*** *** ***
I decided to pay a call on Denis, notwithstanding his lackey's suggestion that I should not arrive without an appointment. If Denis were indisposed, he would not admit me, and I would go on. I had plenty to do without this aside.
Denis's butler, as cold as his master, took me upstairs and bade me wait in the austere reception room in which I'd awaited his attention before. Not long after that, the butler returned and ushered me to Denis's study. Denis flicked his dark blue glance from his correspondence, curtly told me to take a chair, and asked what I wanted.
"Only to know if you have heard anything about my daughter," I said.
"If I had, I would have sent word or already restored her to you."
"Yes." I remained seated, uncertain how to explain what I wanted. Reassurance? I would not get it from Denis. Or maybe I wanted truth, which was what Denis dispensed in abundance--brutal, unromanticized truth.
Denis seemed to sense my need. He set his correspondence aside and twitched his fingers at the lackey who stood at the window. "Fetch the captain port," he said.
The man moved to the door and summoned another footman. I noticed he did not leave the room, which would have put me alone with Denis.
"Tell me what you have learned this afternoon," Denis said, "and perhaps I can aid you."
I hesitated. "You are heavy-handed with your aid."
"Heavy-handedness is often effective. The trick is to know when to employ it and when to be restrained. You have learned something. What is it?"
I told him about Stacy and McAdams. I was worried enough and angry enough that I did not care whether Denis and his ruffians paid a call on either of them. If Stacy or McAdams had hurt my daughter, Denis could do his worst.
"I have met Mr. McAdams," Denis said, twining his fingers on his desk. "A man who does not know when to be restrained, or even how to be, I would say. He is crude and ill-mannered. You think him a better candidate for the crime than Stacy?"
"McAdams is the sort who would hurt a girl for the pleasure of it. Stacy might do the same, I do not know. The only difference between the two is that Stacy is ashamed of his proclivities while McAdams boasts of them. But either of them could have killed Mary Chester."
"You mean that either of them are capable of it. You are not being as rational as you could be, Captain. Think of it this way. Did either gentleman have the opportunity to kill her? Where do they say they were on the night--or day--she died? Do they have witnesses? Could Bottle Bill have killed Mary Chester and be inventing the 'gentleman' who assisted him to throw you off the scent? You certainly believe Bill capable of murder, when he is drunk. He is often arrested, I understand, for being violent." Denis spread his hands. "Many possibilities, Captain."
The butler entered, placed a table at my elbow, and laid a round white cloth on its precise center. He set on this a crystal goblet filled to a quarter inch of the brim with dusky amber port. The port's rich scent reached me as the butler bowed and departed.
I ignored the glass for now. "You mean I ought to stop frantically running about and begin to investigate. I have been searching, not thinking."
"You have plenty of people going through London for you," Denis said. "Sit back and think."
I was not sure he meant for me to do so at the moment, but I leaned back in his comfortable chair, lifted the goblet of port, and drank deeply. As did Grenville, Denis kept the best in wines, and this was one of the finest I'd tasted.
"I will quiz Stacy's coachman," I said. "The man drives him everywhere; he would know what day Stacy picked up Mary Chester and where he took her. He would know when Stacy was last with Black Bess, he would know whether Stacy is telling the truth about seeing Gabriella. I should question McAdams's servants as well and find out about his visits to Covent Garden."
Denis gave me a nod. "Reason and thoroughness. That is what will find Miss Lacey."
"This is what you do, is it not? You sit in this house and reason, and then you send hirelings out to do your bidding."
"I employ many, that is true. Some do well running about the streets bringing me small bits of information, others do well sitting back and reasoning in their own right."
I swallowed another draught of port then set down the goblet, off center, on the cloth. "You wish to employ me. In which role do you see me, as runner or reasoner?"
