The Glass House Read online

  The Glass House (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries #3)

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One

  The Glass House

  by Ashley Gardner

  Book 3 of the Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries

  The Glass House

  Copyright 2005 and 2011 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley Gardner)

  All rights reserved.

  Excerpt from The Sudbury School Murders copyright 2011 Jennifer Ashley

  Published 2011 by Jennifer Ashley (Ashley Gardner)

  www.gardnermysteries.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  * * * * *

  Chapter One

  The affair of The Glass House began quietly enough one evening in late January, 1817. I passed the afternoon drinking ale at The Rearing Pony, a tavern in Maiden Lane near Covent Garden, in a common room that was noisy, crowded, and overheated. Sweating men swapped stories and laughter, and a barmaid called Anne Tolliver filled glasses and winked at me as she passed.

  I first learned of anything amiss when I left the tavern to make my way home. It was eight o'clock, the winter night outside was black and brutally cold, and rain came down. A hackney waited at a stand, white vapor streaming from the horse's nostrils while the coachman warmed himself with a nip from a flask.

  I walked as quickly as I could on the slick cobbles, trying to retain the warmth of ale and fire I’d left behind in the public house. My rooms in Grimpen Lane would be dark and lonely, and Bartholomew would not be there.

  Since Christmas, Bartholomew, the tall, blond, Teutonic-looking footman to Lucius Grenville, had become my makeshift manservant, but tonight he had returned to Grenville's house to help prepare for a soiree. That soiree would be one of the finest of the Season, and everyone who was anyone would be there.

  I too had an invitation, and I would attend, though I much preferred to visit Grenville when he was not playing host. Grenville was the most sought-after gentleman in society, being the foremost authority on art, music, horses, ladies, and every other entertainment embraced by the London ton. He was also vastly wealthy and well-connected, having plenty of peers of the realm in his ancestry. His manners, his dress, his tastes were carefully copied. In public, he played his role of man-about-town to the hilt, employing cool sangfroid and a quizzing glass, one glance through which could humble the most impudent aristocrat.

  I had come to know the man behind the façade, a gentleman of intelligence and good sense, who was well read and well traveled and possessed a lively curiosity that matched my own. People wondered why Grenville had shown interest in me, a half-pay cavalry officer who had passed his fortieth year. Though I had good lineage, I had no wealth, no connections, no prospects.

  I knew Grenville was kind to me because I interested him, and I relieved the ennui into which he, one of the most wealthy men in England often lapsed. He enjoyed hearing tales of my adventures, and he'd helped me investigate several murders and mysterious events in the past year.

  I could not fault Grenville his generosity, but I could not repay it either. His charity often grated on my pride, but in the last year, I had come to regard him as a friend. If he wished me to attend the crush at his home, I would oblige him and go, though I would have to endure a night of rude stares at me and my fading regimentals.

  Hence, I enjoyed myself sitting in the friendly, noisy tavern before I had to venture to Mayfair and face London's elite.

  At least my lodgings had become something less than dismal since Bartholomew's arrival. Grenville had lent him to me and paid for his keep, because the lad wanted to train to be a valet, the pinnacle of the servant class. Therefore, I now had someone to mix my shaving soap, brush my suits, keep my boots polished, and talk to me while we chewed through the beefsteak and boiled potatoes he fetched from the nearby public house.

  I suspected Grenville's purpose in sending Bartholomew to me was twofold--first, because Grenville felt sorry for me, and second, because he wanted to keep an eye on me. With Bartholomew reporting to him, Grenville would be certain not to miss any intriguing situation into which I might land myself.

  Bad fortune for him that Grenville had chosen to call Bartholomew home to help him tonight.

  My rooms lay above a bakeshop in the tiny cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane, which ran behind Bow Street. The bakeshop was a jovial place of warm, yeasty breads, coffee, and banter when it was open. Mrs. Beltan let the rooms above it cheap, and I'd found her to be a fair landlady. The shop was closed now, Mrs. Beltan home with her sister, the windows dark and empty.

  As I reached to unlock the outer door that led to the stairs, a voice boomed at me out of the darkness.

  "Happily met, Captain."

  I recognized the strident tones of Milton Pomeroy, once my sergeant, now one of the famous Bow Street Runners. The light from windows in the house opposite shone on his pale blond hair and battered hat, the dark suit on his broad shoulders, and his round and healthy face.

  In the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons during the Peninsular War, Pomeroy had been my sergeant. In civilian life, he'd retained his booming sergeant's voice, his brisk sergeant's attitude, and his utter ruthlessness in pursuit of the enemy. The enemy now were not the French, but the pickpockets, housebreakers, murderers, prostitutes, and other denizens of London.

  "A piss of an evening," he said jovially. "Not like the Peninsula, eh?"

  Weather in Iberia had been both hot and cold, but usually dry, and the summers could be fine. Tonight especially, I longed for those summer days under the sweltering sun. "Indeed, Sergeant," I said.

