Murder in St. Giles Read online

  He meant after the coroner shut away the corpse, out of the reaches of Spendlove and Pomeroy. They would not thank Quimby for elbowing in on the possible reward money Runners made when the criminals they caught were convicted.

  Quimby pocketed the key and shook my hand. “Good day, Captain. I will find a hackney—will you have a carriage to take you home, or perhaps I can let you down at your destination?”

  His expression held nothing but helpful inquisitiveness, but I already knew that this was a watchful man—Sir Montague would not have sent him if he hadn’t possessed astuteness.

  “Thank you, no,” I said, settling my hat. “I will find a hackney or send for my wife’s coachman.”

  “Just so. Well met, Captain. Have a care wandering these parts.”

  “I always do,” I said.

  He gave me another fleeting smile and walked away from me up the lane, his stride even and light. Not a man who drew attention to himself.

  I waited until he’d turned the corner at the far end of the passage, and then waited longer to see if he’d return.

  I ought to simply go home. Leave it for Sir Montague and Mr. Quimby to decide whom to seek for this crime, and be done with it. I had the pressing matter of Donata’s bloody cousins to claim my attention.

  But I wanted to speak to Brewster again, and warn him about what was happening.

  When I left the passage, I saw no sign of Quimby. The crowds had thickened, the taverns and gin shops now open.

  Young women in thin gowns strolled along the street, and several glanced hopefully at me. The game girls would know that I had more coins than most in St. Giles, and many of them were skilled pickpockets. I only tipped my hat as I moved quickly by, my walking stick ringing.

  Quimby had truly gone. I had long ago developed an instinct of knowing when I was being watched, and I did not feel the sensation as I crossed lanes and made my way to Brewster’s rooms.

  I found the dog in the stairwell outside Brewster’s door—I imagined his wife had forbidden him farther. He twitched his tail once when he saw me.

  Brewster was inside, readying himself to go out. “His Nibs summoned me,” he said as Mrs. Brewster bundled him into his coat. He took the low-crowned hat she dusted off and jammed it onto his head. “He’ll have my hide if I leave you in St. Giles on your own, so you’d better come.”

  “Very well,” I said without argument. I had hoped to ask more questions of Mrs. Brewster about her brother, but I’d have to save that for another time. I had questions for Mr. Denis as well. “I will pay for the hackney to take us there. But we have to bring the dog.”

  Chapter 5

  James Denis was on the ground floor of his town house in Curzon Street, preparing to go out. Behind him, the painted white staircase with warm wooden railing twisted upward from the black-and-white tiled floor. Like the facade of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, this house was the embodiment of the subdued but elegant decor of the past century.

  Denis’s suit and light greatcoat, with kid gloves that clung to his hands, were another manifestation of restraint, though his clothes were of the latest fashion. But unlike the dandies who tried, and failed, to emulate Grenville, Denis did not draw attention to himself.

  Four men stood in the ground-floor hall with him, waiting for their master with as much patience as the dog had waited for me. They were large men, former prize fighters, who surrounded Denis wherever he went. I found myself glancing at their fists to see if any matched the size of the print on Jack’s neck.

  Denis’s eyes were blue like a chilly ocean no sun could warm. “I did not summon you, Captain.” He took his hat from his butler, another former fighter, though smaller and older than the others.

  “It was my own idea to visit,” I returned. “Whims move me now and then.”

  “I have no time to speak to you. I have an appointment elsewhere.”

  “As I see.” I gave him a conceding bow. “I will return later.”

  Denis had little patience with me at the best of times, and he disliked my habit of turning up whenever I wanted to ask him a question. In his view, the arrangement was that I came only when he called.

  He had, in the past, simply walked out past me or had his butler keep me waiting a good long time, but today he sent me a nod, handed another lackey his hat, and walked into the reception room.

  I followed him, and Brewster came behind. I was not certain whether Brewster entered to protect me or Denis.

  Denis began speaking before I could, but he addressed Brewster. “You acted rashly, sending for the captain before speaking to me, but it cannot be helped. It is in the hands of the magistrates now.”

