Dulcie Bligh

by Maggie MacKeever

  Chapter 3

  From beneath the wide brim of her fantastic bonnet, Lady Bligh observed the Chief Magistrate. A man upon whom responsibility weighed heavily, Sir John wore a permanent frown on his deeply lined face. London possessed no official police force, and it was the Chief Magistrate’s duty to see justice upheld, despite corrupt state officials who were indifferent to truth and conviction and even guilt. Runners and patrolmen existed on a mere pittance, yet were expected to render assistance to any who requested it, with no fee but the hope of a grateful reward. Sir John lived in the hope of reform—first, of the archaic laws that made it possible for the rich to buy their freedom while the poor rotted in prison for the crime, it sometimes seemed, of simply being alive; and, above all, of the insane process which required that Bow Street could investigate a crime only at a private citizen’s request.

  “Poor John,” said the Baroness, as if she knew of his earlier interview with a superior who had irately denied his request for additional funds. As that gentleman had pointed out, the Chief Magistrate had access to constables from the parishes, watchmen, beadles and the like; but, Sir John had countered, it was equally true that some parishes had too many of these auxiliaries, and other parishes hardly any at all. He pushed the recollection of that unpleasant interview aside.

  “I am sorry to have had to summon you here to Bow Street, Dulcie,” said the Chief Magistrate, raising shaggy brows. “But you have been having a May-game with one of my best men.” He permitted himself a brief inspection of the Baroness, who had changed little in appearance since their first meeting, countless years before. Full figured and striking, yet with an air of fragility, Dulcie was unquestionably the most beautiful woman he had ever known. She blinked and smiled brilliantly, transporting him to other times and places. “Can it be,” he added, after he had collected his wits, “that you do not wish to see justice served?”

  “John!” protested the Baroness. Her attitude was as easy as if she were exchanging the latest on-dits with other social lions at Holland House. “You are most unfair. Surely you do not think I would connive at letting miscreants run free.”

  “I think,” retorted Sir John, “that it would depend upon the criminal and his particular offense.” He had to force himself to be stern. Lady Bligh brought life into his malodorous chamber, which was haunted by the ghost of many a miserable prisoner. Clad in an ensemble of Pompeian red, with plaitings at the bodice and the wrists, petals on her shoulders and ruchings at the bottom of her skirt, and in a tippet of green satin, Dulcie was as festive as any Christmas tree. Upon her curls, today the palest pink, sat a red confection trimmed with bands and bows of green. Sir John tried again. “Do you care to explain to me the mysterious Mr. Urquehart?”

  Lady Bligh bubbled with merriment. “It was the most diverting thing! Your Mr. Crump was as watchful as a setter with a scent, but dared not accuse us outright of perfidy.”

  The Chief Magistrate did not share her amusement at Crump’s expense. He had an unadmitted soft spot for his Runners, whom the world dismissed as spies who denounced criminals for government reward. Reward! thought Sir John derisively. There was precious little money to be earned by Bow Street. Only two felonies—highway robbery and burglary—roused the least interest from the government.

  Dulcie frowned. “You have grown deuced serious! I think it is a very good thing that I did not marry you, John. It is obvious that we do not suit.”

  “So you said at the time.” Though he appreciated the Baroness, and once had loved her to distraction, Sir John could not but agree. “Why did you treat poor Crump to such a Banbury tale?”

  “I could not help myself. It was very bad of me, I know, but you must allow me my small amusements.” Before his eyes, Dulcie grew helpless and frail. “It is little enough that’s left to me.”

  “Rot!” Sir John leaned forward, elbows on the battered desk. “Why do you seek to work your wiles on me? Is there perhaps something you wish to hide?”

  “No sense of humor whatsoever,” mourned the Baroness. With a deft maneuver of one hand, she helped herself to snuff. “Frankly, I wished to test your perspicacity.” She studied him. “You have grown shockingly stuffy, but don’t want in wit. How serious do you consider my nephew’s involvement in Arabella’s death?’“

  The Chief Magistrate was not surprised by this sudden attack; Dulcie’s impetuous manner was not unknown to him. “I can’t tell you that until I learn the truth of yesterday.”

