‘If Pamela was murdered out there in those woods,’ he continued, ‘I wonder if the others helped conceal the crime – buried her body somewhere on Stone’s estate. It would explain the red mud and straw on the boots of the lieutenant and Lord March.’
‘If we could find Pamela’s body, then wouldn’t the authorities be forced to act?’
Child thought of the Home Office. ‘I wouldn’t count on it. Besides, Stone’s estate is vast. Where would we start?’
Mrs Corsham sighed. ‘Then we must force one of them to confess. I had hoped Lord March might talk to me – I think his conscience is as troubled as Kitty’s – but he refused.’
‘He might have good reason,’ Child said. ‘Hector told me that he forgets himself in drink, and has fits of violent rage. I also wonder why he and the lieutenant were arguing over Pamela’s necklace. Loredo says it’s Indian, by the way. Just a modern trinket.’
Mrs Corsham gazed out across the fields towards the smuggler’s haunt of Stockwell. ‘I keep thinking about Simon. Why did Mrs Ward change her mind about him? Why was she so desperate to get him out of her house? Why couldn’t she tell her husband the truth? I think Simon wronged her deeply. Or more likely, wronged her daughter.’ She told him about the children’s reaction to the Dodd-Bellingham name.
‘You mean the sort of wrong that might break a father’s heart? Or ruin a girl’s marriage prospects?’
She nodded. ‘Simon taught the Ward children Latin. And eighteen months ago, the daughter can’t have been much older than Pamela. I think we should speak to Simon again. If one of them is likely to talk, then it’s him.’
Child concurred. ‘Kitty said that Simon returned to the house that night alone and went to bed. But he could have encountered Pamela earlier, whilst out on his walk. Perhaps she tried to blackmail him about whatever went on at Ward’s house?’
‘Or perhaps Ambrose never took her virginity and he simply wanted her?’
‘He wasn’t alone, if he did. Lord March, Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham – they wanted her too. All that pent-up lust, unable to touch her because of the auction and Mr Stone. Each let off the leash, searching those woods for her alone.’
‘Simon knows something about the lieutenant and Somerset, I think,’ Mrs Corsham said. ‘He claimed Neddy had never visited that county. That part might even be true.’ She told him her theory about the three places named Somerset in America. ‘From what Ansell Ward said, it seems to relate to a military matter.’
‘Another rape? A crime de guerre? I could ask around the soldiers’ taverns?’
‘Simon first,’ she said firmly. ‘Let’s see what he tells us.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I owe Mr Agnetti an apology, I think. I should have been honest with him from the start. Perhaps if I explain our suspicions fully, he will talk to me more openly about his marriage?’
‘That’s assuming there’s anything useful he can tell us,’ Child said. ‘From everything we’ve heard, one fact seems stark enough: there was a lot that Mr Agnetti didn’t know about his wife.’
PAMELA
1 March 1782
Mr Agnetti looked terrible, his eyes swollen, his face heavier. He was mourning the loss of his dead child. Pamela thought about offering him words of comfort, but how hollow they would sound. So she just lay there on the altar, thinking of the lieutenant and her plan. Occasionally, she thought about Mrs Agnetti, lying sick upstairs. It made her feel a little sick herself.
Mr Agnetti made no conversation, but nor did he lose himself in his work, as he often did. His movements with the chalk and charcoal were slow and ponderous. Once he drifted off entirely, staring into the distance.
‘Mr Agnetti?’
He rose. ‘I must check upon Theresa.’
She listened to his tread on the stairs, the knock at the bedroom door. Agnetti turned the handle and knocked again. His tone grew sharper. ‘Theresa.’ After a little while, he descended the stairs and resumed painting.
Simon Dodd-Bellingham called at eleven, and Mr Agnetti sent her downstairs. Kitty was practising her scales on the harpsichord.
‘She’s locked him out,’ Pamela said. ‘Mrs Agnetti.’
‘Theresa’s probably just asleep. They went out to a ball last night.’
Pamela looked up sharply. ‘She’s better, then?’
‘Not well enough to go out. I told him not to take her. He said she insisted.’
