A Mystery at Carlton House

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Mr. Floyd,” Pomeroy sang out. “This is Captain Lacey. He’s here to interrogate you about the goings-on at Carlton House.”

  Mr. Floyd looked familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him. He was no ruffian but a slender gentleman in a decent suit, his dark hair pulled back in an old-fashioned queue. He was on the small side, about half a foot shorter than I was, with eyes of light blue. Mr. Floyd was not young, but not old either—I put him at about forty or so. At the moment, the left side of his face sported some colorful bruises fading to purple but he kept his head up, undaunted.

  I had no idea where I’d seen the man before; I only knew I had.

  He obviously recognized me. As the turnkey left us, locking us into the room as Brewster had predicted, Mr. Floyd groaned and covered his eyes.

  “This is it; the end. I am done for.”

  Chapter 19

  “You know me?” I asked in bewilderment. “I have not met you … have I?”

  Sebastian Floyd lowered his hands and looked me up and down with eyes that held cynicism. “We have never been introduced, but I have seen you often. You have a short memory, Captain.”

  “Tell me, then,” I said impatiently. “So that my failing faculties might be reminded.”

  Floyd sent a sharp glance at Pomeroy. “I am allowed a private meeting, Mr. Pomeroy—I have not been condemned yet. I believe I am innocent until proven guilty.”

  Pomeroy looked in no way offended. “Right you are. I’ll leave you to it. Sing out when you’re ready, Captain.” He knocked on the door, and the turnkey let him out and locked us in again.

  I tried not to flinch when I heard the scrape of the key, and Floyd nodded. “You grow used to it. Or so they tell me. Of course you know me, Captain, though we’ve never spoken. He’s not much keen that we grow chummy and lift ales to one another down the pub. Do think hard. I believe you own a miniature painting, a gift for your lady. Where did you obtain that?”

  I remembered perfectly well. James Denis had given me a miniature of a young woman, painted by Hans Holbein the Younger, as a reward for helping him—more or less a bribe for my silence about events in Norfolk before my marriage.

  Denis had allowed me to choose the miniature from a myriad of beautiful paintings spread across a dining room table, artwork that had been stolen from him. Denis had been busy recovering and cataloging it …

  “Of course,” I said. I remembered a small man who looked like a clerk roaming the house and making notes in a ledger. I’d barely noticed him in my overwhelmed state and forgotten him right away.

  Denis did not only employ former pugilists to guard him and commit crimes for him. He also used clerks, patrollers, magistrates, men of business, cits, merchants, moneylenders, money changers, shippers, stallholders, and half-pay captains.

  Floyd gave me a nod. “Now that we understand each other, you see my dismay. One word from you, and I’m finished. Short trial, scaffold waiting.”

  He thought I’d send for Spendlove, announce that Floyd had once worked for Denis, or still did. This would be all the evidence Spendlove needed to fit him up for the thefts.

  I wondered if Spendlove already knew the man’s history and had wanted me to independently confirm it. Was that why he’d been reluctant to let me see Mr. Floyd? Because we might collude, since we were both followers of our master, Denis?

  “I found your letter to Mr. Higgs,” I said, producing it from my pocket. “You discovered a copy of one of the prince’s paintings in Amsterdam in October. Did anything come of it?”

  “What do you think?” Floyd indicated our surroundings. “Higgs did nothing. He dismissed the idea. That is when I began keeping a closer eye on things. The painting was in the prince’s private closet when I returned to Carlton House, an exact replica of the one I’d seen in Holland. I’m not expert enough to spot a well-done forgery, so I still do not know which is the right one. Higgs decided the man in Amsterdam had a copy, and we never spoke of it again.”

  “And then more odd things began happening in Carlton House,” I said. “And you kept notes in your own ledger. I have that as well, by the way.”

