Maiden Lane

by Lynne Connolly

  “No.” He tore his gaze away from the corpse and gave his attention to me. “It doesn’t.” Intelligence flooded back. I saw it fill his eyes, the blankness leaving him as his formidable brain ticked into action. “I saw something just now.” He dropped my hand and returned to his previous position at the side of the table, staring at the body, only this time with purpose, seeking out what he’d noticed earlier.

  Footsteps echoed on the stairs. “They told me to come straight downstairs.” I never thought the sound of John Smith’s voice would come as a relief.

  He arrived in the kitchen, a stout man, a little on the short side, wearing the red waistcoat that denoted his position as a Bow Street Runner. He frowned when he saw the body on the table. “Oh dear. This is a nasty business, that’s for sure.”

  Richard glanced up. “It is. He was discovered outside our house. He wasn’t there earlier when my wife went out, and nobody noticed him until just before she got home.”

  “Dumped there, was he?”

  Richard nodded. “Probably from a chair or a carriage. If there’d been an accident of that nature, the street would have been in uproar. And somebody would have seen it.”

  “Left there for you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Care to tell me why?”

  The men stared at each other in silence. I wondered why Richard hesitated, then I realised. This might be the first time he was forced to acknowledge his son to someone outside the family. We could trust Smith, whose knowledge of the aristocracy was limited to their criminal activities, but one more person knowing was probably one person too much.

  “The body is wearing the coat of someone who has been in society claiming to be my son,” Richard said eventually.

  Convoluted, even for him.

  Smith pushed his hat back and scratched his head. He wore a tie-back wig today, one that looked as if it had seen many seasons of wear, so soft it could have been real hair. Except that it wasn’t, because he pushed that back too. Sparse grey hairs stuck out from under it when he pulled his wig into place. “So what’s that meant to mean? He was your son, or this isn’t the body of your son, or you never had a son?”

  “The latter,” said Richard firmly. “He claimed parentage, but I was never aware of fathering anyone before Rose and I had our daughter.”

  Smith glanced at my stomach before returning his attention to the body on the table. “Doesn’t look as if you’re getting much for dinner tonight, my lord.”

  “We’ll send out for something. But I’d appreciate it if you could arrange to have the corpse moved as soon as possible. Otherwise you might find it dumped at your door.”

  Smith nodded. “I have a couple of likely men upstairs waiting for that very purpose. But I thought our first conversation had best be in private.”

  “Why?”

  I glanced at Richard, wondering why he should ask that when I thought it obvious. But he must have seen something else in Smith’s dour countenance because the man sighed and answered him. “Information was laid against you this morning. It didn’t make sense until we got your message. Information that says that you were seen last night with one of your daggers, running it through a man in a pink coat.”

  Richard snorted. “Convenient. What does Fielding think?”

  “Fielding doesn’t know what to think.” I loved Smith’s honesty, if not what he was telling us. “The information didn’t come from a trusted source, but, my lord, you’ve been known to produce those little beauties before.”

  Richard glanced at me. “My wife and my valet can vouch for me.”

  “I daresay, my lord, but we might need more than that.”

  What? Like telling him that I had my mouth around my husband’s shaft at the time the youth was being killed? I doubted it. Frustration warred with anger in me, and anger nearly won. I forced it down, hating the necessity. “That’s not enough to convict him. It just shows that someone wants him involved.”

  Smith narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been hearing rumours. That you and this youth don’t get on and you were making trouble for him.”

  Since one of Richard’s errands that morning was to see if his agents had managed to get John pressed yet, the information was undeniable, but I hoped Smith wouldn’t get to hear that particular nugget.

  Richard shrugged. “It’s no secret that he did everything except accuse me directly of being his father, that’s hardly private information. I refused to acknowledge him. He had a certain resemblance to me, but that isn’t enough. And while I led a somewhat profligate life before my marriage, I wasn’t aware I’d fathered any children.”

  “You know he came to see Mr. Fielding?”

