I returned home to a written message from Thompson of the Thames River patrol. Like his speeches, the note was laconic.
Mary Chester suffocated-likely deliberate. She'd been dead two days when we found her. From the dirt stains on her frock, she'd lain in or rolled in soil before she died for whatever reason. Coroner is convinced it's unnatural death and has called an inquest for Monday. Sam Chester is beside himself with grief. Thompson.
At least we knew how Mary had died. Suffocated. The word implied a pillow or some such thing pressed against her mouth. I had a sudden fear that the soil stains meant someone had buried her alive, but consoled myself with the thought that, if the coroner had thought such a thing, Thompson would have written it.
I set down the letter, making a note to attend the inquest.
Grenville kept his word that his servants would continue to help. Later that evening, his coachman, Jackson, came to fetch me.
Jackson filled my doorway, a strong, broad-shouldered man who looked capable of handling unruly horses or ruffians. "Mr. Grenville says you want to talk to Mr. Stacy's coachman," he said. "I know the tavern where he drinks. I'll take you there."
I snatched up my coat, ready. Bartholomew, even during his continued searching, had found time to bring me beefsteak for supper and to brush my clothes. "Will I be allowed into this hallowed hall of coachmen?" I asked.
Jackson smiled, revealing his pointed teeth. "We'll make an exception, sir. Just mind your manners."
The tavern he took me to was near where the Strand ended at Charing Cross. The church of St. Martin in the Fields loomed above the rooftops, but on this Friday night, the tavern was full to bursting with noise while the church sat silently.
The regulars of the tavern eyed me askance as I entered, but the landlord looked at my fine frock coat, courtesy of Grenville's tailor, and his eyes brightened.
"My lord," he said, on the off chance that I was one. "A private room for you?"
"No, thank you," I said. "But three tankards of your best ale, please."
The landlord nodded, took the crown I offered him, and scuttled away. Jackson led me to a table where a man in coachman's livery waited. The long table was occupied by other drinkers, but the end Stacy's coachman had chosen was relatively empty.
Jackson hooked his foot around a stool and pulled it out, plopping himself down at the end of the table. I seated myself on the bench opposite Stacy's coachman. The landlord obligingly plunked three tankards of ale in front of us.
"Captain Lacey, this here is Payne. He's been coaching for Mr. Stacy for eleven years."
Payne offered a work-roughened hand across the table. "Obliged, Captain." He raised his tankard to me and drained at least a third of it.
He was a bit older than Jackson, his hair going gray at the temples, with gray scattered through the darker hair on top of his head. Whitish lines feathered about his eyes. His square-tailed coat was of fine green serge, and the brass buttons on it gleamed with polish. A polished brass chain hung across his chest, and his coachman's tall hat with brush lay on the table next to him. He, like Jackson, had a master who wanted his coachman well turned out.
"Mr. Stacy is a good man to work for?" I asked.
Payne lowered his tankard and wiped his mouth. "It's a good position, fine coaches to look after, and I'm fond of the beasts."
I noted he'd said nothing directly about Stacy. "I am afraid that I've come to pry into your master's habits. But there's been murder done, and I want to know by whom and why."
Payne jerked his thumb at Jackson. "So he said. I told Mr. Stacy I was meeting you here tonight-thought it would be fair. He told me to tell you straight up truth."
"I appreciate that, both from you and Mr. Stacy. You know, in that case, that I wish to ask you about the girls Mr. Stacy invites into his coach in Covent Garden?"
"In Covent Garden, in Haymarket, in the Strand." Payne looked mildly disgusted. "He can't resist a tart swishing about in her skirts. He likes to watch them-from inside the coach, mind you-getting to know them all. You know, some gentry-coves like to look for birds and note them down in a book, some go into the country and pick up rocks and old bones. Mr. Stacy likes game girls."
"His collection, so to speak."
"A good way of putting it, sir. He has me dawdle the carriage along while he looks out of the window and watches where they go and who they talk to and what they buy in the markets. He learns when they come out and when they go home, and even where they live. And then, once he's decided which one he wants to meet, he gets out of the coach, chats to the girl, and invites her up. That's usually in the dead of night, although sometimes he'll get down in the evening, just to talk to them. Make an appointment to meet him later."
I turned my tankard on the table. "Once he invites one into the coach, he asks you to drive slowly about the streets?"
"Aye. He says I am to drive for one hour, very slowly, any route I choose, as long as I return to where I started at the stroke of the clock."
Jackson offered, "While he gets to know them even better, eh?"
Payne took another pull of ale. "Do you know, sir, I could not tell you what he gets up to with them. They might chat about bonnets for all I know. I looks after the carriage, both inside and out, and I never find anything you might call disgusting."
"Perhaps he is very careful," I said.