  “Good.” Floyd’s blue eyes snapped in anger. “I tell you this in truth, Captain Lacey, I was not at Carlton House to steal. I was there to help care for the collection, inventory it, make sure all was well. Several pieces had been acquired through our—er—mutual acquaintance, and that mutual acquaintance hoped to sell still more to the Regent. It’s much more lucrative to sell to the prince than steal from him. The Regent does not hesitate to pay for what he wants. He’ll hand over princely sums, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  True, the Regent had the reputation for being a profligate, a spoiled one at that. If he desired something, he’d give over the money, no matter what the amount. Denis likely made a large profit obtaining paintings or sculptures for him. I imagined Denis had arranged for Mr. Floyd to be employed in Carlton House in order to steer the prince toward more purchases via Mr. Denis.

  “Nothing illegal in that,” Floyd said in a loud voice. “I have committed no crime.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “I know you are not guilty of the thefts, or the death of Mr. Higgs.”

  “I was told about that.” Floyd’s tone softened. “Poor old Higgs. He meant well, but there was something strange going on, and his hand must have been far into it. When the prince’s majordomo insisted we report the thefts, the Runner was quick to pin it on me, and Higgs did nothing to stop him. Only stood about looking shocked, blast the man. And here I am.”

  I indicated that we should sit and be more comfortable—as comfortable as a cell in Newgate could be. Floyd took the chair behind the desk as I scraped another from the wall.

  “If what you say is true, which I believe it is,” I said. “I’ll convince Spendlove he has the wrong man and to let you go.”

  Floyd gave me a stern look as he sat down. “No need. Our mutual acquaintance is taking care of things, so I implore you to say nothing at all. Though with Higgs dead, the thefts and forgeries might dry up of their own accord. But who knows? I don’t believe Higgs was acting alone—he was not the sort to orchestrate a scheme, if you understand me. He could organize the world down to the threads in his stockings, but he was no good if no one told him what to do. I don’t know what man is pulling the marionette strings, or I’d have alerted others by now.”

  By others, I knew he meant Denis and his thugs, who would go explain to the villain that Denis did not like men who got his trusted clerks arrested.

  Of course, I was assuming the villain was a man. I realized there was no reason why it should be. Poppy, with her sharp tongue and sharper eyes, had men trembling in their boots because they owed her money. I’d also a few years ago met one of Denis’s rivals called Lady Jane, a fiftyish matron who ran bawdy houses and the most notorious gaming hells in London. I could see either of them having a hand in robbing the prince.

  “I found a forgery myself,” I said. “Of the Theseus statue. A very good one. I had to have an expert’s opinion on it, and it turns out the statue in the prince’s house is a forgery as well. What I have concluded is that the objects are being taken from Carlton House and copied, the copies returned, the originals presumably sold.”

  Why a second copy had been there for me to buy in the marché ouvert, I was not certain. As Denis had suggested, the forger could have made several copies, thinking he might as well make a few extra bob. Someone could have purchased the fake from him, realized it was a forgery, and given it to the stallholder to be rid of the thing.

  If I could lay my hands on the forger, he could explain many things.

  “Do you know who they could be using to make the copies?” I asked. Higgs would have had access to artists from whom the prince commissioned paintings, from the great to the new and not-yet-known. He might have asked one of them to secretly copy the artworks. I wagered that an unknown artist would have leapt at the chance to earn a fee.

  Floyd gave me a level stare. “I
know nothing about forgers, Captain Lacey. I am a man of business.”

  So said his lips. His fingers lifted a pen and scratched a few lines on a piece of paper. He blew on the ink to dry it, blotted it with another paper, and folded the page before he handed it to me. Then he rose and thrust the ink-smeared paper he’d used to blot his words into the fire.

  I understood his precautions—the turnkey or another spy could be listening at the door, noting every word to report to Spendlove. No doubt they went through Mr. Floyd’s correspondence and every jot he wrote.

  I tucked the paper into my pocket. “Ah, well. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Floyd.”

  “Not at all, Captain. I am sorry I could not be of more help.”

  I rose. Floyd remained seated, as though he had much work to do and couldn’t be bothered to escort me to the door.

  “I am trying to find the true culprit,” I said, wanting to reassure him. “And quickly, so you will be released.”

  Floyd gave me a nod. “Quite decent of you. But do not worry overmuch about me. I will be well. I am writing a treatise on the works of Mr. Caravaggio, and I welcome the time to get on with it.”