  Richard’s attention sharpened. “No, I did not. Where and why?”

  “To consult him, he said. To see if he could bring a case. He provided a document that he said was a marriage certificate between you and his mother. Mr. Fielding said it didn’t come within his area of interest and he couldn’t judge such a case. He suggested Kneller went to someone in Chancery Court.”

  “He would have known that,” I said. “It was a way for him to speak to the people he knew that Richard had contact with. Marking his territory. Challenging him.”

  We should have thought of Fielding. John was attacking Richard from every angle he could, and we’d omitted to check that part.

  Richard frowned. “This could turn into a political matter. Could become a political raison d’être. The cartoonists could make this a matter of contention. If I’m asked, I state my opinion, and I’ve had a few heated discussions recently in the coffeehouses. I don’t take an active part in politics, but my brother does.”

  My blood ran cold. As a newly elected and enthusiastic Member of Parliament, Gervase had a lot to hide. He had to prove himself before he could be considered immune to attacks on his private life. If John had left a legacy behind attacking Gervase, it could prove fatal to Gervase’s political ambitions.

  One thing I found missing. I tried hard, but I couldn’t feel sorry that John had gone. He was young, barely eighteen by my reckoning, clever, sometimes diabolically so, handsome, ambitious, but I couldn’t remember an ounce of compassion, kindness or consideration for anyone except himself. I doubted he’d have developed it, either. His upbringing didn’t entirely account for that, because it had produced Susan, who certainly had feeling for her fellows.

  Only the late Sir John Kneller had cared for him, and John had responded by giving him what he wanted without reciprocating any fondness. Then squandering his fortune in getting revenge on his father instead of using it to improve the lives of himself and his sister. No, I couldn’t regret his death.

  Smith was walking around the body, where it lay on the centrally positioned table. Richard and I stepped back, enabling him to do so, and he walked around twice before he said anything. “He was stabbed. That’s what killed him, not the subsequent mutilations. The blood from the chest wound accounts for most of the staining, and it’s in a place almost guaranteed to cause death. So either he was murdered and thrown under a coach, or he fell back from the blow and received the injuries.” He looked up, straight at Richard, standing on the opposite side of the table. “Or a coach wasn’t involved. These injuries could have been the result of several blows rather than a vehicle. So why?”

  “They could have been inflicted before death,” Richard answered. “Torture.”

  Smith nodded. “He certainly had his enemies. More than we knew. I investigated him last year after the incident in Devonshire, my lord, and I’ve been following his progress since he arrived in London. While I never discovered anything I could prosecute him for, trouble follows him. It finally caught up with him.”

  Richard looked up, and for a fraught few seconds he and Smith stared at each other. We were all aware of one thing, but none of us said it. So I plunged in. “Is it John Kneller?”

  They both turned to me and to my shock, I saw a slight smile on Richard’s features. “Well done, my love. One o
f us needed to say it. I’m not surprised it was you.” He took the couple of steps that brought him from my side. He lifted my hand and kissed it. “It is possible that the boy was mutilated to hide his identity. He is wearing the coat most of society saw on John last night at the Devonshire ball, but that doesn’t mean it’s him. He has the right hair colour, the right build, and he looks to be the right height, but we can’t be sure.”

  Smith cleared his throat. “I propose to go ahead and say it’s John Kneller, sir. I’ll tell the papers so, and anyone else who asks. I’ll ask for information leading to the arrest of the murderer of John Kneller, gentleman, and see what it shakes up. If it isn’t him, and he was involved in a conspiracy, then it will allow him to believe that his scheme has succeeded.”

  “I think that’s for the best.”

  “He has a sister,” Richard said. “He won’t have left much behind. Hopefully enough for a dowry.” Richard smiled at Smith. The deceptively sleepy eyes, usually observant, had opened wider in surprise. “Yes, she’s eschewing her profession of courtesan and turning respectable. As long as the story doesn’t follow her, and I intend to take steps to ensure that it does not.”

