Mackay. But why was still a mystery.
“Go on,” I said, warming to the man.
“Mr. Derwent was so unhappy in the common rooms that Mr. Travers asked for a private parlor. Mr. Derwent had the blunt to pay for it, I know. No one went into the parlor with them; and I was given much wild speculation about what they got up to in there. But this speculation was given to me by drunken and randy men, so I took no notice of it.”
“Did the gentleman they’d made the appointment with turn up?” I asked.
“Apparently not. After about an hour or so, the two young men left the room. I knew he would not come, Mr. Derwent said, or so the barman told me. Mr. Travers looked angry; Mr. Derwent, gleeful. Smug, the barman said, as though he’d won a point over Mr. Travers. Mr. Travers was scowling as he put on his hat and departed the house with Mr. Derwent. I put a bit more credit into what the barman said, because he was the least drunken fellow in the place. Careful about sampling the wares. Likes to keep himself alert, so he told me.”
I took a moment to digest the information. Freddie’s report tallied with Denis’s man’s—that Leland and Gareth entered the Bull, went into a private room, then departed.
“Did anyone follow them out?” I asked. “Did they leave alone, or in a crowd?”
Freddie shrugged his broad shoulders. “There’s much coming and going in that place. Even in the short few hours I sat there, men came in and out, either paring up with those they met inside, or having an ale, going out, and coming back in again later. Made me rather dizzy to watch. It is unusual for a gentleman to simply sit and enjoy his brandy, I gathered. I had many requests for my person and several proposals of marriage before I departed.”
“I see you emerged unscathed,” Marianne said.
Freddie turned a serious face to her. “Not without difficulty. I am happy I persuaded you to leave. If I had been less robust, I’d have been dragged off and gone at.”
I broke in. “But nothing of that sort happened to Leland?”
“No, indeed. Mr. Travers was protective of him, bless him. Didn’t let the rough boys near him. When the two departed, they did so without impediment. But as I say, many go in and out the door at the same time. They could have been followed.”
“Or someone lay in wait for them outside,” I said.
Why had Mackay missed the appointment? I wondered. Had he simply been late? Or had he arranged to have Leland and Gareth waylaid? And what the devil for?
“Did anyone overhear what the meeting might have been about?” I asked, without much hope.
“Not that I could discern,” Freddie replied. “Speculation ran from them waiting for a so-called vicar to marry them to waiting for someone to return a book.”
“Book?” I asked.
“Yes, an odd thing to go on about there. A French book they said, which, I imagine, means one full of enticing pictures and stories. Of the bawdy sort, if I am not being plain enough for you, Captain.”
“I have read French books,” I said. I had been in the army, fighting Frenchmen, and I’d lived in France during the Peace of Amiens. Plenty of books of drawings and erotic stories had circulated among the officers. I remembered one story in particular, about a gentleman at a gathering in Paris where ladies and gentlemen of society masked themselves and chose partners at random. The gentleman described himself and the robust lady he’d paired up with disporting themselves on a sofa with such exuberance that they’d bounced off the cushions six feet into the air. The exaggeration had made me laugh. I’d tried to share the silly story with my first wife, and shocked her senseless. She hadn’t spoken to me for days and regarded me in trepidation, as though fearing I wished to recreate the tale with her. If I told Donata that story, she’d laugh with me and then say something disparaging about French imagination.
“Not books like these, I’d wager,” Freddie said, a wicked sparkle in his eyes. “But as I say, I could only get anything clear from the barman, and he heard very little. I find that when gentlemen reach a place where the forbidden is no longer forbidden, they rather lose their self-control. Why they feel themselves safe, I have no idea. I would hate to be in that place when the Runners closed in. The owner, apparently, has an agreement with the magistrates, but such arrangements are fickle.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It was good of you to go. You did not know me—you had no reason to put yourself in danger at my request.”
“Not at all.” Freddie waved my thanks away. “Like any actor, I enjoy a chance to perform. And Mr. Derwent is a good lad. I was very upset when Marianne told me what happened to him. He did not deserve that, and neither did Mr. Travers.”
