Much happened that afternoon. When I returned home, I wrote to James Denis, telling him that Sir Montague wished to speak to Lady Jane, and it would please Sir Montague if Denis would help us find and meet with her. I doubted Denis would be impressed, but I sent the letter anyway.
I had two missives waiting for me at the bakeshop, one from Lady Breckenridge asking me to join her in her box at Covent Garden Theatre that night. The other was from Grenville who had learned of Barbury's death and was anxious to discuss it with me. I wrote my acceptance to Lady Breckenridge then journeyed with Bartholomew back across the metropolis, to be greeted by the impatient Grenville and invited to partake of yet another meal.
I ate savory chicken pastries with succulent wine sauce while I told Grenville all that had happened. He was as angry as I at Lord Barbury's death and expressed a wish to pin it on Kensington.
"I dislike Kensington," I said as I finished off the excellent dish. "He is manipulative and a liar. But he also strikes me as a coward. I can believe him killing Peaches, but Lord Barbury was large and strong, and Kensington is a small man."
"Lord Barbury was shot," Grenville pointed out.
"The gun was pressed against his head. The powder burns around the wound attest to that. I cannot imagine Lord Barbury standing still and letting Kensington shoot him. If he'd have seen Kensington coming at him with a pistol, he would have tried to fight him."
"Then he didn't see the pistol," Grenville suggested.
"But Barbury knew Kensington. He wouldn't have trusted the man for a moment. I too want Kensington to be guilty, but I am not certain he is. At least not of killing Lord Barbury."
"And Thompson is still not certain how Peaches got herself to Middle Temple Gardens?"
"And who would have noticed anyone scuttling down the streets on that afternoon?" I asked. "At just after four that day, it was raining and dark and cold. Anyone walking would have been heavily bundled against the weather-everyone looks like everyone else in such a circumstance, especially in the dark. Most people were indoors seeking warmth. Did the killer count on that, or did circumstance work in his favor?"
"Begging your pardon, sir," Bartholomew said from where he stood against the wall. "But I've thought of something." He and Matthias had taken up stations on either side of the room, waiting to serve us. It was not a footman's place to speak to his master or guest while they served-servants were supposed to be invisible. Not in Grenville's house, however, where he solicited opinions of his staff, saying he employed them for their brains as well as their service.
Bartholomew approached the table, while his brother topped off our glasses with hock. "Seems to me that we are all thinking that since poor Mrs. Chapman ended up in the river she was tossed from the banks. But what if she was in a boat already? Rowed up to the Temple and heaved over the side? Or, since she fetched up under Blackfriar's Bridge, why not put in the river right there? The murderer might figure she'd wash far away downstream before anyone found her. His bad luck she stuck under the bridge."
He had a point. Boatmen and others did go up and down the river all the time, scavenging for articles that they could sell or keep. They could be paid to transport people, if you wanted to share a boat with a smelly, ragged man and his family.
I remembered standing on the Temple steps, reflecting how the river used to be the main artery of travel in days gone by. Two hundred years ago, men had rarely moved about the city on horseback or foot or in any kind of conveyance. With the river handy, they'd had no need to.
"A long way to row from The Glass House to the Temple Gardens," Grenville said. "Upstream."
"Maybe, sir, he was afraid that if Mr. Thompson figured out she went in by London Bridge or below that, he'd connect her more easily with The Glass House," Bartholomew said. "If she went in by Middle Temple, she'd be more connected to her husband. Maybe The Glass House would never be mentioned."
"And wouldn't have been," Matthias added, putting the stopper in the decanter and licking a bit of spilled hock from his thumb, "if the murderer had noticed her wearing his lordship's ring and took it from her."
"That would not have hidden things for long," Grenville said. "Lady Breckenridge, for example, knew that Mrs. Chapman was Barbury's mistress. Barbury would have been questioned eventually, and the connection to The Glass House revealed."
Bartholomew shrugged. "Maybe the murderer didn't think of that. He was panicked and hauled off her corpse, supposing everyone would think her husband had done her in. Husbands usually do. Or wives their husbands."
