Maggie MacKeever

by The Baroness of Bow Street

  There had been three persons involved, a woman and two men, and among them they had played pretty havoc with London’s banking institutions. Crump was not dismayed that the descriptions he obtained fit no one he knew. The Runner grew more and more convinced that he was dealing with a very clever criminal brain. He would have given a great deal to know how Leda continued to rule her illicit empire so efficiently from a prison cell.

  But the miscreants would in time grow careless, and then Crump would spring his trap. He had a very good notion who Leda’s accomplices were. Given enough rope, they would hang themselves. Sir John had insisted on distributing handbills with details of the various stolen properties to the City’s pawnbrokers, but Crump suspected none of the contraband would turn up there. Nor, he thought, would it make its way across the Channel to surface at Frankfurt or in France. These thieves had no need of immediate profit. Crump subscribed to Henry Fielding’s theory: greed, not want, was the main cause of crime.

  He came to the residence that he sought, a small elegant establishment perfectly suited to a gentleman’s petite amie, and approached the front door. A French maidservant admitted him without so much as a blink of her long and patently false eyelashes and ushered him into the sitting room.

  “So!” said Zoe, who wore a shockingly transparent muslin gown that exposed considerably more than her lovely shoulders. “Bow Street has at last come to call on me. I expected you sooner! Do sit down.”

  Crump looked around the room, decorated in flesh-colored stucco and gilt, with very large looking glasses and curtains of crimson and white silk adorning the walls, and a crimson carpet on the floor. Since there was no item of furniture large enough to conceal either an eavesdropper or a potential assailant, the Runner obeyed his hostess’s command. The fact that he himself might be the murderer’s next target had more than once crossed his mind.

  Zoe regarded him from the recamier on which she was curled like a plump yellow-haired kitten. Indeed, mused Crump somewhat wistfully, she’d make a comfortable armful for any man. Opera dancers, no matter how free with their favors, were beyond the resources of the Runner’s pocketbook. This one, he reflected, must cost Lord Jeffries handsomely. It would be money well spent.

  He cleared his throat. “I daresay you know why I’m here.”

  Zoe had long experience of the opposite sex; it was second nature to her to try to charm every specimen of it that came her way. “What is your name?” she asked, wrinkling her pretty little nose. “Your Christian name, I mean. I can hardly call you ‘Mr. Bow Street Runner’ or ‘Crump’! It’s so very formal. I dislike formality, you see.”

  Crump blushed all the way up to his shiny bald pate. “Siegfried,” he replied and held his breath lest she laugh.

  “Siegfried.” Zoe tried out the name. Crump noticed that she had a delightful little lisp. “How unusual! It suits you perfectly. Now tell me how I may help you, Siegfried. I collect it concerns Lord Jeffries?”

  “Yes.” Crump reminded himself sternly that this charming female might well be a member of Leda’s troupe. “I understand you were questioned by the Chief Magistrate regarding a certain list of times, and that you swore the Viscount spent those hours with you.”

  “He did.” Zoe cast down her eyes. “I fear you will think the worst of me, Siegfried, but I cannot deny it. Jeffries has been a particular friend of mine for several years. Thank heavens my sainted papa is dead for he would be sorely grieved to see his treasured daughter so lost to shame.”

  Crump was far from immune to beauty in distress. “Nonsense!” he said gruffly. “I can’t speak for your papa, but I see no reason for you to be ashamed of your, er, position.” Zoe raised huge, tear-drenched blue eyes to such good effect that he almost lost his trend of thought. “Shall we, um, get back to Lord Jeffries, ma’am?”

  Zoe fished a handkerchief out of the low-cut bodice of her gown. “Certainly, if that is what you wish. Although I know little more than I told Sir John.” She smiled sadly. “Ivor was not in the habit of discussing with me the details of his personal life.”

  “Was not, ma’am?”

  Zoe pressed her handkerchief to her dainty little nose. “All is at an end, alas! Oh, I had expected it, for the philosophy of the upper classes is quite empty of compassion, you know.” She sniffled. “But I had not thought it would come like this. What a dreadful scandal! That Ivor should be the son of a murderess! Even now the intelligence makes me perfectly sick.”