  "Well, I've not come to jaw about the weather. I've come to ask you about that little actress what lives upstairs from you."

  I regarded him in surprise. "Miss Simmons?"

  "Aye, that's the one. Seen her about?"

  "Not for a week or so."

  Marianne Simmons, a blond young woman with a deceptively childlike face and large blue eyes, eked out a living playing small parts at Drury Lane theatre. She lived in the rooms above mine and stretched her meager income by helping herself to my candles, coal, snuff, and other commodities. I let her, knowing she might go without otherwise.

  Marianne often disappeared for long stretches at a time. I had once tried to inquire where she went on her sojourns, but she only fixed me with a cold stare and told me it was none of my business. I assumed Marianne found a protector during these absences, temporarily at least. In the past, she'd always returned within a month, proclaiming her general disgust at men and asking whether she could share my supper.

  "Well, then, sir," Pomeroy went on. "Can you come along with me and look at a corpse from the river? It might very well be hers."

  I stopped in shock.
"What? Good God."

  "Pulled out of the Thames not half hour ago by a waterman," Pomeroy said. "She looked like your actress, so I thought I'd fetch you to make sure."

  My blood went cold. Marianne and I had our differences, but I certainly didn’t wish so terrible a death on her. "There's nothing to tell you who she is?"

  "Not a thing, so the Thames River gent says. She's not been dead long. A few hours or more, I should say. Officer of the Thames River patrol sent for the magistrate, who sent for me."

  So explaining, Pomeroy led me out of Grimpen Lane and Russel Street and down to the Strand. My walking stick rang on the cobbles as I strove to match Pomeroy's long stride and tried to stem my rising worry.

  I doubted Marianne would try to do away with herself; she had a brisk attitude toward life, no matter that it had not dealt her very high cards. She was not a brilliant actress, but the gentlemen of her audience liked her bright hair, pointed face, and round blue eyes.

  But accidents happened, and people fell into the river and drowned all too often. I wondered, if the dead woman proved to be Marianne, how on earth I would break the news to Grenville.

  We walked east on the Strand and entered Fleet Street through one of the pedestrian arches of Temple Bar. The road curved with the river that flowed a few streets away, though the high buildings hid any aspect of it.

  Fleet Street was the haunt of barristers and journalists, the latter of which were never my favorite sort of people. We fortunately saw none of them tonight. I supposed they had retreated to pubs like the one I'd just left, their day's work finished. Still I kept a wary eye out for one starved-looking journalist called Billings, who last summer had taken to roasting me in the newspapers for my involvement in the affair of Colonel Westin.

  We walked all the way down the Fleet to New Bridge Street, then to Blackfriar's Bridge and a slippery staircase that led to the shore of the Thames. As we descended away from the stone houses, the wind took on a new chill.

  The river lay cold and vast at the bottom of the steps, lapping softly at its banks and smelling of rotting cabbage. Lights roved the middle of the river, barges and small craft strolling upriver or back down to the ships moored at the Isle of Dogs or farther east in Blackwall and Gravesend.

  A circle of lanterns huddled about ten yards from the staircase. "Saw her bobbing there," a thin voice was saying. "Told young John to help me fish her out. Dead as a toad and all bloated up."

  As Pomeroy and I crunched over the shingle toward them, a man on the gravel bank turned. "Pomeroy."

  "Thompson," Pomeroy boomed. "This is Captain Lacey, the chap I told you about. Captain, Peter Thompson of the Thames River patrol."

  I shook hands with a tall man who had graying hair and a sunken face, long nose, and thin mouth. He was muffled in a greatcoat that hung on his bony frame, and his gloves were frayed. But though his features were cadaverous, his eyes were strong and clear.

  The Thames River patrol skimmed up and down the river from the City to Greenwich, watching over the great merchant ships that docked along the waterway. Their watermen picked up flotsam from the river, either turning it in for reward or selling it. When they found bodies, they sent for the Thames River officers, although I suspected that some of the less scrupulous sold the poor drowned victims to resurrectionists, unsavory gentlemen who collected bodies to sell to surgeons and anatomists for dissection.

  Thompson asked me, "Pomeroy said the woman might be an acquaintance of yours."

  "Perhaps." I steeled myself for the possibility. "May I see her?"

  "Over here." Thompson pointed a finger in his shabby glove to the thin gathering of men and lanterns.

  I stepped past the waterman who smelled of mud and unwashed clothes into the circle of light. They had laid the woman out on a strip of canvas. Her gown, a light pink muslin, was pasted to her limbs, the sodden cloth outlining her thighs and curve of waist, her round breasts. Her face was gray, bloated with water. A wet fall of golden hair, coated with mud, covered the stones beside her.

  She had been small and slim, with a girlish prettiness. Her hands were tiny in shredded gloves, and her feet were still laced into beaded slippers. Although her coloring and build were similar, she was not Marianne Simmons.

  I exhaled in some relief. "I do not know her. She isn’t Miss Simmons."

  "Hmph," Pomeroy said. "Thought it was her. Ah well."