  “I’ll need her address in case he isn’t dead and tries to contact her.”

  “I’ll furnish you with that.”

  Wisely, Smith didn’t ask why Richard was so willing to help Susan, but not John. He would not have received an answer.

  The men Smith mentioned came downstairs to load the body into the box they’d brought with them. The coffin. A makeshift deal box held the remains of the man who wanted so much more than he’d been born with. If indeed it was John Kneller.

  Richard took me upstairs and insisted on attending to me himself, to “help assuage her ladyship’s shock,” he said, but he was about as shocked as I was. Apart from the distress of knowing someone had died and seeing the bloody mess his assailants had left him in, I was remarkably unshaken. Richard took great pleasure helping me out of my gown and petticoat and into a light gown, ready for my afternoon’s repose. Nichols brought a tray of tea, and Richard called for Carier.

  Once settled, and Carier seated since this was Thompson’s business, not household duties, I described exactly what I saw and how it happened, with timings. I was away from the house for an hour visiting Lady Southwood, so he must have been dropped off during that time.

  “I’ll make enquiries at the local houses, my lady,” Carier promised. “Someone must have seen something. Servants are in and out of the house all the time.”

  Richard said, “It’s doubtful anyone will have seen anything significant. My guess is that he was pitched from a passing vehicle, something anonymous. But just in case they left the crest on the door, or any of the superior servants happened to notice anything distinctive, it’s worth a try. If it had been me, I’d have used a hackney cab and a trusted servant to drive it.”

  “Not everyone has your caution, my lord.” Carier glanced at his tea dish and then at us. “I did receive some interesting information this morning. I heard from my contact that a certain young gentleman was abducted and placed on board a ship that set sail from Southampton at first light. The parties involved found him at the club and took him as soon as he set foot out of the door. I gave them the reward we agreed on.”

  Richard nodded. “A personal expense, nothing to tax Thompson’s with. I’ll reimburse you. So it was either John or someone remarkably like him. I can think of no one except myself and Gervase who match that description in society. I saw my brother briefly this morning.”

  “We need to contact the Drurys,” I said. “Smith will no doubt get there before us.”

  “It might scare them into saying something.” Richard stared at the pattern on the china of his tea dish as if seeing answers there. “But they won’t tell him everything.” He looked up. “They’ll tell me. And you need to get in touch with the servants at the club, the ones we have there.”

  Carier agreed. “To ask if anyone like Kneller attended last night. But, my lord, it means that if the body Smith just took isn’t Kneller, he could have gone to the club, committed the murder and then be taken by the Press gang. And I have to say that it wasn’t Kneller. The body. I’m sure of it.”

  His assertion surprised me. I thought it was possible, but I couldn’t see any proof. If that body wasn’t John, it was carefully chosen.

  Richard grimaced. “They took great care to destroy the face and hands, or at least make them unrecognisable. But they didn’t take as much care with the back of the hand.” Light dawned on me. “When I threw that stiletto last year, it went through his hand, as I intended. Pinned him down. But this person had no scar on the back of his hand. I took a careful look and I could see none.”

  “Street dirt?” I suggested.

  “Not enough to obscure a scar.” Richard got to his feet and took a few restless paces. “So the question is—do we allow this man to be taken as Kneller? And if that isn’t Kneller, where is he?”

  “At sea,” said Carier heavily. “But we must take care, my lord. This young man is tricky, and we can’t take anything for granted.”

  “I wonder where he gets that trait from.” I hadn’t realised I’d spoken aloud until I glanced at Richard, alerted by the sudden silence.

  A smile crept over his lips, one of pure appreciation. “I never cease to thank the powers that be that I found you before someone else did.”

  I stared at my hands, folded in my lap. “Pardon.”

  “Oh no. Never, never stop articulating your thoughts, love. I couldn’t bear it if you only said what you thought you should.”

  Heat grew between us until Carier cleared his throat and made to get to his feet. “No,” I said. “We need to decide about the body.”

