Sir Geoffrey Bush, Halbert Glendinning's city solicitor and agent, occupied chambers on Lower Thames Street just across from the cluttered bulk of the new Customs House. His second-story window afforded a clear view of the works, with its bustle of wagons and swarming builders. The constant clink of iron tools rang audibly through his panes.
Sir Geoffrey welcomed Henry Morton with great civility, apologised for the construction dust that sifted everywhere, warned him that it was entirely impossible for him to divulge information about his clients even to Bow Street and then, hardly waiting to be asked, proceeded to talk long and openly about the dead man, with the deep, happy relish of a born gossip.
Much of it Morton had heard before, and certainly nothing altered his basic idea of Glendinning's character. Sir Geoffrey dismissed the notion of his late client straying into dens of iniquity with a worldly wave of his hand, a tolerant smile.
“Absolutely out of the question, sir. No one on this earth would have been less likely to do such things than young Mr. Glendinning.”
Morton had begun to wonder what kind of man people thought did slake his lust on female children. Everyone seemed so certain of the kind who didn't. But he let it pass. If Halbert Glendinning had had a secret, he'd kept it well. But then, if one had that particular secret, one would.
“Sir Geoffrey, do you know any reason for Mr. Glendinning to have been distressed? Were his affairs in order?”
“Certainly he had no money worries or the like,” the solicitor allowed. “Mr. Glendinning did not gamble or make risky investments. That part of his life was quite in order.” He looked a little grim, and sighed. “However, I will admit to you, Mr. Morton, that I was often left with the impression that his relations with Miss Hamilton were not all … how shall we say? Moonlight and balmy sighs. There was something not quite right there. Mr. Glendinning confided in me,” he lowered his voice a little, “that he sometimes wondered if Miss Hamilton would ever be able to forget her earlier attachment.”
Morton sat up straighter in his chair.
“What attachment was this, Sir Geoffrey?”
“Has no one mentioned it? Miss Hamilton, you see, was engaged to be married once before.”
Morton needed only to look interested, and the lawyer rattled blithely on.
“It was a most tragic affair, Mr. Morton, most tragic, for I believe she was a bit mad for her first fiance.” He smiled sadly at Morton and shrugged, leaving the Bow Street man to reflect on the choice of words. “I think poor Halbert felt he could never measure up to his late rival, and I fear there were intimations from Miss Hamilton, if not in so many words, that this was so.”
And here Sir Geoffrey raised the fingers of both hands in an eloquently poignant gesture. “This other man…he served his King, went abroad, never to return.”
“Was his name Richard, perchance?”
Sir Geoffrey looked at him in surprise. “I thought you knew nothing of it. It was, in fact: Richard Davenant. Died in Spain in 1811, at Albuera. He was a captain in that Sussex Regiment they were all part of, the men from down there. The Thirty-fifth Foot, I think. The terrible irony, though, was that this ‘hero,’ the captain of Miss Hamilton's heart, did not, it seems, die the death of a hero.”
Now Sir Geoffrey was clearly waiting to be asked, so Morton did.
“How so?”
“The word is, Mr. Morton,” and the lawyer's voice sank to a whisper as he leaned forward slightly, “that he bolted. The bullet that killed him was lodged in his back, when he ran from the French at the height of the battle.”
He sat back again, a sad, satisfied smile playing on his lips.
“Halbert suffered, as did many who were willing but unfit for service. In some strange way I think he believed that a coward who went to war was better than a worthy man who could not. Do you see what I mean?”
Morton nodded. He did. He could also see how a shy, young country gentleman might have been lured into revealing so much of his private life to this garrulous urbanite, with his welcoming manner, his seeming wisdom, and his easy willingness to talk of such things. Sir Geoffrey Bush enjoyed other people's confidences. He took pleasure in hearing them, and he took pleasure in repeating them. Poor Glendinning indeed. And poor Louisa.
“What happened to Louisa after Davenant's death?”
Sir Geoffrey raised his hands. “I cannot say. I am not a confidant of Miss Hamilton's. In fact, I have met her but once.”
“And Davenant? Did you know him?”
“No, I had the story from Robert Bromley, the regimental surgeon of the Thirty-fifth at the time. Offices in Golden Square, should you want to talk to him. He saw the fellow's body, apparently, and was in a position to say. Though, I have to admit, I have heard it once or twice repeated by others.”
Morton considered a moment. “Do you think matters between Mr. Glendinning and Miss Hamilton had deteriorated so badly that your young client had fallen into despair? Was he melancholic, do you think?”
This seemed to sober the old gossip a moment, and his face might actually have expressed a degree of genuine sympathy. “He was not born with an immense capacity for happiness, our Halbert,” he answered. “As to his relations with Miss Hamilton…I think she did not appreciate him as she should. But even so, they were to marry. I don't know how joyful a union this might have been, Mr. Morton, but Halbert had all his hopes tied up in it, that is certain.”
“Then you knew them to be engaged? Was it common knowledge?”
“Well, I don't know how common, exactly. I certainly knew, and Halbert repeated it the last time I spoke with him-but two days before he died.”
Morton touched his fingertips together. “Did you think it out of character that Mr. Glendinning fought a duel? To your knowledge, had he ever done such a thing before?”
“Oh, I'm quite sure he hadn't,” Sir Geoffrey said quickly. “As to it being in character, he did not have an aggressive disposition, Halbert. He had a romantical one. Fighting a duel to protect the honour of the woman he loved?” His eyebrows raised. “It was, perhaps, a way to make himself a hero-perhaps even more of a hero than her former love.”
“He might easily have been a dead hero. His opponent was the most notorious duelist in London.”
“A bit of bad judgement, that,” Sir Geoffrey admitted.
Something occurred to Morton. “Did you advise him to engage in this duel, Sir Geoffrey?”
The man looked wide-eyed at Morton. “Certainly not!”
“Excuse my suggesting it,” Morton murmured evenly. “Can you tell me,” he went on, “who benefited from Mr. Glendinning's will?”
The man looked at him a moment. “Only his own family, Mr. Morton, and I'm sure they'd rather have him back than have his money, which came from them anyway.”
Morton rose. “I thank you for your time.” He stopped as he pushed his chair back. “This surgeon, Bromley, I believe you said, is acquainted with Mr. Glendinning's set?”
“Oh yes, he's thick with many of them, although I've never understood how he managed it. Rather a paltry chap.” Now the lawyer's smile became sly. “Indeed, Mr. Morton, you mustn't believe quite everything he tells you.”
Morton returned a somewhat sour version of the same smile. “I make a rule of that for everyone, Sir Geoffrey.”