An Artless Demise

by Anna Lee Huber

• • •

  “Tell Mr. Gage what you told me,” I ordered Bree as she settled in the carriage across from us in a demure gown of green sarcenet, one of my castoffs she’d altered to fit her slighter frame.

  “I spoke to several o’ the grooms workin’ for the stables located in that yard, though I’ll have to go back to see the gardeners at 108. Only one o’ ’em was workin’ today, but yer right. The garden opens onto the yard. The horses are always wantin’ to crop the azaleas growin’ o’er the wall in the summer.” She shook her head, making the strawberry blond curls at her temples swing. “Anyway, the lads admitted they’d seen a number o’ men pass through in the past week, but that it’s often used as a shortcut.” She pursed her lips. “They each told me there’d been one suspicious man lurkin’ aboot in the past few days, but none o’ ’em could agree on what he looked like. One swore he had a limp, while another said he was missin’ an eye, and a third claimed he was so tall he could light the streetlamps wi’oot a pole.”

  Gage’s lips quirked.

  “Then they started natterin’ on aboot burkers prowlin’ through the alley, and I told ’em they was pitchin’ me the gammon. One o’ the older grooms slapped ’em for tellin’ such a clanker. Said they’d been listenin’ to the footman from one o’ the houses read the newspaper and hadna stopped talkin’ aboot the Italian Boy and the subsequent failed burkings since.”

  “So nothing of use,” Gage surmised.

  She sighed. “I’m afraid no’.”

  “What of Anderley?” I asked, knowing his valet had returned in time to help him shave and dress in his dark evening clothes for the ball.

  “The constable had nothing new to tell him that we hadn’t already heard from the Newburys.” His voice deepened with displeasure. “But he had plenty to say about the hearing.”

  “What happened?” I asked, knowing the inquest into the Italian Boy was certain to be one of the chief topics of conversation tonight. That, and David Newbury’s attempted murder, as the gossip was certain to have made its usual swift rounds. If the newspapermen had been quick enough, there might even be a mention of it in the evening editions of several of the newspapers. Gage had contacted one such reporter and provided him with information, just as he had Mr. Day a week before, in exchange for a plea for further information from the public.

  “Anderley said it was packed with spectators, including a number of gentlemen. Many of them were London’s preeminent surgeons.”

  “I expected nothing less. The medical community might want to distance themselves from the matter, but they’re certainly taking an interest.”

  “James Corder presented the evidence collected by Superintendent Thomas of the New Police, but Anderley said it was sadly lacking. Not much more than the hamper and blood-stained sack the boy’s body was transported in, a small box of teeth that May sold—the ones he already admitted to removing from the corpse—and a tortoise found in a shop in Holborn which is supposed to be similar in appearance to one someone saw an Italian Boy displaying.”

  Bree and I shared a look of amazement. “How can they possibly prove it’s the same tortoise or that it belonged to the boy who was killed?” I queried.

  He frowned. “I don’t think they can.”

  I shook my head at the absurdity. “Were there any witnesses?” For the most part, guilt was still established by an eyewitness, a confession, a bad reputation, or being caught in the act. Physical evidence often had very little do with it. Though the police and other judicial systems had begun to realize what private inquiry agents like Gage and I had already noted. Objects could tell a tale, and sometimes offer the explanation to a mystery.

  “Oh, yes. A slew of them. The porter at the Fortune of War, who claims he overheard a suspicious conversation between Bishop and May. A pregnant woman and her children, who swear they saw an Italian Boy just several feet from Bishop and Williams’s door the morning before he is believed to have been killed. As well as various people who claim the Italian Boy they always saw on the street has disappeared, plus a dozen more.”

  “Heavens! Then Anderley must have been obliged to remain all day.” I cringed, recalling my memories of the close, squalid room which served as the Bow Street Magistrates Court. The walls were tarnished with dirt, the ceiling blackened, and everything seemed to be coated in a thick, greasy scum. The smell was bad enough to turn an iron stomach—a rancid bouquet of unwashed bodies, human waste, and desperation. How the magistrates could withstand it, day after day, I didn’t know, for the place was in urgent need of attention.

