“Barrymore,” replied the Baroness, “is a most estimable young man. He nourishes a most proper passion for my niece—too proper, I suspect, to inspire an answering emotion in Mignon.” She pointed. “There is our destination, John.”
The Chief Magistrate had only time to stop his carriage in front of the small, thatched, derelict-looking cottage before Dulcie spoke again. “You have been remiss in another matter. I won’t chide you for it, for I know you have much on your mind, but it is lapses like these which bring down odium upon Bow Street.” The Chief Magistrate waited patiently while she set herself to rights. “Warwick had a large number of banknotes in his possession when he died.”
“We found none.” Sir John helped her down from the curricle. “But it was fairly obvious that there had been a robbery.”
“Was it?” Lady Bligh shot him a sideways glance. “Did your men find any banknotes in Leda’s shop?”
Sir John was forced to admit that they had not. “What’s your point, Dulcie?” He looked at the mean little cottage. “And what the devil is this place?”
“The point, dear John, is that those banknotes were forgeries.” Briskly, Dulcie set off across the patch of dirt that served as the cottage yard. Bemused, the Chief Magistrate followed her. Lady Bligh rapped energetically on the door.
“Do you think,” inquired Sir John, “that I might be told where we are and why we’re here? At your convenience, of course! I wouldn’t want to distract you from whatever unimaginable thoughts are running through your scheming little head.”
No response came to her loud summons, and Dulcie turned away from the door. She was frowning. “I have an extremely unpleasant hunch.”
The Chief Magistrate had a premonition of his own, that Lady Bligh was going to land him once again in the devil of a fix. He watched as she walked slowly through a neglected garden to the well that stood in one comer. When she stopped dead in her tracks, he moved quickly to her side.
“This is the home of Mary Elphinstone.” The Baroness was frowning at the footprints that surrounded the well. “The woman whom Leda was visiting when Warwick was murdered. I had hoped she would provide Leda an alibi.”
Sir John cared neither for Dulcie’s somber tone nor her use of the past tense. Almost reluctantly, he moved forward to peer into the well. What he saw there prompted him to step back hastily.
“Mary?” inquired Lady Bligh, her face pale.
“I fear she’ll assist no one now.” Sir John was overwhelmed by a sudden, absurd protectiveness. Gently, he grasped Dulcie’s shoulders and turned her away.
Chapter 12
Crump gazed around the small, bare Bow Street office, and then seated himself at the Chief Magistrate’s desk. It was a severe breach of etiquette, but Sir John was presiding over a hearing in the Bow Street courtroom, and was unlikely to find out.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Crump to his less-than-enthusiastic visitor, “about what you told me concerning the robbery.”
“Oh?” inquired Mr. Throckmorton, somewhat testily. Never had he thought that he would be summoned to Bow Street. “What about it?”
“Describe to me again that dangerous-looking character you saw lurking about the club.”
Mr. Throckmorton grimaced, not at the question but at the pervasive smell of horse dung and soot that came through the open window. “As nasty a villain as you might hope to see. Brown-haired, he was, and shabby. And he wore a monocle.”
“Ah!” Crump leaned back in Sir John’s chair and hooked his thumbs in his quilted pique waistcoat. “You didn’t mention that eyeglass before, guv’nor.”
Mr. Throckmorton glowered at his interrogator. “I daresay in the agitation of the moment it slipped my mind. What progress is Bow Street making? Raggett is growing most anxious for the return of his silver plate.”
“You may tell Raggett that matters are proceeding smoothly.” Crump brought out his pipe. “Very smoothly indeed. In fact, we are in momentary expectation of making an arrest.”
“Oh? Can you tell me who?”
Crump winked in a comradely manner. “Afraid not, guv’nor. But I believe I can show you something in just a few moments that will assure you that Bow Street is on its toes.” Mr. Throckmorton looked skeptical, but said no more.
