Maggie MacKeever

by The Baroness of Bow Street

  “You said the window stood open.” Mignon had formed the habit of discussing her aunt’s investigations with Lord Barrymore, primarily because it distracted him from romance. “Why couldn’t some intruder have entered by that means and exited the same way?”

  “You have quite the imagination, Miss Montague. The window stood open only because Miss Langtry used it to escape. By-the-bye, where is your aunt?” Tolly looked at the chimneypiece, representing Apollo and the Muses as depicted on the sarcophagus of Homer, as if he expected to witness a momentary materialization there.

  “Dulcie is very busy. “I believe that this afternoon she is riding with a gentleman friend.” Mignon lowered her hands to the piano keys.

  “Oh? May one ask whom?”

  “Sir John. The Chief Magistrate of Bow Street.”

  “Bow Street!” ejaculated a figure from the doorway, in all-too-familiar tones. “Surely I did not hear you correctly.”

  Mignon struck a discord. “What brings you here, Maurice?”

  “A fine way to greet your brother!” He stepped into the room. “But then, you were ever a stiff-necked, stubborn, silly girl. I have come because Mama was worried that you might get up to some mischief in the Metropolis. I have been put to a great deal of tiresome business on your account.”

  “A pity,” said Mignon. “Clearly you would have been much more comfortable if you had stayed at home.”

  The Honorable Maurice Montague bore a startling resemblance to his sister, possessing the same flaming hair and freckles and the same green eyes, but in splendor of person he cast Mignon into the shade. Maurice was dressed, as befit a young master of twelve millions sterling with pretensions to dandyism, in a light brown coat, white waistcoat, nankin pantaloons fastened at the ankle with two huge gold buttons, and yellow stockings with large violet clocks. On his feet were black pumps; above the starched points of his shirt collar showed not one but two cravats, black satin over white linen, designed to give the desired thickness to his neck.

  He observed his sister with a lack of cordiality that matched her own. “Yes, and so I’ll wish I had if you go off into one of your odd turns.”

  Mignon bit back a sharp retort and introduced Maurice to the other occupants of the room, her spirits only slightly lifted by Culpepper’s incredulous expression. “Do you mean to stay here?” she asked, with little hope that he did not, for what better way to keep her under his eye? “You might have let us know, Maurice, so that preparations could be made.”

  “That is not your concern, surely,” retorted her brother, with a pointed look at Culpepper. “You may go now, my good woman, and see that my belongings and my valet are properly housed.”

  “My mistress,” said Culpepper, the light of battle in her eye, “specifically instructed me to attend to Miss Mignon.”

  Maurice raised a quizzing-glass to one offended eye. “Do you presume to argue? I take all responsibility for my sister upon myself.” He waved a languid hand. “Now do go away!” Culpepper obeyed, leaving Mignon with the happy impression that Maurice had made a formidable enemy.

  A gentleman so grand as Maurice, and so pampered by a doting mother, could not be expected to concern himself with what servants might or might not think. Quizzing-glass still in hand, he took stock of his surroundings, which included bronze Floras, muses and hermaphrodites, a crystal lustre from which darted aerie creatures in attitudes of flight, and a bright blue carpet ornamented with flowers and insects. His pained gaze then fell upon Mignon, whose fiery curls were piled atop her head in a manner he considered more suited to the unfortunate females who plied their trade in London’s narrow streets than to a young lady of gentle birth. “The Baroness,” he remarked, letting the quizzing-glass fall, “appears to have rather extravagant tastes. Mama said the ready runs through Lady Bligh’s fingers like water, and I see nothing to prove her wrong. I fear she must be lacking in delicate principles. What were you saying about our aunt and Bow Street?”

  “I take it,” said Lord Barrymore smoothly, doubtless recognizing a kindred spirit, “that you have not been previously acquainted with Lady Bligh?” Mignon applied herself to the piano keys, seeking relief for her exacerbated feelings. Maurice, from the aloof superiority of his twenty-six years, might have made it his purpose in life to spoil her pleasure and cut up her peace.

