The Glass House (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #3)

by Ashley Gardner

  "Dull," he said.

  I raised my brows. "Dull?"

  "Deadly. I was his pupil all Michaelmas term and now I've Hilary term to get through. I'm almost dead from yawning."

  "Sounds the perfect man for the lad, here." I jerked my thumb at Bartholomew.

  Mr. Gower gave me a look that said he didn't think much of my senses. "Not what I'd wish on my nephew. Chapman passes up the most interesting cases and sticks with what's safe and only needs two words to the judge to get a conviction. No style, no verve. But alas, one has to put up with it if one wants to become a barrister. Someone in my family must make a living."

  "Mr. Chapman is married, I believe," I said. "Perhaps that makes him wish to choose cases that are safe."

  Mr. Gower snorted. "You'd never think he was married. He never talks about his wife, never goes home. Just has me sifting through dull books all night. I hear she is a damned pretty woman. I'll not feel sorry for her, though, always being alone at home. It would be duller for her with him there."

  I found it interesting that Chapman seemed not to have told his pupil of his wife's death or of his journey to Bow Street to identify her. Doubtless Mr. Gower would be disheartened to learn he'd missed the only bit of excitement in Chapman's chambers all term.

  "Do you dine with him?" I asked.

  "Every day in the hall." The lad gestured to the square brick edifice behind us. "I sit with the students, of course. We debate a case most days. Thank God he doesn't choose them. He dines with the other barristers, but not the silks. Not that he don't want to." Mr. Gower winked.

  A silk, as I understood it, denoted a King's Counsel, a senior barrister--a most distinguished achievement.

  "Did he dine Monday?" When young Gower looked a question, I added. "I called, but he was not in his chambers. I wondered if I’d chosen a bad time."

  "Oh, yes, he was there. Dozing over his pudding as usual. Saving up his waking hours to plague me with his dull books. I say." He brightened. "Would you like to slip away for a tankard? It's early, he won't miss me for a while."

  I resisted the urge to join him. Gower's easy manner was infectious, but I could not keep up the charade over a tall tankard of ale, nor could Bartholomew. I declined and thanked him for his time. He shrugged and departed, walking away down the lane, back straight, arms swinging, whistling a tune.

  I envied him. His young shoulders had borne no hardships; his only grief was nodding off over the pages of the tedious cases Chapman assigned him to read.

  Bartholomew and I walked the opposite direction, down to the Temple Gardens. The peaceful setting of green and trees was soothing, even in the winter cold. Young men in black gowns walked hurriedly, heads down, gowns flapping, like crows scuttling along the green. Older barristers hobbled in their wakes. All moved purposefully to and from the Inns and other buildings, seeming to ignore the gardens laid out for their pleasure.

  A set of stairs led from the gardens to the Thames. The steps to the water had existed since the time that these Inns had been the demesne of the Knights Templar; the stairs had led to barges when the Thames had been the most sensible route for traversing London.

  "He couldn't have done her, then," Bartholomew said as soon as we were alone on the stairs. "If he were sitting at dinner, falling asleep, he couldn’t have done her."

  "Not necessarily." The Temple Gardens were an idyllic place, with trees and green and the river below. It was here, if Thompson had been correct, that Peaches had met her death, or at least had been put into the river.

  I walked halfway down the water steps and watched the gray river flowing obliviously past us. "Middle Temple Hall opens onto the garden. Chapman could easily have come out, met his wife, and gone back. It was nearly dark, and almost everyone in the Temples were dining. No doubt others in the hall nod off as well, and the students spend the time debating and arguing, not watching their elders."

  "That's possible, sir."

  "Anything is possible," I said, growing impatient. "That is the trouble. What's more, it is probable. So is Lord Barbury bringing her here after she was killed to throw suspicion on her husband, who was dining conveniently nearby." I blew out my breath. "I very much want to speak to someone who saw Peaches alive that day. We know where she was to have gone, and where she should have gone, but not where she did go."

  "'Tis puzzling, sir." Bartholomew dropped his deferential nephew pose and folded his arms over his chest.

