Denis finished speaking after that and gazed out of the window at the rain-swept night. Lady Breckenridge raised her brows at me, but was wise enough to say nothing.
We returned first to Mayfair and South Audley Street, where Lady Breckenridge was assisted from the carriage by a very worried Barnstable and two hovering, crying maids. They got her into the house in short order and slammed the elegant door. Then Denis, very courteously, took me home.
At eleven o'clock the next morning, a hackney drew up in Middle Temple Lane. I, Sir Montague Harris, and Mr. Thompson of the Thames River patrol emerged from it. We traversed the lane, walking past gray buildings, barristers in robes, and pupils with thick books hurrying after their masters, or striding alone, freely.
We made our way from the Middle to the Inner Temple and looked up Sir William Pankhurst and his pupil, Mr. Gower.
Mr. Gower, as always, seemed happy to see me. He had smudges under his eyes and ink stains on his fingers, evidence that his new mentor liked him to work. I asked if he could stroll with us to the Temple Gardens. My plan, I said, was to have him stand where he'd stood smoking the cheroot on the night of Peaches' death. Perhaps he's seen something he didn't remember seeing.
Because Sir William was out conferring with colleagues in King's Bench Walk, Gower agreed readily enough.
Our way was slow, in deference to Sir Montague's labored stride and my still-aching knee. Bartholomew had arrived at my rooms this morning quite upset that he'd missed my adventures, and had made up for it by fixing me a scalding bath, massaging my leg, bringing me beefsteak for breakfast, and generally fussing like a nanny until I'd ordered him to stop.
Sir Montague and Thompson had come for me after I'd eaten and dressed, and Thompson had informed me of his results in querying Lady Jane's coachman.
The Thames was as gray and faceless today as it had been one week ago, when I'd first seen Peaches. Clouds were rolling in, blotting out the blue sky of Sunday, enclosing the city in another gray haze. We stopped at the top of the Temple stairs and watched the river roil below.
"A coachman this morning told Mr. Thompson that he brought Mrs. Chapman to Middle Temple last Monday afternoon," I said. "Let her off in Middle Temple Lane. Which was mostly deserted, I imagine, with everyone at dinner."
Gower nodded. "Would have been, yes."
"It was an excellent hour," I said, "in which to meet her."
The lanky youth simply looked at me.
"That's the truth," Thompson agreed. "It was just dark. Everyone would be eating or diligently finishing his work. Or smoking cheroots," he added, with a grin at Gower.
"What did you see?" I asked him.
Gower stared across the river into the mists slowly consuming the buildings on the far bank. His brows drew together, then he shook his head, his face open.
"Nothing. I'm sorry, gentlemen. I smoked, grew cold, and bolted back inside."
"Hmm," I said.
Gower shrugged again. His long arms stuck out of his robe to reveal the coat sleeves that Grenville had noticed.
"I find it interesting," I said. "You told us that you'd come to Middle Temple to apprentice because, you said, someone in your family needed to make money. Yet, Mr. Grenville identified your suit as being made by a fine tailor in Bond Street. He was much impressed. Very few men can afford a suit that would impress Lucius Grenville."
Gower shrugged, looking pleased. "I had a windfall. Had a flutter on the races and made a packet. Spent it all on fine living."
I watched him, and so did Thompson. Sir Montague kept staring at the water.
"You would make a fine barrister, Mr. Gower," I said. "You have a smooth answer for every question. What if I ask you one point blank-did you meet Mrs. Chapman here last Monday afternoon? And ask her for money?"
Gower met my gaze easily, his blue eyes warm and friendly. "Why do you ask, Captain?"
"Because I believe you did. And I believe that you killed her."
Gower at last lost his smile. The freckles stood out on his face in dark patches. "Why should I? I barely knew the woman."
