If not for a need for concealment, Gideon would have been very glad for the services of a linkboy. The visibility was so slight, that he could not even be certain of what he was treading on as he made his way to the corner of Southampton Street. The light from the cheap tallow candles in the taverns failed to penetrate the corners where harlots and pickpockets lurked. Gideon fended off the lures from the first group and guarded his pockets from the second, as he rounded the corner.
There were more pedestrians here, in groups of two, three and more, keeping together for security’s sake. Their linkboys’ torches threw beacons of light, which helped him keep to the footpath as far as Colonel Potter’s street.
He had decided not to leave their encounter to chance. If Mrs. Anne Oglethorpe had not known him beneath his paint, then Colonel Potter should not either.
Feigning his fop’s steps again, he climbed the pair of stairs, leading to the house where Colonel Potter resided, and knocked.
The Colonel’s landlady answered. She informed him that the Colonel had gone out to meet a friend. She did not know where.
As she closed the door, Gideon resigned himself to waiting all night if he had to. He was thirsty, though, and thought he might risk a few minutes to go for a mug of beer. He remembered the tavern in Little Russell Street, where he had watched for the Colonel to emerge from Mother Whyburn’s house and decided to head there again on the chance that he would find the Colonel in the same place.
He had rounded the corner into Southampton Street again and was heading towards the Piazza when a shout for the Watch grabbed his attention.
Up ahead, he saw a group of gentlemen bending over what appeared to be a heap of clothing, but their cries of “Fetch the Watch!” and “Murder!” told him that the mound they had discovered was a body.
Shy of the authorities, he almost turned away, but some pricking instinct drove him forward. He shouldered his way through the crowd that had formed and saw a gentleman lying dead in a pool of blood. Even before one of the others stooped to turn the figure over and shone a torch on his face, in its deflected beam Gideon had already caught sight of a freckled neck exposed by a part in his periwig.
Turned upon his back, Colonel Potter stared up at the crowd, as if his last living thought had been stunned surprise. His hands still groped for the knife, which must have been used to stab him through the ribs. The weapon had been withdrawn, but Gideon had no doubt that it had been wielded by the same person who had killed Sir Humphrey Cove.
A gentleman in the crowd said that he thought he recognized the corpse. Space was made for him, and he looked closely before pronouncing the Colonel’s name, just as Gideon pulled away. Someone else protested the outrage. He said that it could only be attributed to Mohawks or Jacobites. If Mr. Walpole was not even safe from their violence at his house in Arlington Street, then how could any English Christian be safe?
Gideon turned away, distressed by the sight of his quarry’s staring eyes and the blood oozing from his coat. He did not believe that the Colonel’s death was the result of some random violence, but for the moment he couldn’t think.
His mind lingered dumbly on the last words he had heard. Something about the violence in Arlington Street. That must have been the riot into which Tom and Katy had stumbled. Arlington Street had no outlet at its southern end, but Bennet Street, where Tom had reported meeting the rioters, led directly from St. James’s into Arlington Street.
Mrs. Kean had mentioned Walpole’s fear of the mob before his house, but she had not told him the name of Walpole’s street. And Gideon, who had barely heard of Sir Robert Walpole before the appointment of the Committee of Secrecy, had not known where the gentleman lived.
He shook his head in an effort to come out of his daze, annoyed that he should waste his time on these thoughts. Colonel Potter had been murdered and, unless an unbelievable coincidence had occurred, he had been stabbed by the same person who had killed Sir Humphrey.
Which of their suspects was left? Mr. Dudley Mayfield, of course. He would have to ask Mrs. Kean if Mayfield had been out this evening.
Then, there was John Menzies, alias Mr. Blackwell, but Gideon doubted that Menzies had returned from France.
Finally, there was Lord Lovett, who, as Mrs. Kean believed, did not have the character of a murderer. But why had Potter been killed? Gideon’s instincts told him that it was to keep the Colonel from giving information which might have pointed to Sir Humphrey’s killer. But why now and not before, when it must appear now that the authorities had given up on the case?