  It was none of Crump’s business, and it certainly had no bearing on his investigations, but he had to ask. “Forgive my presumption. Miss Zoe, but did you break off your relationship with Lord Jeffries? Or was it the other way around?”

  She looked indignant. “How can you think I would associate with a man of such notoriety? A woman in my position cannot afford such scandal. I could hardly maintain what remains of my reputation were my name dragged further through the mud. And to tell truth, Ivor’s interest was on the wane.”

  Crump wondered how any gentleman could grow tired of this most delightful creature. “What makes you think that, ma’am?”

  She gazed at him, startled. “Good Lord, I hope I may know the signs! Ivor spent less and less time with me, and even when he was in my company, it was evident that his mind was elsewhere. It is little wonder, I suppose, since his mother was in Newgate. If only I had known!”

  Crump sternly reminded himself that his purpose was to prove the guilt of a criminal, not to gawk and gape at that criminal’s ladybird. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that Zoe was lying mightily in an effort to save her own skin. “You weren’t aware of the relationship between Lord Jeffries and Leda Langtry?”

  “Of course I didn’t know!” Zoe responded, rather irritably. “To use the word with no bark on it, I am a businesswoman, and the market value of the particular commodity that I have to offer decreases in proportion to the unpleasant notoriety that it receives. The mistress of a murderer’s son has little more appeal to discreet buyers than the mistress of a cracksman or a highwayman.”

  An interesting choice of words, mused Crump: in his opinion, Jeffries might be the most superior cracksman of them all. To what end? he wondered. From all accounts, the Viscount was already a very wealthy gentleman. “Yet you protect him?”

  Zoe glanced pointedly about the elegant room. “Can I do less?” she asked. “It is only the truth, after all. And if I did not come forth with the truth, Ivor would truly be in the basket.”

  Crump’s genial features revealed nothing of his interesting conclusions. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  “No?” Zoe’s expression was less that of a playful kitten than of a tigress prepared to defend herself. “I am not an unintelligent woman, Siegfried! Ivor’s relationship with Leda makes him automatically suspect. You see, I knew Warwick rather well at one time. If he knew that Leda was Ivor’s mother, it would be to both their advantage to see him dead. Warwick was not beyond publishing such information if it could gain him some advantage.”

  Crump looked at her and saw instead the battered features of Mary Elphinstone. The old woman had been greatly disfigured by severe bruises about the head and face, and a cord with a running noose had been tightly tied around her neck. “It occurs to me that you yourself might be in some danger, Miss Zoe.”

  Zoe leaned her head on a languorous hand, patently amused. “ From whom? Surely you do not think Ivor would harm me! I assure you we parted on the most amiable of terms.”

  Crump wondered how long that amiability would last if Zoe refused to support Lord Jeffries’ so convenient alibis any longer. There was little doubt in the Runner’s mind that Zoe’s statements were nothing but lies.

  “I do not mean to rush you,” said Zoe, interrupting Crump’s thoughts, “but I am expecting a caller and I do not think he would be greatly pleased to meet a Bow Street Runner. Is there anything else you wished to ask me?”

  Crump rose from his chair and looked at her, so lovely and so unattainable to him
that she might have been the Queen. “Not right now, ma’am. I thank you for receiving me.”

  “There’s no need for thanks, Siegfried!” Zoe stretched out languorously on the recamier. “I’m glad to be of assistance. Come back any time.” The same maidservant showed him to the door.

  Crump made his way through the darkening streets, battered pipe in hand. Alluring as Zoe may have been, she didn’t long occupy his mind. He was not unaware that Ivor frequently visited Leda’s shop, thus coming into contact with the perfidious Willie, or that the mysterious financial resources of the Apocalypse had yet to be satisfactorily explained. Leda’s wealth could well be the proceeds of robberies committed by the three of them. The net was drawing tighter. Now Crump must ensure that none of his slippery fish escaped.

