Lord John and the Private Matter Page 16

  It spread over mouth and palate and rose up in a magic cloud inside his head, the flavor unfolding like a series of blooming flowers, each scented with a different heady perfume: vanilla, plum, apple, pear . . . and the most delicate aftertaste, which he could describe only as the succulent feeling left on the tongue by the swallowing of fresh buttered toast.

  "I will have a cask of it," he said, lowering the cup and opening his eyes as the last of the perfume evaporated on his palate. "What is it?"

  "Oh, you like it!" The little man was all but clapping his hands with delight. "I am so pleased. Now, if you find that particular vintage to your liking, I am convinced that you will enjoy this. . . . Not everyone does, it takes a particularly educated palate to appreciate the subtleties, but you, sir . . ." The empty cup was snatched from his hand, and another substituted for it before he could draw breath to speak.

  Wondering just how much he had already spent, he obligingly lifted the fresh cup.

  Half an hour later, with flattened pocketbook and a pleasantly inflated head, he floated out of the shop, feeling rather like a soap bubble--light, airy, and gleaming with iridescent colors. Under his arm was a corked bottle of Schilcher, the mysterious German red, and in his pocket a list of those customers of Fraser et Cie known to have purchased it.

  It was a short list, though there were more than he would have suspected--half a dozen names, including that of Richard Caswell, dealer in information. What else had Caswell carefully not told him? he wondered.

  The enthusiastic wine-seller, who had eventually introduced himself as Mr. Congreve, was regretfully unable to tell him much regarding the other buyers of the German red: "Most of our customers merely send a servant, you know; such a pity that more will not come in person, like yourself, my lord!"

  Still, it was apparent from the names that at least four of the six were in fact Germans, though none was called Meyer. If his mother could not identify them, chances were good that Captain von Namtzen could; wealthy foreigners in London tended to club together, or at least to be aware of each other, and if Prussia and Saxony found themselves on different sides of the present conflict, their inhabitants did at least still speak the same language.

  A bundle of rags crouched by the pavement stirred as though to move toward him, and his eyes went to it at once, with a fixed stare that made the bundle hunch and mutter to itself. His mother had been accurate in describing the environs of Fraser et Cie as "not very nice," and the ice-blue suit with silver buttons, which had proven so helpful in establishing his immediate bona fides with Mr. Congreve, was attracting rather less-desirable attention from the less-reputable inhabitants of the neighborhood.

  He had taken the precaution of wearing his sword as visible warning, and had a dagger in the waist of his breeches in addition to a jerkin of thickened leather beneath his waistcoat--though he knew well enough that a manner demonstrating instant willingness to do violence was better armor than any of these. He'd learned that at the age of eight; fine-boned and lightly built as he was, it had been a matter of self-preservation, and the lesson had served him well ever since.

  He gave a hostile glare to two loungers eyeing him, and put a hand on his sword hilt; their eyes slid away. He would have welcomed Tom Byrd's company, but had reckoned that time was more important than safety. He had sent Byrd to the other wine-sellers his mother had recommended; perhaps he would turn up more names to investigate.

  It was minor progress in his quest to untangle the affairs of Joseph Trevelyan, but at this point, any information that seemed straightforward and unambiguous was a relief. He had quite made up his mind that Trevelyan would not marry Olivia under any circumstance--but a means of discreetly severing the engagement while not harming Livy's reputation remained to be found.

  Merely to announce the dissolution of the betrothal himself would not do; if no reason was given, rumor would spread like wildfire, and rumor was the ruin of a young woman. Lacking explanation, it would be assumed that Joseph Trevelyan had discovered some grievous fault in her, for engagements in this stratum of society were neither undertaken nor discarded lightly. Olivia's wedding contract had taken two months and four lawyers to draw up.

  Likewise, he could not let the true cause of the severance be publicly known--and in terms of society, there was no privacy; if anyone outside the families concerned learned the truth, within days, everyone would know of it.