"Oh, aye, he must be. Else he'd have the clap or something else nasty, wouldn't he? But Mr. Stacy is always clean as can be."
I considered this as I drank my ale. The brew was good, a mixture of malt taste and a touch of tartness. "I must ask you about Black Bess and Mary Chester. Will you describe what he did on the nights he took up with them? You know which girls I mean?"
Payne nodded. "He told me you'd ask about them. He said to tell what I knew."
"Start with Mary Chester, as she is the one who's turned up dead."
"Poor girl, eh? Well, he meets this Mary about a week and a half ago, I'd say. He'd seen her when he had business over Wapping way. Mr. Stacy invests in ships, betting his money that they won't go down or be stolen by pirates. Sometimes he loses, mostly he wins. He likes to look at the ships, sometimes, so we go to London docks or Wapping."
He took another slurp of ale and continued. "On one journey, he sees the girl. She looks half respectable but smiles like one of them game girls. Mr. Stacy wants her, so there's nothing for it but he talks to her and fixes it up to come back after dark and have at her. I found him a public house that didn't look too down-at-mouth-which ain't easy near the docks, mind you-and he had wine in a private parlor, reading a book, nice as you please, until time. Then he goes, meets her, we have the hour drive, and he sets her down again. We went back to Mayfair then, thank the Lord."
"And after that?"
Payne looked puzzled. "How do you mean, exactly?"
"Did he ask Mary to meet him again, in Covent Garden perhaps?"
"Well, if he did, sir, he never told me."
"Did he often tell you?" I asked. "What he meant to do, and with whom?"
"Not in so many words. But I see who he gets down to talk with and who he invites in later. He never talks to me about it at all, 'cept to tell me where to go and when to do the slow drive."
"Now for Black Bess," I said. "When did he meet her?"
Payne grinned, showing that he, too, had filed his teeth. "I remember her. Black-haired wench, a taking thing. He met her about a day or so after Wapping. Had his eye on her for a long time, and it wasn't the first time he'd had her in the coach. He liked Black Bess. Had her twice. But he set her down again as usual, and we went off home. Didn't see her after that."
"Again, did he make an appointment to meet her later in Covent Garden?"
Payne shook his head. "Not that I knew about."
It looked more and more as though McAdams could be the wealthy gentleman who promised to meet the girls. Stacy might have made the appointments for his friend, perhaps recommending girls he liked the best.
I halted that thought. Stacy was urbane and polished, McAdams crude, despite their similarities in station. I remembered Stacy's embarrassment at McAdams' boorish comments when Grenville and I interviewed him at Tatt's. Would Stacy wish McAdams' company on a girl he liked?
Then again, I had no idea how Stacy thought about things. The man had a wife and a daughter but preferred to hunt and capture game girls for his sport.
"I have to ask a distasteful question," I said. "Does Stacy hurt the girls?"
Payne looked surprised. "Naw. Leastwise, I never saw such a thing. They like him, smile when the carriage stops and all. If they were afraid of him, they'd melt away when they saw him coming, wouldn't they? They must tell each other all about it, wouldn't you think?"
"True," I conceded. If Stacy had the habit of beating the girls, word would get around, and only the most desperate would go to him. "Now, we come to yesterday afternoon. Mr. Stacy was in Covent Garden?"
"That he was. I drove him-not through the square, too crowded-but down Russel Street, thinking to skirt round to Southampton Street. He was looking again, you know, for who he'd like to take up with next. At the edge of the market, he signals me to stop, and he gets down. There's an orange girl he talks to, and he sees her and makes his way to her. He paused to talk to another on the way, but he left her pretty soon for the orange girl. He likes her. He buys an orange and walks back to the carriage. He tells me to drive on, gets in, and we're on our way."
"Did you see a young lady stop him, seemingly to ask directions?"
Payne looked shamefaced. "I have to admit I didn't notice, sir. The crowd was big, and people kept pushing by the horses. A few boys were tweaking the harness, and I had to clear them off before they spooked the beasts. So Mr. Stacy might have talked to one such as her, but I wasn't looking at him all the time. Sorry, sir."
"The game girl he paused to speak to-she could not have been my daughter? Gabriella has light brown hair, and she might have seemed agitated and in a hurry."
"No, this were a game girl, right enough. My master knows the difference."
No doubt he did. That was one point in Stacy's favor-at least he regulated his proclivities to girls who were used to such things.
I recalled Thompson's note about Mary. "What was Mr. Stacy doing Wednesday night?" I asked abruptly.
Payne blinked. "Wednesday?"
"This Wednesday just gone. Did he come to Covent Garden?"
"No, sir." His voice held more confidence. "He went to Almack's to meet his wife and daughter. They go every Wednesday."