  Then there was the matter of Lady Bligh. Crump suspected that Dulcie had gained Leda’s original release from Newgate by the simple expedient of blackmail. He was very curious as to why the Baroness had so exerted herself. The Runner supposed she was also responsible for the various odd items that had recently begun to appear in the Apocalypse. But why should Dulcie concern herself with speculations that transported convicts might be returning to England, hidden in the flood of refugees and travelers from war-stricken Europe? If only Lady Bligh was more inclined to cooperate with Bow Street! It was obvious that he must cultivate her garrulous cook once again.

  Crump’s idle wandering had brought him to elegant Manchester Square, bastion of the nobility, a spacious street with built-up comers that exuded a snug and sheltered air. He stuffed his pipe in his pocket and recalled his last meeting with White’s chimney sweeps. Again his intuition had proven correct, for those two rascals had in their possession an elegantly embroidered gentleman’s handkerchief that had been found on the floor near the plate closet. Though the Runner could not make out the intricate monogram, he had a fair notion to whom that expensive item belonged.

  Though Crump might have preferred to witness the cockfight that was even then taking place at Westminster between the gentlemen of Middlesex and Shropshire, he settled himself comfortably enough in the shadowy recesses of a side street. Directly ahead loomed a large brick mansion with a balustrated roof, approached by a forecourt and prominent portico. The Runner touched the scrap of material, souvenir of the robbery at White’s, which resided in one of his pockets, and pondered the methods by which he might breach the walls of Lord Jeffries’ town house. Unless Crump missed his guess, the evidence he sought lay hidden within.

  Chapter 17

  “I recall,” said Lady Bligh, who was elegant in a morning dress of white French lawn, “the notorious rake Thomas, Lord Lyttleton. A few weeks after his marriage, he ran off to Paris with a pretty barmaid, about whose virtue he’d just won a bet of £100. Further along in his career, he published a blasphemous parody of his father’s verse, spread a rumor of his own death, and seduced in turn three sisters whose ages didn’t add up to fifty years. They called him ‘the Libertine Macaroni.’“ She gazed upon Lord Barrymore. “You are too young to remember, of course. The great Charles Fox was a macaroni also. How well I recall him, a rather astonishing figure in his blue hair powder and red-heeled shoes. Now it is the Regency, and the elegant minuet and snuffbox are being replaced by the waltz and the cigar.”

  Once again the Baroness held court in her Morning Room. Present to admire, in varying degrees, her ladyship’s surroundings and person were Lord Barrymore, Willie Fitzwilliam and an incredibly handsome young man whom Willie had brought expressly to make the acquaintance of his unpredictable benefactress. Of the three, only Willie seemed at ease.

  “So you are Willie’s actor.” Dulcie contemplated that young man. He looked a veritable Lothario, with curling black hair worn rather long, luxuriant side-whiskers and mustache, sapphire blue eyes and a profile that would have done justice to a Greek statue. “Where do you make your home, Jesse Saint-Cyr?”

  “Wherever I may be, Lady Bligh.” Jesse’s smile would inspire palpitation in many a female heart. “I am a nomad by choice.”

  The Baroness also smiled. “London is excitement enough for me. Too much perhaps, with these recent murders and daring robberies.”

  Lord Barrymore leaned forward in his chair. “Surely you have nothing to fear from such cutthroats, Lady Bligh! The Baron must have left you adequately protected in his absence.”

  “I am no longer a young woman, Barrymore,” the Baroness murmured. It may have been a ridiculous statement, but at that moment she looked undeniably frail. “Hardly a match for determined villains, I assure you.”

  So stirred was Tolly by these remarks that he moved to Lady Bligh’s couch and took her hand, patting it as he might a favorite dog. “You mustn’t allow yourself to become so overset!” he said bracingly. “It is a great pity that you should be alone at such a time, but I beg that you will call on me for any assistance you may need. I would be only too happy to be of service to you.”

  Dulcie cast him a grateful look. “That is very kind of you.”

  “Nonsense!” replied Tolly. “I consider myself quite one of the family, you know.”

