“Or the dog wasn’t Mercer’s at all.”
“Possibly, but Oro is a gentleman’s dog, not a mongrel from the streets. Mercer’s estate is a likely place from which Blackmore could have acquired him.”
“I take your point.” Grenville gestured with his goblet. “Go on.”
“Blackmore continues his partnership with White, until Blackmore is arrested for assault and condemned to transportation. Lord Mercer hears of this and is pleased to bring Blackmore to his house for one of the matches that Blackmore used to arrange.” I closed my eyes, picturing the scene. “Blackmore was a pitiless man by all accounts, and perhaps he’d bullied Mercer or demanded much for his services. The fighting grows rough, and Blackmore is killed. Or perhaps Mercer killed Blackmore himself, as he did to the footman long ago, and blamed it on the fighting.”
I opened my eyes again, letting the colors in the comfortable room drive out the bleak images in my mind. “About this time, Finch has managed to escape his confinement in Van Diemen’s Land and arranges passage on Captain Steadman’s merchant ship, stealing a silk dressing gown along the way as a gift for his daughter, whom he has not seen in years.”
“Perhaps Captain Steadman discovered the theft,” Grenville put in. “And demanded still more money for the journey.”
“Possibly. Or it was done so neatly that Steadman knew nothing about it. Merchant ships usually carry bolts of cloth, not made garments, so Finch might have stolen it elsewhere. In any case, he brought the gown to Charlotte.
“Finch arrives in London and of course wants to look up his old friend, Blackmore. He goes to Blackmore’s lodgings, discovers he’s been arrested and sentenced. The dog must have been left behind, perhaps with a neighbor, and Finch decides to take care of it for his friend. He wants to work out what happened to Blackmore, or help him escape and give him back the dog, as a friend would do. And now I move into sheer speculation.”
“All of this is,” Grenville pointed out. “But best fits what we know. Pray, continue.”
“Perhaps Finch returned to Steadman, not only to pay him, but to ask him for help rescuing Blackmore from the hulks. He discovers, maybe from Steadman, maybe from someone else near the shipyards, that Blackmore has been killed.
“Steadman, meanwhile, must be paid. Finch likely didn’t pay him in advance, as it would be difficult to come up with the fee while he was in captivity. Captain Steadman, we have been told, transports his passengers and then stands on them for the money. Finch must not only pay for his passage, he wants to take vengeance on Blackmore’s killer. Because he is not supposed to be in this country at all, he will need still more blunt to find the murderer, possibly kill him, and then flee.”
“Which is why he came to Mrs. Brewster and her sister, demanding cash,” Grenville finished. “Did Steadman, or his collector, catch up to him and beat him? Perhaps going too far? Finch struggled, and they had to knife him to get away?”
“And therein lies the speculation. Finch was in London to gather funds. It could have been Steadman’s man who killed him, or it could have been Mercer, learning that Finch was furious at Blackmore’s death. Perhaps Mercer out of fear, sent someone to silence him forever.”
“Or Hobson,” Grenville suggested. “Angry that Finch beat Charlotte’s takings out of him. He claims he saw Brewster conveying Finch, unconscious, into the house. He walks in, stabs Finch, and walks out again.”
“Yes, that is possible. I had also thought of Charlotte, but she was genuinely distressed when we told her Finch was dead, and she seems to have been fond of him. And he of her.”
“Unless she didn’t realize she’d killed him.” Grenville clicked his empty glass to the polished table beside him. “Suppose she followed Finch when he went to see Brewster, angry with him for frightening her chap, Ned. They argue, struggle, and she pushes him off with her knife and runs for it. She has no idea the knife has gone in as far as it has.”
“A lucky blow. It struck exactly where it could kill him instantly.”
“Such things can happen.” Grenville tapped his fingertips together. “I do not want it to be Charlotte, because, like you, I have sympathy for her. Also, can a man who’d look after a friend’s dog and remember to bring his daughter a gift when he’s running for his life be as horrible as he’s painted?”
