The Glass House (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #3)

by Ashley Gardner

  "I grant that, and you might be right that The Glass House is important. I will have to get you inside, because you'll never gain entry on your own. No insult to you."

  "None taken." My father had been a gentleman; but a country gentleman of Norfolk, however ancient our family, was not in the same standing as someone like Lord Barbury or Grenville.

  "I guarantee that you will not like it," Grenville said.

  "I have no interest in liking it," I said. "I am not seeking entertainment."

  "I know. But please, do not blame me if the place disgusts you. There, I have warned you."

  He made me curious. Grenville could affect disdain, but his distaste now was genuine.

  We finished our ale, said our farewells, and departed, Grenville to return via his luxurious coach to Mayfair, me to my rooms in Grimpen Lane. Grenville promised to send word about when I should call on Inglethorpe.

  He was interested, at least. When Lucius Grenville became interested in something, he pursued it with a tenacity the Emperor Bonaparte would have envied. The murderer would be hard pressed to elude the both of us.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Four

  That evening, Thompson sent word to me that Chapman was due in Bow Street to speak to Pomeroy at five o'clock. It was a short walk to the magistrate’s office from my rooms, though I moved slowly, because the weather cramped my injured knee.

  The tall edifice of the magistrate's house encompassed numbers 3 and 4 Bow Street. Behind it, across a small yard, lay the strong rooms for the keeping of prisoners; the officers sometimes used the cellar of the tavern across the road for prisoners when the house was full.

  Church clocks were striking the quarter hour when I entered the house and made my way up to Pomeroy's room, where Mr. Chapman waited. In his early fifties, Chapman had a fringe of graying hair, small dark eyes, and an expression of one whose mind was always moving forward to his next task.

  He greeted Pomeroy and Thompson politely, looking in no way worried about why they'd brought him there. Apparently, he’d not believed their story that his wife had been found dead and seemed impatient for them to prove it. He was uninterested in who I was and expressed a desire to get on with it as he had important appointments.

  Peaches' body had been placed in one of the buildings in the yard behind the house. Pomeroy led us there and unlocked the door. The stone room was chilly and damp, a foul tomb for anyone.

  Peaches, wrapped in a sheet, waited in silence on the table. Standing beside the shrouded body was Sir Montague Harris, the magistrate I’d met the year before. I was surprised at his presence, as he was magistrate at the Whitechapel house, far from the scene of the crime. The houses and officers often cooperated with each other, but if a magistrate from another part of the metropolis had not been asked to participate in an investigation, he had no need to.

  Sir Montague, however, looked very interested. He shook my hand, professing himself pleased to see me.

  Chapman was introduced to him but did not look impressed.

  "This must be a mistake, you know," he said, in a voice of one annoyed that the outside world had intruded on his workday. "My wife is in Sussex."

  "That's as may be," Pomeroy said. "But here we are."

  He stepped forward, removed the wrapping from Peaches' face, and held his candle high.

  Silent and blue-gray in the circle of light, Peaches looked almost serene. Her ringlets had dried from her dousing in the Thames and lay on her shoulders as silken and golden as a girl's.

  Chapman stared at her a long time, his face unmoving.

  "Well?" Pomeroy boomed. His candle wavered, and a drop of hot wax splashed on Peaches' shrouded chest.

  "That is my wife," Mr. Chapman said finally. "She was meant to be in Sussex." He sounded as though this breach of plans displeased him.

  "I am very sorry, sir." Sir Montague's words were polite but sincere. "From what Mr. Thompson tells me, she died quickly. Probably never knew what happened. Now, then sir, when did you last see your wife?"

  Thompson quietly pulled the sheet back over Peaches' face. She was not a person any more, merely a figure under a sheet.

  "I handed her into a hackney, bound for a coaching inn," Chapman said. "She was to take the mail to Sussex. That was three, no four days ago."

  "And where were you," Pomeroy broke in, "yesterday afternoon at half-past four?"

  Chapman turned to him in mild shock. "Why is that important?"

  "Because your wife was tipped into the river very near your chambers in Middle Temple at that time."

