A Mystery at Carlton House_Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries_Book 12

by Ashley Gardner

  “Only one man nicks from ’igh places lately,” Billy said.

  “Who’s that then?”

  Billy gave him a pitying look. “You ought to know. You work for ’im.”

  “Work for the captain now. You mean his nibs? He don’t nick from royalty, old son. He’s not that daft.”

  “Well, I can’t help that. You ought to be talking to ’im somewhere cozy, not me in the cold and dark.”

  Brewster rumbled his annoyance. “Never mind. You sure Poppy’s at the Ox?”

  “I don’t know, do I? I ain’t seen ’er. I just know she likes the place. Now, ’ave a look at me wares. If I don’t go home with at least a pony, my missus’ll not be pleased.”

  Brewster grunted something under his breath and cast his gaze across the linens. His blunt finger rested on a cap. “’S fine.”

  “A lovely thing, ain’t it?” Billy gave us a beatific smile. “Look pretty on your Em’s hair. Yours for a quid.”

  Brewster withdrew, sending him an outraged look. “A quid? Bloody hell. You’re having me on.”

  “That’s quality, that is,” Billy said, sounding hurt. “Woven across the water in the fair city of Brussels.”

  “Huh. Woven in South London more like.”

  “You’ve lost your touch, Tommy, if you don’t know hand-embroidered linen from sackcloth. Quid’s giving it away.”

  “Give you a tanner for it,” Brewster said.

  Billy took on a sorrowful look. “Now, Tommy, what do I tell my missus if I let you walk away with this for sixpence?”

  “Tell her I didn’t pay you with me fists. All right then, I’ll go as high as a shilling, no more.”

  “Aw, Tommy, ye break my heart.”

  I, impatient with the haggling, cut in, a coin in my hand. “Here’s a half crown. If you hear anything, you’ll tell Mr. Brewster, won’t you?”

  Billy had the coin out of my hand, testing it between his teeth before I could draw another breath. His teeth were brown, but strong enough to make a light indent in the silver.

  He looked at the coin and the tiny mark, nodded in satisfaction, and slid the half crown into his pocket. “Very generous of you, sir. Now, how about you take something for your lovely lady?”

  “Better not,” I said. “She might arrive at a supper hosted by its former owner.”

  Billy gave me an indignant look, and then he burst into laughter. “Nice one, Captain.” He guffawed, his eyes lost in his crinkled face. “I forgot you took a toff to wife. You’re a fine one, sir. Thank ye. For you, I’ll keep my eyes and ears peeled. ’Ow’s that?”

  Brewster regarded both of us sourly as Billy wrapped the cap in paper as tenderly as would a proprietor in a Bond Street shop.

  “There ye are then, Tommy,” Billy said, handing the paper-wrapped cap over. “Love to the missus.”

  “Aye,” Brewster said, unbending now that business was done. “And yours, Billy. Keep this to yourself, mind.”

  Billy touched his finger to the side of his nose. “I can keep a secret for an old mate. You’ll see, guv,” he said to me. “I won’t fail ye.”

  “Thank you,” I answered, giving him a polite bow, which sent Billy into paroxysms of laughter again.

  “See that ye don’t,” Brewster growled at Billy, and then he ushered me away.

  * * *

  We traversed other stalls in the market, though Brewster asked the vendors no questions. At each table, I looked for signs of the goods stolen from Carlton House but saw nothing.

  After a time, Brewster led me out of the market and the narrow lanes outside it, back along the riverbank, and then across streets again, moving through the dark until I had no idea where we were. I certainly would not be able to find my way back to the bridge without him.

  Brewster halted at long last outside a public house whose sign bore the faded picture of an ox’s head.

  I realized as I entered, that while I’d been to taverns and public houses with Brewster near St. Giles and Covent Garden, I’d never been to one as foul as this. The fire smoked, lending a pall to the air, the fug increased by the pipes men smoked in all corners. The floor was gritty, and the whitewashed walls were blackened with soot, greasy handprints, and stains I did not want to know the origin of. The air was fetid from the unwashed bodies of the house’s many patrons, the reek of river and sewage strong behind the smoke. The landlord’s nose was red and veiny, his shock of dirty hair sliding on his forehead as he sent Brewster an acknowledging nod.

