A Reputation Dies: A thrilling combination of detective fiction and romance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 1)

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  ‘I thought you told me that the son had joined a troupe of strolling players?’

  ‘Yes, that was the last his parents heard, and even then they knew nothing of the troupe or of their son’s whereabouts. Even his mother’s death didn’t bring the fellow back here, so obviously he has cut all connections with his past. A good riddance, I’d say. But as to one of ours turning out the same because they don’t see enough of me — well, gammon, my love! I dare say they’re all the better for a little healthy neglect until they’re old enough to enjoy a day’s sport, y’know. They’ll need a father’s guiding hand then, perhaps.’

  ‘Oh, William, there’s no doing anything with you!’ protested his wife. ‘But we’d best join our visitors and think up some scheme for their entertainment this afternoon.’

  The voices receded, and Anthea waited only a few minutes before herself returning to the house.

  That same morning, Justin and Runner Watts met in Lincoln’s Inn Fields and strolled together for a time in the bright sunshine.

  ‘All’s settled with the postmaster, sir,’ said Watts. ‘A hidey-hole for me where I’ll see a sign from the clerk when our man asks for the packets. Grimshaw hanging about outside, making out he’s touting for a hackney coachman, and you, sir — where’ll you be waiting?’

  ‘The print shop next door,’ said Justin promptly. ‘There’s enough scurrilous material there to keep me busy for a week, though I hope our man don’t intend to be as long as that before he collects. A sign from Grimshaw will alert me. I’ll keep near the window myself or else set the proprietor on to keep watch for me. That’s all arranged. What news of our friend Cleveland?’

  ‘He’s dispatched the packet all right and tight. We’ve been careful to keep away from his house, as you suggested, in case anyone should be spying on him. Nor has he come to Bow Street. Sir Nathaniel met him instead in one of the clubs. Seems he’s handed in his resignation — says he’s finished, and I don’t doubt he is. Don’t think the Stock Exchange intend a prosecution, though.’

  ‘Well, at least he won’t end up in the King’s Bench prison like Cochrane. The best he can do is to flee to France as he intended when we stopped him.’

  They had turned out of the Fields into Serie Street, making their way back to Chancery Lane, when a man passed by them, walking briskly. For a moment, Justin caught a full view of his face and recognized it instantly.

  This was the drunken actor who had knocked into him on the evening when he had been keeping watch on Dr Wetherby outside the Olympic Theatre.

  He waited until the man had gone ahead a safe distance, then whispered this information to Watts.

  ‘Let’s see where he goes — maybe he lodges round here.’

  Watts nodded. He could see no particular point in ascertaining where this man lived; but he seldom questioned the captain’s decisions, experience having taught him that there was usually method in the other’s seeming madness.

  They sauntered aimlessly behind their quarry, following him the short distance along Serie Street and into Carey Street. After a few yards, he halted and knocked upon one of the doors. It opened at once, as though the occupant had been watching at the window for his arrival. A young girl stood on the doorstep, neat and trim in a muslin gown with pink ribbons, and with an inviting, provocative smile on her red lips. She vanished quickly as the visitor stepped inside, drawing the door to behind him.

  The two in the street continued on their way without a backward glance but with intrigued expressions.

  ‘Now, I wonder?’ mused Watts. ‘That female, all done up as fancy as you please, wasn’t no landlady by my reckoning. What d’you think, sir?’

  ‘My experience of the species is admittedly limited,’ said Justin. ‘All the same, I’d have expected something broader in the beam and about twenty years older, I must admit.’

  ‘Exactly, and that female wouldn’t be a day above eighteen, if I’m any judge o’ womenfolk.’

  ‘Which, my dear chap, of course you are, indubitably,’ grinned Justin.

  ‘Y’know, sir, I’m thinking,’ went on Watts, ignoring this sally. ‘That clerk Probert, at the lawyer’s in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, you recollect, guv’nor? He said he lived in Carey Street and had a young daughter who was a handful — always after the men or they were after her, don’t make much difference. Might well be that same wench, don’t you reckon? And as you say this actor fellow’s a bit of a loose screw, by what the doorkeeper told you, why, those two might well come together — nothing more likely. Actors are on the loose all day, while Probert’s stuck in his office not knowing what Miss gets up to. What d’you think, sir?’