In truth, Crump reflected as he lit his pipe, this case was not progressing as well as he might wish. It was easy enough to see how Lady Coate’s faro bank had been stolen; her servants were shockingly negligent in locking up the house and to open the old-fashioned safe was little more than child’s play. The robbery of Messrs. Rundle and Brydges presented little more of a challenge. It was common enough for a well-dressed thief to enter such a shop, examine small articles such as gold seals and brooches, and then, while looking the shopkeeper in the eye, conceal several items in the wide sleeves of his coat. The only difference was that these current robbers were operating on an unusually large scale.
The burglary at White’s Club was somewhat more difficult to understand. Further speech with the Negro page, however, had almost compensated Crump for his severe disappointment regarding the chimney sweeps. That enterprising young scamp, as Crump had suspected, had two very sharp eyes in his head. Under closer questioning he had admitted seeing a gentleman loitering near the plate closet the evening before the theft was discovered. The page had thought little enough about it at the time, gentlemen in their cups being prone to wandering here and there, nor could he offer a clear description of the man. All the same, it was a step forward. Crump thought he might speak to the sweeps again. Innocent they might be, though the Runner harbored doubts, but it was possible they could have unknowingly seen something important.
The door to the office swung open, and a third man was ushered into the room. The arrival of this individual sparked a startling reaction from Mr. Throckmorton: he leaped to his feet with an agility that belied his girth and sent his old wooden chair crashing to the floor.
“That’s him!” Throckmorton pointed a chubby finger. “That’s the man I saw!”
“Egad!” said Willie, starting as if he’d been stung. Crump propped his feet up on Sir John’s desk and puffed on his pipe.
“Don’t bother to deny it!” Throckmorton advanced across the room. “You were skulking about White’s!”
“Not skulking!” protested Willie. “I do not skulk, dear man. I lurk, ears cocked for any interesting tidbits that might be incorporated in tomorrow’s news. It has always been the way of the journalist, ever since the very beginning when rich and influential men who had to be away from court employed writers to send them the latest news.” He struck a martyred pose. “Just as it has always been the lot of the journalist to suffer persecution, ever since the Star Chamber in the reign of Charles I. It is a hard life, gentlemen.”
Mr. Throckmorton’s jaw had dropped open during this speech; now it closed with an audible snap. “Don’t try to deny it!” he repeated. “You were seen sneaking about White’s on the day of the robbery.”
“Was I?” asked Willie. “I suppose it is quite possible. I pussyfoot all about the city, as innocuous as a lamp post, and you would be surprised at the things I learn.” He smiled seraphically. “Did you know that a perfect mermaid, with a comb in one hand and a looking glass in the other, has been blown ashore at Greenwich?”
“No, and I can’t say that we care.” Crump’s neat little feet thudded to the floor. “Throckmorton, you positively identify this man as the one you saw?”
“Use your eyes!” snapped Throckmorton. “Of course I do.”
“Then you may step into the hallway and give your evidence to the clerk.” Crump gazed benignly upon Willie. “While your deposition is being taken, I’ll just have a little chat with this gentleman.”
Willie watched with keen interest as Throckmorton, plump cheeks flushed, stomped out of the room, and then moved to the window where he perched, long legs dangling from the sill.
Crump remained briefly silent, puffing on his pipe as he contemplated the
mysterious workings of his own clever mind. He hadn’t believed a word of Throckmorton’s tale about the mysterious prowler who displayed such interest in White’s august premises; yet here he was, confronted with that very man. No wonder Willie had seemed familiar, though they’d never encountered one another before. And Willie worked for Leda, who Crump was growing more and more convinced was involved in this series of very clever crimes. Perhaps she was the mastermind behind them all.
“You unnerve me, Mr. Crump!” Willie clasped his gloved hands between his knees. “It is delightful to see you again, of course, but I nourish the liveliest apprehension as to why you’ve called me here. Do you think you might explain?”
Crump chuckled. “It’s not me as has the explaining to do! You’ve heard Throckmorton swear he saw you at White’s. Mind telling me what you were doing there?”
Willie’s eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline. “Am I thought to be a suspicious and dangerous character? You flatter me, Mr. Crump, indeed you do.”
“I’ll do more than that if you don’t stop stirring coals!” said Crump. “I’ll see you committed to quod for a month as a rogue and a vagabond.”