  I hated to think what the ale would be like, but Brewster ordered a pint, wiping the edge of the tankard with his handkerchief before he drank. The landlord did not seem to find this offensive.

  Brewster did not ask for anything for me or indicate I should ask for myself. He moved purposefully through the crush toward an open door in the back of the taproom. I surmised that so many were packed into this alehouse because at least it was warm. I saw no other reason to come.

  The door through which Brewster exited opened to a passage that led to a long, narrow room, this one with fewer people in it. Women sat here with men, either husbands and wives together or ladies of the streets offering their wares.

  One end of the room contained a bench that bent around three walls, a table in the middle. A lady sat by herself at this table, several empty glasses strewn across it, but she was writing in a notebook and looked in no way inebriated. The glasses must have been from those who’d sat with her and since gone away.

  Brewster went straight to the table. He stopped in front of it but said nothing as the lady went on writing in her notebook.

  The woman was of middle years, her hair where it peeked from her mourning bonnet brown touched with silver. Her gown was a rather plain dark gray trimmed with black, covered with a high-waisted black jacket. She wore fingerless gloves with jet beads on their backs, and matching jet beads trimmed the jacket. Her mourning bonnet held an ostrich feather, dyed black, which drooped over her left shoulder.

  She continued to write, not words, I saw, but numbers. Her hand moved rapidly but carefully, no ink blotting her page. An ink bottle stood at her elbow, and she dipped her pen into it from time to time with efficient quickness.

  The woman never lifted her head or acknowledged our presence. Brewster continued to stand in silence, presumably would have stood so all night had I not decided to pointedly clear my throat.

  The pen slowed then halted, and the lady lifted her head. I found myself pinned by cold hazel eyes in the sort of gaze I’d seen on a French soldier as he’d looked over a pistol at me. The eyes took me in then flicked to Brewster.

  “Mr. Brewster,” the woman said in the tone of an admonishing governess. She laid down her pen, slid her notebook aside, and rested her hands on the table. She spoke no more, only waited.

  Brewster sketched a respectful salute. “Poppy,” he said. “This here’s Captain Lacey. We just want a moment, love, I promise.”

  “Your friend has no manners,” Poppy said sternly as she waved an imperious hand for us to sit. “What do you want? Make it sharpish. I have appointments.”

  I gave Poppy a bow and seated myself on the bench to her left while Brewster plopped himself to her right. I noted he kept his ale jar clenched in his hand instead of plunking it to the table.

  “The Prince Regent’s collection,” Brewster said without preamble. “Things have gone missing. Know about it?”

  Poppy sent him a patient look. She continued to regard him in silence until Brewster fished into his pocket and laid a few coins on the table. Silver, I noted, not copper. Poppy put out a calm hand and slid the coins to her, dropping them into her palm under the table. She said nothing even then, only watched Brewster expectantly.

  Brewster sighed and turned to me. “I’m cleaned out, Captain,” he said. “A sovereign wouldn’t come amiss.”

  If I took out a gold sovereign in a public house like this one, I’d likely never leave here alive, or at least not with my purse. In any case, I rarely walked about wi
th such money, knowing the talents of London’s pickpockets.

  I pulled out the small drawstring pouch I’d buttoned into a pocket inside the lining of my coat and opened it. I let the few crowns and half crowns inside clatter to the table, keeping back only enough shillings so Brewster and I might ride back across the river.

  Poppy glanced at the pile then at me, her scorn evident.

  “No manners at all,” she said to Brewster. “Some gentlemen have no idea how to behave to a lady. Try the market, Mr. Brewster. Though it’s probably too late.”

  “Ye seen any of it about?” Brewster asked without moving. “Certain things? Say, a silver cup with a snake around its lid. Clocks like a gent would put on his mantel. Small paintings, done on ivory and the like.”

  “I wouldn’t touch ’em,” Poppy said. She drew her notebook to her, ignoring the money on the table, and turned a page. “I don’t fancy dancing on the wind for stealing from the king. Sounds like small things anyone could tuck into a bag or his coat and waltz out the door with, but only if he’s a fool.”