“Difficult to say,” I said. “I’ve met thoroughly disagreeable, even frightening gentlemen who would never let any harm come to their horses.”
“As have I,” Grenville said glumly. “Their grooms they’ll beat until bloody, but not one hair on their darling hunter’s head must be mussed.”
“Here we are, then,” I said. “I have considered Mr. White as well. A cheat of a bookmaker—perhaps he worried that Finch would peach on him for Mercer’s games, or vent his feelings on White for getting Blackmore killed, in a roundabout way.”
“Yes, here we are,” Grenville said. “There are other possibilities. Mr. Shaddock, very much afraid of Finch. The fellow who got Finch convicted—Leeds—fearing that Finch would come after him. Perhaps Finch did. And I hate to say this, but the Brewsters. Mr. and Mrs.”
“I have thought of that,” I said reluctantly. “I believe in Brewster, but he loves his wife and will do anything for her.”
“Well.” Grenville sat up straight, resting his hands on the gilded arms of his chair. “There are any number of people who wouldn’t mind offing Finch. Now we need to prove which of them did kill him.”
“We?” I asked.
“Of course, my dear fellow. I also do not want to see Brewster hang. The chap has grown on me.” He let out a breath. “So, what do we do first?”
First, we had to finish the ball and take Gabriella home. Mr. Garfield bowed to Gabriella when he said good night, but he was carefully polite. Her other suitors were as well.
Gabriella was tired, but she stated she had enjoyed herself very much. She didn’t gush, but said it with truth in her eyes.
She went directly to bed upon our return home. I did not wish to discuss Gabriella’s possible husbands with Donata—I knew I’d lose my temper—and so I said good night to my yawning wife and took myself to bed.
As I breakfasted the next morning, Barnstable glided in and set a letter by my plate.
I recognized the slanted handwriting, broke the seal, and unfolded a letter from Denis.
Jack Finch was arrested in February of 1814 for robbery with violence. He was prosecuted by the victim, Josiah Leeds, who claimed he’d been set upon by Finch and another man not identified, and robbed.
In the dock at the Old Bailey, Mr. Finch pleaded for his life, saying he had a daughter to look after. This apparently moved the jury, and the verdict was returned as guilty, with a recommendation for transportation. The judge, who was from all accounts, made nervous by Mr. Finch, convicted accordingly.
The man not identified I would guess was Sydney Blackmore. Why Mr. Leeds did not accuse him by name, I have not discovered.
Mr. Leeds is a clerk at the Bank of England, where he has held a position for nearly twenty years. The position is not an important one, and he is not a wealthy man. He resides at 23 Birchin Lane, not far from his place of employment.
JD
The missive took up half a page, with the second half blank. Out of habit, I tore off the empty part to save for my own correspondence. Donata could afford as much paper as she wished, but I always thought it imprudent to waste it.
I used the page immediately to send a note to Grenville, asking him to accompany me to the City. I wanted very much to know why Mr. Leeds, a clerk of no importance, out of all the populace of London, was the only one not afraid to bring Finch to court.
I went riding, as usual, happy for the wind in my face after the stuffy ballroom of last night. When I returned, I found a reply from Grenville saying he could be ready in an hour.
Accordingly, at eleven of the clock, I faced Grenville in his carriage. I allowed him the forward-facing seat, in deference of his motion sickness. When
the carriage moved slowly, however, as it did today, he was not as much affected.
“We have not had much chance to speak of anything but murder,” I said as we headed toward Piccadilly. Brewster accompanied us, but rode with the coachman, so we were private for the first time in a while. “You have not told me how you fared in Paris. I imagine the city is much changed since I lived there in ’02.”
“Paris is eternal.” Grenville gave me a faint smile. “But yes, there have been some changes. The restored monarchy is trying to add to the collection at the Louvre, as many pieces Bonaparte procured as he rampaged through Europe were returned after his defeat. I was frequently asked my opinion on what was best to acquire. Otherwise, people are adjusting to the aftermath of defeat. A strange time, but the French are a resilient people. I imagine they will rise to greatness again.”