Then, he recalled that Mrs. Kean had discussed the murder with Lord Lovett. What if she had told him that she believed Potter had seen the person who had made Mayfield spill wine on his coat? No one knew that Gideon was coming to ask Potter about it, but if Lord Lovett believed that the answer would pose a danger to himself, wouldn’t he take steps to silence the Colonel before someone else did? Or might not Colonel Potter have begun to question the significance of the spill himself?
Worry knawed at Gideon’s stomach. If Lord Lovett was the murderer and had felt it necessary to kill Colonel Potter, then wouldn’t he go after Mrs. Kean?
But why would Lord Lovett kill his friend? The only possible reason was a fear of exposure, yet he had done almost nothing to hide his Jacobite sentiments.
Then, in a moment Gideon saw it. As the significance of Arlington Street snapped into place.
Lovett had feared exposure, but not of the fact that he was a Jacobite. Rather of the truth, that he had betrayed the cause.
Gideon had recalled something Mrs. Kean had said in one of their conversations. She had met John Menzies at Lady Oglethorpe’s house, where Isabella had taken her in the hope of entertainment. After seeing Isabella and Lord Lovett together at Vauxhall Gardens, Gideon had guessed that Isabella’s current notion of entertainment included Lord Lovett. But Lovett had not come, and later Sir Humphrey had mentioned seeing him in Arlington Street that evening. She said that Lovett had looked annoyed to have his whereabouts divulged, but Mrs. Kean and everyone else had assumed that he had gone to visit a different lady in that street.
But what if he had been visiting Walpole’s house instead? Sir Humphrey had seen him, and later, he had begun to suspect his friend of treachery. That could have been the worry that had disturbed Sir Humphrey until the night of the opera. And fearing that Sir Humphrey would give him away to the Jacobites, who would certainly seek revenge, Lovett had killed his old friend.
It was only a theory. But Gideon knew that it fit. He would have to warn Mrs. Kean to be on her guard against Lord Lovett.
Then, somehow, he would have to come up with proof.
* * * *
The next morning, though, when Katy walked to Hawkhurst House with her basket of strawberries and a note for Mrs. Kean, she was told that all the ladies of the house had just stepped out. They had gone to Court to see the Princess and would not return until dinner. Rufus told her that she might leave her strawberries with one of the maids and come back later to be paid.
Katy made up a quick story, saying that she did not dare, for her ladyship might decide that she had no need for strawberries today. Or, as happened all too often to the likes of her, the ladies might keep them until they were bad and then refuse to pay. She told him that she would come back in the afternoon.
Gideon, who had been waiting in Westminster Abbey in the hope of seeing Mrs. Kean, received Katy’s news and had to stifle a curse. He had barely slept an hour last night and had risen early to put on his disguise. And now he must wait more hours before he could feel certain that Mrs. Kean would be safe. He saw no solution, however, but to return in the afternoon and send Katy with the message again.
* * * *
Hester had gone with her cousin and her aunt to take leave of the Princess before they set out for Rotherham Abbey in two days time. Tomorrow would be Sunday, so they would wait for Monday to go.
After dinner, Harrowby headed for St. James’s Coffee House fo
r the latest gossip. Dudley rode into the City in search of a beaver hat, and Isabella and her mother took the coach to pay their farewell visits. Mrs. Mayfield instructed Hester to supervise the packing of their clothes.
Isabella’s maid was perfectly capable of doing her job without supervision, so Hester only watched her make a start, before going to her chamber to start on her own packing. She had far more clothes now than she had when arriving at Hawkhurst House, so planning would be required.
She saw no reason to take the dress that had been made for the King’s birthday. It should remain here for the next time she went to Court. She had no idea whether her second best gown would be required, but Mrs. Mayfield had hinted that Isabella might entertain guests if they remained at Rotherham Abbey long, and Hester did not doubt that boredom would soon push her aunt to urge the idea.