  “Not can’t, but won’t.” Dulcie crossed her arms, drawing Sir John’s attention to the low-cut neckline of her gown. Her manner turned confiding. “Very well. As you know, my nephew is a trifle wild, although I do not believe his indiscretions have previously brought him afoul of the law.”

  Only strong affection could lead anyone to refer to the disreputable Earl of Dorset in such mild terms, but it was true that Dickon was not among those aristocrats who deliberately flaunted authority. Even in his youth, Lord Dorset had refrained from such high-spirited pranks as boxing the watch. The Charleys were inefficient night watchmen whose main activities were walking the streets, armed with wooden rattles, and shouting stentorously every half-hour. It was rare sport among young bloods to steal upon a snoozing Charley and tip his box front downwards, leaving the unfortunate watchman lying in the mud, with his box on top of him, until a good Samaritan arrived to set him right again. “Go on.”

  “You can imagine my consternation when I found a thieftaker in my morning room. One would think Dickon was a common felon about to be dragged off to jail.”

  The Chief Magistrate was long inured to hearing his men spoken of in unappreciative terms. In the 1770’s, the government had agreed to finance the foot patrols; yet even now, forty-four years later, Bow Street patrolmen were so little valued that they earned one scant guinea a day. The Runners, except for the few like Crump who earned significant amounts of reward money, took home thirty shillings a week. It was not surprising that some Bow Street men were slightly less than honest; they would starve on official pay. “You should have known better,” he remarked. “Were Lord Dorset to be taken into custody, I would not send Crump after him.”

  “Yes,” Dulcie admitted, “but I was mighty curious. Dickon is devilish close-mouthed, and I took the opportunity to learn from Crump what was going on.” She smiled ruefully. “I wish I had not, for this is a pretty kettle of fish. Now, as matriarch, it is incumbent upon me to clear the family name.”

  Despite himself, Sir John’s lips twitched, for a more unlikely matriarch he had never seen. The blushing curls had begun to escape her bonnet, which was decidedly askew.

  “John,” Dulcie said, with unusual seriousness, “I don’t know what to do. It is intolerable that Dickon should be involved in this.”

  To his surprise, the Chief Magistrate found himself determined that Lady Bligh should be spared any unpleasantness. By some strange magic the Baroness brought enchantment to the most tediously mundane matters, and some trace lingered of the spell that she had cast on him so long ago. She still, at more than fifty years of age, managed to look like one recently arisen, well satisfied, from a lovers’ tryst. He tried to resist his feelings, reflecting that she had spent much of the intervening time engaged in the frivolous pursuits so enjoyed by the Upper Ten Thousand, and was furthermore married to an erratic and irreverent Baron who suited her admirably. Though Sir John had been born into its illustrious ranks, he had only contempt for the haut ton.

  “I wish you would say something,” Dulcie remarked petulantly. “It is deuced uncomfortable to sit here while you glower into empty air.”

  The Chief Magistrate rubbed his forehead and thought of the various serious matters that demanded his personal attention, among them the periodic attempts made on his life by frustrated criminals; the imminent advent of the King of Prussia, a gaunt and melancholy man who had to be protected from the enthusiastic interest of the mob; the impudent antics of a law-scorning highway-robber known as The Gentleman who inspired
well-heeled aristocrats with dread. And still it seemed of paramount importance that he should quiet Lady Bligh’s unease. “Lord Dorset’s involvement,” he said carefully, “is circumstantial. Crump wished to question him concerning details that might help us to discover the culprit.”

  “Circumstantial? When Dickon’s knife was utilized?” Dulcie wrinkled her brow. “I suppose there is no doubt that it was his knife?”

  “None at all.” Sir John concentrated on a very uninteresting letter opener. “It is an uncommon piece, one that I myself have seen in his possession. Dulcie, I will confide in you, but I must have your word that what I tell you will not go beyond this room.”

  “Of course.”

  “That knife was not the instrument of Lady Arbuthnot’s death.” The Chief Magistrate leaned back in his chair, aware that he was being extremely indiscreet “She was poisoned.”

  The Baroness abruptly abandoned her worried pose. “Poison! Administered by whom?”