I ignored this optimistic view of marriage and drank deeply of hock. "It is an interesting theory," I said. "But how much time would it take to go upstream from London Bridge to Blackfriar's Bridge in a boat? Peaches died at about half-past four. She was in the river a few hours before she was found at eight o'clock. Does the time fit?"
"One way of finding out, I suppose," Bartholomew said.
Grenville looked at the faces of his two eager footman, glanced back at his wine, and groaned. "Oh, no. Why do I think I know what you're going to say?"
I suppressed a smile. "It is a possibility," I said. "But I hate to send Thompson questioning all the boatmen up and down the river if it proves to be a false one."
Grenville looked pained, then he sighed. "Oh, very well. I will ask Gautier to prepare a suit appropriate for riding in a fisherman's boat."
I doubted the wisdom of Bartholomew's plan once we were out on the water. It was not raining, and the clouds had cleared a bit, but the wind was sharp. It was just a mile between Blackfriar's Bridge and London Bridge, but the current was strong and the boat full.
The boatman we hired seemed oblivious to the cold and the wind. He took one look at the gold guineas Grenville offered him and shuffled us into his boat. His wife stood on the bank, hands on hips, and watched while her husband and son pushed us off.
The boatman bent his back to the oars, while Grenville sat in the bows, watch in hand. The man's son, a spindly lad of twelve years, manned the tiller. The river was dense with traffic, boats scuttling this way and that, fishermen hauling nets in and out, the occasional large vessel moving silently upriver, carrying goods to the upper Thames or to the narrow barges that would traverse the canals.
The boatman and his son skittered around and out of the way of other craft with the ease of long experience, but still the going was slow. Matthias had professed an aversion to boats and had remained with Grenville's coach near London Bridge. Halfway along our journey, I, hunkering into my coat, envied Matthias. No doubt he'd found a warm tavern or a corner out of the wind where he could play dice and swap gossip with the coachman.
The smell from the river was not nice. I could not help thinking of the wide open meadows of Spain and Portugal, warm and sweet under the summer sun. I thought of sleepy towns with brick plazas and people sauntering about their business in no hurry. Those places had been bright and warm and beautiful, a sharp contrast to the gray of London.
After a time, the arches of Blackfriar's Bridge drew near. We passed the place where the waterman had fished Peaches' body from the river and so on under the shadow of the bridge. The smell grew intense. Refuse clung to the stones and pilings under the bridge, and rats swarmed everywhere.
"Take you in here?" the boatman asked, the first words he'd spoken since we'd entered the boat.
Grenville studied his watch. "A little farther, to the Temple Stairs."
The boatman grunted. The boy swung the tiller, and we moved slowly toward the Temple Stairs, which lay not far west of the bridge.
In a few minutes, the boat bumped the slime-coated steps, and the boatman's boy sprang off, holding the boat in place with a line. Bartholomew stepped off first then gave his hand to Grenville, then me. I slipped a little on the step, but Bartholomew's rock solid arm kept me from falling.
Grenville had returned his watch to his pocket. "Forty-five minutes," he told me.
No one had been terribly precise about the times of Peaches' movements that day. Lady Breckenridge had her leaving Inglethorpe's a little past four. Jean thought she saw Peaches in The Glass House at half past. Thompson put her death at half past, but the doctor had said anywhere between four and five. There was enough discrepancy that she could well have reached the Temple Gardens before she died. Or she could have died at half past and been brought here, as Bartholomew suggested.
"It could have been done," I said. "Winding through town in a hackney would likely have taken even longer."
"Are you wanting to go back?" the boatman asked.
Grenville looked a question, and I shook my head. I was quite ready to be free of the chill river. "I can walk to my digs from here."
Grenville handed the boatman his payment. "Go back and tell my coachman I went home with Captain Lacey. He will give you another shilling."
The man took the guineas; they vanished quickly into his pocket.
Before he departed, I asked him, "Did anyone else ask to be taken upriver to the Temple Stairs last Monday? Perhaps one or two people?"
The boatman shrugged. "Never heard of it."
The lad looked hopefully at me. "I can ask, sir." No doubt visions of more shiny coins danced in his head.