A thin smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "I see you as unique, Captain. You have an interesting perception of upper-class society--you are one of them but also on the fringes, and you can observe both as an insider and an outsider. You were reared at Harrow and Cambridge, yet you abandoned that life to fight in the heat of India and the mess of the Peninsula. You were an officer among officers, yet you achieved your rank through merit instead of money, which gives you a perception of what merit truly is. You are trusted by the demimonde, yet you choose your lovers from the loftiest of women. You can see what a man truly is and yet be blindly loyal to him for all his faults. You were befriended by Grenville, a severely cautious man who befriends very few, and you are equally befriended by people in the gutter. Even my own servants express admiration for you."
I listened to all this with a touch of disquiet. "I had no idea I was such a paragon," I said.
"You are not. You are evil tempered and too ready to give in to your passions. You are too curious for your own good, and you have allowed past hurts to fester inside you. But these are flaws common to many." Denis dismissed them with a flick of fingers and fixed me with a sharp look. "What I can obtain from you is a unique perspective on events and your peculiar way of reasoning through a problem. Also, you are able to win people's trust and regard, which could be quite useful to me."
"Useful to you," I said. "An interesting way of putting it."
"I intend to own you, as I once told you. I still consider you a threat, precisely because of your unique perspective and the fact that people whom I do not own rally to your side."
"I inconvenience you."
"An interesting way of putting it." Denis tossed my words back to me. "I am making quite an investment, searching for your daughter and funding your divorce, and I intend to collect."
"Do not bother with the divorce," I said. "I will look elsewhere for help."
"Where? Of your acquaintance, only Grenville or I can fund such an endeavor. Lady Breckenridge could, but she would draw herself into deep scandal should anyone discover it. Sir Gideon Derwent could, but he would be more likely to encourage you to reconcile with your wife, which I know to be impossible. You and Grenville have had a falling-out, so I am much afraid, Captain, that you are saddled with me."
I had reached for the port again during this speech, but at his last sentence, my fingers fell away from the glass. "Good Lord, I've only just come from Grenville's." I lifted the goblet and took one last sip. "I suppose that each time I visit the privy, you receive a report."
Denis smiled thinly. "You exaggerate. One of my men saw you leave Grenville's very soon after you went in, and from the look on your face, you were upset and angry. You went away to find a hackney, and my man hurried straight back here, arriving before you did. I simply guessed the rest, and you have now confirmed it."
"I must learn to control my expression," I said.
"You never will. You convey your exact thoughts, which is a reason people trust you. You never say one thing and think another."
"Many would call that rudeness." I got to my feet. "Do you have any other useful information for me, or shall I sit here while you tell me exactly what I do every day and why?"
Denis did not even blink. "Question the young woman called Felicity. She has had the privilege, if you can call it that, of entering Mr. Stacy's coach."
I stopped. "Has she? How do you know that?"
"When you began an interest in Mr. Stacy this morning, I called in all information about him. He has often been seen in Covent Garden by my men. They cannot give me a list of names of which girls he has taken up, as it has been, up un
til now, casual observation only, but one saw Felicity with you and remembered that she had been one of them."
"I wondered myself," I admitted. "Felicity is a beautiful young woman and stands out from the others. I doubt that Stacy could resist her."
Denis quirked a brow at me. "You have."
I touched the head of the cane that Lady Breckenridge had given me, a gift that had sealed our friendship. "I am satisfied with what I have. Stacy, obviously, is not."
"Perhaps not. I have also asked my men to follow Stacy and his friend McAdams to see what they get up to. We will soon know if they lead us to the lost young women."
"Thank you," I said.
Whether Denis appreciated my gratitude or not, I did not know, because he drew his correspondence in front of him and returned his focus to it. He was finished with me. I was just as happy to depart.
* * * * *
Chapter Fourteen
I returned home to a written message from Thompson of the Thames River patrol. Like his speeches, the note was laconic.
Mary Chester suffocated--likely deliberate. She'd been dead two days when we found her. From the dirt stains on her frock, she'd lain in or rolled in soil before she died for whatever reason. Coroner is convinced it's unnatural death and has called an inquest for Monday. Sam Chester is beside himself with grief. Thompson.