  ‘It sounds probable,’ agreed Justin, ‘but not particularly helpful as far as our own mystery is concerned. Still, who knows? It may fit somewhere into the puzzle.’

  They parted presently, Justin returning to Albemarle Street. He had not been home very long when Selby knocked upon the door of the library.

  ‘Beg pardon, Mr Rutherford,’ he said apologetically. ‘There’s a Mrs Barton asking to see you. Shall I admit her, sir?’

  ‘Mrs Barton?’ For a moment, Justin was at a loss. ‘Do I know the lady?’

  ‘Yes, so she says, though one can’t precisely call her a lady, sir. More of an upper servant I would suppose,’ said Selby, with all the sense of hierarchy of a gentleman’s gentleman.

  Justin smacked a hand against his head.

  ‘Oh, yes, that Mrs Barton!’ he exclaimed. ‘By all means show her in.’

  A few moments later Nurse Barton entered the room, sensibly attired in a dark blue walking dress covered by a warm spencer, and a sober bonnet.

  ‘How d’you do, ma’am?’ Justin greeted her affably. ‘Pray be seated. Can I offer you any refreshment?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you, Mr Rutherford,’ she replied, taking the chair he indicated. ‘I do apologize for intruding on you in this way, but there’s something I think you should know. My lady thinks so, too, but she didn’t feel well enough to come herself.’

  ‘You’ve come from Lady Kinver?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right, sir. You see, I had to tell her — but I’d best explain how it was.’

  He also nodded, keeping silent. Whatever Nurse Barton wished to communicate to him, she would do it best in her own way, without interruptions.

  ‘It was after you came to see me a week ago,’ she began. ‘I’d no notion until then that my poor lady had been paying blackmail all those years on Miss Maria’s account — I couldn’t have believed anyone would be such a monster! But once you said, sir, how you meant to find the villain, and it wouldn’t lead to open scandal for my lady, I began puzzling my wits as to how I could help.’

  She paused, and Justin looked at her rather as a schoolmaster looks at a bright pupil who has momentarily faltered in giving an answer.

  ‘Well, there seemed one way, though I didn’t think my lady would approve of it — raking over dead coals, she’d say, and causing Miss Maria unhappiness. But why shouldn’t she share a little in her mother’s unhappiness, especially as it had all gone by long since and no harm could come of it as far as she’s concerned? So I went down to her home in Sussex and told her how things were, then asked her straight out if she’d spoken the truth when she’d said that Captain Tilsworth had been her seducer.’

  ‘And did she answer you?’

  ‘Not at first, but I soon put a stop to any of that nonsense,’ replied Nurse Barton firmly. ‘In the end, she confessed it had been a lie and told me just how it was. There’d been several young men she’d been flirting with while she was in her aunt’s house, but all was open and above-board with them. There’s no denying she was a flighty girl, Maria. But there was one who didn’t come courting her openly, like the others. She was completely infatuated with him at the time and used to steal out to meet him by night and other such goings-on. Of course, that could only end one way, as you’ll agree, sir.’

  Justin nodded.

  ‘Which it did,’
finished Nurse Barton grimly. ‘She told me the whole. He seduced her in August, and they went on seeing each other until she returned home to London in September. By the middle of October, she knew she was pregnant but was too frightened to say anything to her mother or to me. She wrote to the man though, and he said he couldn’t help her, but suggested ways of getting rid of the baby. Not long afterwards, she had news of Tilsworth’s death, and then her seducer writes to suggest she should put the blame on the captain if the worst happens and she has to give birth to the child.’

  ‘As you remarked when first I interviewed you, dead men tell no tales,’ remarked Justin dryly.