“You do not know a man called Nelson Mackay, by chance?” I asked.
Freddie leaned back and studied the ceiling. “Mackay … No, I cannot recall such a gentleman.”
“Curly black hair, blue eyes, soft face. A City man.”
Freddie’s brows drew together as he thought, but he shook his head. “I am sorry, but no.”
“Never mind,” I said quickly. “You have done me a good turn. Thank you.”
“Again, it was entirely my choice. I hope it has been of some help.”
I assured him it had. Though he had not jerked the killer from the shadows and presented him to me, I had more to think about, and who knew where that would lead?
Freddie asked to be let out in Great Wild Street, where he had lodgings. He shook my hand when the carriage stopped, and held out his hand to Brewster as well.
“I am always pleased to meet a patron of comedy,” Freddie told Brewster. “I have a gift for it, yes, but alas, the public only takes seriously the tragedians. Delighted to have met you, Captain. Please give my kind regards to Mr. Grenville, if I can make so bold. He is a fine figure of a man, but I know he only has eyes for our Miss Simmons. Good night, dear Marianne. Thank you for the adventure.”
So speaking, he pressed a kiss to Marianne’s cheek, climbed nimbly out of the carriage, shut the door himself, and lifted his hand in farewell. The coach rolled forward, and Freddie was lost into the night and rising mist.
“Well,” Marianne said, as she sat back, crossing her booted ankles. “You have met the famous Frederick Hilliard. What do you think?”
“Quite the gentleman,” Brewster said at once. “In spite of him being an unnatural.”
“He seems personable enough,” I said.
“He is one of the most kind-hearted gentlemen I know,” Marianne said. “A lovely man. Unless you step on his lines, and then he will destroy you. With his rapier wit, of course. More than one actor has found this out, to his detriment.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Marianne declared she was exhausted and went home to her rooms in Grimpen Lane—more likely mine, but I made no objection. Brewster remained with me after we dropped her at the corner of Grimpen Lane and Russel Street, and we returned to Grosvenor Square. I knew Spendlove would not want me back, but I intended to be there when he questioned Sir Gideon and the others.
Another carriage waited in the square near the Derwent mansion. I did not recognize it, but discovered quickly, once the footman had admitted us, that Sir Montague Harris had arrived.
I had not expected him until morning, but I was very pleased he’d come. The imminent arrest of so well-known a gentleman as Sir Gideon must have spurred him to race here from Whitechapel.
“Lacey, my boy,” Sir Montague said, puffing his way from the drawing room as I entered the house. “A pretty problem you’ve brought to my attention.” He bent an eye on the two Runners who followed him. “Mr. Spendlove and Mr. Pomeroy are going over the details of the murder with me. I am lucky to have two of the best investigators in London on the spot, and I look forward to them impressing me.”
Pomeroy barked a laugh, but Spendlove scowled. He and Sir Montague had tangled in the past, with Spendlove emerging the loser.
Under the watchful eye of Sir Montague, Pomeroy and Spendlove questioned every member of staff, none of whom ha
d gone to bed this night, again. I followed Spendlove and asked questions of my own, much to his annoyance. He tolerated me hanging at his elbow, but only just.
The trouble was, though the servants below stairs responded with truth in their eyes, it became clear that a determined person could have gotten past them into the house. No break-in would be necessary. Every night, before the house was shut up, a stream of the poor and hungry flowed down the outside stairs to receive the scraps the kitchen threw away. They never lingered, lest the neighbors complain, only took their food and left. The kitchen staff knew most of them by sight, but strangers came from time to time as well.
Leftovers had amassed since dear Mr. Derwent’s injury, the cook told us, because the family wasn’t eating much, so more of the hungry had been coming. The cook had continued producing the abundant meals she usually did, not being instructed to cease, and she liked the family’s practice of giving the unused portions to those who could use them.
“I grew up hungry,” the cook told us. She was an ample woman now, with plenty of flesh on her bones. “I understand what it is not to have enough in the belly, and many of those who queue up have hungry mouths to feed at home. We’d just throw away the lot or let it spoil, so why not give to those as need it?”