  “I think we let it be named as John Kneller,” Carier ventured. “It will tie off a few loose ends.”

  Richard nodded. “Satisfy my mother, as much as she’s ever satisfied, cancel out his debts, so they aren’t carried forward for Susan to cover. I wouldn’t have allowed that, in any case.” He shrugged. “What’s your opinion, Rose?”

  I agreed. “But it would mean he’s free to take another identity. Start again afresh.”

  “We can’t have everything.”

  We left it at that. But not before Richard warned Carier that he wanted my guards maintained, maybe even increased. I told him that I would if he would, but to deny the possibility of attack would have been foolish.

  SUSAN IDENTIFIED THE body as that of her brother, and the news appeared in the journals and newspapers. John’s death made few ripples, but as a newcomer to society and not one of significant fortune or estate, that was only to be expected. His relationship to some of the greatest didn’t die. We kept away from the official side of the business, even when John Fielding sent a note around asking us about the affair. Richard replied that it was none of his business.

  Unfortunately, rumour, as it sometimes does, took a vicious turn. We took care to attend the balls and social occasions we’d accepted invitations for, and at each one we found a frosty reception from someone or other. To make it worse, the increasingly uncertain political situation made people more willing to take sides and to look for sides to take.

  We found ourselves unable to speak about the murder except in the most general terms and the subject of much speculation. It became clear that we would have to discover who committed the crime or have the stigma permanently attached to our name.

  Until we received the summons from Bow Street. The note intimated that certain information had come their way, which they would greatly appreciate our opinion. I liked that the note, while addressed to Richard, mentioned me.

  We took Carier. Bow Street should have been a gracious thoroughfare, but built at the wrong time, in the 1630s, along with the adjoining Covent Garden, it hadn’t had enough time to establish itself as a fashionable area before Cromwell turned England into a republic. Then, on the Restoration, it quickly degenerated into an area of shops,
ginhouses and suchlike. Still, the houses had the air of gracious gentility, despite the soot-stained exteriors and cacophony of trading, living and debauchery that went on outside its front door.

  I always felt disappointed when we didn’t go by the courts and the business of Bow Street to reach the private part of the lodging, but I daresay Mr. Fielding needed a more discreet entrance, and that was the one we always used.

  Mr. Fielding occupied a modest but comfortable parlour attended by Mr. Smith. I would always associate the scent of lavender furniture polish and spiced oranges with this place. The late Mr. Fielding’s wife adorned all the rooms with cloved oranges. I could see some now perched on top of a substantial lowboy.

  When I’d declined the inevitable offer of a dish of tea, we could get to the point of the meeting. I could feel Richard almost thrumming with impatience. He had no time for people who liked to stage a scene, and John Fielding had learned the tricks from his late brother Henry, who began his career as a playwright. John Fielding had taken to wearing a broad black velvet band over his eyes, particularly in court, to emphasise the “blind beak” name he’d accepted. He had remarkable skills of hearing though. He could recognise most habitual felons by their voices.

  At least he hadn’t donned the band today, though his large carved chair, almost throne-like, appeared near-regal. His sightless eyes turned to the door, he appeared much as I imagined he did in court, well though not spectacularly dressed in sober colours. A contrast to my husband, who’d chosen a green the colour of summer lawns for his rich wool coat, fashionably flared from the narrow waist, and a waistcoat of the palest green. He sported the diamond solitaire in his seemingly carelessly crumpled neckcloth that had probably taken him twenty minutes to achieve. Not to be outdone, I’d chosen a delicate, deeply impractical pink that Nichols would probably have to launder when I got home. Sometimes I felt like being impractical. Today never more so.

  Mr. Smith bowed to us, not showing an iota of surprise or chagrin. Not that I expected it. I had yet to see Smith taken out of his dour mood. But a useful man in a tight corner, or so Richard informed me. I’d take his word for it. For us, he could be another tool to use.