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

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  ‘Truth to tell I don’t know, nor never thought to ask,’ she said somewhat tartly. ‘When he comes to see me, we’ve better things to talk about.’

  ‘I’ll wager any odds on that,’ put in Watts.

  She gave him an indignant look. ‘There’s no call to take that tone with me — I ain’t a criminal, I’ll have you know! I just did him a favour by collecting his mail, as anyone might do. I’m sure I never heard so much fuss about a couple of letters in my life!’

  ‘Are you expecting Mr Treherne to call on you presently?’ asked Justin quietly.

  ‘If you must know, I am,’ she said, glancing at the clock, ‘so I’d be obliged if you’d leave.’

  ‘Not so fast, young woman.’ Watts moved close up to her so that she flinched away from him. ‘We’re not going anywheres — leastways, not until we set eyes on your Mr Treherne and have a few words with him.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ she cried in dismay. ‘Why can’t you leave us alone? We’ve done no harm that I know of.’

  ‘That’s just it — there’s a whole heap you don’t know yet, missie. Now, listen to me. When’s this cully likely to arrive here?’

  ‘In about a quarter hour,’ she answered sulkily.

  ‘Then we’ll wait. And when he comes to the door, mind you let him in without tipping him the wink. I’ll be right behind you, just to make sure as you remember,’ he warned her.

  For the first time, she looked frightened. She glanced from one to the other of the two men, realizing that she was in their power. It was not a pleasant thought, even though they represented the forces of law and order.

  ‘What do you mean to do to him?’ she whispered.

  ‘Ask him a few questions — perhaps take him in to Bow Street,’ replied Watts.

  She shivered, subsiding into a chair.

  ‘How long have you known this man?’ demanded Watts.

  ‘Something over six months, I suppose.’

  ‘And I collect your father isn’t aware of the association?’ put in Justin.

  She shook her head vigorously. ‘No, he’d get into a rare frenzy if he knew I was seeing any gennelman on the quiet. He reckons I should bring them home for him to look over and approve,’ she answered petulantly.

  ‘An absurd notion, of course,’ said Justin.

  She looked at him suspiciously, but he kept a straight face.

  ‘Well, so it is, whatever you may think, sir! We just chanced to be walking in the Fields — Lincoln’s Inn, y’know — one afternoon, and fell into conversation. Where’s the harm in that, in broad daylight, I’d like to know? Of course, it don’t do for pa, so I says nothing to him. Mr Treherne is an actor, so he’s at liberty in the daytime and often feels the need of a bit o’ company, like I do myself.’

  ‘So you became friends and invited him to your home? And then he asked you to collect his mail?’

  She nodded. ‘And where’s the harm in that, I’d like to know?’ She broke off as the door knocker sounded. ‘There he is now!’

  ‘Steady on,’ warned Watts as she hastened to the door. ‘Remember — not a word to him — just let him in, and I’ll do the rest.’

  He followed at her heels as she went through the hall and opened the front door, standing just behind it as the man entered.

  As she closed the door, the visitor at once gathered her into his arms, but she pushed him away.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he demanded, trying to seize her again.

  It was then that he saw Watts. His face changed as he turned on her accusingly.

  ‘And who’s this, pray? B’God, if you’ve been playing me false, madam —’

  ‘It’s the law — Bow Street Runner —’

  He stood stock still, his face paling.

  ‘Mr Theobald Treherne?’ said Watts. ‘A word with you, sir, if you please. In here.’

  He indicated the room where Justin was still waiting, now on his feet. All three entered, Treherne looking warily at the other two men.

  ‘What do you want with me?’ he asked.

  ‘First of all, to know your real name,’ said Watts.

  ‘What’s wrong with Theobald Treherne?’ asked the actor in a would-be defiant tone.

  ‘Nothing — on the boards,’ replied Justin, surveying him through his quizzing glass. ‘An excellent name for that purpose, I would say. But we have reason to believe, my dear sir, that you began life under a much more commonplace moniker — shall we say that of Giles Thompson?’

