A Mystery at Carlton House

by Jennifer Ashley

  The Regent twirled his hand, indicating he wanted to be stopped in the exact center of the chamber, under the massive chandelier. Donata complied then leaned down and spoke to him, the two of them laughing at some joke.

  By the time Grenville and I reached them, they were finished with the jest and the Regent looked up at me sideways, like a naughty schoolboy.

  “Tell him,” he said to Donata.

  My wife lifted her head and gazed at me with clear eyes. “He wants you to have a look at the figure on that table.” She pointed, her slender finger steady.

  Grenville and I obediently departed for the table. I heard whispers—mostly the prince’s—and laughter behind me.

  “His father is still king,” Grenville murmured to me. “So it would not be called, as the French say, régicide.”

  “I am certain it will not come to that,” I answered. “My wife is not fool enough to have her head turned by all this.” I indicated the room and the house above us.

  I knew so in my heart. I also noted that, even after a year, I swelled with pride every time I uttered the words my wife.

  The table to which we’d been directed reposed about six feet in front of a bookcase and had no chairs around it, the better to be able to see the objects on it from all sides. The octagonal marble-topped table, supported by gilded legs, bore two items. The first was a clock, recently made in what is called the Egyptian style, the second a bronze statue about two feet high that spoke of earlier centuries.

  The bronze was of two figures together, a man holding aloft a woman who had a longbow in her upraised hand. Both of them were blatantly nude, every proportion of their bodies exact and exquisitely done in gleaming, polished bronze. The man in the scene was clearly carrying off the woman, whose long legs were crowded against his side. The figures were so lifelike I thought at any moment I’d see the woman kick out, the man struggle to hold her.

  “Theseus and Antiope,” I said after studying the statue a few moments.

  “Ah,” Grenville said. “Of course.”

  I had been an indifferent pupil during my years at Harrow—my Latin declensions had left much to be desired, my Greek pronunciation worse. However, I’d been fascinated by the stories buried in the texts we had to memorize, the more lurid and adventurous, the better. I’d followed Hercules to battle with the Amazon women, where Theseus had carried off one of them, Antiope; later the two had fallen in love, their tale ending happily, which had been a bit unusual in ancient mythology.

  This bronze was the moment of the abduction—Antiope, who’d been a warrior as much as Theseus, was blatantly furious. The artist had caught them so well I waited for her to bludgeon him with her bow.

  “Beautiful, is it not?” the prince called to us. “Sixteenth century Flemish, so I’m told.”

  It was beautiful indeed. I did not know enough about antiquities to identify who’d sculpted it or when or where, but I recognized superb artistry.

  “Excellent,” Grenville said with genuine enthusiasm. “De Vries?”

  “Indeed.” The Regent sounded pleased. “What do you think of it, Captain Lacey?”

  I turned to him and gave him a polite bow. “It is quite well done, Your Highness.”

  “And the clock. Is it not divine?”

  The clock sitting incongruously next to the statue was long and squat, with four ebony sphinxes facing outward on a gold base. The clock face that rose from the base was surprisingly plain, though done in silver and gold gilt. The clock must have been very expensive, and it was well made, lovely in its own garish way.

  “An interesting piece,” I said, since the Regent was waiting for my answer.

  “I saw one like it in Egypt,” the prince said. “And so I commissioned it to be made. I was there, you know, when the French were driven out.”

  I forbore to look at Grenville or do anything but keep my expression neutral. During the long wars with France, the Regent had never left England. He’d been put in charge of a regiment that had drilled on fields in the country, and then the men had returned to London to drink themselves into a stupor. Apparently he had declared that his regiment had been what kept the Corsican from the shores of England, and later began to put about that he’d gone to the Continent and Africa himself and engaged in actual battle.

  I had no idea if he told these stories to make himself look noble, or if he’d begun to believe them. His father was by all accounts now completely mad, and madness in a parent often showed itself in the offspring.