  Chapman paled. "If you imply that I killed her, you are wrong. I dined that evening in the hall, with my pupil and fellow barristers. I never left it. I put my wife into a coach on Saturday, and have not set eyes on her from that time to this." He glanced at the shrouded body and flinched, as though only now understanding that her death was real.

  "Did you have any quarrel with your wife, sir?" Pomeroy asked.

  A vein began pulsing in Chapman's forehead. "What do you mean, asking me such a thing?"

  "Did you know, for instance, that your wife was having an affair with a posh gent?"

  Chapman's face suffused with color. He looked at the four of us, all silent, all waiting for his answer. It struck me that although Chapman had not believed his wife dead, he very well believed she'd had a lover.

  "Gentlemen, you cast aspersions on my wife's reputation," he said.

  "She'd been an actress, had she not?" Thompson said. "Not many actresses have excellent reputations to begin with."

  Chapman's jaw hardened. "That was years ago. She gave up the stage--everything--when she married me."

  "An odd choice of wife, wasn't it?" Thompson said. "For a respectable barrister?"

  "That is really none of your business."

  Sir Montague spoke, still polite, but his voice firm. "She was murdered, sir, which is a very serious crime. We will expect you at the inquest, day after tomorrow."

  Chapman blinked at the word "inquest." "Surely, I will not be called to give evidence."

  "A few things will be easier if you are there," Sir Montague said. He never lost his polite geniality. "You understand."

  As a barrister, Mr. Chapman obviously did.

  "Before you leave, just tell Mr. Pomeroy the names of the men you dined with, and your movements between four and five o'clock, yesterday."

  "Of course." Chapman's voice was lackluster.

  We went back to the outside world, which was almost as dim as the stone room had been. Mr. Chapman did not shake hands with me or Thompson. He moved into the side room indicated to wait for Pomeroy.

  "He must have done it, sir," Pomeroy hissed at Sir Montague, his round face wearing an annoyed expression. "Why are you letting him go?"

  "So that you may watch him, of course," Sir Montague said. "If he is innocent, he will do nothing but grow enraged at the inefficiencies of the magistrates. If he is guilty, he will betray himself."

  Pomeroy looked thoughtful, gave Sir Montague a nod, and turned back to the waiting Chapman.

  Sir Montague asked me and Thompson to speak to him and led us upstairs to the magistrate's rooms. The Bow Street magistrate was not there. He was even now presiding in the court below, where those arrested during the night would parade before him--pickpockets, prostitutes, thieves, and ruffians. The magistrate would hear the cases against them and decide whether to let the culprits go free or to bind them over for trial. Mr. Chapman might very well prosecute them in a few days at the Old Bailey, if Pomeroy didn’t arrest Chapman first.

  Thompson closed the door, and Sir Montague settled his bulk on a wide bench. "I was pleased for the chance to meet you again, Captain," he said. "When Mr. Thompson told me that Mr. Pomeroy had fetched you to view the body, I was interested. I remember how you tweaked the coroner's nose in Kent for not doing his job."

  "I was impertinent." I had been, but I’d also believed in what I’d said.

  "He was in a hurry and wanted his
dinner," Sir Montague said. "Your observations were apt, and he ought to have paid attention. I would be pleased to hear your observations in this case."

  He was watching me closely. I had the feeling, as I had in Kent, that were I ever in the dock before him, Sir Montague Harris would peel me apart layer by layer.

  "I agree with Mr. Thompson's idea that she was killed in the Temple Gardens, near the stairs," I said. "It would have been dark and few people would have been out in the rain. Also, as the wife of a barrister, she would see nothing wrong with answering a summons from her husband--or one purporting to be from her husband--to Middle Temple."

  Thompson leaned against a plain wooden desk and folded his arms. "Why would her husband summon her if he thought her in Sussex?"

  "We have only his word on that matter," Sir Montague said. "He and his servants will be questioned, of course."

  "If she had returned to London to meet someone at the Temple Gardens," I said, "she likely hired a coach to let her down at Middle Temple Lane. Drivers can be questioned."