  “I’m afraid so,” Gage replied, joining me in my empathy for his valet. “I gave him the night off in recompense.” He turned toward the gaslit streets outside the window. “Not that he’ll take it.”

  Bree’s gaze met mine across the carriage, her eyes gleaming with memories of our earlier speculations about Anderley.

  “Is he still trying to find out the Italian Boy’s identity?”

  “Yes, and having little luck.”

  “It sounds as if the police aren’t having any luck either.”

  “No, but Anderley learned that the Italian Boy’s body is being exhumed tomorrow morning. That a man is traveling down to London from Birmingham, who believes the boy might be a young Savoyard who used to be in his care.”

  The way he phrased the matter and the skeptical tone of his voice alerted me to the fact that there was something mistrustful, possibly dishonest, about all this. I couldn’t help but focus on the first part of his statement. “Why did they bury him in the first place if they didn’t yet know his identity?”

  Gage threw his hands in the air. “Your guess is as good as mine. The police are making their first search of Bishop and Williams’s home at Nova Scotia Gardens tomorrow as well—the place where they believe the boy was actually murdered.”

  I shifted in my seat to stare at him, confounded. “Why did they wait so long? Shouldn’t that have been the first obvious step to take?”

  “To us, yes,” he replied, backing down from his earlier scathing tone. “But such things are not standard procedure for the police. Not yet.” He arched his eyebrows. “Remember, the New Police were formed to prevent crimes, not investigate them after the fact.”

  Though he tried to soften his reaction, I could hear his frustration. He might be trying to show the police some leniency for their inadequacies, but he wasn’t able to overlook them.

  “There was one positive development at the hearing today,” he admitted. “Minshull, the presiding magistrate, called in Samuel Taunton, one of the most experienced Bow Street Runners, to assist the police and make further inquiries.”

  “Just as Goddard predicted.”

  He turned to peer out the window as the carriage slowed but dipped his head as if to say, Just so.

  I had sent a note around to my aunt Cait earlier in the day to let her know I would be bringing Bree, and she had replied with her thanks and asked if we could arrive early—meaning on time. As such, our carriage did not have to wait in the long queue of fashionably late attendees before depositing us at the Marquess of Barbreck’s door. My uncle Dunstan was the nephew and heir of the current marquess—a crusty old bachelor with a cackling laugh and a dry sense of humor, though never cruel. I liked him exceedingly. Aunt Cait enjoyed her role as his hostess, and since he loved to indulge her, he often hosted soirees for her to plan.

  “Kiera, darling,” she exclaimed as Gage and I passed into the soaring entry hall after divesting ourselves of our outer garments. Bree had already been led off to the lady’s retiring room by one of the marquess’s servants.

  Aunt Cait grasped my hands and then lifted them to the sides so she could better view my gown. “You look stunning, my darling. This shade of Pompeian red suits you. And how clever of you to have the modiste raise the waistline a few inches to accommodate your happy condition.”

  I smiled. �
�It was Alana’s idea.”

  “Well, you were wise to listen to her. We can’t all have her eye for style, after all.”

  Considering the fact that Aunt Cait was never dressed in less than the first stare of fashion, I could only shake my head. “Quit bamming me. You know your dress is stunning, as are you. You always are.” I leaned forward to peck her on the cheek, careful not to crumple her jonquil silk.

  “It’s the Rutherford blood, my dear.” She tapped me coyly on the cheek with her finger. “It never fails.” She narrowed her eyes playfully. “And if my intuition is right, and it always is, then you are having a girl, and it won’t fail her either. Not that you need worry,” she added, flicking a glance at Gage. “Given your charming husband.”

  He laughed. “If it’s a girl, I shall be well pleased,” he replied.

  “Spoken like a true gentleman.” She pressed her fan to his shoulder in approval.