  ‘Exactly so, sir. Well, after the miscarriage she wrote once again to this — this blackguard — telling him that all was well and she’d blamed the captain, and that no one knew of the pregnancy besides her mother, Dr Wetherby and myself. She never heard another word from him again, sir, which don’t surprise me in the least, for a fine specimen he is, as anyone can tell! But by then she’d got over her infatuation for him and was ready to enjoy herself again, putting the past behind her. She was only seventeen, after all,’ said Nurse Barton, trying to make allowances.

  ‘Yes, a very pretty villain,’ said Justin grimly. ‘But you haven’t yet told me his name.’

  She told him. He was not surprised.

  Anthea returned home on the Thursday afternoon and straightaway urged her father to invite his brother over for dinner.

  ‘Why are you so anxious to see Justin?’ he demanded suspiciously. ‘I trust you haven’t been up to any of your mad starts while you’ve been away! He did promise me not to set you on to any of this investigation of his!’

  ‘Neither did he,’ said Anthea calmly. ‘Oh, papa, what a to-do you make over nothing. Cannot I wish to see my uncle without any ulterior motive, other than natural family affection?’

  ‘The straight answer to that is No, my girl,’ replied her father with a chuckle. ‘Not while there’s a mystery for you to dabble your fingers in — I know you only too well. However, I’ll send round a message.’

  As Justin chanced to be at liberty that evening, he accepted the invitation. Anthea lost no time in acquainting him with the conversation she had overheard.

  ‘Do you think it’s of any help?’ she asked doubtfully. ‘Only it did seem to me that if this man is a bad hat —’

  ‘Tut, tut, child,’ he reproved, tongue in cheek. ‘Where do you pick up these cant expressions?’

  ‘From you,’ she replied promptly. ‘No, seriously, Justin, they say he’s a scoundrel and his name is Thompson — I feel most strongly that there must be some connection!’

  ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘you may be right. Well, I’m an Oxford man myself, but I do possess a few friends who went to the other place. It may seem ungrateful, but I think perhaps I shall tear myself away from Edward’s splendid hospitality and do a round of the clubs in search of them.’

  CHAPTER 19

  When Joseph Watts arrived unostentatiously at the receiving office in Fleet Street on Friday, he was informed that the two packets for Mr Thompson were already there awaiting collection. Although the arrangements for surveillance were put into effect on the due date given by the blackmailer, no one expected that he would call that very day to collect his booty. The watchers were quite prepared to be obliged to wait several days — possibly even a week or more — before he did arrive. Justin in particular found this a melancholy prospect but acknowledged that there was no other way if he wished to see the affair through to its climax personally, rather than leave it in the hands of Bow Street. And this he was determined to do. He now knew the true identity of the blackmailer and Yarnton’s murderer; but proof could only be provided by catching the culprit with those packets in his possession.

  Throughout Friday and Saturday, all three watchers remained at their posts until the receiving office closed for the night. During the hours of darkness and all day Sunday, another runner was on duty in case the blackmailer should decide to break into the office and take his packets by a less orthodox method. This was not likely, as the ensuing hue and cry would be the last thing he desired, but it was a possibility they could not afford to overlook.

  By the time Monday afternoon came round, Justin was chafing at the delay. The print shop where he was taking cover provided ample entertainment in the way of caricatures satirizing the London scene, but after two days spent in studying these he found their possibilities exhausted. He indulged in a mild grumble when he slipped in to see Watts briefly from time to time, making use of the rear doors of both premises, which were well away from public view.

  ‘Bless you, sir, we’re used to it,’ was all the consolation Watts could offer. ‘Most cases involve us in surveillance, sometimes for just a few hours, but other times for weeks on end. But if you’d prefer Bow Street to take over —’

  ‘Good God no, Joe! You don’t think I’ve spent so much time on this affair to cry craven at the last ditch? Perish the thought!’

  It was during one of these intervals when they were together that a signal was passed to Watts that someone had arrived in the office asking for Mr Thompson’s post.

  ‘But it’s a female, Mr Watts,’ whispered the postmaster, drawing the runner to the spyhole which afforded a good view of the counter. ‘Over there, see, a pretty young girl. The clerk’s making a business of handing the packets over, awaiting your orders.’

  Justin also took a look. He and Watts eyed each other, then nodded.