  We prowled about looking for signs that Peaches had been killed here, although Thompson had told me the Bow Street foot patrol had searched the area, under Pomeroy's supervision. We found no stones with blood on them, nor had the murderer conveniently left behind a bloody handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it. Of course, anything incriminating could simply have been dropped into the silent Thames.

  Rain began to patter down on us. It had poured rain on Monday, which likely had disguised any sign of violence. Bartholomew and I looked about until we were drenched then gave up and returned home.

  Once in Grimpen Lane, I went to my bedchamber to change into dry clothes and told Bartholomew to do the same. When I emerged, my landlady, Mrs. Beltan, was knocking at my door.

  "Your friend Mr. Grenville's been," she said when I answered. Rain still pattered outside, and the hall was cold and clammy. Mrs. Beltan handed me a folded square of paper. "Been and gone. And he's taken Miss Simmons away with him."

  * * * * *

  Chapter Five

  I stared. "Taken her where?"

  Mrs. Beltan’s plump mouth pursed in disapproval. "I couldn't say, sir. But she had on her best bonnet and a bundle under her arm. He fair dragged her away. He looked that angry."

  Grenville had seemed fascinated by Marianne from the day he'd met her, an interest he'd never denied. He'd given her a good handful of money, though it seemed to disappear with nothing to show for it. I wondered what Marianne had said or done to anger him, and where on earth he'd taken her.

  "I will speak to him," I told Mrs. Beltan. "If it's a question of the rent . . ."

  "Rent’s been paid to the end of the quarter. Your Mr. Grenville gave me a large note for it."

  For that I could only wonder. I had known Grenville for a year or more now, but I could neither understand nor explain his actions.

  The piece of paper he'd left instructed me to present myself at number 21, Curzon Street at four o'clock this afternoon. It was just going on twelve. I told the worried Mrs. Beltan I would look into the matter, fetched Bartholomew, and set off on my next errand.

  *** *** ***

  I did not seriously think Marianne in any danger from Grenville, but I had no idea where he could have taken her. Certainly not to his own house; at least, I did not believe so. A few lads in Russel Street told me they'd seen Grenville's carriage but added nothing more helpful than it had turned toward Covent Garden and King Street.

  I let it go. I doubted Grenville would appreciate me prying, and I was not quite certain who I was more worried for, Marianne or Grenville. However, I told Bartholomew to return to Grenville’s house in Mayfair and make sure all was well, then I took a hackney through the City to have a look at the infamous Glass House.

  I rode in the rain through Fleet Street to Ludgate Hill, St. Paul's to Cheapside, Cornhill to Leadenhall Street. St. Charles Row proved to be just off Aldgate, east of Houndsditch. The street looked respectable, if rundown. These houses accommodated the lesser clerks and bankers of the City not far away, and none looked as though they would hold a fashionable hell.

  Despite the chill, peddlers strolled up and down the street. Some carried boxes strapped about their necks from which they sold an assorted jumble of things, some toted baskets that held jeweled colors of fruit, some pushed carts that carried fragrant hot chestnuts. A knife grinder wandered about, calling his trade.

  These peddlers, like most Londoners, dealt with the weather with a stoicism I admired. I had spent twenty years in warmer climes and had become unused to the chill of my h
omeland. In India, the hot ball of sun had blazed down upon us most of the time, and in Spain and Portugal, the summers had been roasting.

  I’d toyed with the idea of retiring to Spain when the war ended, to live in a sunny room over a quiet plaza, but circumstance had brought me back to London to shiver in the rain. My agreement with Colonel Brandon had forced me to give up many of my dreams.

  The door of number 12, St. Charles Row looked no different from the doors of numbers 11 and 13. Number 12 had been painted dark green, but scratches here and there revealed that the original paint had been black. The knocker was tarnished and less than clean. Indeed, number 12, St. Charles Row did not seem a particularly prosperous address.

  I lifted the knocker and listened to the hollow sound within. Almost immediately, the door was wrenched open by a man, not very tall, who had a sharp nose and belligerent brown eyes. I held out my card.

  The man glanced at it once, but did not reach for it. "You were not invited," he said.