“In other words, you enjoyed yourself.”
Grenville’s smile turned to a grin. “I did, as a matter of fact. It was refreshing. Marianne and I were received everywhere—there a man’s mistress does not have to be his secret shame. Or at least, his obvious fondness of her does not have to be a secret. We became quite chummy, Marianne and I. She is very bright, as you know, and eager to learn all about art and music. She has a deep knowledge of the theatre and classical plays, no matter that she was relegated to the background in them. She can discuss their themes and history more readily than most of my Cambridge cronies.”
“Does this mean you will be fleeing London for permanent residence in France?” I spoke lightly to hide a pang of sadness. I would miss him and our friendship.
“Oh, I doubt that very much. If I were to put myself in exile, I’d choose Florence, or Venice. I believe you’d enjoy Venice, you and Donata.”
“She’d never leave England to reside on any other shore,” I said with conviction. “Donata loves her life here, no matter what she might state.”
“Perhaps not to reside forever, but a visit for some months. Like our Egyptian excursion, but in fine hotels with our ladies at our sides.”
It did sound appealing, as did a return to Egypt. The heat and sands called to me—Mr. Belzoni, the famous strongman turned antiquities collector I’d met there, had told me it would. But a visit to the ancient city of canals and art with Donata might also be enjoyable.
Grenville talked more of Paris and what he and Marianne had seen and done until we reached the Bank of England.
That edifice, referred to by wits as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, dominated the turning from Poultry Lane, dwarfing the buildings of the Exchange across the road. Scaffolding covered part of the bank, which was again being remodeled. I had read that John Soane had redesigned much of it. I seemed to be visiting all his buildings.
I had made no appointment with Mr. Leeds. The usher inside the door of the lofty hall was surprised I asked for him, but after consulting his fellows, he found a pageboy, a lad of about thirteen, to take us upstairs to the clerk’s room.
We climbed several staircases, which tasked my injured leg, to a cramped hallway at the very top of the building. The page led us down the corridor to a door at the end.
This he opened to reveal a large room with small windows in which many desks had been fitted. Standing at these desks were gentlemen scribbling away or consulting books, or whatever it was banker’s clerks did.
“Mr. Leeds,” the pageboy called.
Several gentlemen looked up, and then all but one lost interest and returned to their tasks.
The gentleman who gazed at us in puzzlement had dark brown hair, straight and sleek, caught in a very short, old-fashioned queue. He was slim and looked to be about Grenville’s height.
He regarded us with eyes of pale blue, then he abruptly dropped his pen, whirled from his desk, sprinted to a door on the far side of the room, and disappeared through it.
Chapter 26
I stood, stunned, as the far door slammed. The pageboy stared in shock, and the other gentlemen in the room ceased working, gazing first at the door through which Mr. Leeds had disappeared and then back to us.
“I’ll fetch ’im,” the pageboy declared and darted back into the hall.
Grenville and I exchanged a glance and followed, Grenville making a bow to the room. “So sorry to have disturbed you, gentlemen,” he said.
The pageboy flew on youthful legs through another door and down a flight of back stairs. Grenville, faster than I, rushed off on his heels. I followed the best I could, using the wall in the narrow stairwell to steady me, as there were no railings.
At the bottom, a door led out into the street, and I wondered briefly why I’d bothered to climb all the way to the clerk’s aerie.
When I emerged I saw that the pageboy had seized our fleeing gentleman by the coat tails and was holding on to him. Grenville reached them and began speaking rapidly to Leeds—I could not hear what he said over the noises of the street.
Leeds gave Grenville a puzzled look, and then deflated, no longer attempting to run. By the time I reached the group, Mr. Leeds leaned against the wall of the bank, trying to catch his breath.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, wheezing. “I am of nervous disposition. Go on, lad. You may return to your post.”