  “I think it’s a bit early to be making such predictions,” I replied, sharing an amused look with my uncle Dunstan. His mouth was almost swallowed by his curly gray beard, but humor danced in his eyes.

  “I was right about your sister’s children, wasn’t I?” my aunt challenged.

  “Only Malcolm and Philipa.”

  “Well, I hadn’t seen her while she was expecting the younger two, so how could my intuition tell me?” She pointed out with what she seemed to believe was faultless logic.

  I smiled. “You shall never convince me.”

  Her blue eyes, several shades darker than my own lapis-lazuli color, sparkled with merriment. “Not until the baby arrives.”

  Uncle Dunstan chuckled. “I think she has ye there, lass.”

  I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. “Where’s the marquess?”

  He nodded toward the drawing room. “Holdin’ court by the hearth. I ken he’d be pleased if ye spoke wi’ him for a mite,” he murmured in the thick brogue he’d never deigned to tame.

  “I will,” I assured him before taking Gage’s arm to move deeper into the house. The grand staircase of gleaming wood covered in an ivory runner with intricately scrolled gilded railings stood before us, leading up to the ballroom. Strains of music floated down from above, forming a pleasant background to the conversations filling the space. Four doors led from the lower hall—one to the drawing room, the second to a parlor set up with gaming tables for the gentlemen, while across the hall the dining room and an adjacent room had been arranged for the midnight supper.

  “Is your aunt very much like your mother?” Gage leaned down to murmur in curiosity.

  I turned to look up into his pale blue eyes, not as surprised as I might have been by the question, for I’d been contemplating it myself.

  His gaze turned tender. “Or don’t you remember?”

  “I remember enough.” Enough to sense the echo of my mother in her younger sister. I turned to look at the table to the right of the staircase with its lavish display of autumn blooms. “They are alike.” I tilted my head. “And yet not. I remember my mother being softer somehow, gentler.” I glanced up at him. “But then maybe that’s because I was a child when she died.”

  I shook away the morose musings and gestured toward the drawing room.

  “How is your wrist?” Gage asked politely as he guided me across the hall, cradling my injured wrist carefully with his own arm.

  I’d refused to wear the wrap around my wrist in lieu of my white evening glove. Not only would it have looked terribly gauche, it would have drawn unwelcome attention and speculation. “I told you before, it is fine. I almost don’t need the wrap anymore.”

  He stared sideways at me as if I fibbed, but unlike him, I did not have a habit of trying to make my injuries appear less concerning than they were.

  We entered the drawing room to find the Marquess of Barbreck mildly harassing his great-niece—my cousin Morven—and her husband, Lord John Noble.

  “I’m tellin’ ye, ye need to tie a string roond that lad’s head to hold his ears back. Or else they’ll continue to stick oot from his head like a Grecian urn, like this one’s.” He stuck out his thumb to point at Lord John, who arched his eyebrows as if to tell the man he would have to do better than that if he wished him to take offense.

  “My son’s ears are quite handsome,” Morven protested in good grace.

  The marquess made a rude scoffing noise in the back of his throat. “Where’d you get yer sense of aesthetic?” He shook his nearly bald head. “No sense.” His gaze lifted, spying me and Gage across the room. Even from such a great distance, I could see the devilry sparkling in his eyes. “Noo, here’s someone wi’ a true appreciation for beauty.” He held out his hand as I approached. “Come tell me how my favorite niece fares?” I wasn’t really his niece, but he always treated me as such.

  I smiled at this and allowed him to take my hand and pull me closer. “You declare all of your relatives to be your favorites at one moment or another. Don’t think we’re not on to your game.”

  He chuckled. “I’m old. I can change my mind if I wish.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Saucy minx,” he growled, sinking back into the gilt-metal, ebonized chair with gold upholstery. It had been arranged as if it was a throne, and he was receiving his subjects. His gaze flicked to Gage and back. “Noo, tell me how fares this handsome piece o’ frippery ye wed yerself to?”