“Name-calling?” Willie raised his eyebrows. “Rather like the pot and the kettle, is it not? People in my profession are merely accused of scandal mongering and lies, whereas people in yours are accused of catching innocent men and having them hanged. I do sympathize,”
“Speaking of hanging,” retorted Crump, so grimly that Willie blanched, “Answer my questions or it’ll go the worse for you.”
“Mr. Crump, you misjudge me! I am only too happy to oblige.” Willie wore a cautious expression. “What questions were those?”
“What were you doing at White’s?” repeated Crump, a great deal more patiently than he felt.
Willie shrugged. “I was waiting to speak with one of the members, not wishing to venture within. I’m truly sorry to disappoint you, but there it is! The truth is often dull.”
Crump greatly doubted that he’d heard the truth, dull or otherwise, but temporarily let the matter lie. “Who is paying Miss Langtry’s way at Newgate? Was it you that left a handsome purse for her use?”
“I?” Willie grimaced. “I’m sure I would’ve liked to, but I haven’t a feather to fly with. Nor can I help you regarding dear Leda’s comforts, other than telling you she has money of her own.”
“Does she, now?” mused Crump. “Odd, isn’t it, that she claims she doesn’t know who bought her way?” But, then, Leda claimed a number of things that were obviously untrue.
“Actually, it isn’t,” Willie replied. “The people are firmly behind Leda, as are my fellow Gentlemen of the Press. She is the only female member of the London Press Club. Anyone could have left that purse for her, and if he wished to remain anonymous, we would never learn who it was.”
Crump said nothing, recalling the gaoler’s rather dubious tale of a well-dressed gentleman. “Where does Leda get her money? Don’t try to tell me that damned newspaper is a financial success.”
Willie looked pained. “We journalists do not pursue our craft,” he said reprovingly, “for financial gain. To tell the world the truth, that is our concern. You do have hold of the wrong end of the stick, Mr. Crump. Surely you know Leda was visiting with a friend at the time of Warwick’s murder?”
Crump’s smile was a great deal less pleasant now, and his bright eyes rested thoughtfully on Willie’s gloved hands. “Mary Elphinstone’s body was found yesterday. She was apparently beaten unconscious, then thrown into a well.”
For once, Willie had no prompt retort. Crump listened to the crash of cartwheels on the cobblestone streets below, the occasional hearty curses of draymen, as he mulled over the details that he’d withheld. Around Mary Elphinstone’s well had been a woman’s footprints, prints the same size, or Crump missed his guess, as Leda Langtry’s feet; and on Mary Elphinstone’s body had been a brooch stolen from the worthy establishment of Rundle and Brydges. It was impossible to determine exactly when the woman had died, but one thing was sure: if Leda hadn’t killed Lord Warwick, she had certainly killed Mary Elphinstone. Crump rather suspected Leda was responsible for both murders, and that Mary Elphinstone had died not only because she could disprove Leda’s alibi, but because she knew too much about Leda’s activities.
“Good God,” said Willie, at last. “Poor Leda is in a dreadfully forlorn position now. I suppose you’ll next be asking me to unbosom myself to you now, Mr. Crump, to make a full confession of my guilt.”
“No.” The Runner was convinced that he was on the right track, but there were still certain abstruse points to be cleared up. “What I’m asking is that you take off those gloves and show me your hands.”
Willie slid off the windowsill. “It is another of the hazards of the profession,” he said gloomily as he stripped off the gloves. “The printer fell ill and I was forced to deal with the press. As you can see, it is not an occupation at which I am adept.”
What Crump saw were knuckles as raw and abraded as if they’d beaten the spirit out of an old woman. He contained his excitement, however, and merely rose to lean casually against the back of Sir John’s chair. There were moments of sheer joy in this profession of his, when he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was hot on the trail of a murderer.
Yet even Crump had to admit that Willie hardly looked like a bloodthirsty criminal, drooping as he was in the middle of the room. “Who were you looking for at White’s?” asked the Runner. He might be convinced that he had solved the puzzle, but Sir John would require proof.