  ‘Fustian! I never heard such nonsense — you’re making a mistake —’

  ‘I think not,’ said Justin quietly. ‘This young lady has some packets addressed to Mr Thompson, which she informs us she means to hand over to you. Therefore, your real name is Thompson.’

  ‘No, no! I can explain all that —’

  ‘Tell it to the magistrate,’ advised Watts in a grim manner.

  ‘I’m arresting you, Giles Thompson, alias Theobald Treherne, on a charge of blackmail and also of the murder of Marmaduke Yarnton —’

  ‘What!’ Treherne’s face was as white as Miss Probert’s dimity curtains. ‘I tell you I know naught about blackmail or, or — murder! As for that name — what did you say it was? — I never set eyes on its owner in my life!’

  ‘Then how do you account for these?’ demanded Watts, striding over to Kitty Probert’s basket and abstracting the two postal packets from it.

  ‘I — oh, God!’ Treherne sank on to a chair. ‘Whatever I say, you’re not going to believe me!’

  ‘Then let us not strain your powers of invention,’ said Justin. ‘We know you are Giles Thompson, son of a respectable man who is employed as an agent on the estate of Mr Bradfield in Sussex. Do you deny this? I warn you, we can bring proof.’

  ‘Yes — I mean to say — oh, what the devil’s the use? Yes, my real name is Thompson, but if you think I’ve aught to do with murder, you much mistake the matter! As for blackmail, the boot’s on the other foot!’

  ‘Ah!’ Justin exclaimed in satisfaction. ‘You would say that someone is blackmailing you?’

  The other nodded, seemed about to speak, then compressed his lips.

  ‘About four years ago, you were an undergraduate at Cambridge, were you not? You left hurriedly, I understand, taking with you a sum of money not belonging to you — no doubt an oversight, but these things are readily misunderstood,’ continued Justin smoothly. ‘Bow Street were alerted and sought you for a time without success. You had been discreet, cutting off all communication with family and associates and joining a small band of travelling players who were moving about constantly in the northern parts of the country. Later, when the hue and cry had died down, you came south using your pseudonym of Theobald Treherne, and sought employment in the London playhouses. This is accurate, is it not?’

  ‘Yes, damn you, yes!’ groaned Thompson.

  ‘So far, so good. And now perhaps you will explain these postal packets. They are directed to you, collected for you by Miss Probert, and you are here in person to receive them. We know for a fact that they contain money extorted by a blackmailer. Do you intend to deny that you are the person responsible?’

  ‘Yes — yes — I do — you’ve got to believe me!’ Thompson said shakily. ‘What you’ve said about my past, that’s true enough, but not this other business, as God’s my judge! I tell you, those packets are naught to do with me — I collect them for someone else! Someone who saw me in a performance about a year since, recognized me as Thompson and knew about the Cambridge affair! He threatened to give me away unless I did this for him — paid me for it too, which was more than I expected, and mighty useful for times have been hard lately! I know it sounds an unlikely story, but it’s true, so help me! You’ve got to believe me!’

  ‘This man’s name?’ demanded Justin.

  Thompson shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know who he is, I swear it! He sends me anonymous letters made up out of newsprint, telling me when and where to collect his post and making appointme
nts for me to hand it over to him.’

  ‘Then you’ve met him,’ accused Watts, ‘so you’d recognize him at any rate.’

  ‘Not so. He meets me in some quiet spot after dark. He’s always muffled up in a cloak with his face concealed by a mask. He never stays more than a minute or so and don’t speak more than a few words. I’ve tried to puzzle out who he may be, but damned if I can succeed — not that it would do me any good if I did know,’ he added with a shudder. ‘I’ve no fancy to try turning the tables on him, for I reckon he could be an ugly customer.’

  ‘In that you’re correct,’ said Justin, ‘as he’s already murdered one man who guessed his identity. It may reassure you to hear that we believe what you’ve told us, Thompson. And now you’re about to assist us in bringing this villain to justice. When and where are you to meet him?’

  Shortly after the interval in the performance at the Olympic Theatre that evening, a carriage drew up and a gentleman alighted, entering by the stage door. He was at once recognized by the doorkeeper, who greeted him cordially.