  "Or the posh Lord Barbury hired a coach for her," Thompson said. "I have an appointment to speak to him today; I will certainly ask him. I suggest she used the Sussex journey as a ruse to get away from her husband for a few days to meet Lord Barbury. Perhaps Chapman discovered the ruse and killed her in anger."

  "Would she answer a summons to Middle Temple if she were hiding from her husband?" I asked.

  Thompson spread his hands. "Perhaps the other speculation is correct, that she met her end elsewhere and was brought to the gardens. Her husband would know the gardens and know they would be empty at that time of day."

  "Or it is the lover," Sir Montague broke in. "Perhaps she wanted to end the association and return to her husband's affections. In a crime like this, it is often one or the other, the husband or the lover. We only need discover which one."

  "But in this case," I said, "both the lover and the husband claim to have been in places with plenty of witnesses at the time of the crime. Mr. Chapman in Middle Temple Hall, and Lord Barbury at White's."

  "We will certainly ascertain that," Sir Montague said. "But we have yet to establish the involvement of a third party."

  "What is your interest?" I asked Sir Montague. "Whitechapel is a long way from Bow Street or even Blackfriar's Bridge."

  Sir Montague shrugged, but I saw his hint of smile. "I simply take an interest. And when I heard your name crop up, that interest increased." He exchanged a look with Thompson. "That and the fact that The Glass House might be involved."

  "Which lays near Whitechapel," I said.

  "It is a house I would like to shut down. Rumors of what goes on there are disquieting, but rumor is not evidence. Whoever owns the house is very powerful. Whenever a magistrate moves to close it, that magistrate suddenly backs off very quietly."

  His statement made me pause. I knew a man powerful enough to send magistrates scuttling away when he wished. He was a man called James Denis, and he had his finger in many a soiled pie. If Denis owned The Glass House, I could understand why Sir Montague wanted it closed, and also understand his difficulty in doing so.

  "Only the very wealthy and important are let through the doors," Sir Montague said. "It is not like a brothel or even a gambling den that my patrollers can infiltrate. Vice for the upper classes often stays hidden."

  I knew the truth of that. "My friend Mr. Grenville tells me that the places the fashionable frequent change rapidly. If you wait, interest will die, and the fashionable will go elsewhere."

  Sir Montague's look was shrewd. "I do not want to wait that long. This house has fascinated for a while now and shows no sign of abating. My men cannot go there, and neither can I. While my knighthood might get me through the door, I am too well known as a meddling magistrate." His eyes twinkled. Sir Montague was also hugely rotund, though his legs were thin, a profile that many would remember. "But you, Captain Lacey, have the correct social standing and connections."

  I’d suspected he'd get to that. Sir Montague could not enter the realm of the aristocrat, but Lucius Grenville could. And Lucius Grenville could take me with him, as he'd already offered to.

  I supposed Sir Montague expected me to protest. Grenville was ready to let me use my connection with him to enter, but I was not certain how happy he would be when he learned that I wanted to not only to investigate Peaches' murder but to spy on Grenville's own cronies.

  However, Sir Montague did not know how much I would welcome any opportunity to thwart James Denis. I despised the man, and would happily get in the way of anything he did.

  I gave Sir Montague a quiet nod. "Of course. What would you like me to do?"

  *** *** ***

  "Have you ever thought of going into law, Bartholomew?" I asked the next morning. Bartholomew, towering six feet and more with golden blond hair and a youthful face for his nineteen years, stopped in the act of refilling my cup.

  "Can't say I ever did, sir. I mean to be a valet." He poured the thick, black coffee, its steam bathing my nose in heady aroma. "Or a Runner. A chap needs learning to go to law."

  "He apprentices," I said, lifting my cup. The coffee burned my tongue, but I swallowed it down. "He apprentices to a barrister and learns the art of prosecuting in court."

  If I had stayed at Cambridge and finished instead of following Colonel Brandon off to the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons, I likely would have found my way to one of the Temples or Lincoln's or Gray's Inn to learn to practice at the bar. My father had been pressing me that direction, not to mention to marry a young lady for her fortune. Twenty years old and arrogant, I had told my father to go to the devil.