She took two gowns out of her chest, the one she had worn to see St. Mars at Spring Gardens and the dress she had worn to Mr. Handel’s opera. She would not be able to wear either without experiencing powerful memories—happy in one and sad in the other. If she could afford it, she would have given the opera gown away, but she was not in a position to be fastidious about her clothes.
Gazing at the two laid across her bed, she decided that if she had to overcome her revulsion of the one, the sooner she did it, the better. She carefully folded the pink, embroidered silk and put it back. Then, with a determined sigh, she began to fold the other.
She had no sooner taken hold of the bodice than she noticed a stain on its left shoulder. Frowning, she put it down and leaned closer to see what it was.
The colour of dried blood made her gasp—not only with horror when she thought of poor Sir Humphrey but also with anger, for the laundry maid should have spared her this unpleasant surprise. Hester looked at the hem of the skirt, but the blood that had been there was gone. Then she remembered that she had only mentioned the blood on her hem to the maid. She had trailed her skirts past Sir Humphrey’s corpse as she had handed Isabella from the box.
But that had been her only contact with Sir Humphrey’s blood, so where had this other stain come from?
With shaking fingers, she held the bodice up to the window. Immediately she could see an imprint with a shape like the heel of someone’s hand. There were two patches, with a space between that could correspond to a crease in the palm. She lay her own hand on the imprint and saw that the person’s hand was larger than hers.
With a sickening blow to her stomach, she recalled that Lord Lovett had discovered blood on his hand. He said that he had got it when helping to lift Sir Humphrey onto the litter.
But he had not touched her after that. He had wiped the blood off of his hand. She recalled his expression when he had discovered it. He had looked shaken. She had seen him shudder, for he had surely felt revulsion, but he had also been afraid that she would guess the truth.
And now it all came rushing back to her on a wave of self-disgust. Lord Lovett had put his hand on her shoulder when he had urged her to remove Isabella and her mother from the opera house. That was before he had any reason to touch Sir Humphrey’s corpse.
Hester felt so angry with horror that her knees gave way. She sank to the floor and rested her head against the bed. What a fool she had been! She had let Lord Lovett’s flattery keep her from seeing the truth. She had been so exalted by his attention that she had refused even to consider him as a suspect. She still did not know why he had killed Sir Humphrey, but this stain was proof enough, even for a magistrate.
Ashamed of her weakness, she marshaled her anger and used it to drag herself to her feet. She threw the gown with its evidence on her bed and thought of what she must do.
She did not dare to wait for Isabella and her mother to come home. With Isabella’s partiality for Lord Lovett and Mrs. Mayfield’s tendency to deny anything Hester said, she could not count on their support. She did not even know if Harrowby would believe her. She would do best to write a letter to the magistrate herself.
She went to use Isabella’s escritoire in the parlour behind the withdrawing room. On her way to it, she passed one of the footmen and told him that she would soon have two messages for him to carry. He promised to be ready when she called. She did not tell him that one would be carried to the nearest Watchhouse. The other would have to go into the Post for St. Mars.
She found paper, a sharpened quill, and ink on the desk, ready for her use. Sitting down, she wrote first to St. Mars, directing this letter to Mr. Mavors in care of the King’s Head at Lambeth. Her hands were still shaking, so writing it took her longer than it should. She wanted to send the footman off before her aunt could question her order, but Hester did not fear this greatly since Mrs. Mayfield and Isabella had not been gone very long.
She was dusting sand over her writing when the door opened and Lord Lovett strolled into the room.
Hester gave a start. Conscious of how frightened she must look, she attempted a smile and covered her paper as discreetly as she could.
Her motion did not fool him, as she could tell by his glance at the desk. Lord Lovett closed the door behind him, and a mocking grin curled his mouth, as he crossed to her side.
“Writing a billet doux, Mrs. Kean? Dare I hope that it is for me?”
His flattery insulted her in every possible way—as she deserved, she thought, for had she not admired his stinging wit? She had to struggle to bite back a retort.