  Though Denis had told me he would not help Mr. Floyd if I continued pursuing the thefts, I no longer believed him. Denis would never let such a useful employee be hanged. No doubt he was even now working to have Mr. Floyd released. I remembered how impatient Denis had been to reach an appointment when he’d accompanied me to Carlton House, and I wondered if that appointment had to do with Mr. Floyd.

  “I wish you good day then.” I knocked on the door for the turnkey to let me out.

  The turnkey did, thankfully, and after exchanging good-byes with Mr. Floyd, I left him taking up his pen and bending once more over his papers.

  Pomeroy was in the courtyard, crouching down to speak to a man through a grating in the lower wall—one of the condemned who could not afford a comfortable chamber like Mr. Floyd’s. Pomeroy and the prisoner were having a lively chat, and Pomeroy bade the man a cheerful good day before he turned away with me.

  “Chap stabbed his wife a dozen times,” Pomeroy told me as we walked through the yard to the street. “She’d been carrying on with his brother and his father—can you credit it? And she tried to off this poor gent herself. So he waits for her one night and goes at her. Jury has sympathy but gent couldn’t prove he was fighting her in self-defense, as he tried to claim, so he’s for the noose. He’s resigned, though. Wants me to send his farewells to his mum. Poor sod.”

  So saying, Pomeroy walked along the Old Bailey south toward Ludgate and a hackney stand, his stride brisk, his merry look in place.

  As we waited for the coach that lumbered toward us, I said, “Thank you for letting me speak to Mr. Floyd alone.”

  “No matter.” Pomeroy waved at the hackney driver, though the man had already seen us. “I hope you get him off, Captain. I’d love to see Spendlove robbed of another conviction.”

  “Another?” I asked in surprise. The rumble of wheels and the clop of horses’ hooves grew louder, several wagons running by at the same time the coach reached us.

  Pomeroy yelled up at the driver over the noise that he wanted to go to Bow Street, and obligingly handed me into the carriage. Unfortunately, he shoved me with such enthusiasm that I had to catch myself before I went toppling out the other door.

  Pomeroy climbed up behind me and slammed the door, falling into the opposite seat as the coach jerked forward. “Oh, yes,” he said, continuing the conversation. “Spendlove is desperate for a conviction. Five men he sent to trial in December—for five separate crimes of theft—were all acquitted because Spendlove couldn’t bring in enough evidence to please the jury. I think one of the men he’d arrested was guilty in truth, but the others could prove they were elsewhere at the time in question of whatever he said they did. The jury was so annoyed with Spendlove by the end of the trials that they let off the man who was actually guilty just to get up his nose. He’s looking bad, Spendlove is. Magistrate is tired of his arresting absolutely anyone, trying to make money from convictions. That’s why Spendlove wants your help. You can make a conviction stick.”

  “You recommended me to him,” I said, puzzled. “He told me.”

  “I did.” Pomeroy nodded and laughed. “If anyone can prove that chap Floyd didn’t do anything, it will be you. Floyd isn’t guilty—not of this crime, anyway. Ain’t no one more truthful and indignant than one of the criminal classes wrongly accused.”

  “Spendlove won’t thank me,” I said with certainty.

  “Very true. But you also won’t hand Spendlove false evidence because he threatens you. You are a man of honor, sir. Not much of that about these days.”

  “You flatter me,” I answered in a dry voice.

  Pomeroy chuckled and let the conversation drop.

  I descended with Pomeroy at Bow Street, thanked him again, and walked to Grimpen Lane alone after Pomeroy sailed back into the magistrate’s court.

  Not until I reached the bakeshop downstairs from my rooms did I open the note Floyd had given me.

  Only one man does work so neat, it read. A former racehorse jockey, Billy Boxall.

  * * *

  Before I could storm upstairs and shout for Brewster, Mrs. Beltan, my landlady, who owned the bakeshop below my rooms, intercepted me. “Boy brought this for you,” she said, handing me a folded paper. “All’s well with you, Captain? How’s the wee one?”