  I did not marvel that Denis knew exactly what had happened to Brewster’s brother-in-law, or that I’d gone to look into the matter and had already involved Sir Montague.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Brewster said. “But I never sent for Captain Lacey. The wife did.”

  “I see.” Denis’s cold look told us he did not see. If Brewster had sought Denis’s advice right away, his disapproval said, Finch’s body would have vanished and no murder would have been reported.

  I tried a smile. “So speaks a man who has never been married.”

  Something flickered in Denis’s eyes before the cold flowed down again. “What did you wish to ask me, Captain?”

  “Whether I can talk with your pugilists. Not to accuse them,” I added hastily. “But to ask them about fighting. And fighters.”

  “No.” The one word was harsh, chill, and final. “Good afternoon, Captain. Brewster, remain.”

  Now two pairs of eyes rested on me, Denis’s blue and Brewster’s brown. Both men expected me to obey.

  I would accomplish nothing by arguing, and I knew it. I gave them both a rigid bow, departed the room, and put on my hat as I stepped out of the house.

  Clouds had moved in from the east, a stiff wind blowing from the Thames. A few drops of rain pattered down as I reached the hackney.

  I was not discouraged by Denis’s answer. I had other means with which to make my inquiries. Also I needed to see to the dog.

  Neither Brewster nor the hackney driver had been happy with me lifting the old fellow in, but I could not expect him to follow the coach all the way across London, and the driver had no intention of letting the dog up on the box with him.

  The dog thumped his tail several times as I climbed back inside, his ears lowering in the canine expression of relief.

  “Poor old lad,” I said to him. I did not stroke or pat him, because, as I suspected, he was all over fleas, which was why Brewster had been unhappy to ride with him.

  “Me wife will put me out if I bring fleas into the house,” he’d growled.

  Vermin must be a common problem in the slums, but Mrs. Brewster, I had noted, was fastidious. I’d callously suggested Brewster have a bath before he went home, which had only earned me a glower and a few foul words.

  The coach rumbled up the crowded avenue of South Audley Street, but I bade the coachman pass the house where I now lived and pull up in the mews behind it. There I gave him the last of the money in my pocket and lifted the dog down.

  Donata’s coachman, Hagen, rested on a box outside the stables that held Donata’s coaching horses and the hunters Peter and I rode. The groom with him puffed on a long-stemmed pipe and looked on with interest as I lugged the large yellow dog out of the hackney coach.

  “John, lad,” I said to one of the stable boys who’d popped out for a look. “Can you give him a bath? Must have him immaculate before he meets his ladyship.”

  Because my wife, as much as Brewster’s, would object to fleas on her person, I went straight upstairs and immersed myself in hot water I had Bartholomew fetch. I also told him to not only clean my clothes but to hold them in smoke. Bartholomew withdrew with them after looking at me askance.

  I scrubbed all over, soaking my head in the water before it cooled. I finished, emerged, and redressed in clean clothes.

  I did not have a
chance to tell Donata all that had happened because, I learned as I left my chamber, she had gone out on her round of calls.

  I had no appointments for the rest of the day that I knew of, and so I went upstairs to the nursery. Peter was deep into lessons with Mr. Roth, his tutor, in the schoolroom.

  I did not interrupt them, only listened for a time as Mr. Roth told Peter about Athenian democracy and voting in the agora. Peter’s eyes had glazed, and I felt a twinge of sympathy. I’d found ancient politics tedious as a lad—ancient battles had been much more to my liking.

  At Michaelmas term, in November, Peter would begin at Harrow. I would be unhappy to see him leave, but had reasoned that he would return home for the vacations between terms. Harrow, after all, was only a bit north and west of London.

  However, in the light of Stanton St. John stomping in to demand Peter be given to him to raise, I was now uneasy about sending the lad to school. I feared Cousin Stanton might swoop in and steal Peter away while a host of weedy tutors did nothing to stop him.