"No," I said quickly. The last thing I wanted was someone silencing an innocent boy for asking the wrong questions. "But, if you happen to hear of anything, send word. Ask for Captain Lacey in the rooms above the bakeshop in Grimpen Lane, off Covent Garden."
"Right you are, sir," the boy said.
The boatman looked less interested, but he nodded a farewell and picked up his oars again.
Grenville, Bartholomew, and I trudged up the steps to the Temple Garden. If any of the pupils and barristers walking purposefully about were surprised to see us emerge from the river, they made no sign. The clouds had parted today, rendering the garden a refreshing bright green, with the bare trees making delicate patterns against the sky.
The only pupil who noticed us was the tall, gangly Mr. Gower, whose face brightened as he waved to us.
"Well met, Captain." He grinned, more cheerful than on any occasion I'd seen him previously. "So, you got old Chapman arrested for murder. Never thought he had it in him."
"What happens to you?" I asked. "You are out a mentor."
"Had a stroke of luck there. A gentleman of the Inner Temple, a silk no less, announced he would take a pupil, just today. I ran to him at once, and he said he'd take me on. Not because he thinks I'll make a great barrister, but because I'm tall and will look impressive in court." He grinned, freckles dancing. "Sir William Pankhurst's a fine orator and takes only the most interesting cases. Perhaps he'll even prosecute Chapman. Wouldn't that be a lark? With me assisting?"
I found his callousness a bit distasteful, but he was young, and he'd had no love for Chapman.
"Congratulations are in order then," I said. I turned to Grenville and introduced him. Gower's eyes widened.
"You are Mr. Grenville?" He stuck out his hand. "I am honored, sir, truly honored. You won't forget the name of Gower, will you? In case you need assistance prosecuting in a court of law some day."
Grenville bowed and said he wouldn't forget.
"Perhaps you could adjourn to that tavern you mentioned before?" I asked. "For a celebratory ale?"
Gower shook his head. "I cannot, Captain. Sir William has me on a close tether. No more nipping out to the tavern or onto the green for a cheroot." He grinned. "Everything has its price."
I chuckled with him then a thought struck me. "You didn't happen to nip out to smoke a cheroot on Monday evening last, did you? When you were supposed to be dining in the hall?"
He stopped, then blushed. "Perhaps. I have been known to do so from time to time."
"While you were enjoying your smoke, did you notice anyone coming up the Temple Stairs, as we did just now? A man, perhaps?"
His eyes narrowed. "Can't be sure, you know. I think it was raining that night, pretty fierce. I remember giving up on the cheroot before long-too damp to enjoy properly. I went inside fairly quick, to get warm. I can't remember seeing anyone out of place, no." He grinned. "Am I being helpful? If you arrest someone, would you put it in the papers that I assisted you?"
"Your name will be prominent, Mr. Gower, if you wish it," I said.
"Excellent. Well, I'm chuffed to have met you, Mr. Grenville."
Grenville said something polite, and we took our leave.
"I suppose I was that young and cocky once," Grenville said as we strolled up Middle Temple Lane and back to Fleet Street. "But I must say that the suit he wears is first rate."
I came out of deep thought about the Temple Gardens on a dark, rainy night. "How did you notice his suit? His gown covered it."
"I noted his collar and his sleeves. His coat was made by a fine tailor in Bond Street. No doubt provided by a proud and ambitious papa."
I could only muse that Grenville was fixed on dress. I had never noticed Gower's coat.
As we trudged slowly back to Covent Garden, we discussed what we'd learned from the boat ride. I told Grenville I'd inform Thompson of our discoveries; he, of the Thames River patrol could easily order his watermen to run up and down the river questioning boatmen and fishermen.
"It would be pleasing if we could find someone who truly saw something," Grenville said crossly. "Mr. Gower sees nothing through the rain. Young Jean hears Kensington and Peaches argue, but does not see anyone with Peaches when she leaves The Glass House. None of the hackney drivers Thompson questioned remember seeing Peaches at all. Lady Breckenridge does not observe Peaches speak to anyone but Inglethorpe last Monday at Inglethorpe's gathering. And Inglethorpe, of course, cannot tell us anything, because Chapman skewered him. It's dashed annoying."