The lieutenant must have been at the ball, Pamela thought. No remorse then. No sign that Theresa was intending to change her ways. It made her feel a little better about everything that had happened.
A short time later, Simon Dodd-Bellingham poked his head round the door. Seeing them, he smiled, and produced two black boxes tied with pink ribbon from his coat pocket. ‘My brother asked me to give you these.’
Pamela took her box and untied the ribbon. Rose-petal macarons. And one of those cards: the golden man with the head of a goat.
‘When?’ Kitty asked.
‘Tonight.’
‘Not much notice.’ Kitty pouted.
‘Mr Stone only decided today. We’ll pick you up at your rooms at nine, the other girls too.’ He turned to Pamela. ‘We’ll collect you from Mrs Havilland’s. Don’t be late.’
Trepidation pushed everything else from her mind. But once she had her hundred and twenty-five guineas then she could be free of her watcher, free to put her plan in place. She might even be able to set it in train tonight.
‘Might I have a word with you, Pamela, please?’ Simon said.
Kitty’s gaze followed them curiously, as Pamela accompanied Simon into the hall. To her surprise – because he’d never tried to get her alone before – he went into the drawing room, closing the door behind them. Pamela didn’t like that room, despite its elegant furnishings. It was the scene of her rival’s trysts. And she didn’t like that big painting over the fire, of the girl coupling with the bull.
‘Can I ask you something in confidence?’ Simon said. ‘Could you give this letter to Mrs Agnetti? It needs to be done discreetly – Mr Agnetti mustn’t know. Do as I ask, and I’ll give you half a crown.’
Pamela’s eye fell upon the letter in his hand, recognizing the lieutenant’s bold script on the address.
‘Why can’t your brother give it to her himself?’
‘He thought it would be better if I delivered it, but she’s sick in bed.’
The lieutenant was breaking things off with her. Pamela smiled. She wouldn’t have to face Mrs Agnetti, she could simply push the letter under her door.
‘Very well.’ She pocketed his coin. ‘I will be safe tonight, won’t I?’
His face flushed. ‘Why wouldn’t you be safe?’
‘Lucy said she thought that I might not be.’
‘Who’s Lucy?’
‘One of Mr Agnetti’s sitters. Well?’
‘Of course you’ll be safe, I give you my word.’ He smiled, showing her his yellow teeth.
CHAPTER SIXTY
GRIMMOND SHOWED THEM into the Dodd-Bellingham residence, explaining that Simon Dodd-Bellingham was upstairs, changing his clothes, after a morning in his workshop. ‘We are content to wait,’ Mrs Corsham said. ‘Pray tell him we are here.’
They waited in the drawing room. It would have been grand once, with lofty windows overlooking Bloomsbury Square, and a painted ceiling, now riven with cracks. The furniture was as threadbare as the Indian carpet. Sooty portraits of Dodd-Bellingham ancestors in far more salubrious settings added to the tale of an illustrious line run to seed.
A small crate stood on the tea table and Child peered inside. More of Simon’s antiquities: a few pieces of broken pot; what looked like an ancient oil lamp; and a cloth bag of old coins. Child shook a few out, the surfaces scratched and worn, the edges clipped by ancient counterfeiters. Some things never changed.
Between the windows stood an old, worm-eaten bureau. Child’s eye fell upon it. ‘Watch the door.’
He thought Mrs Corsham might protest, but everything t
hey’d heard from Kitty Carefree had evidently overcome any remaining sensibilities she’d had about what members of the beau monde should and shouldn’t do in one another’s houses.
Opening the bureau’s fall front, he saw that the interior was divided into pigeon holes and drawers. Taking out a sheaf of correspondence, he leafed through it. Several letters addressed to the lieutenant were from women Child presumed to be society matrons, arranging times for him to call upon their daughters. Another letter, apparently from an agent, discussed the financial affairs of several prominent gentlemen. Child presumed these efforts were part of the lieutenant’s endeavour to find himself a wealthy wife.
Opening a drawer at random, he examined the clutter inside. A few military badges that looked like campaign mementoes; a wilted daisy chain; a lady’s glove. And a pair of enamelled portrait miniatures attached by a blue ribbon. One painting was of Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham, the other of a lady with a thin white face, wearing an odd turban of blue cloth. In the corner were the artists’ initials: T.A. Child beckoned Mrs Corsham over. ‘Is that her? Theresa Agnetti?’