  ‘You’re early tonight, y’r honour. D’ye wish to go straight along to Miss Nympsfield’s dressing-room, or would ye rather see the rest of the performance?’

  Miss Nympsfield’s gentleman friend indicated his preference for going backstage, pressed a coin into a willing palm and proceeded on his way. Few people were about, as most were busy with their accustomed tasks; but he noticed in passing one of the minor actors, usually to be observed in a drunken fuddle when not onstage, but now unusually sober and looking a trifle unwell. The gentleman smiled sardonically to himself as he pushed open the somewhat dilapidated door of his lady love’s sanctum.

  Justin Rutherford was also visiting the Olympic that evening. He arrived just before the interval, intending to employ that period of light and movement in looking about him. He had no wish to become caught up in conversation with anyone he knew, however, so kept his distance when he saw a group of Velmond’s friends, Bradfield amongst them, strolling about in the passage behind the row of boxes.

  After the lights had dimmed, he made his way quietly out of the theatre and round to the rear, where there was a small open courtyard, unlit save for a lantern hanging beside a door used only by workmen. The angles of the building afforded a certain amount of cover and the night was dark, the moon being obscured by cloud. Justin glided stealthily round the building, pausing at the two points where Watts and Grimshaw were stationed to exchange a few words with each before concealing himself close by.

  A nearby clock chimed nine. The workmen’s door opened and Theobald Treherne, alias Thompson, emerged hesitantly into the light of the lamp. He stood there silently, not attempting to search out the other men concealed in the courtyard.

  Time passed; the clock sounded the quarter hour. Immediately afterwards a dark figure, only just discernible in the gloom, stepped out of the alleyway into the courtyard and advanced towards the waiting actor.

  He stopped well short of the lamp but close enough to make himself heard without shouting.

  ‘You’ve got them?’ he asked hoarsely.

  Thompson nodded, holding up the packets to the light.

  ‘Bring them here,’ commanded the other.

  Thompson slowly walked the few yards between himself and the other man, then handed over the packets with trembling fingers.

  The masked man stowed them quickly away, but no sooner had he done so than running footsteps sounded behind him and the heavy hand of Watts came down on his shoulder.

  ‘I arrest you in the name o’ the law!’

  With a violent jerk, the man shook himself free and turned, producing a pair of pistols from the pockets of his cloak. He levelled them at Watts and Grimshaw, who had joined his colleague.

  ‘Stand or I fire!’ he warned.

  ‘I shouldn’t, if I was you,’ countered Watts. ‘Now just you come along quiet like —’

  The masked man made no answer but began to back away towards the alley, still keeping the two Runners covered. Perforce they froze in their tracks.

  Suddenly Thompson, who had been likewise standing motionless, sank half-fainting to the ground. Mistaking his intentions, the masked man fired at him.

  ‘Down — get down!’

  Justin’s shouted command to the Runners came at the same moment as he launched himself upon their opponent. Surprised by an attack from that quarter, the masked man spun round and fired his second pistol.

  He had no time to take proper aim, so the ball went wide.

  Flinging aside his now useless pistols, the masked man tried to make a run for it. But the odds were against him, and soon he lay spread-eagled on the ground, knocked senseless by Justin’s punishing right.

  Justin ripped away the mask, though he knew very well whose face would be revealed.

  It was that of Roderick Peyton.

  CHAPTER 20

  ‘I must say, I’m relieved to know that this diabolical affair has been resolved at last,’ remarked Lord Rutherford to his brother when they met several days later. ‘You say Peyton’s confessed to Yarnton’s murder and that the blackmail victims need have not the slightest fear of anything coming to light as far as they are concerned. I’m sure they have much for which to thank you, as I don’t doubt it’s largely due to your efforts on their behalf.’

  ‘Fustian! It was a highly successful combined effort on the part of my accomplices, not the least of these being your own daughter, old fellow. Had it not been for Anthea’s assistance, I should never have discovered that blackmail was the root of the motive for Yarnton’s murder.’