  “If you can answer that, Dulcie, you are far wiser than I.” He didn’t allow her time to comment. “It was a slow-acting toxin that could have been administered any time that evening.”

  “Then why,” Dulcie frowned, “the knife?”

  “It seems that someone was anxious to implicate Dickon. We also found, in the fireplace, letters that he had written to Lady Arbuthnot. They were not completely burned.”

  “Letters!” The Baroness was rigid with astonishment. “Good God, I am surprised that Dickon put forth so much effort! He didn’t care two figs for her, you know.”

  This was an odd comment to make about a man and his mistress, but Sir John was not unacquainted with their history. Arabella had seen in Lord Dorset an admirable diversion from her tedious marriage to a titled gentleman much older than she. The intrigue had outlasted both the lady’s marriage and her bereavement, for even after she was free, the Earl had shown a marked disinclination to make their relationship either honorable or permanent. Nor had the affair ceased when Arabella married Sir William Arbuthnot. Lord Dorset, however, was far from devoted to his inamorata, frequently neglecting her for weeks at a time, and for ladies of far less social standing. The Chief Magistrate suspected Dickon found it amusing to be so relentlessly pursued.

  “I’ve often wondered,” Dulcie mused, “if she was anything more to Dickon than a means to annoy Humbug.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The Chief Magistrate was startled.

  Lady Bligh smiled. “As Dickon is my best-loved nephew, Hubert Humboldt is my least. They exist in a state of most unamiable enmity. Hubert was among Arabella’s swains, but she had no time for him when Dickon was around. Dickon calls his cousin Humbug, and I fear I’ve caught the habit. It is such an apt nickname.”

  Sir John, who was acquainted with the gentleman, offered no dissent. Humboldt’s preoccupation with matters of fashion and etiquette might be overlooked, if one was charitable enough to tolerate mincing fops, but Hubert also had a malicious tongue, and an audacity of manner that rivaled Brummel himself. The Chief Magistrate, who had once been on the receiving end of that vituperative wit, most unprofessionally considered the possibility of sending Humbug to Newgate.

  “We have digressed,” the Baroness announced. “The point is, Dickon’s involvement with Arabella could not be considered serious.”

  “I reached the same conclusion,” Sir John’s agreement was prompted by an epistle found in Arabella’s desk, in which Dorset declared, in unmistakably strong language, his determination to accept no further impassioned and perfumed missives from her ladyship.

  “What were Arabella’s activities,” Dulcie inquired, “on the evening of her death?”

  The Chief Magistrate, who had not spoken at length with Lady Bligh for many years, had forgotten the quickness of her mind. “Lady Arbuthnot attended a rout,” he replied, “from which she departed early. She did not return to Arbuthnot House until a much later hour.”

  “Where was she in the meantime?”

  “We do not know.”

  “Humph,” said the Baroness. “It seems to me, John, that you do not know a great many things. You have an unenviable task ahead of you.”

  The Chief Magistrate had already received demands from exalted quarters that an arrest be quickly made. It was Sir John’s opinion that the murderer would fastest be caught through the tracing of the missing jewels. Crump was invaluable in this regard, for he often disguised himself and worked as a spy among thieves. Once the stolen property was recovered, it was returned to its owner only after both the thief and Bow Street had received a percentage. Such practices brought further censure on Bow Street, and Sir John would have preferred to concentrate his efforts on capturing the criminal instead of recovering the booty. His opinion, however, carried little weight.

  Dulcie stirred, drawing his attention. “I wonder precisely what Sir William was doing that night. It seems to me that your attention should center on him.”

  It was common knowledge that Lady Arbuthnot had little time for her spouse, an outspoken and highly opinionated nincompoop. “Sir William,” said the Chief Magistrate dryly, “has an alibi. He was in attendance at the Cyprians Ball.” This annual function, where courtesans entertained their admirers and protectors, was held at the Argyle Room.

  “Unfortunate.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to discuss your nephew’s whereabouts on that particular night?”

  “My dear man, you must ask Dickon that. I suspect he was keeping an assignation with my companion; they are well on the way to being unofficially betrothed. Lavender has an absurd notion that her position renders her ineligible to become a Countess, and an even more ridiculous idea that I would not approve.” The Baroness adjusted her tippet. “They are most amusing to observe.”