  My anger dropped away like an avalanche at the mention of Anne, and I felt myself smiling. “She is beautiful, Mrs. Beltan. When she’s ready to go out and about, I’ll bring her by.”

  “I’d enjoy that,” Mrs. Beltan said, nodding her mobcapped head and beaming me genuine good will. “Now I must get on.”

  We said our good-byes and I entered the stairwell covered with its familiar worn wallpaper and faded gilt. It was too dark here to read the note so I made my way upstairs as quickly as I could, my walking stick tapping.

  Brewster sat in my wing chair, his feet on a footstool as he read one of my books, a well-thumbed copy of Defoe’s Crusoe. Nothing priceless or worth stealing. Brewster did not spring up when I entered but continued reading, his eyes moving across the page. He emitted a laugh but didn’t elaborate on what he found amusing.

  I opened the note, which, like Floyd’s, was simple.

  I am safe. Don’t look for me. M.S.

  The handwriting was Marianne’s. I sagged in relief and had to sit down, choosing the well-carved chair from the seventeenth century at the writing table. I had decided I knew where Marianne was, but to learn for certain that she was well released a tension in my body I hadn’t realized I’d held.

  I pocketed her note and drew out Mr. Floyd’s. I rose, stalked to Brewster, and thrust the paper onto the pages of his book.

  Brewster dropped the book to his lap and snatched up the note. He read the words, and his brows went up. “What’s this about old Billy? What’s it mean—work so neat?”

  “Forgery,” I said crisply. “He’s the one who made the Theseus statue and the other copies—so Mr. Floyd speculates. Why did you not tell me Boxall was a forger?”

  Brewster blinked at me. “I didn’t know. I tell no lie, Captain, I had no idea. I don’t go in for that sort of fing.” I must have showed my skepticism because he plunged on. “I’m a simple man, me. I take things, and I sell them on. Used to, I mean,” he added, looking virtuous. “Forging things, flogging them to gullible punters—that’s too complicated for me, guv.”

  “But you would know about such things. Mr. Denis must deal in forgeries.”

  “He don’t, and I’m telling you true. His nibs would lose his reputation if he passed off fakes for the real thing when gents hired him to find paintings and the like. How he gets them is sometimes not in line with what magistrates call the law, but none of the things he sells are bent. Can’t trust a man what passes one thing off for another.” He looked distressed. “Old Billy? A faker? Naw, Mr. Floyd’s having you on.” />
  “I intend to ask Old Billy straight out. And, if Boxall is in on this, I’ll make him cough up the names of those who employed him. Higgs was killed either because he discovered who was doing the thefts and the forging, or he had a falling out with whomever he worked with. Perhaps Billy himself.”

  Brewster’s eyes widened, and he rose swiftly, dropping the book to the chair. “Now don’t be slandering me friends. If Billy’s a faker, I can grow used to it, but he ain’t no murderer. It’s not in the same league, is it? Forgery and murder?”

  I held my ground, not backing from his anger. “No, but Billy might have become alarmed that Higgs was about to spill everything to me and to Grenville. A man in a panic can kill.”

  Brewster shook his head. “Not Billy. I promise you. Besides, he’s only about five foot tall. Higgs was much bigger, and Higgs didn’t try to fight, you said.”

  “Higgs was sitting down, and Billy could have crept behind him, strangling him before he was aware. Why he bothered to bash him afterward … that I don’t know.”

  Crashing the small bronze into a man already dead did not fit with the killing, and I did not know how to make it fit. Unless two men had been in the room with Higgs, and each of them had a different idea how to shut him up. But why bother striking him after he was dead? To make certain? Or had it been done in a fit of pique?

  “A man panicking and smashing another over the head, that I can fathom,” Brewster said. “But Billy Boxall garroting a chap? That smacks of a cruelty he don’t have. He was ever so gentle with his horses, was Billy. Never whipped them, even when he needed them to go faster. They did it to please him.”

  “A man can be kind to animals and not to humans,” I said. “I knew a cavalryman who’d never hurt an enemy’s horse but had no qualm about slicing a French soldier’s throat or disemboweling him and leaving him for dead. All the while trying to comfort the horse.”