I'd never darkened the door of Almack's, that bastion of respectability, where the ton paraded. The most blue-blooded went to Almack's Assembly Rooms to parade their eligible daughters, drink lemonade, and dance on the roped-off dance floor. Young ladies making their debuts waited in some anxiety for the approval of the patronesses, in the form of vouchers for tickets, before they could attend.
Lady Breckenridge had described it to me. "The lemonade is insipid, the talk is insipid, and the orchestra is insipid, and the patronesses rule over it like it was the kingdom come. I longed to go as a debutante, and then wondered why the moment I entered the place. I begged my mother to take me home, and she did, to my surprise. She hated it too. But Lord, a young lady must go, and good heavens, she mustn't dance the waltz until one of the biddies says she can. Is it any wonder I am so scandalous? I had to be, for the relief."
So Stacey went to Almack's one night and brought Covent Garden game girls into his coach the next. I knew that many respectably married gentlemen kept mistresses, but I wondered how many lived such a double life as Stacy. "Did he go to Covent Garden Wednesday at all?"
"No, sir. Dinner at Lord Featherstone's, Almack's Assembly Rooms at eleven o'clock, and home again at two. That was all. Why do you want to know?"
"Because that was the night Mary Chester died, apparently."
Payne's graying brows lifted. "Was it now? Well, it couldn't have been my gentleman. He never went near the place all that day."
"What about his friend, Mr. McAdams? Did Stacy ever take McAdams to Covent Garden with him?"
"Naw. This is something my master did alone." Payne drained his tankard and swiped the last of the ale from his mouth. "It were Mr. McAdams got my master started in that way, though, about three year ago. I overheard them-Mr. McAdams telling Mr. Stacy that he could find good sport right here in London without having to go out to the country. Kind of shoved him in the direction, like. I've never seen Mr. McAdams in Covent Garden, but that don't mean he don't go."
"True. " I signaled the landlord to bring Payne another ale. "I do appreciate you answering my questions so frankly, but I must ask, why do you continue to work for Stacy? If you find his activities repulsive."
Payne shrugged. "Well, he ain't no worse than any other master, I'm thinking. The wages is good, and he buys the livery. I don't much like his 'sport,' but then, all gentry-coves are a little mad for wenches, ain't they? He likes the game girls, but it's what they're for. He don't push his attentions on those he should not, if you take my meaning. And they don't seem to mind him."
I nodded and lifted my tankard, which was still half full. "In other words, he treats ladies like ladies and game girls like game girls. I suppose most gentlemen do."
"Exactly, sir. So, I shake my head and drive on as I'm told. Even if he does write it all down in a book."
I stopped, my tankard halfway to my mouth. "A book?"
"I almost forgot."
As the landlord deposited another tankard in front of Payne and took up the empty, Payne reached into his coat and drew out a leather-bound book, one made for keeping a journal. He slid it across the table to me. "He told me to give you this. He's that embarrassed, like, but he wants you to see that there is no entry for your daughter."
I waited until the landlord was well away, then, with some trepidation, I peeled open the book and scanned a page.
Stacy wrote in a clear, flowing script, the kind perfected by tutors in public schools. I still could feel the sting of the cane across my knuckles when my fumbling fingers could not shape the loops and curls to my tutor's satisfaction.
October 3, ran the entry. Brown, blue, good teeth, round. Haymarket. SnT2n.
"What does that mean?" I asked, pointing to the letters and numbers.
"Don't know, sir. Never asked."
"Something about the girls he don't want no one to know?" Jackson suggested. "In case someone else reads the book?"
"Quite," I said. I wondered why the devil Stacy would let me see this, but if I could not understand half of it, perhaps he saw no harm. "Even so, he wrote his observations in a book? Good Lord, what if his wife found it?"
"She won't, sir," Payne said. "He has me keep it for him, and I give it to him only when we make our outings, if you see. He's not written his name anywhere in it, so if someone finds it, they won't know it's his, unless they recognize the writing."
"They might think it yours," I pointed out.
"Makes no difference. It's mostly nonsense, ain't it? He wants you to read the entries for yesterday."
I flipped to Thursday: 3 o'clock, CG, oranges, blonde, round. AySnTn.
Farther down the page was another entry: Midnight, oranges, T2yC3.
From this I surmised that the orange girl had made him happy at midnight, but nothing more. It coincided with me seeing Stacy's carriage in Covent Garden that night. I flipped back to the entry for Wednesday and found none. Either Stacy had gone to Almack's in truth, or he'd removed the page for that day. I lifted the book and peered down the length of its spine, but could see no evidence of pages cut from the binding.
"May I keep this?" I asked. "I will return it tomorrow."
Payne's brows twitched. "Mr. Stacy would not be happy."