  I’d seen absolutely nothing like this clock in Egypt, and I knew Grenville had not either—and he’d traveled Egypt far more extensively than I had. The clock was no more Egyptian than the lamps in the conservatory were Turkish or the chinoiserie chairs and cabinets we’d passed in an anteroom were Chinese.

  Grenville’s response was diplomatic. “An excellent addition to your collection, sir.”

  “Indeed,” the prince responded with satisfaction. “Now for the unnerving part.” He made a show of shivering. His footman, who’d followed Donata and the chair, started forward with a rug, but the prince waved him away. “Those two pieces are not meant to be here.”

  Grenville frowned. “Not meant to be here? What do you mean?”

  The Regent lowered his voice to dramatic tones. “The de Vries belongs in the Golden Drawing Room. The clock, in the upper vestibule. So why are they here, eh?”

  Grenville and I exchanged a glance. “Perhaps one of the staff …” I began.

  “No, no.” The prince’s voice strengthened as he interrupted me. “Push me over there, my dear, do. My servants know never to move any object, either from room to room or even to a different place within the room. Higgs won’t allow it. It would spoil everything.”

  The chair drew closer. Donata’s gaze met mine over the top of the prince’s head, and I read in the depths of her eyes good-humored glee.

  Knots inside me loosened and I suppressed the urge to laugh. “Higgs?” I asked.

  “Mr. Higgs, who is in charge of my collection,” the Regent returned impatiently. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the footman who’d originally led us downstairs. “You, go find Higgsie. Tell him to bring himself here, at once.”

  The footman, though he looked icily disapproving, bowed. He moved to one of the bookcases, swung open a door that had been made to look like another column of books, and disappeared through it.

  As we waited, Grenville and I wandered to another table to examine the treasures there. A gold chalice with a tiny serpent woven around the lid rested next to an inkwell also in the Egyptian style. It looked much like the clock on the other table, with sphinxes flanking the main bronze urn that would hold the ink. A frieze along the bottom depicted winged lions and eagles.

  “Vulliamy,” Grenville murmured to me, indicating the inkstand. “The clock as well. He was the king’s clockmaker before his death—designed the clock that keeps the official time for the Prime Meridian.”

  “I bought that for the Blue Velvet Room upstairs,” the prince’s querulous voice came to us. “The inkstand, I mean. But then suddenly it was in the Bow Room, and now it’s here. Very odd, is it not? And my servants have noted uncanny noises, shadows in the corners.” The Regent covered his face. “It has so unnerved me, gentlemen. I cannot tell you how much.”

  Grenville cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, sir, but my footmen move things about all the time, in spite of instructions. My valet as well—he is always telling me a thing would be more suited to this place or that. He believes I have deplorable taste.”

  The prince lowered his hands and gave a high-pitched laugh. “You, Grenville? I’d give him the sack.”

  “No, indeed,” Grenville said, looking mournful. “He is correct. What would we do without our valets, eh?”

  “Very amusing,” the prince said. “But you do not have a Higgs in your house, that is certain. He keeps inventories, you see. He knows where everything is and should be, and he is vastly displeased if something mo
ves.”

  Donata leaned down and whispered into the prince’s ear. He smiled and patted her hand.

  Grenville gave me another quick glance, as though ready to stop me lunging at the prince, but my anger and worry had vanished. Donata was playing her part and enjoying herself.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the return of the footman. He was followed by a gentleman in a subdued black suit, the restraint of color incongruous in this room of garish reds and golds.

  “Ah, Higgsie, there you are.” The prince began to heave himself out of his chair. He struggled but Donata and his footman were instantly at his side to steady him. “Tell Captain Lacey and Grenville what I mean. Things are moving about my house on their own.”

  “Hardly that, Your Highness,” the man who must be Higgs replied. He had dark hair combed flat against his head and shadows on his cheeks and jaw as though his whiskers grew as soon as he could shave them. “But it is decidedly odd—that is certain.”