  Thompson said nothing, looking neither disappointed nor elated.

  I went down on one knee, supporting my weight on my walking stick. "She had no reticule, or other bag?"

  "Not a thing, Captain," Thompson replied. "Although a reticule might have been washed down river. No cards, nothing on her clothes. I imagine she was a courtesan."

  I lifted the hem of her skirt and examined the fabric. "Fine work. This is a lady's dress."

  "Might have stolen it," Pomeroy suggested.

  "It fits her too well." I dropped the skirt and ran my gaze over the gown. "It was made for her."

  "Or her lover sent her to a dressmaker," Thompson said.

  I looked at the young woman’s neck and wrists, which were bare. "No jewels. If she had a protector, she would wear the jewels he bought her."

  "Someone could have taken them," Pomeroy said.

  I touched the woman's throat. "There is no sign of bruising or force on her neck, nor on her arms. I do not believe she was wearing any jewels before she fell in. She was not robbed."

  Thompson leaned down with me. "No," he said. "But she was murdered."

  He turned the woman's head to one side. I recoiled, my hand tightening on my walking stick.

  The entire back of the woman's head and been caved in, rendering her skull and hair a black and bloody mess.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Two

  I looked down at the wound, an ugly gouge on the woman's otherwise pretty head. She'd not been much past five and twenty. A life snuffed out too soon.

  "Do you know who did this?" I asked, my voice hard.

  "That we don't, Captain," Thompson said. He looked at me sideways, his own eyes quiet, but in them I saw a spark of anger that matched my own. "Found the body, nothing else. She can't have been floating there long." He looked up at the waterman. "Maybe only thrown in this afternoon?"

  The waterman nodded. He must have seen his share of bloaters, and Thompson must have too. They'd know just by looking at the body how long she'd been in the water.

  "How much had she drifted, do you think?" I asked. "Do you know where she went in?"

  "She didn't go far," the waterman said in his reedy voice. "I found her fetched up under th' bridge."

  He pointed. Blackfriar's Bridge lay just upstream of us. I was night-blinded by the lanterns, but looked that way as though I could see the arches of the dark bridge.

  "She'd been wedged there a few hours, I'd say."

  Thompson got to his feet, swung his arms, his coat swinging with him. "And she's only a few hours dead. That means she could have been pitched in near the Middle or Inner Temple. From the Temple Stairs, perhaps? About half-past four this afternoon? What are the gentlemen of the King's Bench getting up to, I wonder?"

  I saw in his eyes that he only half-joked. Why a pupil or barrister of the Temples would kill a young woman and toss her into the Thames I could not fathom, but someone there might have done so. Thompson thought so too.

  It would not be Thompson's task to investigate this crime. His jurisdiction lay on the river, and on the wharves and docks where thieves might break into the loaded merchantmen. Pomeroy and his foot patrollers would be the men combing the Temple gardens to find someone who might have witnessed the crime. But I saw a gleam of professional curiosity in Thompson's eyes.

  The same curiosity sparked in me, mixed with deep pity for the young woman. I too wanted to discover who had done this to so harmless a creature, perhaps spend a few minutes alone with the man when we found him.

  As I made to rise, the woman's torn glove moved under my fingers,
and I felt something cool and metal. A ring had been hidden by the gloves, protected from the water. It was loose, even on her bloated finger, and slipped easily into my hand.

  Thompson looked my way in curiosity as I rose, and I brushed off the mud and balanced the ring on my palm. Pomeroy crowded close, his heavy breath on my shoulder.

  The ring was a thick circlet of silver bedecked with a strip of diamonds. Even muddy, it glinted in the lantern light, smooth and whole and costly. It was the sort of ring a gentleman of fashion would purchase for himself and perhaps bestow on his paramour as a keepsake.

  "A gift from her lover?" Thompson asked, echoing my thoughts.

  "Must have been," Pomeroy said. "Think he did her in?"

  "No way of knowing." Thompson picked up the ring, held it close to his eyes.

  Pomeroy went on. "The lady and her lover quarrel, he hits her or knocks her down. She falls, strikes her head, dies. He panics when he sees he's killed her, drags her down the steps at the Temple Gardens, drops her into the river."

  "Possibly," I said. "But if that were the case, why would the paramour not remove his ring and take it home with him?"

  "He didn't know she had it on. She's wearing gloves."

  Thompson turned the bright circlet in his fingers. "If the man were her lover, he'd have known she'd wear it, and look under the glove."

  "Or, she was with a second lover," Pomeroy speculated. "A gent jealous of the gent what gave her the ring. They quarrel about the first gent, he kills her--accidentally or on purpose--but doesn't know she's wearing the ring."

  "Could be," Thompson said.

  Thompson did not sound interested in nebulous lovers. He was interested in the ring, a concrete link to a man, whoever he might be--husband, lover, father. No middle-class man had purchased that ring; it had a patina to it, was possibly part of a family collection. Jewelers served families for decades. If Thompson could identify who'd made the ring, he'd be closer to finding the man who owned it.