‘Yes,’ she said, studying the portrait. ‘This must be the miniature that the lieutenant mentioned. It’s true, then. She really was in love with him. The poor woman.’
Putting the portraits back, Child moved on to the next drawer. More correspondence, this time addressed to Simon:
Farthingale Hall
Farthingale
Wiltshire
4 September 1782
Dear Sir,
I take great pleasure in writing to inform you that the statues and other artefacts have now been fitted according to your client’s commands and await your inspection. Furthermore, the hangings and tapestries for the lady’s bedroom have arrived safely, with no water damage. I have stored them with the clothes and other articles that you entrusted to my care, until such time as the house is ready for habitation. I am confident that your client and his wife will be delighted with Farthingale Hall in every respect.
Your humble servant
John Denning
There were several more letters from John Denning, dating back to April, when it seemed that Simon’s client had purchased Farthingale Hall. Alongside this correspondence was a roll of receipts, tied with a ribbon: purchases from upholsterers and cabinet-makers, and a haberdashery in Newport Alley named Maison Bertin.
‘He’s coming,’ Mrs Corsham whispered. Child shoved everything back into the drawer, stepping away.
Simon Dodd-Bellingham greeted them with his usual wary smile. ‘Mrs Corsham. Mr Child. This is a bad time, I am afraid. I have an appointment at the museum.’
‘We’ll walk with you,’ Mrs Corsham said.
He gave another toothy smile. ‘As you wish.’
They turned out of Bloomsbury Square onto Russell Street, Simon carrying his crate in both hands. The street was dominated by the vast mansion of Bedford House. Through the railings Child could see footmen in Bedford livery striding across the gravel, and grooms leading fine stallions through to the stables.
‘We have spoken to a witness who contradicts the story you told us entirely.’ Mrs Corsham was unable to keep the anger from her tone. ‘This witness testifies that you and your friends procured Pamela for my brother, Ambrose, who is afflicted with syphilis. Pamela discovered the deception and an argument ensued. We believe she was murdered by one of you later that night.’
‘It is lies,’ Simon stammered. ‘I deny it.’
He started to say more, but Child cut across him. ‘If you refuse to help us, then we will ask ourselves why you continue to lie. We will be forced to look into certain events in your past.’
Simon turned, indignant. ‘What events in my past? Speak plainly, sir, or not at all.’
‘I had the fortune to pay two visits recently to the home of Ansell Ward,’ Mrs Corsham said. ‘We discussed your time in his house at some length.’
Simon’s laughter sounded a little strained. ‘You mean that old story about those wretched figurines? There is no truth in it at all. But Ward got it into his head that I was responsible and there was no shifting it. I’ve lost a few clients as a result, but fortunately most people like to see evidence when allegations are thrown about. So do your worst, Mrs Corsham. I’ll ride it out.’
‘We know you are innocent of the theft,’ she said. ‘The crime was staged, we believe by Mrs Ward.’
Simon gaped at her, in what looked like genuine astonishment.
Child picked up the thread. ‘It is not unheard of for a woman or a girl, if they have fallen victim to a crime of an intimate nature, to conceal it from the man who loves them most. You tutored Mrs Ward’s daughter, Julia, I believe?’
Simon had turned white. ‘How dare you?’ he said. ‘Withdraw that accusation, sir.’
He took a step towards Child, fists clenched. Child shifted his weight in anticipation of the blow. Notwithstanding the years between them, he thought he could put Simon Dodd-Bellingham on his back, and after everything they’d discovered, he would enjoy every second. Perhaps sensing it, Simon stepped away. ‘I have no wish for further discussion with you, sir. Nor you, madam. Leave me alone.’
‘I intend to speak to Mrs Ward,’ Mrs Corsham called after him. ‘Her daughter too. When they hear about the crimes you and your friends committed, I think they will tell me exactly what you got up to in that house.’ She listed them on her fingers. ‘Giving a young girl, a virgin, to a man with syphilis. Her subsequent murder. The possibility that other girls at those masquerades might be in danger.’
