Willie, eyes fixed on that broad blade, collapsed onto a settee. “I’ll confess to anything!” he cried. “Only I beg you, do not decapitate me!”
“John!” With a gesture, the Baroness brought her Indian jugglers to toss up and catch their burning torches just outside the door. “There is always a way to insure one’s privacy, if one is sufficiently ingenious. Now you will explain to me why you are browbeating poor Willie. It isn’t like you to make a scene.”
“Poor Willie,” retorted the Chief Magistrate, as he carefully set aside the broadsword, “has just admitted his responsibility for the forged banknotes.” He glared at that unhappy individual, who looked as though he would have very much liked to sink through the floor. “He was just on the verge of confessing to his complicity in murder and robbery.”
“Oh?” Willie squirmed under the Baroness’s thoughtful eye. “I had thought I might have to repent of my choice, but not quite so grievously. Well, Willie, what have you to say for yourself?”
“He might as well say it at Bow Street,” interjected Sir John. “I’m sorry this hasn’t fallen out as you might have wished, Dulcie, but I’m glad to have it so tidily tied up.” Carefully, he replaced the sword in its place on the wall. “Crump was right all along, it seems.”
“No, Crump was not,” retorted Lady Bligh crossly, while Willie moaned. “I had thought you possessed a superior understanding, John, but you have shown me little evidence of it. No more than Leda is Willie involved in your murders and your robberies.”
“Have you no regard for the evidence, Dulcie?” The Chief Magistrate was victim of a fleeting impulse to impale his Nemesis on a primitive spear. “How do you mean to explain it away?”
“I don’t care a button for your evidence,” replied Lady Bligh. “It would be to your benefit to listen—without further comment!—to Willie’s tale.”
Sir John thought he’d heard enough of Willie’s taradiddles for one evening, but he was not proof against Dulcie’s pleading glance. “Very well. I will listen, and then I’ll take him in.”
“Dear John!” Lady Bligh smiled. “I am persuaded, once you’ve heard the truth, that you will not behave so. Proceed, Willie! The stage is yours.”
Willie’s slender, gloved fingers clenched and entwined. “I thought the notes were to be used as a prop. A device to add verisimilitude. I had no notion the things would fool anyone when closely seen.” The Chief Magistrate made an annoyed gesture, and the playwright continued hastily. “I suppose I should have smelled a rat, but the fact is I did not! It seemed a straightforward request, and I needed the money that I was promised when the things were done.”
“You were fortunate,” murmured the Baroness, “not to be paid in your own coin. What a hobble! I don’t suppose you’d care to tell John who commissioned that pretty piece of forgery?”
Willie winced. “I must protest, not forgery! Merely an imitation of the real thing, only accurate enough to seem real when viewed from a distance, as on the stage.” He spread his hands. “What can I say? My only defense is that I abhor shoddy work. It seems I am a truer artist than I knew.”
Sir John reminded himself that Willie had already proven himself the possessor of an extremely fertile artistic imagination. “I’m waiting,” he said, though with little evidence of patience, “to hear who commissioned those notes. Perhaps, Leda Langtry?”
“Dear John,” sighed Dulcie, “that won’t fadge! Leda has more than enough money to support her peculiar mode of life, and she obtained it through perfectly legal means, though I won’t acquaint you with their precise nature, since it is none of your business.”
“Dulcie,” growled the Chief Magistrate, “do hush! I would like to hear the prisoner’s explanation from his own lips.”
“Prisoner!” gasped Willie. “Egad. But the Baroness is correct, Sir John. Leda had nothing to do with those notes—in truth, I doubt she even knew of their existence. They were requested of me by someone in the theatre whose name I have, alas, forgot, though perhaps it may come back to me. I have no idea what happened to them after that, or how they came into Warwick’s hands.”
Sir John did not demean himself by responding to this palpable nonsense, but stalked toward the door. Perhaps Willie would prove more informative after a few days’ solitude in a gaol cell. “John!” said the Baroness. “Oddly enough, Willie has told you the truth, or what he knows of it. Leda is not involved in the forgery.”
The Chief Magistrate might have made any number of scathing comments, had not Monsieur Trouffant just then slipped around the Indian jugglers and into the anteroom. The Frenchman paused on the threshold to survey its occupants. Sir John looked ready to commit mayhem with any one of the ancient weapons that hung upon the walls; Lady Bligh was engaged in a silent tête-à-tête with a grinning death’s head; Willie, like a deflated balloon, had collapsed in his chair.
Monsieur Trouffant approached Dulcie.
“All is as you requested, madam,” he said, though with no small private curiosity. “I thought you would wish to know immediately what I have learned.”
“And?”