  She spoke without much of a London cant, nor working-class cheerfulness. I’d never seen the woman before or heard of her, but I was reminded of Mr. Denis, who spoke with a smooth, neutral voice, betraying nothing of the fact that as a child, he’d sometimes had nowhere to sleep but a dung cart.

  Denis had never mentioned Poppy, but I could not doubt that he knew about her. Brewster seemed well acquainted with her, and Denis kept his finger on anyone who might either be useful, or a rival. I wondered which this woman was to him.

  “Any idea who would take them?” I broke in.

  Poppy turned her cool eyes to me. Her face had pleasant proportions, nothing unsightly about her, but she was not what I’d called pretty. She was not plain either—rather, she was neutral, like her voice, as though she’d striven to become the most harmless-looking and -sounding woman she could possibly be. When she walked down a London street, few would notice anything unusual about her. She only stood out here, in this incongruous setting.

  “A man has been arrested, has he not?” she asked me.

  “True, but that does not mean he is guilty,” I returned. “He has a right to prove himself innocent before a jury. It might have been someone else.”

  “I see.” Poppy watched me as though trying to decide what to make of me. “You are a very fair-minded person, Captain, as I have heard. I have also heard you have a rotten temper and often take matters into your own hands. What would you do to this thief, once you caught him?”

  “Make him return what he stole,” I said. “And tell me why he’d done it.”

  “Ah, so you can be his judge and jury. Very ambitious of you, Captain. But then, I hear you are ambitious. Your marriage has certainly raised you up, giving you the ability to fling silver coins at respectable widows. London should be wary of you. A man who acts as the law who now has money and connections among the highborn is a frightening thing. The guilty shall tremble.”

  I was growing annoyed with this lady, whoever she might be. “I assure you, ambitious is the last thing I am.”

  “I see. Forgive me if I do not take you at your word.” Poppy closed her notebook. “At the risk of you dragging me to the magistrate, I will tell you what I know, which I warn you is little. I have heard that certain pieces similar to what are found in Carlton House have found their ways to stalls in Southwark and other markets. I know that a man was arrested for convenience and that inquiring too closely about this matter is dangerous. I’d heed the warning, Captain Lacey.”

  Poppy at last put out her gloved hand and drew the coins to her with neat efficiency. They disappeared under the table with the others.

  “Now, gentlemen, I truly do have appointments,” Poppy said, switching her stare to Brewster. “Good evening to you.”

  Brewster immediately rose to his feet, and I stood as well. “Thank you for taking the time, Poppy, love,” Brewster said.

  Her eyes flickered the slightest bit at the endearment. “Not at all. I am always happy to speak to old friends.” Her icy glance my way told me she did not include me in this category.

  I could not leave without one final request. “If you hear anything, will you send me word? Or Brewster?”

  “No,” Poppy said promptly. “I don’t convey messages. You are welcome to return after sufficient time has passed, but I advise you not to visit without Mr. Brewster.”

  She gave me a severe look then she opened the notebook once more, dipped her pen, and returned to making notations.

  Brewster flicked his fingers at me, indicating we were leaving. He strolled across the room, depositing his tankard on a table in passing as we went. The men sitting at that particular table wasted no time pouring the tankard’s contents into glasses of their own.

  From the door I looked back to where Poppy sat, but she never glanced up, never watched us go. She’d returned to her notebook, blissfully ignoring the world around her. I noticed the men at nearby tables carefully did not look at her.

  I said nothing as Brewster and I made our way back through the passage and the crowded taproom, he nodding at the landlord on his way out. We emerged into the street, which had quite a number of people on it despite the late hour and the cold.

  I began to speak, but Brewster held his finger to his lips and led me on through the warren of streets until we were well away from the tavern.

  “We’ll have to walk a bit to find a hackney,” he told me. “Coachmen don’t like to come hereabouts.”

  I didn’t blame them. A hackney driver could be pulled down and robbed unless he was quick enough and ruthless enough to run the horse and coach over his attackers.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Southwark. We’ll head for a bridge and back across to streets where you belong.”