Simon had stopped walking. Now he turned. ‘You can say nothing to Miss Ward. You mustn’t. This isn’t right.’
‘Oh, I can, sir, and I will.’
Simon exhaled, sweating but not from the walk. ‘It is not what you think,’ he said. ‘I did not molest Miss Ward. We are in love, and hope one day to be married.’
Mrs Corsham’s look of surprise was matched only by Child’s own.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
MONTAGU HOUSE HAD been sold to the trustees of the British Museum when the Duke of Montagu, like so many other noblemen, had moved west to Mayfair. Now it housed books, fossils and other historical artefacts bequeathed by collectors to a grateful nation. As they crossed the forecourt, Caro listened with a sceptical ear as Simon Dodd-Bellingham told them of his love for Julia Ward.
‘I admired her from the moment we first met. Miss Ward has a love of learning, a joyful heart, and a kind nature. Not at all the sort of girl my brother would desire – and all the better for it. Over her studies, we discussed history and philosophy. We’d laugh together. I began to entertain the thought that she might have fonder feelings for me. The day I declared myself to her, I never felt so nervous. Nor so happy to learn that my desires were reciprocated.’
‘Amor magnus doctor est,’ Mr Child said wryly.
Simon glared. ‘I might have been her teacher, but there was nothing improper about it. We kissed but once – before fate intervened to part us. Perhaps we would have been parted anyway, even without the theft – what with my debts, and my mother’s history. But Miss Ward thought there was a chance that her father could be persuaded. He admired my family name, and despite everything, I am a gentleman. We decided to bide our time, choose the right moment to ask.’
‘I think it safe to say that Mrs Ward caught wind of your little romance,’ Caro said.
‘But Julia’s mother liked me,’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought the theft was just a disastrous turn of fate. Why would Mrs Ward have done such a thing?’
‘There’s a difference between adopting a man as a charitable endeavour, and welcoming him into your family as a prospective son-in-law.’
Caro could see how it must have gone. Mrs Ward, like all City wives, would have wanted to marry her children to advantage. Given her husband’s wealth and connections, her daughter could certainly hope to do a sight better than Simon Dodd-Bellingham. Perhaps Mrs Ward had also thought that her daughter might be able to talk her h
usband round – just as Caro had talked her own father round when she’d wanted to marry the dashing, yet penniless, Captain Corsham.
They climbed the steps to the central hall with its French murals. Most of the rooms on the ground floor were given over to the library, and Caro glimpsed several scholarly gentlemen at work. They walked up the grand staircase to the first floor, where the antiquities and specimens of natural history were housed.
‘Miss Ward never wavered in her love or her belief in my innocence,’ Simon said. ‘We correspond secretly, using her brother as a go-between. I even bought her a diamond ring with a small inheritance from an aunt, which she wears on a ribbon under her clothes. She chastised me for spending my money unwisely.’ He smiled. ‘Like many City girls, Miss Ward is practically minded. She refuses to countenance an elopement until I am on a firmer footing. But with my debts . . .’ He made a gesture of frustration. ‘I tried to revisit my rate of interest with Mr Stone, but he only sent his man, Erasmus Knox, to see me. Somehow he knew about Julia and me.’
‘And he threatened to reveal your secret courtship to Julia’s father?’
‘Mr Ward can hardly bear to hear my name spoken,’ Simon said despondently. ‘He thinks I betrayed his trust, and to him there is no greater crime than that. He’d marry Julia off in a heartbeat if he knew of our intention. So you see, madam, this is no debauched tale, but rather a story of love divided.’
Child cocked his head. ‘I can certainly see why you don’t want Miss Ward finding out about your visits to Stone’s estate. The masquerades, the girls. It’s not exactly Romeo and Juliet, is it?’
‘I told you the last time we spoke that I had no option but to attend. I took no pleasure in it.’
‘Somehow I doubt that Miss Ward would see it like that,’ Caro said. ‘The price of our silence upon that topic, sir, is your loquaciousness upon the murders of Pamela and Lucy Loveless.’
Simon gestured hopelessly at a man waiting at the end of the corridor. ‘My appointment.’
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