  While the Greys were not without influence, they did not approach the wealth and power of the Cornish Trevelyans. Letting the truth be known was to invite enmity from the Trevelyans on a scale that would compromise his own family's affairs for decades--and would still damage Livy, for the Trevelyans would hold her responsible as the agent of Joseph's exposure and disgrace, no matter that she had known nothing of it.

  He could force Joseph Trevelyan to break the engagement by privately threatening exposure; but that too would cast Livy's reputation in doubt, if no plausible explanation was given. No, Trevelyan must dissolve the engagement voluntarily, and must do so in a fashion that absolved Livy of any blame in the matter. There would still be talk and speculation, but with luck, it would not be so injurious as to prevent Livy eventually making a reasonable match elsewhere.

  What such grounds might be, and how he was to induce Trevelyan to discover them . . . he had no good ideas, but was in hopes that finding Trevelyan's inamorata might provide one. Clearly, she was a married woman, and just as clearly, in a position of considerable social delicacy; if he could discover her identity, a visit to her husband might possibly suggest a means of bringing pressure to bear upon the Trevelyans without need of Grey appearing to act directly in the matter.

  A growing racket jerked him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see a group of three youths coming toward him, joking and shoving each other in lighthearted disportment. They seemed so innocent as to arouse immediate suspicion, and glancing quickly round, he spotted the accomplice: a filthy girl of twelve or so, lurking nearby, ready to dash in and cut his buttons or snatch his wine, as soon as his attention should be distracted by her playfellows.

  He took hold of his sword with one hand, and clutched the neck of the bottle club-like in the other, giving the girl a gimlet stare. She pouted impudently at him, but stepped back, and the gang of young pickpockets clattered past, talking loudly and patently ignoring him.

  A sudden silence made him turn to look after them, though, and he saw the girl's petticoat tail just disappearing into an alleyway. The youths were nowhere in sight, but the sound of hasty footsteps thumped softly, running away down the dark alley.

  He swore silently to himself, glancing round. Where might that alley come out again? The lane he was in showed several dark openings between his present location and the turn into the next street. Evidently, they meant to dash ahead, then lie in wait until he had passed their hiding place, jumping out to commit ambush from behind.

  Forewarned was forearmed, but there were still three of them--four, counting the girl--and he doubted that the pie-sellers and rag-and-bone men on the street would feel compelled to come to his aid. With quick decision, he turned upon his heel and ducked into the alley where the pickpockets had disappeared, lifting the bottom edge of his waistcoat to render the dagger hilt ready to his hand.

  The lane had been shabby; the alley was noisome, narrow, dark, and half-choked with refuse. A rat, disturbed by the earlier passage of the pickpockets, hissed at him from a mound of rubble; he swung the bottle and sent the rat flying into the wall, which it struck with a satisfyingly juicy thump before falling limp at his feet. He kicked it aside and went on, bottle at the ready and hand on his dagger, listening for any sound of footfalls ahead.

  The alleyway forked, with a jog hard right, back toward the lane; he paused, listening, then risked a quick glance round the corner. Yes, there they were, crouched at the ready, sticks in hand. The girl, curse her, had a knife or a bit of broken glass in her hand; he saw the light glint from it as she moved.

  A mo
ment more, and they would realize he was not coming down the lane. He stepped silently past the fork and made his way as fast as he could through the rubble of the left-hand alley. He was obliged to climb over stacks of wet refuse and worm sideways through the hanging goods in a fuller's yard, to the gross disfigurement of his suit, but emerged at last into a wider thoroughfare.

  He didn't recognize the street, but was able to see the dome of St. Paul's looming in the distance, and thus to judge his way. Breathing somewhat easier in spite of the mephitis of dog turds and rotten cabbage that surrounded him, he set his steps eastward, and turned his thoughts to the next item on the day's agenda of unpleasant duties, which was to resume the search for a break in the clouds obscuring the truth of Timothy O'Connell's life and death.

  A note had come that morning from the enigmatic Mr. Bowles, to the effect that no further connexions had been discovered to exist between the late Sergeant and any known agents of a foreign power. Grey wondered grimly just how many unknown agents there might be in London.