Unequal to feigning delight, she looked away and answered seriously, “It is nothing that interesting, sir. Merely a letter for my aunt.”
“Indeed?” She could not miss his incredulous note. “And you accomplish it without her presence. How very talented of you, I am sure.”
There was an unusual hardness beneath his banter. It gave Hester a chill. She met his stare to see if she could put his suspicions to rest.
“I am often employed in such tasks,” she said, forcing a smile. “And there is nothing of a personal nature to communicate, so her presence is not required.”
He took a sudden step nearer, and reflexively she covered the sheet. It was the worst possible thing she could have done.
“If there is nothing personal in it,” he drawled, “then I wonder that you should hide it so earnestly. Indeed, I am almost certain that my original suspicion was correct. Either you are penning a love note to me—or to someone else, in which case I insist upon seeing it.”
Moving so quickly that she did not see him coming, he snatched the paper from under her hand, held it up over his head, and started to read. She jumped to her feet.
His irony mocked her, as he said, “I see it is directed to a Mr. Mavors. Is he the gentleman that I shall have to slay for your hand?”
“Give me that letter, sir! You have no right!”
“Have I not? But what of a spurned lover’s rights?”
His eyes were cruel in their fury, but Hester would not be fooled by his pose of the rejected lover. He was using it for the same reason he had flattered her before, to conceal his real interest. Her only hope was to convince him that the letter had nothing to do with the murder before he read it, and she tried to distract him by reaching for it on tiptoes and shaming him for looking into her aunt’s business.
Her charade was as much as a waste of time as his. He was easily able to fend off her attempts to reach the paper and read it at the same time. “Well, shall we see what you have written to the gentleman? Ah, let’s see. You say here, ‘You were correct. It was not Colonel Potter. I have proof that is good enough for a magistrate and shall send for one immediately. There is no need to speak to the Colonel, so if you have not, please do not risk it.’”
Before he came to the end, Hester stopped her undignified protests to gather her strength for the coming confrontation.
Lord Lovett turned his ironic grin on her. It held a mixture of anger and respect. “A very enlightening missive, my dear. Not a love letter precisely. Still I wonder who this Mr. Mavors is whom you have entrusted with your thoughts, when
I had hoped to be your only confidant. A pity for him—and you, of course—that he shall never receive this note.” He folded it and slipped inside his jacket pocket.
Hester said nothing. She eyed him warily. Her fear was that he would look for Mr. Mavors and expose St. Mars.
She glanced at the door in the hope of slipping past him, but Lord Lovett gave her a knowing smile and drew a large dagger from beneath his coat.
She gasped and stared at the blade.
“Now, do not pretend that the sight of this knife astonishes you. I assume from your letter that you have learned that I know how to wield it. I should be very interested to know what the evidence you mentioned consists of. You will tell me, please.”
Hester stood frozen. She could not believe that he would murder her in this house, when a servant must have directed him this way. Probably the very footman she had told about the letters he must carry.
She looked for him to appear at the door, but again Lord Lovett read her thoughts.
“You cannot seriously believe that I will permit you to call a servant. No, no, my dear Mrs. Kean, you have caused me more inconvenience than you can imagine. And, now, because of you, I shall have to leave England, when I had expected to live very comfortably here.” He took a step closer and pointed his knife at her throat. “Before we discuss how I should repay you, I insist that you tell me about this evidence of yours.”
“You would not dare to hurt me here,” she said, “not when the servants saw you come in.”
“I had rather not, but as I said, I’ll be leaving England immediately—today, in fact. In this great big house, I believe I could find a place to hide your body long enough to get away. And,” he added, on a threatening note, “if you doubt it, I suggest you refer either to Sir Humphrey Cove or Colonel Potter. Neither of them thought me capable of murder either.”
Hester experienced a shock on hearing the Colonel’s name. She grew faint. She would have fallen back into the chair if he had allowed her, but he caught her around the waist and held the knife to her breast.
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