  He’d shouted at me for days, and I had shouted back. Grown man though I was, he’d still been fond of beating me across the backside with his stout cane whenever he could reach me. I’d felt the brunt of that cane most of my life. I’d witnessed many a flogging in my Army life, but no soldier had ever beaten another with the vicious thoroughness of my father.

  "I need an excuse to go poking about the Middle Temple," I said. "You could put on a suit and pretend you are looking to apprentice to a barrister. You are about the right age."

  Bartholomew grinned. "Any of that lot will peg me for a slavey right off, I open my mouth."

  "Then keep it closed." I chewed through another hunk of Mrs. Beltan's cheapest bread and downed the coffee. "Stay behind me and look shy. I'll be your uncle or some such, happy to be getting you off my hands."

  His smile widened. "I'm your man, sir."

  Bartholomew was as fascinated as Grenville by the fact that I investigated things. His last adventure with me had resulted in him receiving two bullets in his arm and leg, but that fact had not dimmed his interest. Bartholomew had recovered with the exuberance of youth and didn’t even sport a limp.

  Unlike myself. I had received a nasty knee injury courtesy of French soldiers on the Peninsula and had to lean on a walking stick. The stick sported a sharp sword within it, which had come in handy more than once since my return to London and civilian life.

  When Bartholomew was ready, we departed. As I closed my door, I was surprised by the sight of Marianne Simmons coming up the steps. She wore yellow straw bonnet tied with a green ribbon that made her girlish face more fetching than ever. Marianne scowled when she saw me, golden brows drawn over eyes of cornflower blue.

  "Where the devil have you been?" I asked, startled into rudeness. She'd been away longer than usual, and Peaches' death had worried me.

  Marianne’s scowl deepened. "None of your business, Lacey." She paused halfway to her floor to glower down at me. "None of his either."

  She did not mean Bartholomew, who hovered behind me. She meant Grenville, who'd taken an interest in Marianne and twice given her money, asking for nothing in return.

  I did not pursue it. Marianne was correct--what she got up to when she was far from here was none of my business. I shut my door but did not lock it. "There's half a loaf of bread on my table. Take it if you want it."<
br />
  She gave me a freezing look. "I do not need your leavings."

  I shrugged but still did not lock the door. I followed Bartholomew down the stairs, hearing Marianne ascend to her own rooms behind us. I had no doubt that when I returned the bread would be gone.

  Bartholomew and I set off along the Strand through Temple Bar to Fleet Street, then walked south, down Middle Temple Lane, which bisected the Middle and Inner Temples. The environs of the two Temples overlapped somewhat, with buildings belonging to Middle Temple straying into the areas of the Inner Temple.

  I led Bartholomew past the courts and chambers and toward the hall and gardens.

  Bartholomew wore the plain suit in which he visited his mother, and he slowed his exuberant stride for my slower one. His suit was cheap, though not shabby, but it did not matter. The middle-class men and young gentlemen who apprenticed here did not always come from families of wealth.

  Pupils fluttered about the lanes and gardens like students anywhere--some with the frightened but determined looks of young men resolute to prove they were good at something; some with the superior looks of those who already knew they were good; some with the devil-may-care looks of young men who lived for larks, studies getting done when they got done. At Cambridge, I, unfortunately, had been a member of the latter group.

  Bartholomew stayed quiet as instructed, and I behaved like an uncle anxious to rid myself of a lad I was at wit's end what to do with. The pupils spoke to us readily enough. They eyed Bartholomew with either awe at his size or with a spark of mischief as they debated how to make fun of him.

  We received much jovial advice on which barristers to avoid, but no one mentioned Chapman. I had to inquire about him directly and was directed to a tall, lanky young man who was taking a turn about the gardens.

  Mr. Gower was about twenty summers, very tall, very thin, and with a crop of bright red hair. He had freckles all over his face and throat and the bony wrists that protruded from the ends of his gown. He had a serious expression, but when I asked him about Chapman, he rolled his light blue eyes.