At least we knew how Mary had died. Suffocated. The word implied a pillow or some such thing pressed against her mouth. I had a sudden fear that the soil stains meant someone had buried her alive, but consoled myself with the thought that, if the coroner had thought such a thing, Thompson would have written it.
I set down the letter, making a note to attend the inquest.
Grenville kept his word that his servants would continue to help. Later that evening, his coachman, Jackson, came to fetch me.
Jackson filled my doorway, a strong, broad-shouldered man who looked capable of handling unruly horses or ruffians. "Mr. Grenville says you want to talk to Mr. Stacy's coachman," he said. "I know the tavern where he drinks. I'll take you there."
I snatched up my coat, ready. Bartholomew, even during his continued searching, had found time to bring me beefsteak for supper and to brush my clothes. "Will I be allowed into this hallowed hall of coachmen?" I asked.
Jackson smiled, revealing his pointed teeth. "We'll make an exception, sir. Just mind your manners."
The tavern he took me to was near where the Strand ended at Charing Cross. The church of St. Martin in the Fields loomed above the rooftops, but on this Friday night, the tavern was full to bursting with noise while the church sat silently.
The regulars of the tavern eyed me askance as I entered, but the landlord looked at my fine frock coat, courtesy of Grenville's tailor, and his eyes brightened.
"My lord," he said, on the off chance that I was one. "A private room for you?"
"No, thank you," I said. "But three tankards of your best ale, please."
The landlord nodded, took the crown I offered him, and scuttled away. Jackson led me to a table where a man in coachman's livery waited. The long table was occupied by other drinkers, but the end Stacy's coachman had chosen was relatively empty.
Jackson hooked his foot around a stool and pulled it out, plopping himself down at the end of the table. I seated myself on the bench opposite Stacy's coachman. The landlord obligingly plunked three tankards of ale in front of us.
"Captain Lacey, this here is Payne. He's been coaching for Mr. Stacy for eleven years."
Payne offered a work-roughened hand across the table. "Obliged, Captain." He raised his tankard to me and drained at least a third of it.
He was a bit older than Jackson, his hair going gray at the temples, with gray scattered through the darker hair on top of his head. Whitish lines feathered about his eyes. His square-tailed coat was of fine green serge, and the brass buttons on it gleamed with polish. A polished brass chain hung across his chest, and his coachman's tall hat with brush lay on the table next to him. He, like Jackson, had a master who wanted his coachman well turned out.
"Mr. Stacy is a good man to work for?" I asked.
Payne lowered his tankard and wiped his mouth. "It's a good position, fine coaches to look after, and I'm fond of the beasts."
I noted he'd said nothing directly about Stacy. "I am afraid that I've come to pry into your master's habits. But there's been murder done, and I want to know by whom and why."
Payne jerked his thumb at Jackson. "So he said. I told Mr. Stacy I was meeting you here tonight--thought it would be fair. He told me to tell you straight up truth."
"I appreciate that, both from you and Mr. Stacy. You know, in that case, that I wish to ask you about the girls Mr. Stacy invites into his coach in Covent Garden?"
"In Covent Garden, in Haymarket, in the Strand." Payne looked mildly disgusted. "He can't resist a tart swishing about in her skirts. He likes to watch them--from inside the coach, mind you--getting to know them all. You know, some gentry-coves like to look for birds and note them down in a book, some go into the country and pick up rocks and old bones. Mr. Stacy likes game girls."
"His collection, so to speak."
"A good way of putting it, sir. He has me dawdle the carriage along while he looks out of the window and watches where they go and who they talk to and what they buy in the markets. He learns when they come out and when they go home, and even where they live. And then, once he's decided which one he wants to meet, he gets out of the coach, chats to the girl, and invites her up. That's usually in the dead of night, although sometimes he'll get down in the evening, just to talk to them. Make an appointment to meet him later."
I turned my tankard on the table. "Once he invites one into the coach, he asks you to drive slowly about the streets?"
"Aye. He says I am to drive for one hour, very slowly, any route I choose, as long as I return to where I started at the stroke of the clock."
Jackson offered, "While he gets to know them even better, eh?"