  Constable Magruder had come in person the night before, to report a lack of result from inquiries into the Turk's Head, scene of Saturday's brawl. The tavern's owner insisted stubbornly that O'Connell had left the place drunk, but moving under his own power--and while admitting that a brawl had occurred on the premises on the night in question, insisted that the only damage done had been to the window of the establishment, when one patron had thrust another through it, headfirst. No witnesses had been found who had seen O'Connell later in the evening--or who would admit to it.

  Grey sighed, his mood of mellow buoyancy deflating. Bowles was convinced that O'Connell was the traitor--and possibly he was. But the longer the investigation continued, the more apparent it seemed to Grey that O'Connell's death had been a strictly personal matter. And if that was the case, the suspects were obvious.

  So was the next step--the arrest of Finbar Scanlon and his wife. Well, if it must be done, it must.

  It would likely be a simple matter, given the circumstances. Apprehend them, and then question them separately. Quarry would make it clear to Scanlon that Francine would probably hang for O'Connell's murder, unless it could be proved that she had no involvement in the crime--and what proof was there, other than Scanlon's own confession of guilt?

  Of course, success depended upon the assumption that if Scanlon loved the woman enough to kill for her, he would also die for her--and that might not be the case. It was, however, the best place to start; and if it did not work, why, then the same suggestion might be employed to better effect upon the wife, with respect to her new husband.

  It was a sordid matter, and he took no pleasure in its resolution. It was necessary, though--and the process did hold one small gleam of hope. If O'Connell had indeed abstracted the requisitions, and had not passed the information on at the time of his death, then in all probability either Scanlon, Francine, or Iphigenia Stokes knew where it was, even if none of them had killed him for it.

  If he or Quarry could extract anything resembling a confession from his suspects, they might be offered official clemency in the form of a commuted sentence--if the stolen records were restored. He was sure that between them, Harry Quarry and the mysterious Mr. Bowles could arrange for a sentence of transportation rather than hanging, and he hoped it would fall out so.

  He was very much afraid, though, that the stolen requisitions were presently in France, having been taken there by Jack Byrd. And in that case . . .

  In spite of the convoluted nature of his thoughts, he had not abandoned his alertness, and the sound of running footsteps on the roadway behind him made him turn sharply, both hands on his weapons.

  His pursuer was not one of the pickpockets, though, but rather his valet, Tom Byrd.

  "Me lord," the boy gasped, coming to a halt beside him. He bent over, hands on his knees, panting like a dog to recover breath. "I was lookin' for--saw you--and ran--what--you been--a-doing to your suit?"

  "Never mind that," Grey said shortly. "Has something happened?"

  Byrd nodded, gulping air. His face was still bright red and streaming sweat, but he could at least form words.

  "Constable Magruder. He sent--says come as quick as may be. He's found a woman. A dead woman--in a green velvet dress."

  Stray bodies would normally be taken to the nearest coroner--but mindful of the possible importance of his discovery and the need for discretion, Constable Magruder had helpfully had the body brought first to the regiment's quarters near Cadogan Square, where it had been placed in the hay shed--to the horror of Corporal Hicks, who was in charge of the horses. Harry Quarry, summoned from his tea to deal with this new circumstance, told Grey as much upon his arrival in the courtyard.

  "What happened to your suit?" Quarry asked, casting an interested eye over the assorted stains. He rubbed a finger beneath his nose. "Phew."

  "Never mind that," Grey said tersely. "Do you know the woman?"

  "Don't think her own mother would know her," Quarry said, turning to lead the way into the stables. "Pretty sure I've seen the dress, at Maggie's place. Certainly isn't Maggie, though--no tits at all."

  A sudden fear turned Grey's bowels to water. Christ, could it be Nessie?

  "When you say her mother wouldn't know her--had she . . . been in the water long?"

  Quarry cast him a puzzled look.

  "She wasn't in the water at all. Had her face beaten in."

  He felt bile rise at the back of his throat. Had the little whore gone nosing about, in hopes of helping him further, and been murdered for her interference? If she had died on his account, and in such a way . . . Uncorking the bottle of wine, he took a deep swallow, and another, then handed it to Quarry.