"If Mr. Stacy has nothing to hide but this little peccadillo, there will be no harm. I will return it with my own hands to your master tomorrow."
Payne did not look pleased, but he nodded.
I tucked the book into my coat. "Thank you, Payne. Enjoy the ale." Nodding, I rose. Payne stood, bowed to me, and thanked me nicely for the drink.
Jackson followed me outside into the deepening night. He clapped on his hat against the rain and straightened it. "Nasty goings-on, ain't there?"
"A bit." I pressed the book in my pocket against my chest, and we started down the lane to the Strand, where a groom watched after Grenville's horses and rig.
"At least I have no cause to be ashamed of my master," Jackson said. "Catch Mr. Grenville doing anything so sordid."
"Indeed," I said.
"And writing it down. The man must be daft." Jackson shrugged. "Ah, well, there ain't many like Mr. Grenville." He opened the carriage door. Rain streamed down the windows and the polished wood, but Jackson was as poised as he would be on a clear afternoon. "Where to now, sir?"
I elected to return home. I saw candles glowing in my front windows above the dark bakery and concluded that Bartholomew had returned and was waiting for me. I quickened my pace, hoping there was news.
When I entered my sitting room, I found Bartholomew nowhere in evidence. Instead, Lady Breckenridge was curled in my wing chair, her eyes closed.
When the door shut, she opened her eyes and smiled. "There you are, Lacey," she said. "You've been ages."
I had held myself upright too long. Seeing Donata brought of flood of warmth to my limbs, and I had to press my walking stick against the carpet in order to remain standing.
"Gabriel?" Lady Breckenridge asked with a frown. "Has something else happened?"
She rose and came to me. I dropped the walking stick and gathered her up, much preferring to lean against her. She smelled fine, as she always did, and I buried my face in her neck.
I felt her soft chuckle. "Well," she murmured. "That's all right, then."
Donata slept with me all night, and said hang the scandal. "They know," she observed in the early hours of the morning as she lay next to me. She traced patterns on my bare chest with one slim finger. "Everyone knows. They can make of it what they will. I no longer care."
"Bold lady." I touched her cheek. "I like you being bold."
"You were not made for a timid woman, Gabriel. It does not suit you." She paused. "Did you know? Today is my birthday."
"Is it?" I'd had no idea. "And you've chosen to spend it with a wreck like me. You honor me."
She shrugged. "I usually spend it at home in Oxfordshire, but I did not want to leave London while you were in the midst of troubles." Her fingertips moved to my lips. "I am thirty."
I smiled, feeling her warm body curving against mine. "Ancient."
"I am certainly ten times wiser than at twenty. What an astounding innocent I was."
"I am sorry you've had to face so much," I said.
"One must hurt to learn," Lady Breckenridge answered with a stoicism I knew she did not feel. "I have my little lad. I in no way regret that. And I trounced you at billiards. I in no way regret that, either."
"I paid up that five pounds," I reminded her with mock severity.
She remained silent, studying me, her eyes a mystery. "What do you in no way regret?"
"Losing to you at billiards," I said.
"Not a fair answer. You knew I wanted you to say that."
"Perhaps." I leaned down and kissed the dark line of her hair, breathing in her scent. "I in no way regret falling in love with you."
She looked at me, startled. "In love?"
"The feeling came unlooked for, but I have grown to cherish it. I love you, Donata."
Her answer came without words, and it satisfied me very much.
Brilliant sunlight and the sound of curtains drawing back woke me. I pried open my eyes. Donata lay in a nest of linens beside me, sleeping the deep sleep of a late riser. Bartholomew hovered in the room at a respectful distance, holding a tray heaped with dishes.
"Good morning, sir. I brought breakfast for yourself and her ladyship, along with your morning correspondence."
I brushed hair out of my eyes and sat up carefully so as not to disturb Lady Breckenridge. "Thank you, Bartholomew. It was good of you."
Bartholomew set the tray on the bedside table. The aroma of sausage wafted to me, and my stomach rumbled.
"And Miss Simmons has come to see you."
I half groaned, torn between relief that Marianne was all right and annoyance that she had chosen to call just now. "Marianne on an empty stomach is not to be borne. Tell her to come back later if it has nothing to do with the search."
Bartholomew hesitated. "The thing is, sir, she arrived in London early this morning and went to the Clarges Street house. The servants there were instructed to deny her admittance, and she is most distressed."
Bloody hell. "Yes, she would be. Very well, hand me my dressing gown, I'll see her."
I looked regretfully at the beckoning sausages, took a quick sip of the coffee that steamed in its cup, then climbed from the bed. Bartholomew helped me don my dressing gown, then I went out to explain things to Marianne. Through it all, Donata never woke.