  We must certainly curtail Stanton. My ideas were no doubt more violent than Donata’s, but I would not dismiss violence entirely. Peter was in my care now, and I refused to let uncertainties of the law endanger him.

  I left Peter and Mr. Roth to Athenian debates and continued upstairs to the nursery.

  My daughter Anne had grown considerably since her birth in January, and now she was chubby, pink, and sturdy. When her blue eyes fixed upon me, she made a high-pitched, wordless baby sound, and began to kick her legs so that she nearly fell from the chair in which she’d been planted.

  The nurse dove for her, but I caught up my daughter and raised her high.

  Anne squealed, her mouth open in a wide smile. I swung her up again and then settled her in the crook of my arm.

  The servants of the house were now well aware of how soppy I was about my children, but they still did not know what to make of me. Most gentlemen would ignore a girl child except for an inquiry from afar about her well-being. Later, the girl would require a dowry so she could be married off into another family who would take over the care of her. Female children were regarded as expensive and inconvenient.

  I had no intention of ignoring Anne or regarding her as inconvenient. She was a light in my life, and moments spent with her dispelled any lingering melancholia of my dark days.

  My other daughter, Gabriella, would be arriving in London on Saturday, four days hence, from France, to continue being showed off at balls and other social gatherings by Donata and Lady Aline Carrington. I would be a happy man when Gabriella was again under my roof, though the purpose in bringing her to London was to find a match for her. I was not so sanguine about that.

  I left Anne to her routine and descended to the adult realms of the house. There I found I had a visitor of my own.

  “Good God,” I called out as I hastened to the ground floor. “Grenville!”

  Lucius Grenville was in the act of dispensing his coat and hat into the arms of a footman. He flashed a grin at me, his dark eyes twinkling, pleased he’d surprised me.

  “When did you return?” I shook his extended hand in a tight grip. “We weren’t expecting you for another few months.”

  “One grows weary even of Paris,” Grenville said, affecting his ennui. “Rather a smelly city, actually. Small wonder one stays drowned in brandy.”

  “London too is odiferous,” I pointed out. “Which is why we remain drowned in port. Come in and share a bottle.”

  I wanted very much to ask him about Marianne, my former upstairs neighbor and now his mistress, but I held my tongue. Theirs was a turbulent companionship, and who knew what had happened out of my sight?

  I hadn’t thought I’d see Grenville again until summer—if at all. Grenville easily tired of a place and had enough money to travel the world any time he wished.

  We installed ourselves in the room that had become my retreat, the library where I liked to lounge and read on a slow winter evening. The late Lord Breckenridge and his father before him had purchased large swaths of the library whole, and I doubt Breckenridge had ever opened one of the books. Indeed, I had to cut the pages of almost every tome I took down.

  Grenville stretched out his well-shod feet, took a sip of port Bartholomew, with a grin of welcome, handed him, and sighed in contentment.

  “You are well set up here, Lacey. I salute you.” Grenville lifted his glass as Bartholomew retreated.

  “My wife indulges me,” I said. “Truth to tell, she prefers me shut away in here and out from underfoot.”

  “As I am acquainted with Donata, I have no doubt this is true.” Another sip, then Grenville’s head went back as he savored the thick wine. “I know you are too polite to ask, Lacey, but yes, Marianne returned with me. She is unpacking at the Grosvenor Street house and is in raging good health.”

  I relaxed, that worry dispersed. “Did you find Paris so very dull?”

  Grenville studied the liquid in his glass with a professional eye—he was a connoisseur of fine wine. “In private, no, I did not. In public.” He grimaced and lifted his gaze to me. “We were demanded to admire this writer or that painter in a paean of praise, whether they deserved it or not. An Englishman, even one as famous as I, was to have no opinions.”

  “That must have plagued your vanity.”

  “It did indeed.” Grenville chuckled. “I am used to my pronouncements looked upon as though they came from the angels. And speaking of such things, I had a fine visit with the unfortunate Mr. Brummell.”