  I remained standing with my card thrust at him, then I unbent my arm and tucked the card back into my pocket.

  "I took a chance," I said. "Mr. Grenville and I were curious."

  For once, the magic name of Grenville made no difference.

  "You were not invited," the man repeated, and slammed the door in my face. My hair stirred with the draft.

  Knocking again produced no result. I turned away, more curious about The Glass House than ever.

  *** *** ***

  "Shall I lay out the black coat, sir?" Bartholomew asked me later that afternoon.

  "Since it is the only one," I answered dryly, "I suppose you should."

  Bartholomew took no notice of my sarcasm. He solemnly brought out my black frock coat, a fine thing that Grenville had persuaded me to purchase the previous year, and proceeded to brush it with an air of concentration. I had brushed it only the day before but forbore to say so.

  Bartholomew helped me into the coat then proceeded to flick it all over with another brush. He'd polished my boots until they were supple and shiny and had even scraped every bit of mud from the soles. I do not know why he bothered; I would simply tramp through the mud in them again.

  As he worked, Bartholomew told me that Grenville had not brought Marianne to his house. But his master had been cross and touchy, and Bartholomew had not dared ask any questions. I thanked him for the information and told him to take a brief holiday while I went to Inglethorpe's.

  Another hackney got me to Curzon Street in Mayfair at a few minutes past four.

  Inglethorpe's door was much different than the one that had nearly banged my nose in St. Charles Row. Its brass knocker was bright and polished, the black-painted door clean and free of scratches.

  At the far end of this street, at number 45, James Denis lived. During my last adventure, Denis had given me information that I needed and told me that, in return, he expected me to attend him whenever he whistled. I had retorted predictably. I’d heard nothing but silence from him since.

  Inglethorpe's door was opened by a tall, spindly footman with a blank expression. I handed him my card and did not explain my errand. He looked at the card, ushered me inside, and took me to a small reception room.

  All very correct. Mayfair reception rooms were designed to make the caller uncomfortable and wish to depart as soon as possible. The furniture consisted of a bench-like settee with gilded claw feet and one chair whose cushion had been polished by a host of backsides. I chose to stand and peer through lace curtains to the street.

  After about a quarter of an hour, the footman reappeared and quietly bade me to follow him. He took me upstairs to the first floor and led me into a drawing room that was rather crowded. The high ceiling was plastered with white vines, and two chandeliers, one in the rear of the room and one in the front, hung from ornate plaster medallions.

  Simon Inglethorpe came to greet me. He was middle-aged, with black hair going to gray. His posture was straight, his shoulders back, but his abdomen was running to fat. Light blue eyes assessed me from under thick brows. "Captain Lacey." He shook my hand. "Grenville told me to expect you. Sit down, please. We will begin momentarily."

  I had already recognized, in a vague way, several gentlemen in the room from the clubs and social gatherings which I’d attended with Grenville. But I definitely recognized the only two ladies present.

  One was Lady Breckenridge. She was perched on an ivory-colored settee on one side of the long room, her widow’s cap of white lace making a fine contrast to her dark hair. Across from her, in a Louis Quinze chair, looking both eager and nervous, was a lady called Mrs. Danbury.

  I had met Catherine Danbury several times before. She was a lovely, golden-haired widow and the niece of Sir Gideon Derwent. The kindly and unworldly Derwent family had befriended me last summer, professing to enjoy my tales of the Peninsular War. They had issued me a standing invitation to dine with them once a fortnight and regale them with such tales. Mrs. Danbury was not always present at these dinners, but I looked forward to the occasions when she was. She was wiser than her innocent cousins, knowing a little more of life and the world than they, but she too was kind and friendly, with a refreshing air about her.

  Mrs. Danbury smiled at me but was clearly surprised to see me. I gave her a polite nod in response, puzzled myself by her appearance here.

  The only vacant seat was on the settee next to Lady Breckenridge. I bowed politely to her ladyship and sat down. Lady Breckenridge barely inclined her head, but a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

  Hands resting on my walking stick, I studied those gathered. The gentlemen were Mayfair fodder, wealthy men ranging in ages from twenty to sixty. They did not seem in a hurry to speak, and neither did the ladies. Silence, it seemed, was called for.