  “I refuse to sleep in this house,” the Regent went on. “My nerves are not conditioned to these upsetting occurrences. You must discover what is going on and put a stop to it, Captain.” He pointed a pudgy finger at me. “You must, do you hear me?” He poked the air dramatically, then he coughed and gently collapsed backward into the chair. “John, I need my tonic.”

  The footman at the chair instantly produced a small silver flask, which he held to the prince’s lips. The Regent snatched it from him, upended the flask, and drank a long swallow. When he finished and wiped his mouth with a large handkerchief, his color did look better, and his breath became less wheezing.

  “Carry on, Higgsie,” the prince said, his voice a croak. “Lady Donata will keep me company, won’t you, my dear?”

  “Of course, Highness,” Donata said promptly.

  “Good. Take me out of these rooms at once. It is cold down here.”

  No fires had been lit in the fireplaces we’d passed, and indeed, we hadn’t removed our wraps. John the footman immediately turned the chair and glided it out toward the anteroom, Donata walking with the prince a step away from the chair.

  I wondered how on earth they’d lever the prince and his chair up the long flight of stairs— perhaps they’d go outside and walk around the building to the shallow steps in front, or perhaps he had a lift of some kind behind the walls. Whichever was the solution, I knew Donata would tell me, so I turned back to Mr. Higgs and shut off my curiosity on that point.

  Higgs bowed to us, giving us an apologetic look for the prince’s rudeness. “I am Cedric Fletcher Higgs, cataloger of the prince’s collection. I have been instructed to answer any questions you have.”

  Grenville returned the bow. “Lucius Grenville, at your service, sir. And my friend, Captain Gabriel Lacey.” We shook hands all around, very civil. “Tell us the whole sad story, my dear fellow. Things have gone missing—a man arrested—items moving from room to room … What the devil has been happening here?”

  Mr. Higgs let out a long breath. “Would I understood it, Mr. Grenville. But please, shall we move to more comfortable surroundings? And I will explain.”

  We followed him through the door disguised as a bookcase—the false books were realistic in a bookcase six inches deep—into the bowels of the house. The walls in the hall we traversed were whitewashed, the corridors wide, stone staircases curving up to the main floors with shallow steps. For a servants’ passage below stairs, it was quite regal. I’d been down to Donata’s kitchen and servants’ hall a few times since our marriage, and while the white-paneled rooms were cozy, they were also rather cramped. This servants’ area was airy and far more pleasant than some of the rooms in which I’d lived at various times of my life.

  Mr. Higgs took us to a black-painted door that led to an office. A true office, with bookcases overflowing with books and papers, catalogs open on tables or marked with cards depicting antiquities, letters strewn about seemingly from all over the world. I saw writing in French, German, Italian, Greek, and some languages I didn’t know.

  A fire burned on a small hearth, enough to keep the cluttered room heated. A brandy decanter with several glasses stood on one table, the decanter half full.

  Mr. Higgs encouraged us to sit, though we had to move books and papers to do so. I lifted a tome on Michelangelo’s work and one on Bernini, plus a catalog from an auction in Amsterdam.

  Higgs glided to his desk with the quiet movements of a cat and sat down. He rested his hands on the desk’s top and gave us a neutral look as Grenville and I settled ourselves.

  “Gentlemen,” he began once Grenville and I were ready. “I fear the matter is more serious than even the prince understands. He is not wrong that objects have been moving about the house with no explanation—statuettes, clocks, urns, even small paintings. This has been going on for some months now. The servants have been questioned, but all are adamant they have nothing to do with it. They are well trained and know not to disturb anything by even one inch. Every piece has been precisely placed for the look of that room, and changing things arbitrarily would mar the grouping.”

  I understood what he meant. In Donata’s house, the objects d’art had been chosen not only for their beauty but to match others in her collection. The style of each chamber was slightly different; an item that went well in one room would be out of place in another. Barnstable was very particular about it.

  Grenville asked, “Things have gone missing, have they not? A man is in Newgate because of it.”