"Because Mrs. Chapman kept her share of the profits from The Glass House in her attic room, a sum that ought to have been substantial. Yet, when a man broke in after her death and stole her money box, he found it disappointingly empty. He assumed that she'd spent it all, but I do not think so. While I found a few trinkets and fripperies in her rooms, there were no jewels or anything very expensive-nothing a middle-class woman living on a barrister's income could not buy for herself, or have given to her as a gift. Mrs. Chapman wore no jewelry when she died, only a keepsake ring belonging to her lover. But The Glass House was one of the most popular houses in town-the wealthiest of gentlemen went there. She must have made quite a lot of money from it. So I wonder, where has all that money gone?"
"Perhaps this bloke that broke into her room stole it," Gower said. "Killed her too."
I touched the collar of Gower's fine coat. "I think, instead, that some of it went to a Bond Street tailor."
"What did you blackmail her for?" Thompson asked.
Gower looked back and forth between us. "You have no evidence that I did."
"Life with Chapman was dull, you told us," I said. "I imagine the tedium in his rooms made you look for ways in which to entertain yourself. I am not certain how you discovered Mrs. Chapman's secrets, but you did. Did you threaten to tell her husband that she had a lover, or to tell him about The Glass House? Either would suffice. Chapman could have her arrested for adultery, or if he did not want that humiliation, he could at least restrict her movements and make certain she never saw Lord Barbury again. He also could have demanded the money she made from The Glass House, taken it from her, forced her to end what had become a lucrative business. In short, Chapman could make her life with him even more miserable than it already was."
Gower didn't look worried. "What was between Chapman and his wife has nothing to do with me."
"Perhaps not at first. How did you find out about Mrs. Chapman's life, by the bye? From your university friends who might have known Lord Barbury? From research into such dull subjects as trusts for Chapman? Or, was it another reason? She was a pretty young woman. Perhaps you fancied her, and she snubbed you."
"She had a lover, didn't she?" Gower said, belligerent. "Yes, Mrs. Chapman was pretty, so I followed her about. I saw her with her lover one night, her dressed like a high-flyer, his arm around her waist, them billing and cooing. Wasn't that interesting? I thought. Poor old Chapman."
"So you blackmailed her," I said.
"Not right away. I followed her for nigh on a sixmonth, until I knew every single one of Mrs. Chapman's dirty little secrets."
"Blackmailers always come to bad ends," Thompson remarked. "The law frowns on it, you know."
"Why did you kill her?" I asked. "If she was keeping you in fine suits?"
Gower looked stricken. "I didn't. She only gave me money a few times. It's not like I bled her dry."
"She came here to see you last Monday evening, just after dark," I said. "You met her in the Gardens-here-and she gave you another payment. Perhaps you quarreled, perhaps she threatened to tell Lord Barbury, perhaps she told you she'd already informed him of everything. Perhaps you panicked and killed her to keep her quiet."
Gower shook his head. "You're wrong. I never killed her. She was angry with me, right enough. She told me it was for the last time."
"What did you do then? Did you strike her? Or perhaps you asked her for more than money, and killed her when she refused you?"
"She slapped me." Gower's eyes sparkled in outrage. "Acted like she was better than me, her an actress and a tart. So I slapped her back. Then Mrs. Chapman flew at me, ready to claw my eyes out. It was raining hard. She slipped and fell and came crashing down on the steps. She gasped once, and then she just lay there."
He stared down at the steps, looked bewildered, as though he still saw her body crumpled in the rain.
"Why the devil didn't you
run for help?" I demanded, holding onto my temper with effort.
"She was dead already. Besides, if I’d gone for help, I'd have had to explain what I was doing out on the Temple Stairs with Chapman's wife. I didn't want Chapman to sack me, dull as he is. I must become a barrister; I told you, my family needs the money. But no one had seen. So I rolled her off into the Thames. The rain took care of the blood. Simple as that."
I walked down a few stairs, then turned and looked back. The dome of St. Paul's cathedral, ghostly in the rain and mists, rose above the high houses of the Temples behind the quivering Gower.
"She died here," I said. "While you stood and watched. Then you took the money and bought yourself a new suit."
"What would you have done?" Gower asked. "I didn't kill her. It was an accident."