Payne took another pull of ale. "Do you know, sir, I could not tell you what he gets up to with them. They might chat about bonnets for all I know. I looks after the carriage, both inside and out, and I never find anything you might call disgusting."
"Perhaps he is very careful," I said.
"Oh, aye, he must be. Else he'd have the clap or something else nasty, wouldn't he? But Mr. Stacy is always clean as can be."
I considered this as I drank my ale. The brew was good, a mixture of malt taste and a touch of tartness. "I must ask you about Black Bess and Mary Chester. Will you describe what he did on the nights he took up with them? You know which girls I mean?"
Payne nodded. "He told me you'd ask about them. He said to tell what I knew."
"Start with Mary Chester, as she is the one who's turned up dead."
"Poor girl, eh? Well, he meets this Mary about a week and a half ago, I'd say. He'd seen her when he had business over Wapping way. Mr. Stacy invests in ships, betting his money that they won't go down or be stolen by pirates. Sometimes he loses, mostly he wins. He likes to look at the ships, sometimes, so we go to London docks or Wapping."
He took another slurp of ale and continued. "On one journey, he sees the girl. She looks half respectable but smiles like one of them game girls. Mr. Stacy wants her, so there's nothing for it but he talks to her and fixes it up to come back after dark and have at her. I found him a public house that didn't look too down-at-mouth--which ain't easy near the docks, mind you--and he had wine in a private parlor, reading a book, nice as you please, until time. Then he goes, meets her, we have the hour drive, and he sets her down again. We went back to Mayfair then, thank the Lord."
"And after that?"
Payne looked puzzled. "How do you mean, exactly?"
"Did he ask Mary to meet him again, in Covent Garden perhaps?"
"Well, if he did, sir, he never told me."
"Did he often tell you?" I asked. "What he meant to do, and with whom?"
"Not in so many
words. But I see who he gets down to talk with and who he invites in later. He never talks to me about it at all, 'cept to tell me where to go and when to do the slow drive."
"Now for Black Bess," I said. "When did he meet her?"
Payne grinned, showing that he, too, had filed his teeth. "I remember her. Black-haired wench, a taking thing. He met her about a day or so after Wapping. Had his eye on her for a long time, and it wasn't the first time he'd had her in the coach. He liked Black Bess. Had her twice. But he set her down again as usual, and we went off home. Didn't see her after that."
"Again, did he make an appointment to meet her later in Covent Garden?"
Payne shook his head. "Not that I knew about."
It looked more and more as though McAdams could be the wealthy gentleman who promised to meet the girls. Stacy might have made the appointments for his friend, perhaps recommending girls he liked the best.
I halted that thought. Stacy was urbane and polished, McAdams crude, despite their similarities in station. I remembered Stacy's embarrassment at McAdams' boorish comments when Grenville and I interviewed him at Tatt's. Would Stacy wish McAdams' company on a girl he liked?
Then again, I had no idea how Stacy thought about things. The man had a wife and a daughter but preferred to hunt and capture game girls for his sport.
"I have to ask a distasteful question," I said. "Does Stacy hurt the girls?"
Payne looked surprised. "Naw. Leastwise, I never saw such a thing. They like him, smile when the carriage stops and all. If they were afraid of him, they'd melt away when they saw him coming, wouldn't they? They must tell each other all about it, wouldn't you think?"
"True," I conceded. If Stacy had the habit of beating the girls, word would get around, and only the most desperate would go to him. "Now, we come to yesterday afternoon. Mr. Stacy was in Covent Garden?"
"That he was. I drove him--not through the square, too crowded--but down Russel Street, thinking to skirt round to Southampton Street. He was looking again, you know, for who he'd like to take up with next. At the edge of the market, he signals me to stop, and he gets down. There's an orange girl he talks to, and he sees her and makes his way to her. He paused to talk to another on the way, but he left her pretty soon for the orange girl. He likes her. He buys an orange and walks back to the carriage. He tells me to drive on, gets in, and we're on our way."
A Covent Garden Mystery Page 19