The pageboy frowned, as though uncertain Mr. Leeds should be left on his own, but I gave him a reassuring nod and a coin. The lad quickly slid the coin into the pocket of his bright red coat and vanished into the bank.
“Very well met, Mr. Grenville,” Leeds said, wetting his lips. “I fancied you were the bailiffs, you see.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I am ever owing money.”
“Well, you shan’t have to worry about landing in the Fleet today,” Grenville said soothingly. “We have come to speak to you about a point of law, but nothing to do with debts. We all have those, dear sir. Perhaps there is a place we may speak, one not in a passage filled with horse droppings.”
Mr. Leeds nodded. His worry had turned to curiosity, and he led us around the corner to a tavern already doing a brisk business.
We found a relatively empty corner in which to sit, Grenville drawing many stares from the clerks and coachmen who occupied the place. Grenville asked the barmaid for three of their best bitters, earning a breathless thanks from Mr. Leeds.
“Now then, gentlemen.” Mr. Leeds lifted his glass, looking much more confident. “Why did you wish to speak to me? I have much information about the bank’s investments, I’ll have you know, though gentlemen usually send their man of business to seek my advice.”
“Mr. Finch,” I said without preliminary. “You prosecuted him.”
Mr. Leeds choked. He set down his glass hastily and snatched a handkerchief from his pocket. He coughed into this for some time, his eyes streaming.
Grenville thumped him on the back. “All right, sir?”
“Yes.” Leeds wiped his eyes. “You caught me off guard, Captain, you did. What about Mr. Finch? He’s gone. Transported, thank God.”
“No, he is dead,” I said, watching him.
Leeds looked startled, then flushed. “Truly? Ah, well. It may sound cruel, sir, but I cannot be sorry. He was a wicked man.”
“You prosecuted him,” I went on, “for robbing you. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
Grenville said nothing, resting against the back of the settle and sipping his beer. He knew when to ask gentle questions and when to let me be straightforward.
Leeds wiped his mouth once more, stowed the handkerchief, and took a fortifying drink of bitter. “He and his friend beat and robbed me, that is what happened. It was my good fortune that a patroller from one of the magistrate’s houses happened by, and he nicked Finch. The other chap ran for it and got away, I’m afraid.”
“Probably Finch’s friend Blackmore,” I said. “Who is also now dead.”
Leeds jumped again, but I’d at least waited for him to swallow this time. He gave me a shaky smile. “Again, I cannot say I am sorry. They hurt me very much.”
“Why did they w
aylay you?” I asked. “Not to offend you, but I can understand two such ruthless villains rolling Mr. Grenville on the street and stealing all he had. His coat alone would be worth much, and a thief would guess that his pockets were full. But you must not be a rich man.”
“I am not, no.” Mr. Leeds rested his hands on either side of his half-drunk glass. “But I walked alone in an insalubrious part of the metropolis—visiting a sick friend—and they set upon me. I suppose even the tuppence in my pocket and my linen handkerchief was enough to make such men tackle me.”
I kept my expression quiet. Finch and Blackmore were villains, yes, but I could not believe they’d risk capture by robbing so poor a target like Mr. Leeds. Finch had frightened large quantities of money out of men like Shaddock and who knew how many others. He’d have no need of the few pennies and a linen handkerchief carried by Mr. Leeds.
“Who was the friend?” I asked.
Leeds blinked. “Pardon?”
“The friend you visited. Did he live in St. Giles?”
“Oh.” Leeds’ brow smoothed out. “Yes. A chap who’d fallen on hard times, and yes, he dwelled in St. Giles. I had gone to sit with him. He is dead now, poor fellow.”
“Another clerk?”
“Eh? Oh, he was, yes. But illness forced him to leave his post.” He shook his head. “It was very sad.”
“The name of this friend?” I asked.
Mr. Leeds shot me an angry look. “Look here, Captain, what is your interest? It was a very long time ago. That bastard Finch robbed me, I lost a friend, and Finch got what he deserved.”
Murder in St. Giles Page 22