  "Good idea. She's niffy as a Frenchman's arse; been dead a day or two." Harry tilted up the bottle and drank, looking somewhat happier afterward. "Nice stuff, that."

  Grey saw Tom Byrd cast a look of longing at the bottle, but Quarry kept firm hold of it as he led the way through the brick-paved stables.

  Magruder was waiting for them outside the shed, with one of his constables.

  "My lord." Magruder inclined his head, looking curiously at Grey. "What happened to--"

  "Where did you find her?" Grey interrupted.

  "In Saint James's Park," the constable replied. "In the bushes by the path."

  "Where?" Grey said incredulously. Saint James's was the preserve of merchants and aristocrats, where the young, the rich, and the fashionable strolled to see and be seen. Magruder shrugged, slightly defensive.

  "People out for an early walk found her--or rather, their dog did." He stepped back, ushering the soldiers ahead of him through the door to the tack room. "There was considerable blood."

  Grey's first thought upon seeing the body was that the constable was a master of understatement. His second was a sense of profound relief; the body was in fact fairly flat-chested, but was much too tall to be Nessie. The hair was darker than the Scottish whore's, too--nearly black--and while it was thick and wavy, it was nothing like Nessie's wild curly mane.

  The face was essentially gone; obliterated in a frenzy of blows from something like the back of a spade or a fireplace poker. Suppressing his distaste--Quarry had been right about the smell--Grey circled slowly about the table on which the corpse had been laid.

  "Think it's the same?" Quarry asked, watching him. "The dress, I mean. You've an eye for such things."

  "I am fairly sure that it is. The lace . . ." He nodded at the wide trim on the gown, which matched the edging of the kerchief. The kerchief itself straggled loose across the table, torn and soaked in blood, but still pinned precariously to the gown. "It's Valenciennes. I noticed it particularly at the brothel, because it's very like that on my cousin's wedding gown--there are swathes of it all over my mother's house. Expensive stuff, though."

  "Not common, then." Quarry fingered the tattered rag of the kerchief.

  "Not at all."

  Quarry nodded, turning to Magruder.


  "I think we shall be wanting a word with a madam named Maggie--house in Meacham Street, you know it? Rather a pity, that," he added, turning back to Grey with a sigh. "Did like that blonde with the big tits."

  Grey nodded, only half-hearing. The gown itself was so crusted with blood and dirt that the color was almost indistinguishable; only the draggled folds of the skirt still showed emerald green. The smell was very strong in the confined quarters--Quarry had been right, she did reek like a . . .

  He bent closer, hands on the table, sniffing deeply. Civet. He'd swear he smelt civet--and something else as well. The corpse was wearing perfume, though the scent was nearly obscured by the earthier reeks of blood and ordure.

  She wears a very expensive scent. Civet, vetiver, and orange, if I am not mistaken. He could hear Richard Caswell's voice in his head, dry as grave flowers. She has dark hair. Nearly black. Your cousin is fair, I believe?"

  Excitement and dread tightened his belly as he leaned over the dead woman. It had to be; this was Trevelyan's mysterious lover. But what had happened to her? Had her husband--if she had one--discovered the affair and taken his revenge? Or had Trevelyan . . .

  He sniffed again, eager for confirmation.

  Where did women wear perfume? Behind the ears--no, not a chance; the corpse had only one ear and the other was in no condition . . . Between the breasts, perhaps; he'd seen his mother tuck a scented cloth down into the top of her stays before a party.

  He ducked his head to inhale more deeply, and saw the small, blackened hole in the center of the bodice, inconspicuous amidst the general carnage.

  "I will be damned," he said, looking up at the phalanx of bemused faces hovering over him. "She's been shot."

  "Do you want to know summat else, me lord?" The whisper came at his elbow. Tom Byrd, by now somewhat inured to nasty sights, had edged his way close, and was looking at the corpse's smashed face in fascination.

  "What's that, Tom?"

  The boy's finger floated tentatively across the table, pointing at what Grey had taken for a smudge of dirt behind the jaw.