I suppose a radical could be a murderer. Except he was in Parliament that afternoon. Plenty of people saw him there."

  "Yes, so he said at the inquest," Grenville said.

  A drop of ink had puddled on the C of Mr. Carleton Pauling. "So, they each have alibis," I said, "confirmed by their servants. Unless one of them is lying and has convinced their servants to lie for them."

  "So where does that leave us?" Bartholomew asked after another slurp of ale.

  "Nowhere," I said. "At least not yet. Bartholomew, you have done very well. Thank you. Could you and Matthias prevail again upon these gentlemen's slaveys and discover for certain whether any of the gentlemen or their servants picked up my walking stick? And whether any were acquainted with Mrs. Chapman?"

  Bartholomew nodded. Matthias looked eager too, ready to render me assistance. To them, this was adventure.

  There was not much more to discuss. Grenville sent Bartholomew and Matthias off, and he and I made our way to Peaches' funeral.

  The sky had clouded over by the time we reached the burial ground of a church near Cavendish Square, but at least it did not rain. The vicar, who looked uninterested in the whole proceeding, waited while the mourners approached the grave.

  There were not many. Mr. Chapman stood stiffly near the vicar, rigid and displeased at missing his appointments. A thin woman stood next to him, looking enough like him that I guessed she was Chapman's sister. A prim-looking gentleman waited next to her, likely the sister's husband.

  I spied Lord Barbury, wearing unrelieved black, his hat pulled down to hide his eyes, standing near the railings that separated the churchyard from the street. A little way from him, in the shadow of a tree, I saw, to my surprise, Mr. Kensington. He gave me a belligerent stare.

  Grenville and I stood not too near the grave, so we would not intrude on the family, but close enough to pay our respects. The vicar, conceding that no one else would appear, opened the Prayer Book and began.

  He went through the lines in a hurried monotone, with the attitude of a man who wanted to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. Chapman stared at the ground, his mouth shaping the responses, while his sister and husband spoke them loudly and clearly. "Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us."

  The vicar concluded the service, said the blessing, shook Mr. Chapman's hand, and disappeared into the church. The sextant silently began the task of filling in the grave.

  We approached Chapman, who looked in no way pleased to
see us. "My condolences, sir," I said.

  "I have nothing more to say to Bow Street," he snapped.

  He eyed me in an unfriendly manner, but I saw a bleak light in his eyes behind his habitual stiffness. Despite the self-righteous looks his sister and her husband wore, Chapman might actually mourn his wife.

  "I did not come representing Bow Street," I said. "But to say that I am truly sorry for your loss. Mrs. Chapman was too young for such a fate."

  Chapman scowled and did not answer.

  Chapman's sister glanced at the sextant, who was plying his shovel to the rich, black earth. "Blood will out, I always said." She sniffed. "And it did."

  Not the most tactful thing, I thought, to tell a man who had just buried his wife.

  "A gentleman named Simon Inglethorpe died yesterday," I said to Chapman. "In Mayfair. You might have read of it."

  "I have better things to do than read the newspapers."

  "He was an acquaintance of your wife," I said. "Did you know him?"

  Chapman bathed me in a freezing glare. "She apparently had many acquaintances."

  "I have an idea that the same man who killed Inglethorpe also killed Mrs. Chapman."

  "That is the magistrate's business."

  Chapman started to walk away, but I stepped in front of him. "Your wife was murdered, sir. I would think you'd be interested in discovering the culprit."

  He looked at me in dislike. "Of course I wish to discover the culprit. But I have been a barrister for many years. I know that murderers are foolish people who do foolish things to give themselves away. The Bow Street patrollers will find him soon, and then I will prosecute." He gave me and Grenville a cold bow. "Good day to you, sirs."

  He took his sister's arm and stalked away. The sister's husband, silent but radiating disapproval, followed.

  We watched as Chapman passed first Lord Barbury then Kensington. He made no sign that he recognized either of them.

  Kensington had remained under his tree, staring toward the grave, as though lost in thought. Grenville and I held a low discussion then I made my way to Kensington, and Grenville approached Lord Barbury.

  Kensington watched me as I walked to him, leaning on the walking stick. His eyes flickered when I stopped in front of him, but he stood his ground.

  "You lied to me," I said.

  "Do not be indignant with me, Captain. You were the one breaking the windows and the furniture in my house. You have crossed a person who does not like to be crossed. It will be costly to have the window replaced."

  "I do not give a pig's ear about your window. I asked you to show me Peaches' chamber, and you took me to the wrong room."

  He gave me a self-satisfied look. "Correction, Captain. You asked me to show you where she and Lord Barbury met. And I did."

  "I want to see the other chamber, the one in the attics."

  "You cannot, I'm afraid. It is locked, and only she had the key."

  My hand tightened on my borrowed walking stick. "I do not quite believe you haven't found means to enter the room. Let us visit The Glass House and try, shall we?"

  Kensington looked slightly alarmed but remained stubborn. "You cannot force me to do anything, and you know it."

  "I can always summon a magistrate. Sir Montague Harris has wanted to look at The Glass House for a long time."

  "You should have a care, Captain. You do not know your danger."

  "I have some idea of it," I said dryly. I'd had run-ins with James Denis before. "What did you and Mrs. Chapman argue about the day she died?"

  He looked startled. "Argued? Who said that?"

  "You shouted at her, and Peaches laughed. What was the row about?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps I did shout something at her. Amelia could be quite a bitch, if you must know."

  "She is lying dead not twenty feet from here," I said. "Keep your remarks respectful."