"Perhaps," I said absently, musing again.
"You are having ideas, Lacey. Will you share them?"
"Not ideas. Threads of ideas. Which might lead nowhere."
"Well, I am completely baffled," Grenville said. "Tell me, Lacey, what have you decided about Berkshire? I've had another letter from Rutledge-he's the headmaster I told you of. He was most interested in you. An Army officer of good family and quiet habits is just what he'd like. What shall I tell him?"
"I have been thinking that a sojourn in Berkshire would be most pleasant, to tell the truth," I said.
"Excellent. I will warn you, however, that Bartholomew wishes to accompany you. And I will visit often, of course, to make certain you are not getting up to anything exciting without me. Can you bear it?"
I gave him a faint smile and a nod. "I would enjoy the company."
"I will write to Rutledge tonight." Grenville pulled the collar of his greatcoat higher. "Let us move along. If anyone sees me strolling the Strand, on foot, my reputation will be at an end."
"Nonsense," I said, feeling slightly better now that I'd made a decision. "It will become the thing to do."
Grenville burst out laughing, something he did rarely. "True. That would be a most excellent joke."
Chuckling, he ambled on, and we at last turned north to Covent Garden and Grimpen Lane.
Grenville invited me to dine with him again, but I told him I had an engagement for the evening. He left me as his coach arrived at Grimpen Lane, and Bartholomew went out to shop for our supper.
I had worried at first that keeping Bartholomew would be costly, especially since Bartholomew enjoyed stoking my fires high. But Bartholomew had proved this false. He knew where to get the best goods the cheapest, he said, having connections all over Covent Garden and even into the City. He did keep me comfortable at little expense. Grenville had rather relieved me when he indicated that Bartholomew wanted to accompany me to Berkshire. I had grown to appreciate him.
Not many minutes after both Grenville and Bartholomew had departed, someone tapped on my door. I opened it, expecting Mrs. Beltan with coffee, but to my surprise, I found Mr. Kensington on my doorstep.
I did not invite him in. Though he held his hat in both hands, and I saw no sign of a weapon, I certainly did not trust him. His dark hair was thinning on top, which I could well see because I stood at least a foot taller than he.
"What the devil do you want?" I asked.
He gave me his oily smile. "To speak with you, Captain. On a matter we will both find important."
"What matter?"
He looked past me into my rooms. "Shall we speak privately?"
"We are private enough."
Kensington took another step forward and lowered his voice. "I've come to learn that you are acquainted with Mr. Denis, Captain."
"Somewhat," I said in chill tones.
"I have a connection to him as well." He lowered his voice further still. "I worked for him once upon a time."
I was surprised, but only because Kensington was a bit too base for the Spartan Denis. "He has never mentioned this," I said.
"Nor would he. We did not exactly see eye to eye, and I left his service. But times are changing, and we must decide who our allies are."
I had not yet made up my mind whether to believe him. "What of it?"
"My dear, sir, we can be of help to one another. I only ask that you put in a good word for me with Denis. Tell him I have seen the error of my ways."
I gave him a sharp look. "First, I have no reason to believe you. Second, I have no reason to help you."
Kensington's eyes took on a light of desperation. "But I have helped you at every turn. I let you search Peaches' rooms, I have answered your questions about her, I can help your magistrate friend make short work of Lady Jane."
I leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. Cold air seeped up the stairwell, but I was not ready to retreat into the warm rooms behind me.
"Helped me?" I asked. "You have lied or evaded me at every turn. You did not mention that Peaches owned The Glass House. You only allowed me to search the real room she kept when I threatened you. You have not yet told me why you and she quarreled on her final day."
"Help me return to James Denis' good graces, and I will tell you all."
I caught him by his coat lapels and jerked him off his feet. "You will tell me now. Beginning with why you are so anxious to betray Lady Jane, who has no doubt helped you make a profit from The Glass House."
"How can you ask? Lady Jane is a ruthless and wicked woman, and I rue the day I met her."
"I don't doubt that. Let me put to you why I think you are willing to sell her out. Now that Peaches is dead, The Glass House will revert to another owner, and your days are numbered. No doubt she is furious. If you killed Peaches, she will be more furious still."