  This was all very interesting, but Willie was sufficiently alert to recognize a superb performance. Lady Bligh would have made a remarkable career on the stage. Though he might wonder to what end she so beguiled Lord Barrymore, Willie was a great deal more concerned with his own pursuits. “I wish to speak to you about the announcement of my play, Baroness. As I had hoped, it will be put on at Drury Lane.” He paused a moment to savor his triumph. “You may not know that newspaper proprietors consider it a privilege to insert theatrical announcements gratis, or that such announcements cannot be inserted without authorization. Have I your permission to go ahead?”

  He had meant it as only a courtesy request and never considered that Dulcie might withhold consent. Willie’s stomach tied itself into uncomfortable knots as he felt the weight of her thoughtful gaze. “Jesse Saint-Cyr,” she murmured, as she studied that dashing young man. “An unknown provincial actor is to follow Edmund Kean, who acted Richard III at Drury Lane earlier this year. And a masterful performance it was! You might be wise, Willie, to consider placing another, better-known, actor in the lead role.”

  “Unknown but positively brilliant, Baroness!” said Willie hastily. He knew the black look that had settled on Jesse’s features and wanted no displays of artistic temperament in Lady Bligh’s Morning Room. “It must be Jesse or no one.”

  Dulcie looked suddenly exhausted. “Have it your own way. Go on with your announcements, though I must insist that Jesse’s name does not appear in them. Bill him as a brilliant unknown or whatever you wish, but I want to see no mention in print of the name Jesse Saint-Cyr.”

  “But, Lady Bligh!” wailed Willie. The young actor looked ready to chew nails.

  “Must I recall to you our arrangement?” inquired Dulcie. “One from which I have drawn little benefit? Or need I explain what will happen to your play if I withdraw my support?”

  “No.” Willie drooped. “Of course it will be as you say.”

  “It grieves me, Lady Bligh,” murmured Tolly, who still retained possession of her hand, “to see you so worn down. Surely Miss Montague could take some of these more trivial details off your shoulders? I am sure your niece must agree with me that you have taken on entirely too much. Her devotion to you is a pleasure to see.”

  “Ah, Mignon.” The Baroness looked wistful now. “My niece has felt the lure of London. She is caught up in a social whirl and has little time to spare for me.”

  “Oh?” inquired Lord Barrymore. “Naturally Miss Montague will wish to spend a certain amount of time with her brother now that he is in town.”

  “Maurice?” Dulcie’s laughter was so infectious that it distracted even Willie, who was trying to soothe his actor’s sensibilities. “It is not her brother’s company of which Mignon has grown so fond. A pity she has had to miss this so convivial gathering—but that is the temptation of living so near the center of things,
where life is one long love affair.”

  “Miss Montague is a considerable heiress,” reproved Lord Barrymore, “and too young to have learned the ways of the world. I hope she may not perforce suffer a severe disillusionment.” Willie noted with relief that Jesse had roused from his sulks to follow the conversation with interest.

  “Set your mind at rest, Barrymore.” Lady Bligh regarded the diamonds that glittered on her wrists and hands. “If I were to accuse anyone of dangling after a rich heiress, it would not be Viscount Jeffries.”

  * * * *

  Miss Montague, at that moment, had no more thought to spare for her wily aunt than she had for the man in the moon. She gazed at the small thatched cottage before her. “The reward for convicting a housebreaker is £40,” she remarked, “and for compounding a felony it’s £40 more.”

  “You are very well informed,” retorted Lord Jeffries, after issuing instructions to his coachman. “Are you also cow-hearted, Miss Montague? If you feel an incipient onset of vapors, I beg you will depart with the coach. Despite your aunt’s insistence that you accompany me, I am quite capable of undertaking this enterprise alone.”

  Mignon glowered at the Viscount, who was more than elegant in a satin-collared violet redingote, beaver hat, white kerseymere unmentionables and leather boots. He was in a reckless humor, as evidenced by the spanking pace at which they had driven into the country and the high-handed manner in which he had dealt with Mary Elphinstone’s man of business. “I’ll stay,” she said. Mignon, too, wondered at Dulcie’s insistence that her niece accompany Lord Jeffries on this mission. Did Lady Bligh seek to play matchmaker? She might as well have sent Mignon straight into the dragon’s den.