  "That does not change what she was, Captain. I knew her when she was eighteen years old and first in awe of London. I know everything there is to know about her, never mind her husband or her lordship lover."

  I gave him a warning look. "And now you will tell me. I believe that you also do not know your danger."

  Kensington heaved a sigh. "Very well, I will show you the bloody attic room. I planned to burn all her things anyway. They are of no use to me."

  I started to say more, but Kensington looked past me, and color flooded his face.

  Lord Barbury and Grenville had stopped behind me, Lord Barbury not looking well. He seemed to have aged since Peaches' death; his eyelids were waxen, his face pale, the bristles on his jaw dark against his white skin. His eyes were rimmed with red, lashes wet. One man, at least, grieved for Peaches.

  "What the devil are you doing here?" he asked Kensington in a hard voice.

  Kensington contrived to look sad. "Saying good-bye to my lass."

  Barbury tuned to me. "Captain Lacey, do not trust this man. He is a snake, and he made Peaches' life miserable."

  "Gullible fool," Kensington sneered. "You should ask what she did to my life."

  "You used her until she had nothing left," Barbury snapped. "When she made it clear she preferred me to you, you tried to buy her back."

  "And she came running. What does that say for you, my fine lord?"

  "Gentlemen," Grenville interrupted. "We are standing in a churchyard."

  "Not for much longer," Kensington said angrily. "Are you coming, Captain?"

  As Kensington turned and marched away, I told Grenville that I was going with him to have another look at The Glass House, to see what Peaches had left behind there.

  "Would you like to come with me?" I asked Barbury.

  He hesitated a long moment, then his gloved fingers closed and he looked away. "No," he said at last. "No, I do not want to come."

  I sympathized. When my wife had left me, sorting through her things and those of my daughter had been purest torture. I had been lucky that Louisa had been there to help.

  But I sympathized only so far. If Barbury had truly loved Peaches, he would have married her and cared for her, damn her origins.

  "Tell us about it tonight," Grenville said to me. "I've invited Lord Barbury to dine at my house. We'll begin at eight."

  I nodded. Barbury looked at me again, his agony evident. I touched my hat to the pair of them and hobbled after the disappearing figure of Mr. Kensington. The damp was playing hell with my knee.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Glass House by day was a depressing place. Silent and lit by gray daylight, it was a place holding its breath. The only inhabitant was the doorman, who gave me a hostile stare when he let us in.

  Kensington took me up two flights of stairs, past the room he'd showed me before, and up into the attics.

  Two doors stood on either side of the low-ceilinged stairwell. Kensington still claimed he did not have a key to Peaches' chamber, but the door he pointed out was a bit flimsy. I applied my boot heel to the latch, and on the third kick, it gave way, the wood splintering. Kensington looked startled, as though he'd believed me feeble, despite having seen me throw a chair through a window.

  The room beyond was a bedchamber, but in contrast to the stark stairwell, the room had been made quite a cozy. A thick rug covered the floor, plenty of pillows had been scattered on the bed, and the bed hangings were of a thick, blue brocade. Peaches had collected an odd jumble of furniture, but each piece had been chosen for comfort-a deep wing chair, a low writing table with cushioned stool, a settee with a side table piled with books. Feminine touches were everywhere, from the lace on the cushions to the hair ribbons on the dressing table. A fireplace held the ashes of a fire not many days cold, the brass fender shone brightly, and the coal bucket was full.

  "She did like her little luxuries," Kensington said.

  "She did," I answered. "Now, go away."

  Kensington laughed, his pudgy belly moving. "I admire your cheek, Captain. Watching you fall will be most pleasurable."

  Still chuc
kling, he left the room and made his way noisily down the stairs.

  I was alone. And in that room, in the gray silence of the house, I found Peaches.

  I found her in the clumsily embroidered pillows on the bed, in the silver pen tray engraved with her initials-probably gift from Lord Barbury-in the dresses in the wardrobe that were all silk, all daringly cut, all too ostentatious for a respectable barrister's wife.

  In the drawers of the writing desk were torn-out pages of newspapers dated six years ago, each page containing an article about a play. In on, the name "Miss Leary" had been circled with charcoal pencil.

  The articles gave the highest accolades to the principle actors. When they mentioned Peaches at all, it was at most one line. "Miss Leary gave a fine performance as Bianca," was the lengthiest notice she received.

  Another drawer held Lord Barbury's letters to her. Peaches had kept them from the night they'd first met, after a performance one evening in Drury Lane. Barbury had written many letters during their first year as lovers, stopping only at her marriage. He had written her every day, whether they'd met or not.

  I skimmed through them, feeling like a voyeur. Lord Barbury's letters were loving and passionate, but when Peaches had decided to marry, his tone turned resigned.

  I wish only happiness for you, my darling, and if this is the kind of happiness you wish, I will not stand in its path. A woman wants to be mistress of her own household with her own children… Nights will be long without you, but I am grateful for what joy you've lent me over this twelvemonth, which has been the happiest of my life.

  They'd met again several years later, and I found Barbury's letter about it: Seeing you was like sunshine breaking through the greatest of storms, my sweet Peaches. You ask if we can meet again, and I say, my darling, that a hundred times I have thought of contriving to meet, and only great strength of will has kept me at home. Name the place, name the time, and I will fly there with the greatest joy, if only to touch your hand, to look upon you, to hear your voice once again.

  His next letters had been euphoric. Later missives spoke of Peaches' unhappiness with Chapman, of Chapman's jealousy, of her sorrow when she realized that she would never have children.