  “I certainly seem to have a bad reputation here,” I remarked as we went. I felt eyes watching me, as I had in St. Giles, but if anything, the men behind the stares here were more hostile.

  “That’s Mr. Denis’s fault,” Brewster said, sounding apologetic. “He likes to put about that his agents are not men to be trifled with. It helps us walk down streets like this one without being waylaid.”

  I did not at all like being thought of as Mr. Denis’s agent, but I realized that protesting about it here and now would be rather foolish, especially if that misapprehension was keeping both me and Brewster whole and well.

  “Tell me who the devil that woman was,” I said as we wound through the lanes. Brewster, who’d lived in London most of his life, he’d told me, after his father brought him down from Lancashire to escape the black smoke there, moved swiftly and confidently. “What was she doing in that wreck of a tavern, of all places?”

  Brewster shrugged. “She turns up here and there, where she wants, and she’s not bothered. No one would dare. Her husband was king of the streets around here, until he passed. Some say she killed him, but I don’t hold much with that rumor. She was sweet on him, from all accounts. She took over his business the moment he were gone. She hands out money to those who need it, but ye have to be desperate to take it from her. She wants payment back when she demands it, and it’s a brave man who stands up and says he don’t have her money. She’s not quite a usurer, but she does charge a fee for giving the money to ye. A hefty one, if you take my meaning. Woe to you if ye don’t pay it to her.”

  “She’s a woman,” I said, pointing out the obvious. “She might have a cold eye and a sharp tongue, but I doubt she could beat a man into submission.”

  “Oh, she has plenty to do it for her. Like I say, she took over her husband’s business, and it was extensive. She runs South London just as Mr. Denis runs everything north of the river. Only she’s not as genteel, like. ’Sides, those around ’ere respect her. She helps them out of binds, as no one else will. There are plenty who’d be in the workhouse if not for her, and they know it.”

  “I see.” I fell silent. I disliked what Brewster was telling me, but I mig
ht have to bend my principles a little and allow this Poppy to help me save a man from Spendlove’s ruthlessness, if she could. And perhaps save me from him into the bargain.

  A shadow slipped past us. I saw it and halted, my breath coming faster, my encounter in St. Giles too fresh. I had no wish to battle for my life again today.

  Brewster stepped into the darkness and returned with a tall youth in his clutches. The youth was swearing hard at Brewster, the cap on his head knocked askew.

  Brewster shook him to silence. “What are you following us about for?” he demanded.

  The youth yanked himself from Brewster’s grasp, though I knew Brewster let him go. “I was sent, wasn’t I? ’E wants to see ’im.”

  I knew who without asking. I recognized the larger shadow that waited farther down a side street as one of Denis’s stronger ruffians. A hackney waited for us on the bridge, almost lost in the darkness and lowering fog.

  “Very well,” I said without hesitation. “I want to find out what he knows of all this. You do not have to accompany me,” I told Brewster as he followed me toward the hackney. “If you feel it would be awkward for you, I’ll make the visit and have the coachman take you on home.”

  “Chance would be a fine thing,” Brewster growled. He put his hand on my shoulder and more or less shoved me into the hackney. “If you’re charging into the lion’s den, Captain, I’m going right in with ye. Your lady wife would be that angry with me if ye didn’t come out again.”

  Chapter 9

  The house at number 45, Curzon Street, a place I frequently vowed never to set foot in again, had become quite familiar to me.

  The cold-eyed butler took my greatcoat and hat and ushered me up the white-paneled staircase. We passed the painting of the milkmaid standing in a flood of sunlight, the only action in the picture the stream of cream trickling from her jug. On we went up to the white-paneled upper hall and into the study that opened to the back of the house. None of Denis’s private rooms faced the street.

  The study I entered was austere. It had been repaired and repainted since an incident the previous winter had wrecked it, but no evidence remained of the problem. A painting hung above the fireplace, dark with years, but from it peered the eyes of an artist who’d dressed himself in Arab costume. His face was round, somber, ingenuous, as though he wasn’t certain why he was wearing the garments, except that it was required for the picture. The artist gazed down at me in sympathy as I was taken to my usual chair in front of the desk, a table next to it bearing a glass of brandy.