  “The felon entered Arbuthnot House through a lower-story window.” The Chief Magistrate reached into a pocket and drew forth a brass button. “He left this behind.”

  Dulcie rose to peer over his shoulder. “Fascinating. It appears to be from a gentleman’s coat.”

  “Precisely.” Sir John squelched an insane urge to disregard the proprieties and pull Lady Bligh into his lap. “Lord Dorset is missing a button of the same pattern from an evening coat.”

  Dulcie did not waste time inquiring how Sir John had become so intimate with her nephew’s wardrobe. “It doesn’t signify. Dickon was a frequent caller at Arbuthnot House and could have lost it at any tune. Nor is the fact that he lost a button conclusive evidence that this button is his.”

  “True.” The Chief Magistrate pocketed the item. To his relief, the Baroness moved away. She was the personification of a world that Sir John seldom entered, the playground of gay and glittering aristocrats devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, an elite and artificial sphere that existed in determined ignorance of stinking poverty and rampant crime. “Crump tells me Gibbon is a member of your household. I trust he functions more efficiently as a butler than he did in my employ.” The Chief Magistrate touched his pocket watch, an item of no small historical significance that had once belonged to Sir Henry Fielding, the great magistrate and author. Bow Street policy was to set a thief to catch a thief, but Gibbon too often proved reluctant to return stolen property, once he had recovered it.

  “Gibbon is invaluable to me,” Dulcie retorted. Her butler had not totally reformed: he picked the pockets of those callers of whom he disapproved.

  Dulcie rose, and the Chief Magistrate realized, with a pang, that his visitor was preparing to depart. “I appreciate your frankness, John; you have set my mind at ease.” She smiled wistfully. “It has been too long since we have talked like this. I hope you will allow me to return your hospitality, and will call on me.”

  “I am kept well occupied here.” He indicated the untidy stacks of paper that overflowed the scarred desk. “Before you leave, Dulcie, there is one other thing.”

  “Yes?” She was all interest.

  “Crump was most anxious to understand your knowledge of his missing pipe.�
� Again the letter opener came into play. “I was forced to spend an exhausting half-hour trying to render an explanation, with lamentable results.”

  Dulcie laughed. “Poor Mr. Crump was all confusion. I assume it was where I said it would be?”

  “Of course.” Sir John’s gaze was speculative. “Just how far does your foresight extend?”

  “I know little enough of value. You will remember that my hunches are unpredictable. You should be grateful for it, John: could I but call upon such gifts at will, your Runners would be out of a job.”

  “So they would.” Sir John was constantly torn between his wish for an adequate citywide police force and the knowledge that this reform would mean the end of Bow Street. “I must beg you to refrain from such displays in the future. Your flashes of intuition are impossible to explain, and I am a busy man.” His smile briefly lifted the weight of years from his tired features. “Crump is convinced that you are most oddly mad.”

  “Poor John.” Dulcie’s own smile, this time, was sincere. “If you send your Mr. Crump around this afternoon, I will see to it that Dickon answers any questions he may wish to ask. It is the least I can do in atonement for my sins.”

  “Crump.” The heavy eyebrows frowned. “Would you not prefer someone else?”

  “I refuse to speak with anyone else. Your dedicated little Crump amuses me.” Lady Bligh regarded her one-time beau. “I promise that I shall try to cause you no further difficulty, John.’’

  So far from being reassured was the Chief Magistrate that he had a dreadful vision of the Baroness caught in an unknown killer’s toils. “Dulcie, you must not become further involved in this thing. Give me your word that you will not interfere.”

  Dulcie tucked escaping tendrils of hair beneath her extravagant bonnet. “I will promise you anything, John, if you will only come to tea.” She left the room blithely, as if her purpose had been achieved.

  The Chief Magistrate, lost in unwilling memories of the bewitching young creature that had so long ago enslaved him, moved to the window. The Baroness had been an enchanting girl, a well-bred temptress whose dark-eyed glance hinted at intoxicating pleasures of an intoxicating sort. Sir John was shocked to discover that he was still capable of being tantalized.