  But I had already advised Gage on the best way to respond to the marquess and his impertinent insults. “Careful, old man. Don’t forget I’m an inquiry agent. I could have you killed half a dozen ways and no one would suspect,” he drawled, his sharp words belied by the diverted glint in his eyes.

  “Only half a dozen?”

  Lord John choked on a laugh and Gage cracked a smile.

  “What’s this nonsense I hear aboot young Newbury bein’ murdered by the same blackguard who killed Feckenham?” the marquess demanded to know. “Why havena ye caught the villain yet?” He thumped his cane against the floor, narrowing his eyes at me. “And what are you doin’ traipsin’ aboot the city in yer condition anyway?”

  “I’m not traipsing anywhere,” I retorted.

  “Noo, see. Maybe that’s yer problem.”

  How I was supposed to not traipse about the city, but also do so, escaped my considerable powers of reasoning. A prime example of why speaking to the marquess could often be so vexing.

  Fortunately, two couples entered the drawing room at that moment to pay their respects to Lord Barbreck, so we could ignore these pointed queries.

  Something I didn’t bother to hide my relief over as I offered him a bit of his own back in parting. “Lovely to see you, my lord. You look at the peak of health.”

  He harrumphed a laugh. Given his advanced age of eighty-some-odd years, he was so far down the peak as to be practically in the valley. “Come see me this week. I have things to say.”

  That this was an order, there was no doubt, so I smiled and nodded. As for what he had to say, heaven only knew, but it was likely to be tantamount to gossip, and this was merely his way of ensuring I would pay him a call. If so, there was no need to go to such extremes, for I was happy to do so. Especially given his broad knowledge of the ton. Who knew what secrets were locked in that brain of his?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Morven turned to embrace me as we exited the drawing room. “It’s true, then? What they’ve been saying about Mr. Newbury?”

  “As far as we know, he hasn’t succumbed to his injuries yet,” I replied. “But . . . it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Oh, how dreadful.” She pressed a hand to her cheek. “Why, John and I saw him just last night.”

  “You did? Where?”

  “Lady Willoughby de Eresby’s autumn soiree,” Lord John replied.

  Given that woman’s sharp aversion to me, it was no wonder we hadn’t received an invitation.


  He lifted a hand to scratch the side of his unfashionably cropped hair. “I believe I last saw him in the gaming parlor at about two o’clock. We departed soon after.”

  Gage and I shared a speaking glance.

  “Was he playing cards?” Gage asked.

  “Yes. Small stakes. The large bets were being placed at the other table.” He named several members of society who were known to be inveterate gamblers, winning and losing fortunes on the turn of a card.

  Either David Newbury knew better than to play with such gentlemen, or he had little interest in the sport. I wish I knew which.

  “Had you ever seen him with Feckenham?” Gage asked Lord John.

  “I don’t believe so.” He gave a short huff of amusement. “To be honest, it’s hard to think of two young gentlemen who were less alike.”

  This seemed to be the prevailing opinion among everyone we spoke to. Newbury was likable, honorable, pleasing, and friendly. Feckenham was not. For all intents and purposes, they were as different as chalk and cheese—Feckenham being the chalk, and Newbury the cheese. For while no one seemed to mourn Feckenham, everyone expressed their remorse at Newbury’s imminent passing. I even spotted several eligible debutantes with tears in their eyes. Clearly the young man had been popular.

  We found Lord Damien in the parlor listlessly playing a game of loo. When we approached the table, he folded his hand without speaking and moved with us into a corner of the room.

  “I suppose you’re here to ask me about Newbury,” he remarked, opening a box of snuff and taking a pinch.

  I pressed a hand gently to his arm. “I’m sorry, Damien. I understand he’s a good friend of yours.”

  His brow crumpled, as if suppressing strong emotion. “The best.” He inhaled a shaky breath. “And before you ask, I haven’t the foggiest what there could have been between him and Feckenham. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? He told me once he thought Lord Redditch’s heir a knight of the blade—a rotten bully. But I don’t believe I ever heard him mention him again.” He scowled. “It makes no sense.”