I moved back up the stairs, anger suffusing my every move. "You did kill her. You brought her here because of your greed and your meanness. Peaches would not have been here to die, if not for you."
"She was the one cuckolding her husband and running a bawdy house," Gower said.
I made for him. Gower backed away in some alarm, and Thompson stepped between us. "Now, Captain," he said, eyes quiet. "Let us not have another body in the Thames."
The jovial admonition made Gower look still more worried, but it stopped me. "Accident or no, you are responsible," I said.
Sir Montague at last turned from watching the river, as though he'd done no more in the last twenty minutes than enjoy the view. "On the other hand, Lord Barbury's death was no accident," he said in his cheerful tones. "Unless you accidentally put a gun to his head and shot him?"
Gower went dead white.
"I am a magistrate, Mr. Gower," Sir Montague went on. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"
Gower looked at him for a long while, then at Thompson, who stood quietly beside him, then at me. "You must have proof to arrest me," he said. "Or a witness. You cannot prosecute on Captain Lacey's speculations. You must have evidence. I know the law."
Sir Montague chuckled. "That you do. But so do I, Mr. Gower. And I have a witness."
Gower stared. "I don't believe you."
"There is a Bow Street Runner called Mr. Pomeroy," Sir Montague said. "He much enjoys his duties. He pounded Mount Street up and down for two days, questioning everyone he could get his hands on. And he found a witness, a footman, who was awake very late that night. A footman who looked out the window in time to see you walk past Lord Barbury then turn around and shoot him in the head. You dragged his lordship to his own front doorstep then ran off fast as you could. You put the pistol in his hand to make it seem as though he'd shot himself."
"I do not believe you," Gower said again, though his bravado was flagging. "If this footman had seen someone shoot Lord Barbury, he would have run at once for the watch."
"But this particular footman, though he'd been a respectable servant for fifteen years, once had been transported for the crime of theft. A transported man returning to England usually means his death. He'd come back to take care of his family, reformed his ways, and took honest employment. Didn't much want the magistrates to recognize him, so he kept quiet, until our diligent Mr. Pomeroy got the story out of him. I've promised to help him, if he stands up as a witness."
"A convicted thief?" Gower asked incredulously. "One who escaped his punishment? What sort of a witness is that?"
"Oh, I agree that the jury might take his character against him when they listen to his evidence. But he saw you. And it is on that evidence that I am arresting you, Mr. Gower, for the murder of Lord Barbury. A peer of the realm, no less." He clucked his tongue. "What the devil were you thinking?"
Predictably, Gower tried to run. Thompson caught him at once. The Thames policeman might be thin, but he was wiry and strong. He and Sir Montague walked Mr. Gower back between them to the hackney, and I remained behind to stare at the river while they took him to Bow Street.
Chapter Twenty
Mr. Gower had believed Peaches had told Lord Barbury all about Gower's blackmailing. That is what Sir Montague told me later, and I related all to Grenville the next afternoon over ale and beef in a tavern in Pall Mall. Gower knew that if his schemes came out, Sir Montague said, the lad would lose his position as Chapman's pupil, and no other barrister would take him on. He'd never become a barrister, a silk, a high court judge.
Gower confirmed this at his trial the next week, at the Old Bailey, he on the wrong side of the dock. The trial was swift. Gower was convicted of the murder of Lord Barbury and sentenced to hang.
I left the courtroom, my melancholia stirring. Gower had tried to brave it out until the last, but he'd been no match for the prosecutor, a prominent man from Lincoln's Inn. Lord Barbury's family had paid for the best. Gower's family, likewise, was there, respectable middle-class people, stunned at this aberration in their lives.
Such a needless one. If Gower had not panicked and shot Lord Barbury, he would have been convicted of nothing. Peaches had died by accident, and there was no evidence to prove a case of blackmail.
In this mood, I returned home to Grimpen Lane to finish my packing. I would leave on the morrow for Berkshire.
I met Bartholomew coming down the stairs. "Just nipping to the Gull, sir," he said, naming the tavern from which he usually fetched supper. "Was Mr. Gower convicted?"