  ‘Wench we saw t’other day with that actor chap,’ said Watts in a low tone. ‘Shall we arrest her now, sir, or wait and see what she does with ’em?’

  ‘Wait, decidedly. She’s not the culprit, only a messenger. We’ll follow her and she should lead us to him. Warn Grimshaw — best have him along as well.’

  The girl was handed the packets, which she stowed away in a basket she was carrying, then left the receiving office. People were constantly coming and going, both in the office itself and in the street outside; so she paid not the slightest heed to the three men who followed close on her heels as she continued along Fleet Street and into Chancery Lane. Presently she turned into Carey Street.

  ‘She’s taking ’em to her home,’ muttered Watts. ‘He may be waiting there.’

  Justin nodded and quickly instructed Grimshaw to make his way to the rear of the house where the girl lived to keep a look out for anyone trying to escape that way. Meanwhile, he and Watts continued past the house until they saw the girl enter, then turned back smartly and knocked on the door.

  She opened it at once, the basket still on her arm. At the sight of two total strangers on the doorstep, her eyes widened in surprise. Before she could collect herself, Watts displayed the crown on his official baton.

  ‘A word with you in private, miss.’

  She stared at the baton, seeming not to understand.

  ‘The law, miss,’ explained Watts. ‘Now will you let us in?’

  ‘Oh!’

  She certainly sounded surprised, but neither guilty nor afraid, as Justin noticed. She set down the basket, opened the door wider to admit them both, then shut it and stood regarding them in a puzzled way.

  ‘Miss Probert, I believe?’ asked Justin.

  ‘Yes, I’m Kitty Probert — but how d’you know me? And who are you?’

  ‘Is there anyone else in the house, miss?’ asked Watts, looking suspiciously about him.

  ‘No, there’s no one here at present. What d’you want with me? There’s naught wrong is there? My pa—’

  ‘Be easy, Miss Probert,’ said Justin soothingly. ‘Your parent’s pursuing his lawful occasions at the offices of Binns & Moody, as usual. Our business is with your good self.’

  ‘With me?’ Amazement brought a squeak to her voice. ‘What can you want with me?’

  ‘Perhaps we might sit down somewhere for a few moments,’ suggested Justin, still in the same gentle tone, ‘so that we can explain.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course.�
��

  She picked up her basket, leading the way into a room off the hall at the rear of the house. Through the window, Watts caught a glimpse of his colleague lurking in the small backyard.

  ‘Sit down, do,’ she invited, setting the basket down on a small table. ‘Now, what in the world is this all about, pray?’

  ‘There are two postal packets in yon basket, miss,’ said Watts, nodding his head towards the article in question. ‘You just picked them up from the office in Fleet Street — that’s so?’

  ‘Well, yes —’ she agreed, hesitantly.

  ‘The name written on them is Mr Thompson,’ continued Watts. ‘Right again?’

  She nodded silently.

  ‘Just what d’ye intend to do with them there packets? Keep ’em?’

  ‘Oh, no, no! I collected them for a friend. There’s naught wrong with that, is there?’

  ‘Depends,’ answered Watts laconically. ‘What’s the name of this friend?’

  She gave them a coy glance.

  ‘Come, now, gennelmen, you can’t expect a girl to give away all her secrets.’

  ‘No, only this one,’ said Watts. ‘Cut the cackle, m’dear, and come to the ’osses. Who is he?’

  ‘Does it matter? Oh, very well,’ — as she saw the Runner tighten his mouth — ‘no harm in telling you, as long as you don’t go and let on to pa. You won’t do that, will you?’ she added in consternation.

  ‘Have no fear,’ Justin assured her. ‘Tell me, have you often performed this service for your friend?’

  Instinctively, she reacted to his careless charm and air of Quality. She fluttered her eyelashes and gave him a provocative glance.

  ‘Oh, yes, two or three times altogether.’

  ‘His name,’ grated Watts.

  She turned a petulant look upon him, but at sight of his grim face she quickly replied. ‘Mr Treherne — Theobald Treherne.’

  ‘Then how come these packets are directed to a Mr Thompson?’