Kensington's small eyes bulged. "I did not kill Peaches. I swear it."
"You had better be able to prove that. What did you and Peaches quarrel about?"
"I don't remember."
I shook him once. "I believe you do."
He wet his lips. "Lady Jane is dangerous. She may be a woman, but she has men at her beck and call who will do anything for her. Nasty types who would kill you as soon as turn a hair. I want to get away from her. You would too, if you understood. If I go back to Denis, Lady Jane can't touch me."
That, I at least believed. I shook him again. "You have not answered my question."
"Peaches found out that I wanted to leave The Glass House and return to Denis. She threatened to tell Lady Jane. When I remonstrated with her, she laughed at me."
"And you killed her to prevent it?"
"No! I never did. I swear it, Captain. I'll take a Bible oath on it. I did not kill Peaches. She was alive and well when she left me."
"To go where?"
"I do not know! She said she had an appointment."
I shook him again. "With whom?"
"I don't know, devil take you. She did not confide in me. She never confided in me."
I set Kensington on his feet with a thump. He drew a breath and loosened the fabric at his throat with shaking hands.
"She did not like you," I said. "What did you do to her, I wonder, to make her despise you? To make her turn around and threaten to betray you?"
Kensington's face reddened. "I do not know. Amelia was always ungrateful. I took her, poor and innocent, knowing nothing of the ways of London, and found her a position on the stage. I introduced her to wealthy gentlemen. I showed her how to make an income from her property. I helped her when no one else would."
"For a price."
"Well, yes, of course. I am a man of business."
"I am not speaking of a commission," I said. "I am certain you demanded more than money from her."
His face grew red. "I deserved it," he said. "Everything, I deserved."
"Do not elaborate on what you took from her, or I might have to throttle you right now. What about Lord Barbury? Did you kill him?"
"Of course not. I am not a killing man, Captain. I can't abide murder."
He was such a milksop that I started to believe him.
"Your protests do not convince me that you are a moral man," I said. "You have the best motive of all for murdering Peaches-she threatened to betray you to Lady Jane, the woman you fear. Peaches had the power by then, not you. She was married to a barrister, had the protection of the wealthy and powerful Lord Barbury, who would do anything for her, had the rent from The Glass House-and profits too, I imagine-and she was free of you. You could lose everything, and there she was, laughing at you."
He shook his head vehemently. "No."
"She would have told Lord Barbury all about it. At least, you would assume so. Lord Barbury shut himself at home, grieving for Peaches, until her funeral. He saw you there, threatened you. Grenville invited him for supper while you stood there listening. All you had to do was wait for him, follow him, shoot him somewhere in the dark, and drag him home."
"I never did!" Kensington's voice rang with defiance. "I was nowhere near Mayfair that evening, and I can prove it."
"You will certainly be hanged if you cannot," I said remorselessly. "But it does not matter, because you have done so many other things. Running a bawdy house, exploiting children; Peaches was still a girl when you exploited her, was she not? And I imagine that once you knew Peaches was dead, you forced the lock on her room and removed any evidence of your dealings with her, including any money that she might have kept there so that she could buy herself silver pen trays and pretty dresses."
"There was nothing left," Kensington said. "She'd spent it all, the ungrateful cow. I did find the box in which she kept her money, but there weren't enough coins in it to buy a pig breakfast."
"Serves you right," I said.
"You cannot prove any of this, Lacey. You cannot take me to court."
"I am sickened by you, and beyond caring. I am happy to leave you to the mercy of Lady Jane."
Kensington's face whitened. "You cannot, Lacey. I will confess to anything, to your magistrate or whoever you like, as long as you help me. Take me to Denis. We will speak with him together."
"No," I answered.
For a moment Kensington rasped in panic then the angry light returned to his eyes. "You are a bloody fool, Captain. I came to offer you a bargain. If you will not help me, then I cannot answer for what happens to you."
"Don't threaten me. You tell me you are incapable of murder, but I do not claim to be so."