I nodded and told him what happened. Bartholomew looked interested, but also in a hurry. He barely waited for me to finish before he hastened past me and into the darkened street.
I made my way upstairs, my feelings mixed. I had found my villain, and Peaches was avenged.
But I also still blamed Chapman and Lord Barbury for her death. Each of them could have paid more attention to her, could have cherished her and protected her, kept her safe. Instead, they'd gone on with their lives, assuming that Peaches would be there whenever they wanted her.
Just as, God help me, I had done with my own wife. They had not understood-they'd not known what a hole you faced when you turned around, and the one you'd thought would always be there was gone.
With these dismal thoughts, I opened the door to my rooms. I heard the rustle of silk and smelled lemony perfume, and with that, my melancholia eased.
Louisa stretched out her hands to me. I took them, and she squeezed mine, smiling at me like the Louisa of old.
"Gabriel," she said. "You look dreadful."
"It's pouring rain and all over mud and I've been to a dreary trial," I answered, releasing her. "Was it you who sent Bartholomew racing away for dinner?"
"I told him to hurry, so it might be hot for you when you returned."
"I would be pleased to share it with you," I said. "Although it will be barely edible in your eyes."
Our words were light, unimportant, but I felt the strain of them.
"I will not stay," she said. "I am dining with Lady Aline this evening." Her eyes went quiet. "You are leaving tomorrow."
"Yes."
I'd written her and Brandon again this week, telling them when I was to leave and how to write me at Sudbury.
"I am quite angry with you," Louisa continued.
"I know. You have told me."
"This is for an entirely new reason. I spoke to Mr. Grenville yesterday evening. He seemed quite astonished that I had not heard of your adventures of last Sunday week. And I was astonished also. Why the devil did you not tell me?"
I shrugged. "There was little to tell. I survived, as you can see."
"Do not be flippant, Gabriel." Louisa's tone softened. "I could have lost you, my friend. And the last thing we had done before that was quarrel."
"I did not hold that against you." I smiled.
"Stop." Louisa held up her hands. "Stop being noble. You are dear to me, you know that. Why do you insist on making me so angry?"
"It is what dear friends do, Louisa. Quarrel and forgive over very stupid things. Were we strangers, we would not care."
Louisa gave me a deprecating look. "You have turned philosop
her. Very well, I will put things simply. If, while you are in Berkshire, you find that you need help, you will ask me, and put your pride aside."
"Of course," I said, relaxing. She was still angry at me, but Louisa was acknowledging that she did not want me out of her life entirely.
"And if you escape from death by a hair's breadth again, you will at least have the courtesy to tell me," she said sternly.
"You will be the first to hear the tale."
She gave me a severe look, then she shook her head. "We have been friends too long for this, Gabriel. Please know that I still think you are too stubborn for words. I will not stand by while you needle my husband, but I am not ready to lose you, yet."
"And I will never be ready to lose you."
We studied each other, her gray eyes clear in the candlelight.
"Do not think I have forgiven you," Louisa said. "I still believe you are in the wrong about Aloysius."
"I know."
I would capitulate to Brandon if she wanted me to, as bitter as the words would taste. I valued her enough that I could at least cease hurting her.
We returned to watching each other in silence. We did not always have to speak; we had said plenty over the years.
I heard Bartholomew bang back inside, and then the odor of overcooked beef wafted up the stairwell. Bartholomew entered the room without looking at either of us, deposited a tray on the writing table, and bustled around for the cutlery.
I smiled at Louisa, and she smiled at me.
"I might forgive you not telling me of your adventures," Louisa said, "if you sit down and tell me everything, now, from beginning to end. Leaving out no detail, however small. I told Lady Aline that I might be late."
I accepted her terms. I seated her in the wing chair, sat down to my afternoon repast, and began my tale.
The next afternoon, I departed London. Grenville offered his chaise and four to take me to Berkshire, and I accepted. While I disliked taking favors, I could not argue that his private conveyance would be much more comfortable than a mail coach crammed with passengers.
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