Spendlove listened without sympathy. “Well, one of those as need it got in here and did a murder, didn’t they?”
“Could they have?” I asked her in more friendly tones. “Slipped past you, I mean?” The cook liked me—I often came down here or sent Bartholomew with compliments for her meals. Now that I had a few more coins to rub together, I’d begun giving her substantial tips as well.
The cook directed her answer to me. “I’m sorry to say, they could have, sir. We’ve been at sixes and sevens below stairs—you can’t know the chaos before and after meals. And while we have our own supper in the hall, none of us are minding the back door.”
“You make it easy for the criminally minded then,” Spendlove growled. “A horde of burglars could come in that door and clean out your master and mistress, and you’d be none the wiser.”
“No, sir,” the cook said firmly. “There’s nothing much to steal and everyone knows it. The family gives away everything they have, poor lambs. They send it out as fast as the master rakes it in. The only thing of value is the silver, and Mr. Bridges has charge of that. No one gets past Mr. Bridges.”
Mr. Bridges was the butler, who did keep a sharp eye on the silver plate, locked up after it was cleaned every night in the butler’s pantry. The plate came from Mrs. Derwent’s family, handed down to her through her mother’s line, and Mr. Bridges kept it jealously guarded. No silver had ever gone missing, he said proudly, and none was missing now. I thought about the lesser pieces in the drawing room, and the porcelain figurines, but none of that was missing either. Denis had said the Derwent artwork was not worth much, and his judgment was expert.
We asked the staff to think about which persons they hadn’t seen before last night and give a description. They did their best, and we came away with the particulars on three men and two women, who had lingered after they’d taken their handouts. They’d gone by the time the house was shut up, but as the cook emphasized, in the chaos of clearing up and settling in for the night, anyone could have been missed.
“He’d have been able to walk right out the front door,” Spendlove said as we returned above stairs. “The lad in the foyer isn’t there all the time.”
True, the footman was called upon by members of the family and other servants to run errands, plus he would have to relieve himself once in a while.
“Surprised the lot of them aren’t murdered in their beds,” Spendlove said sourly. “Thanks to you, Captain, I don’t have a suspect to bring to Sir Nathaniel in the morning. And it was bad of you to bring in Sir Montague Harris. He has no business this far from Whitechapel.”
“You were going to arrest an innocent man,” I said. “I won’t have it.”
“Don’t tell me what you will and won’t have, sir. I’ll have you in irons for something, along with Mr. Denis, see if I don’t. You’ll hang right beside him.”
“As long as I’ve truly done the deed,” I said coolly, “you’re welcome to me.”
*
I don’t know when I fell asleep. I must have been so relieved that I’d turned Spendlove’s attentions from Sir Gideon and the Derwent family that I finally succumbed to exhaustion and sank into a chair somewhere.
The next thing I knew, Bartholomew and Brewster were stuffing me into a carriage under the strident tones of my wife. I fell against the seat, then my senses were bathed in the warmth and scent of Donata beside me.
I slept on her shoulder, vaguely aware she was speaking to me, but I have no idea what about. At the South Audley Street house, Bartholomew was joined by Barnstable to help me upstairs and to bed.
The sun was already rising, the streets filling with servants from the great houses, rushing to fulfill their masters’ wishes. The master of this house, such as he was, fell into a stupor and began to snore.
Donata woke me by sitting up on my bed, her legs folded under her. She clutched a lit cigarillo between her fingers, filling the bed with fragrant smoke. I coughed.
“Ah, you are awake at last,” she said. “This is a pretty pickle. What are you going to do?”
“Lie in bed.” I laced my hands behind my head, every limb heavy. “And enjoy looking at my wife. She is quite beautiful.”
“Flattery will not solve things,” Donata said, though she looked pleased. “I must admit, I was never fond of the Derwents before I met you. Too unworldly, holding themselves to higher morals than anyone else. At least, that is how they seemed to me, and to many others, I might add. Now I feel terribly sorry for them. They have no idea how to deal with what has been thrust upon them. Their predicament is very Vicar of Wakefield, is it not?”