  “Did you?” I was sorry not to have been there. A meeting between the former ruler of fashionable London and the current one would have been most interesting. “How does he fare?”

  “As well as you would expect. He is still dependent on friends for assistance—Alvanley mostly. Brummell is as fastidious and fashionable as ever, or as much as he can be in his reduced circumstances. He has many new friends in Calais, where he now dwells, and continues to spend, imprudent fellow. Or perhaps not so imprudent—I settled several of his bills.” Grenville looked chagrined and took another sip of port.

  I hid my amusement. “I never met the fellow, but he must be quite beguiling if he could survive among you lot for so long.”

  “Oh, he has the gift for fascination,” Grenville conceded. “More than I do—I have less patience and a quicker temper.”

  “You also have a fortune. People will forgive your pique. More difficult when you owe and cannot pay.” Well I knew this truth.

  “You are no doubt correct. Brummell held his head up throughout our visit—in which we enjoyed ourselves criticizing the whole of London society—but I pity him. So many were quick to abandon him when he fell from grace.”

  Such was the precariousness of our world. Brummell had been an outsider to the ton after all—a middle-class man making a name for himself based solely on his wits and ability to entrance. When he could not pay his debts of honor, he’d had no one to which he could turn.

  The story made me realize, with a chill, how much power a man like Stanton St. John, from an old aristocratic family, possessed. He was not one to be trifled with.

  “Now.” Grenville set aside his port and came out of his lazy slouch. “Tell me what adventures you have been having. Leave nothing unsaid, my friend. I will find out if you do.”

  I took a sip of port. “This morning, I was shown a dead body in St. Giles—a man has been murdered.” I let out a heavy breath, my enjoyment of Grenville’s expression short-lived. “And I will tell you in deepest confidence that I am very much afraid Brewster had a hand in it.”

  Chapter 6

  Brewster?” Grenville asked, sitting up straight in his chair. “Are you certain? I admit that I at first found Brewster unprepossessing, but he’s proved his worth several times, especially in the wilds of Egypt.”

  “He is also large and strong, was a champion fighter, and had nothing good to say about his brother-in-law. He has been quite sharp-tongued today—it is not uncommon
for him to be irritated with me, but usually he is more resigned.”

  Grenville remained flatteringly still while I told him all that had happened, and he grew more troubled as I spoke.

  “Suppose this man Finch began threatening Mrs. Brewster,” I finished. “She told me he was a bully when they were younger. Brewster would not stand for anyone endangering his wife.”

  Grenville shook his head. “But why would he lead you to his body, in that case? Why involve you at all?”

  “Mrs. Brewster insisted. She believes I can help. Whether she thinks Brewster murdered him or not, she wants me to put it right. I saw that in her eyes.” I sat back, unhappy. “There were marks of two different fists, so Brewster might not have acted alone. Even if he did not land the killing blow himself, he might know who did.”

  “You did not mention Brewster to the Runner, Quimby?”

  I shook my head. “He knows only that a man has been killed in St. Giles. Possibly a convict returned from a penal colony.”

  “I see.” Grenville rose to pour himself another glass of port. “What do you plan to do?”

  “Try to discover the other man—or men—involved. Make certain Brewster is well out of it. I owe him that.”

  “Hmm.” Grenville fell silent, neither condoning nor condemning my words.

  At this point, I had no idea whether Brewster’s heavy fist had marked Finch’s neck or anywhere else on his body, only my suspicion.

  “Very well, then,” Grenville said brightly as he sat down and flourished his glass. “What do you wish me to do?”

  I could not rush to St. Giles at once and begin to question the residents, because it was a spring evening during the London Season, I was married to an earl’s daughter, and my nights were full.

  If we were not at Drury Lane watching the newest tragedy with Mr. Keane, or at an opera at Haymarket, we were at supper balls in houses crammed from top to bottom while we dined on too-cold soup and too-warm salads, or attending at-homes where we were served no food at all. We rounded out the nights at musicales where the comestibles were flutists or tenors or lady violinists.