“Mr. Crump, you do have an ax to grind.” Willie slowly pulled on his soiled gloves. “And I, alas, have a deadline to meet. Very well, if you must have it, I was waiting for Viscount Jeffries.”
Crump had a nasty sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, for he recalled very clearly that he’d met that gentleman in Lady Bligh’s Drawing Room. “Why?” he asked.
“I’m afraid my reasons are personal, and I doubt that you’d approve of them.” Crump stared astonished as Willie winked. “Now, Mr. Crump, loath as I am to depart your stimulating company, I must attend to that deadline!”
The Runner made no move to prevent his visitor from blithely exiting, for Willie would be closely followed wherever he went. Crump knew evasive action when he saw it: Willie had been relieved at the thrust of the questioning. Willie was a man with a great deal to hide, concluded Crump. Those secrets would be exposed ere long.
The journalist had given him more than a little food for thought. Things were taking on a definite shape, for all there were so many busy fingers set on making a muddle of the pie.
So Viscount Jeffries was a member of White’s. Now that the chimney sweeps were cleared, it was one of Crump’s more tedious tasks to discreetly investigate that select membership. He decided his first efforts might be directed toward nosing out the association between Viscount Jeffries, Willie Fitzwilliam and Leda Langtry.
Chapter 13
Although it was an unreasonably early hour, Lady Bligh was already closeted with her two most loyal retainers in the Breakfast Room. “Well, Culpepper,” said the Baroness, who was elegant in a lacy dressing gown and with an even lacier cap covering her curls, “what have you learned?”
“To heartily dislike oysters!” retorted the abigail, whose ill temper might be partially excused by the particularly severe bout of indigestion that had kept her awake half the night. “A woman was seen leaving Warwick’s apartments, by way of the window, very near to the time when the murder took place.”
“Ah!” The Baroness popped a well-buttered scone into her mouth.
“She wore black,” continued Culpepper. “Though she was heavily veiled, it was noted that she had white hair.”
“So do half the dowagers in London.” Dulcie sipped her chocolate. “Gibbon, step into the hallway and ask my niece to come in.”
The butler threw open the door. Mignon— dressed for the out-of-doors in a forest green spencer over a
paler walking dress, a neck scarf of emerald with lime stripes, beige half boots and kid gloves, and a most elegant green velvet hat trimmed with coque feathers—stood on the threshold, hand upraised to knock.
“How nice you look, my dear.” The Baroness was apparently no whit disturbed that her niece intended to set out on foot into a very dreary morning, an undertaking that would have sent Mignon’s mama, had she but known, into convulsions. “Do heed my advice and take one of the footmen along. I shall not ask him to report to me where you’ve been, I promise, child. Now sit down and have some chocolate.”
Mignon, greatly startled, obeyed. How could Dulcie have known she meant to set out alone? She frowned. Could her aunt have also guessed where she meant to go?
Dulcie had turned back to Culpepper. “There was something queer about that woman,” conceded that worthy, somewhat unhappily. “She displayed the agility of a far younger woman than she appeared to be, dropping to the ground as easily as if she clambered in and out of windows every day.”
“That is odd,” agreed the Baroness. She eyed her butler. “Gibbon?”
“I have discovered one thing, my lady.” He, in turn, surveyed Mignon. “It concerns Lord Barrymore.”
“You fear Mignon will betray us to her so-worthy suitor?” asked Lady Bligh. Mignon blinked. “We need not regard my niece. What about Lord Barrymore?”
Gibbon did not share his mistress’s assurance concerning Miss Montague. He stared stiffly straight ahead. “It is being said, my lady, that Lord Barrymore owed Lord Warwick a considerable amount of money.”
“Money.” Lady Bligh tapped her elegant fingers on the tabletop. “Interesting. However, I daresay Barrymore has a perfectly innocent explanation. I wonder what it is.”
Mignon could have cared less in that moment about Lord Barrymore and his explanations. Her nerves were already taut as fiddle-strings with combined anticipation and dread. She set down her cup.
“You’re off then, Mignon?” asked the Baroness. “While you’re out, you might match a piece of ribbon for me.” She pulled a scrap of lilac cording from the pocket of her robe.
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