The vicar’s family in that novel—good, upstanding, and kind but naïve people—suffered trouble after trouble that poured upon them. But like Job, the Vicar of Wakefield stood steadfast and patient, and eventually, he and his family were restored to some happiness.
“I hope the ending of the Derwents’ story is as satisfactory,” I said.
“At least no one has kidnapped Melissa into a bawdy house.” Donata shuddered. “But it could so easily be done. The Derwents believe that because they are good people, the rest of the world is good as well. How awful that they have discovered otherwise.”
I laid my hand on hers. “And we, the cynical, worldly, and embittered must help them back to the path of righteousness.”
My wife gave me the disparaging look the statement deserved. “Do not take the metaphor too far, Gabriel. But yes, I want to help them. While they once drove me to distraction, the Derwents now move me to pity.”
I had not had a chance to tell her about my adventures the previous night, so I related what Denis had revealed about Mackay and then my meeting with Marianne and Freddie Hilliard. “So I know Gareth and Leland were alive and well when they left the Bull and Hen,” I finished. “But not who they met between leaving there and finishing up in the passage.”
Donata lifted one shoulder in a shrug, holding the cigarillo negligently between her fingers. “You are a step further. Closer to the place they died.”
“True, but I am still not certain what to make of it. Did they meet with Mr. Mackay at all? Or were they waylaid by others before they could? Mr. Hilliard made mention of a book.” I remembered Gareth’s last conversation with me, when he’d explained that he’d found the means to ease himself from being dependent on Leland. A windfall, he’d said. A fine one. “Books of forbidden erotica, especially well-bound French tomes, can be quite costly,” I went on. Grenville collected first editions and historic books which fetched large prices. “Perhaps Gareth came into possession of such a book—somehow—and wanted to sell it to Mackay, or have Mackay sell it for him. This could explain Leland’s anger at Gareth’s method of obtaining money. Lelan
d is not the sort who would approve of naughty books.”
“No, indeed,” Donata agreed. “He engages in what Mr. Spendlove would call unnatural behavior because he loved Gareth, not because he enjoys lewdness. He is a very proper lad.”
“Mr. Hilliard was disapproving of the clientele of the Bull and Hen as well,” I observed.
“I have made the acquaintance of Mr. Hilliard,” Donata said. “At racing meets and other country events. He is very sporting. Quite a gentleman, and not what one expects from a man happy to dress up in a frock.”
“Perhaps he disapproves of those in the Bull and Hen because he does not want to be arrested and hanged. The men I saw at the tavern were not at all discreet.”
“Hmm.” Donata’s eyes narrowed. “And we have no idea why Mr. Mackay went to the Derwents’ last night.”
“Not yet, no.” I let my hand rest on her silk-clad thigh. “Did he come to inquire after Leland’s health? Had he paid Gareth for the book already and assumed it was at the Derwents’? Or had he decided to help himself to it, whether money had exchanged hands or not? Books were scattered all over the drawing room, as though someone had rifled the bookshelves, so perhaps Mackay, or his killer, was looking for it.” I’d seen none that appeared to be very costly when I’d scanned them—all books were expensive, but I had not noted any that were extraordinary. The Derwents’ books, like their artwork, were acquired for the pleasure they gave, not their value as objects.
I moved on to another possibility. “Or did Mackey seek Sir Gideon to blackmail him about Leland’s proclivities? If so, Sir Gideon might very well have taken up the poker and struck him down. Though I do not like to think it.”
Donata considered. “You said yourself that Sir Gideon had no blood on him. And he did not. I would have seen it.”
“I know. But Spendlove is right that he could have rid himself of the clothes long before we arrived.” I absently stroked Donata’s leg, savoring the warmth beneath the silk. “The explanation I like more is that the killer gained the house through the kitchens, perhaps after seeing Mackay entering and noting the hungry lining the stairs to the scullery door. He waits until Mackay is alone and strikes him dead. Then our murderer exits through the busy kitchen or out the front door when the footman isn’t watching.” I let out a sigh, resting my gaze on the brocade hangings above me. “I have no idea what truly happened. I feel as ineffectual as ever.”
Murder in Grosvenor Square (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 9) Page 20