  “I have not.” After a great fussing with his long coattails, Maurice arranged himself in a chair. “According to Mama, both the Baron and Baroness conduct themselves in a manner that is strongly to be deprecated. However, she could not refuse Lady Bligh’s invitation to have Mignon in Town. For various reasons, it was most opportune.”

  Mignon supposed she should be grateful that her brother did not go on to explain the reason for that invitation’s timeliness. Maurice, with his annoying tendency to play off the airs of an exquisite, reminded her of nothing more than a pasteboard puppet strung together so that the lightest touch of a finger set it falling into grotesque attitudes. She wondered what Dulcie would make of her brother.

  “Do tell me,” begged Maurice, “what my aunt may have to do with Bow Street. Surely,” he shuddered, “she has not run afoul of the law!”

  “No, no.” Tolly looked rather amused. “She has merely undertaken to aid an old friend.”

  “A friend?” repeated Maurice. “What is this friend’s connection with Bow Street?”

  “I fear,” said Tolly gently, “that the friend is currently lodged in Newgate Prison, where she awaits her trial for the murder of a peer.”

  This intelligence so unnerved Maurice that, after frantic patting and poking of his many pockets, he had recourse to his vinaigrette. “Murder?” he gasped weakly. “Unthinkable!”

  “Not at all.” Mignon was delighted to see her brother so overset. “It happens all the time. Just yesterday there was an item in the newspaper concerning a clerk in holy orders who was crossed in love and murdered a bishop’s mistress. London is very thin of tonnish company at this time of year. You will not like it, Maurice.”

  “Your sister tends to exaggerate, Mr. Montague.” For his intervention, Lord Barrymore earned a grateful glance from Maurice and from Mignon a scowl. “There are still the races, the theatre, an occasional supper party to provide excitement. If you like, I could gain the entrée for you to various of my clubs.”

  This was rather a set-down for Maurice, who had so long puffed up his own consequence that he fancied his wealth made him welcome everywhere. He said, stiffly, “You are very kind.”

  “You will also wish to visit the shops—Hoby for your boots of course, and. Lock’s for your hats. After that,” Tolly winked in a conspiratorial manner, “well, we shall see!” Maurice brightened considerably.

  Mignon, somewhat cheered that her brother promised to be well occupied during his sojourn in the Metropolis, wondered if Lord Barrymore suspected, as she did, that Maurice had come to town with the express intention of taking her home with him. She paid scant attention to the masculine conversation beyond noting that Tolly and Maurice were on the way to becoming bosom bows. Charity, the homely little maidservant, appeared in the doorway, beckoning to her.

  “Excuse me,” murmured Mignon and slid from the stool.

  “A note for you, miss!” whispered Charity, obviously delighted to participate in something clandestine. “A boy brought it to the door and said particular that I was to put it right in your hand.”

  Poor thing! thought Mignon, looking at the girl’s unattractive features and mousy hair. “Well, look at it!” urged Charity. “He said no one else was to know.”

  With a queer foreboding, Mignon took the letter in her hand. She stared at the familiar handwriting, and felt as if she’d been turned to stone.

  Maurice leaned close to Lord Barrymore and smiled, revealing teeth stained by the tobacco he sometimes chewed in place of eating meals that would spoil his fashionable figure. “It’s dashed relieved I am,” he said in a penetrating whisper, “ to discover my sister has discovered a preference f
or a gentleman as distinguished as yourself. Don’t mind telling you that the chit needs a firm hand.” Tolly glanced at Mignon, and smiled.

  Mignon’s cheeks flamed. “Thank you, Charity. That will be all.” The maid limped away, as if her shoes fit poorly.

  Unable to trust herself in her brother’s presence lest she denounce him as a misguided marplot or he derive from her manner an understanding of the letter which she held gingerly in her hand, Mignon climbed the ornate marble staircase. Once in the safety of her bedchamber, she dropped the letter on the dressing table and moved to the window, where she stared unseeing at the street below.

  The chamber that Lady Bligh had assigned her niece was decorated with various Persian curiosities including a carpet of velvet embroidered with gold and silver. It even boasted a small bathroom, hidden in a niche entirely walled with mirrors. Strewn about the room were large dolls dressed in the Persian manner, with long hair painted red or gold, clad in pretty gauze pantaloons and golden anklets. Dominating all else was a huge bed of mahogany inlaid with gold and supported by two bronze swans. On a nightstand sat a golden lamp, beside it a bound history of the exploits of Tamerlaine.