  ‘Ah, well, possibly you consider I should feel flattered by that, but devil a bit! That girl’s too resty by half, Justin — I’ll never know an easy moment until she’s wed and some other poor devil is responsible for her freakish starts.’

  ‘You can’t gammon me,’ grinned Justin. ‘You’re as proud as a peacock of the chit if you own the truth.’

  ‘Oh, well, possibly so. But look here, Justin, there are still a good many things I don’t understand about this affair of Yarnton’s murder, and I warn you that Anthea’s sure to be pestering the life out of one of us to know the whole, so you may as well explain it to me.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, for I’m afraid she’ll need an expurgated version. Some of the details are scarce suitable for the ears of a delicately nurtured female.’

  ‘You must be thinking of someone else, my dear chap! Anthea ain’t delicately nurtured — mean to say, we did our best of course, but it just didn’t take,’ complained Edward. ‘But let’s hear a full account of Peyton’s intrigues. How did the villain come by his information? It’s easy enough to see that as Cleveland’s secretary he would have access to incriminating documents concerning his employer, but what of the other two, poor Lady Kinver and little Lucy Velmond?’

  ‘Lady Kinver’s involvement began in 1810, when Peyton was eighteen and living at home in Buckinghamshire waiting to go up to Cambridge in the autumn. He was bored by his family, so consoled himself with the local females, always being in the petticoat line. Quite by chance he met Maria Kinver, who was spending the summer with an aunt in the neighbourhood. Maria was only seventeen and a bit of a minx. The aunt allowed her too much freedom, so before long she was conducting flirtations with every young man thereabouts. These were all quite open, but the affair with Peyton was otherwise, doubtless at his instigation. The two met secretly several times, and before long the inevitable happened and he had seduced her.’

  Edward whistled. ‘With, I collect, dire results?’

  Justin nodded. ‘She discovered that she was pregnant after she’d returned to Town to her parents. By this time, Peyton was at Cambridge. She wrote to him, but the only help he offered was to suggest ways in which she might induce an abortion. She realized that marriage with him was out of the question, even had he suggested it, because of his youth and lack of money. She was too frightened to confide in her mother so she muddled on, hoping matters would right themsel
ves.’

  ‘Poor child!’ said Edward compassionately. ‘She may have been foolish, but one feels for her.’

  ‘Indeed. At the end of October, both Maria and Peyton heard, through separate sources, of the death in the Peninsular war of a certain Captain Tilsworth, who’d been Maria’s most serious suitor during her stay in Buckinghamshire. He’d been home on furlough at the time. Peyton wrote suggesting that if matters came to the worst, she should put the blame for her condition on the dead man — a sound enough scheme and worthy of Peyton, one feels.’ Edward nodded grimly. ‘Whether she took any means to bring it about, I can’t say, but at the end of November she suffered a miscarriage. Three people were obliged to know then — Lady Kinver, Dr Wetherby, who attended her, and the girl’s nurse. Maria named the captain as her seducer. Only the nurse, who had known Maria since babyhood, was not convinced that she was telling the truth. Recently, when I interviewed Nurse Barton during the course of my investigations, she expressed these doubts to me. Later she went to Maria Wingrave’s home in Sussex to confront her. She discovered the truth and brought the information to me. It was the last link in my chain of evidence, although by then I’d already guessed how it must have been.’

  ‘Diabolical!’ exploded Edward. ‘D’you mean to say this villain not only seduced the girl but later blackmailed her mother on that account? Of all the cold-blooded, venomous —’ He broke off, too irate to conclude the sentence.

  ‘Words do fail one, I agree,’ said Justin. ‘It was not so very much later that he began the blackmail, either — it was soon after Maria’s wedding in 1811. Twice-yearly demands have been arriving ever since. My attention was caught from the first by the fact that the early payments were to be directed to offices roughly north of London, whereas for the past two years London offices have been stated. No doubt this was because Peyton came down from Cambridge in 1813 and became Cleveland’s secretary, so was domiciled in London. He began blackmailing his employer in the following year, using the same methods as for Lady Kinver and demanding the same amount in payment.’