Kensington paused, fear lighting his eyes again, then the defiant look returned, and he clapped his hat to his head. "You will regret that you did not help me," he said. "Oh, yes, you will regret it." He glared at me one last time before he turned and marched down the stairs.
I slammed the door and stood in the middle of my chamber, seething with anger. Needing release, I picked up the ebony walking stick that Grenville had lent me and hurled it across the room. It made a satisfying crash against the wall, but the strong shaft remained whole.
I was still seething when I walked to the Covent Garden Theatre at the end of Bow Street not long later. I had wanted Kensington to fall to his knees and confess that he'd killed Peaches and Lord Barbury, had wanted it badly so I could grab him by the neck and drag him off to Pomeroy and punishment.
Marianne's story had portrayed Peaches as a starry-eyed girl, certain that happiness and good fortune lay in London. Luck seemed to be with her when an aged relative had died and left her a place to live. And then she'd met Kensington. Peaches must have trusted him at first, wanting the fame and fortune he promised her. But he had drained innocence from her. Kensington had made her into a grasping woman who'd think nothing of owning a bawdy house or of cuckolding her husband when she was tired of him, a woman who wanted and needed excitement and sensation to make her life livable. I hated Kensington and wanted to hurt him.
My emotions roiling thus, I was therefore in no mood to be cut dead by Louisa Brandon.
I saw her just inside the theatre, after I'd strode past the grand columns and its usual collection of ladies in flimsy silks and rouged cheeks. I saw her in her long-sleeved matron's gown of dull maroon, its lighter pink trim matching the three feathers in her headdress.
She'd said something to her maid and had turned to make for the stairs to the boxes. Our gazes met for an instant. I saw, even around the substantial number of people between us, her color rise. Recognition-and dismay. Just as I was about to bow to her, Louisa abruptly turned and walked away.
I lost my temper. I strode through the crowd, never minding the pain in my leg, reaching the doorway to the stairs before she did. I planted myself in her path and waited for her to act.
She, of course, had to stop. I made a formal bow and said, "I remember you promising that you would not cut me entirely."
A spark of anger flared in her eyes. "I do beg your pardon, Gabriel. I did not see you."
She lied. She had certainly seen me. "It is of no moment." My lips felt stiff. "Shall I escort you to your box?"
"There is no need."
"It would be rude not to."
She gazed at me frostily, and I gazed back. I remembered us in a similar situation, once upon a time, at a regimental colonel's dinner. Louisa had been furiously angry at me for some fault or other, but because we'd been in the colonel's tent with the other officers and their wives, she had not been able to shout at me, nor I to retaliate. We could only glare at one another and offer strained politeness. Later, of course, she had dressed me down, and I'd shouted back until we'd cleared the air and become friends again.
We faced another restraining situation, her glare now twice as angry as it had been at that regimental supper. But we could not afford to make a scene, and she knew it. Louisa silently slid her gloved fingers under my arm, and we proceeded up the stairs, neither of us speaking.
I led her to her box and inside. She let me, both of us now determined to go through the charade. I settled her in a chair, draped her shawl over her shoulders, and sent for coffee, just as I would any other time, but my movements were deliberate, my questions cold.
I hoped, very much hoped, that she would at burst out laughing and say, "This is nonsense, Gabriel, do sit down." But Louisa remained stiff, her responses terse.
I handed her coffee, asked her if she'd like anything else. She lifted the cup to her lips and said clearly, "No. Go away, Gabriel."
"Louisa."
Her eyes hardened. "I do not wish to speak to you. Go."
I looked down at her, my anger undimmed. "You have been my friend for twenty years," I said. "I will never be able to simply go."
But I picked up my walking stick and departed. Several ladies who had spied Louisa entering slid into her box past me with cries of greeting, barely noticing me.
I hardly felt my sore knee as I stamped around the perimeter of Covent Garden Theatre to Lady Breckenridge's box. Louisa and I had quarreled before, but this felt very different.
She was tired of me. I did not blame her. And yet I did blame her for being cruel. She was cutting me off from a thing that gave me joy-speaking to her. Later on, I would hurt. Now, I was simply angry.
In such a mood, I entered Lady Breckenridge's box on the upper tier.