  Inglethorpe returned after conferring with someone in the stairwell. He beamed a smile at us. "Welcome, my friends. Now that we are assembled, we will begin."

  A liveried footman entered bearing a large silver tray. He set the tray and its contents on a table and departed.

  Three leather bags lay on the tray, blown up like water skins and fastened by a stiff string. Inglethorpe lifted one. "Courtesy of the Royal Society," he said. "I believe we shall have ladies first."

  He handed the skin to Catherine Danbury, who examined the bag as curiously as I did. Inglethorpe reached down and untied the string.

  "Hold it to your nose and mouth," he instructed.

  Mrs. Danbury did so. Inglethorpe lifted the bag from the bottom and squeezed it gently. Mrs. Danbury jerked back, murmuring a startled, "Oh!"

  I started to rise to her rescue, but Lady Breckenridge placed a firm hand on my wrist and pulled me back down.

  Mrs. Danbury pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and sat back, blinking. Then a childlike smile spread across her face. "My goodness," she said, and she laughed.

  Inglethorpe turned to Lady Breckenridge and offered the bag to her. She loosened the mouth of it and put it to her nose, inhaling and squeezing the bag in a practiced way.

  Mrs. Danbury continued to titter as though she could not stop herself. Inglethorpe, smile wide, continued across the room.

  Lady Breckenridge closed her eyes and leaned back a moment, then opened her eyes and gave me a beatific smile. "Excellent for the humors," she said.

  Mrs. Danbury found her statement amusing, judging from the escalation of her laughter. The bag passed to the gentlemen but emptied before it got to me.

  Inglethorpe handed me the second bag and loosened the string for me. I lifted it to my nose and tried to duplicate what I'd seen the others do.

  A waft of air forced its way into my nostrils, but it smelled in no way unpleasant, or, indeed, any different than the air in the rest of the room. I wondered whether Inglethorpe was making fools of us.

  As I passed the bag to the next gentleman, however, my lips and tongue began to tingle. It was a curious sensation. I touched my tongue to my lower lip and resisted the urge to tug it. Lady Breckenridge l
aughed quietly at me.

  As I turned from her, my injured knee collided with the gilded edge of the settee. I felt a jarring but no pain. For a moment, the fact did not connect in my head, and then, in pure astonishment, I stared down at my leg.

  I felt no pain. All day long my knee had throbbed in the damp, and now, it seemed as right as it had been before I'd hurt it.

  For two years after the original injury, which had shattered the bones, my knee and lower thigh had hurt continuously, some days more than others. Always the leg was stiff; every morning I had to walk about to loosen it up. If I used it too much during a day, such as today, I woke aching and cursing in the night. And now, I felt no pain.

  Amazed, I stood. Mrs. Danbury pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and laughed at me, her eyes shining. I grinned back at her.

  "Do you like it, Captain?" Inglethorpe asked. He passed the second bag to Lady Breckenridge and picked up the third.

  "Certainly," I answered.

  I paced back and forth. I glanced at my walking stick, which I had left leaning against the settee. My bad leg moved where I wanted it to go without protest. I turned in a circle, resting my weight on my left leg. Nary a twinge. I laughed.

  Inglethorpe handed the third bag to me. I took it and inhaled gladly, taking a long breath.

  I wondered what the concoction was. Grenville had called it a "magic" gas. I felt awake and alert and rested. Brandy and gin left one heavy and sleepy, opium gave a false euphoria and a weightiness in the limbs, but this made me feel fine and fit. I wanted to leap about the room, and to my alarm, I found myself nearly starting to do so.

  "Dance for us, Captain," Lady Breckenridge said. "Do, please."

  Several of the gentlemen laughed. The others leaned back, idiotic grins on their faces. Inglethorpe, the only one who had not partaken, watched us all with an indulgent expression.

  I crossed the carpet and held out my hand. "Do you waltz, Mrs. Danbury?"

  She gazed at me in astonishment and through the strange clarity I felt a twinge of embarrassment. Then she smiled, put her hand in mine, and rose to meet me.