  Mignon might have been lodged in a cell at Newgate for all the appreciation she showed for her surroundings. “Oh, perdition!” she cried, and left the window to stand once again at the dressing table, looking at the letter as if it were an adder poised to strike. Charity, fancying herself Cupid’s assistant, would have been surprised indeed at Miss Montague’s reaction to this romantic missive, for Mignon flung herself onto the ornate bed and burst into tears.

  Chapter 11

  Sir John drove his curricle slowly along the Ratcliffe Highway to Shadwell, once the scene of horrid and grotesque murders, where only a few years before an entire family had been slain in a singularly brutal manner. The Chief Magistrate had no more thought to spare for the history of the countryside than he did for the beauty of the day. His attention was divided between his horses and his companion, who was stunning in a pelisse of peacock blue velvet trimmed with chinchilla fur, worn over a gown fashioned entirely of eyelet embroidery. On her silver hair was a lace bonnet with cording and flowers in diverse shades of blue. Draped about various portions of her superb anatomy was a staggering fortune in sapphires.

  “This is a fool’s errand you’ve set us,” he said somberly. “What do you expect to find?”

  Lady Bligh turned on the seat to smile at him. “I see that you are in one of your disapproving moods. I promise you that we’re not chasing a will-o’-the-wisp, John.”

  The Chief Magistrate had through long experience learned the value of her ladyship’s promises. The Baroness was quite capable, if it suited her underhanded purposes, of setting him to chase his own tail. Yet even knowing that, he had chosen for this excursion a vehicle that allowed them maximum privacy.

  “You are a rogue, Dulcie.” He flicked his whip. “It would save a great deal of time if you would merely tell me what you want.”

  “As if I only seek you out when I wish favors!” Dulcie cast him a glance that was simultaneously provocative and piqued. “Have you so little opinion of yourself that you cannot believe I enjoy your company?”

  Sir John was no little bit surprised to feel his cheeks redden. “It isn’t for the pleasure of my company that you have insisted that I escort you quietly to Shadwell. You may as well confess. I know perfectly well that you have some mischief in mind.”

  The Baroness was charmingly rueful. “You are so determined to think my motives base?”

  “If you think you may cajole me into releasing Leda, you are wasting both our time.”

  Lady Bligh’s luscious lower lip protruded slightly. “I think you are determined to spoil my fun.”

  It was definitely midsummer moon with Sir John; he thought the Baroness’s artful pout the most delicious he’d ever seen. “Minx!” he said. “Very well, I will listen to what you have to say. Mind, I promise nothing more.”

  Dulcie abandoned her lounging attitude and sat briskly upright. “Oddly enough, I don’t wish anything of you, at least not today. And I certainly don’t wish Leda freed from Newgate. She is in quite enough trouble as it is.”

  “She is also,” added Sir John dryly, “causing a considerable amount. At last report your Leda was simultaneously gathering information on child prostitution and planning prison reform.” Furthermore, due to the agitation of the Press, particularly the London Apocalypse, Sir John was being forced to deal with riots almost as widespread as those caused by the arrest of Sir Francis Burdett in 1810. “You haven’t told me why you’ve made Leda Langtry your concern.”

  “Leda was once a friend of mine.” Dulcie made no further explanation, as if that little was sufficient. Perhaps, thought Sir John, for her it was. “I suppose,” she added, “Leda’s trial is set for the next session?”

  “It is.” He was very much aware that Lady Bligh’s hand still rested on his arm.

  The Baroness leaned even closer, her dark eyes fixed on his face. “I very much fear, John, that if that trial takes place, Leda will hang.”

  Sir John looked resolutely straight ahead of him. “You are correct: it is very likely, considering the evidence against her, that Leda will hang.”

  “And it matters not to you that she is innocent, for you will have your scapegoat, the public outcry will be stilled, and Prinny and Warwick’s rich relatives will be satisfied.” Dulcie’s hand slid down to his wrist. “Would you condemn a woman to death for murder without any real evidence that she was responsible?”