  Higgs shook his head, distressed. He had blue eyes in a curiously light shade, almost gray. “The man they have arrested, Mr. Floyd, is no thief. He is a librarian.” Higgs’ tone conveyed both amazement and disgust.

  “Tell me about him,” I said.

  Higgs blinked his light eyes at me. “I beg your pardon?”

  I realized belatedly that Spendlove had likely not told anyone in Carlton House he’d asked me to gather evidence against Mr. Floyd. We were here tonight because the Regent had begged Grenville to bring me to tell him who’d been taking and moving his things.

  “You say Mr. Floyd is not the sort of man who would steal?” I amended. “Did the magistrate not take your word for his character?”

  Higgs made a noise of impatience. “I never saw the magistrate. The Runners spirited Mr. Floyd away before anyone knew what happened, and the magistrate speedily decided to hold him for trial. I doubt he had anyone to speak for him.”

  Curious. The Bow Street magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant, was a reasonable man, in my opinion, and careful. He liked indisputable evidence that a person had committed a crime before he sent him to Newgate to await trial. Spendlove must have had Floyd up before a different magistrate.

  “When is the trial?” I asked. Spendlove hadn’t bothered to tell me that either.

  “One week,” Higgs said. “If I cannot lay my hands on the missing objects or show that Mr. Floyd had nothing to do with it, I fear he will hang. What is gone is so very valuable the judge is certain to send him to the noose.”

  “What has been taken?” Grenville asked.

  Higgs let out a long sigh, one that climbed from the bottom of his plain leather shoes. “It will be easier if I show you.”

  He rose, moved to a glass-fronted bookcase, unlocked it with a key on his watch fob, and removed a ledger from the clutter. He didn’t have to search for the ledger—his hand went directly to it.

  He brought it to us, lifting a small triangular table on his way, and spread the ledger open on top of it. The page he pointed to listed a dozen entries. Each entry had a line drawing depicting an object, followed by the name of the object, where it had been acquired, and its worth. After that came a series of letters that meant nothing I could discern.

  I saw a drawing of a silver cup similar to the one I’d observed in the library, another clock by Benjamin Vulliamy, this one porcelain and in the French style, and two miniature paintings by Richard Cosway—one of the Princess Charlotte as a child, the other that of a smiling woman, h
er breasts bared for the viewer. Whoever had made the line drawings was a master, as the details of the objects were clear.

  “These are definitely gone?” I asked after I’d looked over the list. “Not moved as the others have been?”

  “We believe so.” Mr. Higgs leaned back against his desk and crossed his feet. “We have searched high and low, though this is a large house full of many things, so they might turn up eventually. I have been keeping a record of where the things move to instead of simply putting them back—I have the notion that if I wait and watch, I’ll catch the culprit.”

  It was not a bad plan. I pointed to the letters I couldn’t make out. “And these?”

  “A note of where the thing was and where it is now.” Higgs tapped the entry for the porcelain clock. “Was in the Golden Drawing Room—GR—then the Blue Velvet Room—BV. Gone from there now, but I’ll make a note when it turns up again. If it does.”

  I studied the page. “Would you allow me to copy this out?” I asked. “It might help me make sense of what is happening.”

  Higgs gave me a hesitant look, which I returned without expression. The reason I wanted the list was to show it to Brewster. He would know, in five minutes, I was certain, where I’d be likely to find these things if they’d been stolen. Perhaps he’d even know who’d purchased them from the thieves and where they were now.

  However, I hardly wanted to tell Higgs that I wished to show a sheet describing valuable objects from Carlton House to a known thief. I simply waited patiently for his answer.

  “An excellent idea,” Grenville said. “We would guard the list and return it to you, Mr. Higgs, I give you my word. It would help us to know, if we find any of the items, whether we have the right things to return to you.”

  Higgs’s expression softened. “Of course, Mr. Grenville. I have a great admiration for your own collections, sir. I’d be honored if someday I’d be able to see them.”