  Sir John pulled his horses to a halt. “Go on.”

  Lady Bligh raised her hand to trace the line of his jaw. “Insufficient attention has been paid to the fact that Leda’s pistol was stolen from her before Warwick’s death. The theft is corroborated by her employees.”

  Sir John struggled valiantly for coherent thought. “She could have staged it herself.”

  “You must ever doubt me,” lamented Dulcie. “If you check Leda’s activities on that afternoon, you will find she did not have time to return and burgle her own shop.”

  A wise man would have moved further away from her on the seat. Would have climbed down from the carriage, indeed, and taken a brisk walk. Sir John instead wondered where the Baroness might touch him next. “Leda could easily have taken the weapon with her when she originally left the shop. Perhaps she arranged with someone else to so disrupt the premises that it looked as if a robbery had occurred. Crump harbors grave doubts regarding one of Leda’s employees.”

  “Willie, no doubt. Don’t you see that the evidence against Leda is not at all conclusive? Even her motive is insufficient. One does not generally go about murdering all the people one dislikes, tempting as might be the thought! Warwick, with his fondness for political blackmail, must have had a great many enemies.”

  “So you know even that.” Sir John tried, unsuccessfully, to frown. “I suppose that’s how you persuaded him to sign Leda’s release. You truly are a dangerous meddler, Dulcie. How did you find out?”

  “Lady Warwick, of course.” Lady Bligh looked amused. “She has a positive mania for discussing her husband’s more unpleasant habits. It is almost the only pleasure left to her, poor thing.”

  Sir John reluctantly dragged his eyes away from hers. “You want me to connive at delaying Leda’s trial.”

  “I would not have phrased it so crudely, but yes.” Dulcie’s husky voice was laden with regret. “Dear, dear John. If there was world enough and time—but, since there is not, I suggest we proceed to Shadwell.”

  The Chief Magistrate took up the reins, aware that by his failure to immediately deny her request he had entered into a tacit conspiracy with the Baroness. He wondered if she was truly convinced of her friend’s innocence, and if Dulcie would act differently if she were certain of Leda’s guilt.

  “Justice is a very curious thing,” she murmured, and Sir John wasn’t surprised that she had so accurately followed his thoughts. “Wasn’t it Warw
ick who used to boast that Britain was the only country in Europe without a citywide police force? He attributed it to the people’s love of freedom. At the time of the Wapping murders, Warwick went so far as to say he’d rather see a half-dozen throats cut each year than be subjected to the gross indignities of an organized peacekeeping force. You yourself had little reason to love Warwick, John.”

  “No,” he replied brusquely. “But you can hardly accuse me of murdering the man.”

  “I accuse you of nothing.” The Baroness wilted on the seat like a weary bluebell.

  Had he wounded her feelings? Surely not. “Warwick thought he knew who was behind the robberies,” said Sir John, nonetheless. “He spoke to me about them the very day he died.”

  “Ah!” Lady Bligh brightened. “Did he mention who he thought the guilty party to be?”

  Sir John regarded his traveling companion with resignation. “He did not.”

  “Turn left here.” Dulcie pointed down a narrow lane, and then clutched the seat as the curricle jolted over deep ruts. “It sounds very much as if Warwick suspected someone of an elevated social standing or he would not have been so circumspect. Perhaps Prinny is our culprit. The whole world knows how desperately he needs funds.”

  “Dulcie!” Sir John almost dropped the reins. “Surely you don’t think—”

  “No. I only wanted to get a rise out of you.” The Baroness loosened her grip on the seat to clutch at her bonnet, which had slid to one side. “You know, of course, that Barrymore called on Warwick the evening of his death and thus was present when the valet found the body. Have you thought to ask what prompted his presence there?”

  Sir John had his hands full with his steeds, which had taken exception to the atrocious condition of the lane, and he was furthermore distracted by his body’s reaction to the word ‘rise’. He therefore failed to note the guileless expression that would have left ardor deflated and suspicion aroused. “Barrymore is a frequent visitor at your house,” he said. “What are you trying to tell me?”