“The organ of destructiveness makes a ridge somewhat behind the ear. The ridge indicates a tendency dangerous to social life, a perversity prevalent in carnivorous animals. In humans, it may mean one who beats animals, who ill treats children and women.” Monsieur Trouffant looked unhappy, for he believed most firmly in the disclosures of his art. “In short, madam, I have never before encountered a ridge so highly developed. There is no question that the subject is inclined toward evil.”
“What can be more evil than murder?” mused the Baroness. In one fluid motion, she rose and stood before the Chief Magistrate. “It will not serve as proof, of course, but you would oblige me vastly, dearest John, if you would let Willie go.”
* * * *
The object of Maurice’s affections was not the only person absent from Lady Bligh’s impromptu fete, and it was perhaps fortunate that Crump was prevented from viewing yet another proof of Dulcie’s striking influence over his Chief Magistrate. Nor was Crump, as he proceeded toward York Place in Marylebone, doomed to a solitary journey, for he had a very unhappy Gibbon in tow. “You’re very wishful to go to Newgate, laddie!” the Runner remarked. “I might, for the sake of old times, be willing to make an exception in your case, if you’ll tell me what you were doing at that apartment in Crown Court.”
Gibbon knew a hawk from a handsaw, and furthermore he’d been caught in a criminal act. He made an extremely rude remark concerning what Crump might do with his exceptions.
“Very suspicious,” said the Runner. In a comradely manner, he applied his elbow to Gibbon’s ribs. “I thought you had reformed, my lad, but I can hardly disbelieve the evidence of my own eyes! Sir John will be very disappointed, to say nothing of the Baroness. There you were, perched like a climbing monkey on a window ledge.”
Gibbon, a staunch believer in the virtue of silence, made no reply. Crump led him to a small elegant establishment and raised his hand to knock at the door. It swung open. “Mighty queer,” mused the Runner, and cast his unwilling companion a sly wink. “It looks like Miss Zoe may be entertaining company.”
Lady Bligh’s butler may have had his minor failings, but he also possessed a strong moralistic bent. “Have you brought me out here to visit a Cyprian?” he gasped.
Crump proceeded down the hallway, leaving Gibbon no choice but to accompany him. “Don’t sermonize over me, laddie! You’re already under a cloud. This isn’t just any bit of muslin but Lord Jeffries’ ladybird, and I’ll wager you’ve never cast your winkers on a prettier wench. Or a bigger liar! We’re here at her invitation, her having sent me a note regarding new developments. You’ll be a witness, my laddie, when Miss Zoe confesses that she lied about Jeffries.”
“You’re out there!” muttered Gibbon. He had a fair notion how his mistress would react to this development. It would not be pleasant. Not only was he to serve as witness for the prosecution, he’d been c
aught red-handed whilst committing a capital offense.
Like Siamese twins, a relationship prompted by the pistol in Crump’s capable hand, the men moved into the sitting room. The Runner thought with complacency that he’d come a long way since the days when his duties consisted of serving summonses and executing assault and peace warrants. With the solving of this case, his fame would almost equal that of Townsend. He looked around the sitting room, approving again of the flesh-colored stucco and gilt.
Gibbon, whose wits were not dulled by dreams of grandeur, and who in addition was accustomed to dwelling in far more luxurious surroundings than these, was conscious of a growing unease. The house was far too quiet. If its occupant was entertaining a caller, presumably male, she was doing so with a discretion unlocked for in a lady of her profession.
“Miss Zoe!” called Crump. “Where are you?”
Gibbon had hardly dreamed to see a time when he was grateful for Crump’s companionship, but that day had come. “Look.” He nudged the Runner. “Behind the settee.”
Crump looked instead at Gibbon, whose countenance had taken on the pallor of wax. With reluctance he followed the butler’s gaze. From behind the recamier protruded a bare and obviously feminine foot. With an oath, Crump crossed the room.
“I never thought to say this,” remarked Lord Jeffries, entering the room through another doorway, “but I’m glad to see you, Crump.” Observing Lady Bligh’s dignified butler in handcuffs, the Viscount raised a brow. Then he continued, “You will find the body of Marie—the maid—in the kitchens.”
Crump’s wits temporarily deserted him; he didn’t know what to think. The Runner looked at Lord Jeffries, as self-possessed as ever, albeit a trifle pale, and thought inconsequentially of such bruisers as Savage Shelton and the terrible Randall and prizefights held at the Castle Tavern in Holborn. Crump would have wagered that the Viscount was as handy with his fists as the renowned Cribb, who’d so easily defeated Belcher at Epsom Downs. He pointed his efficient-looking pistol at the Viscount. “You have some explaining to do, guv’nor,” he said.
Gibbon, remarkably cool in the face of these developments, glanced about the room in search of telltale signs. His gaze fell upon a small end table on which sat a remarkably familiar-looking snuffbox.
“I believe you are laboring under a misapprehension, Mr. Crump,” Ivor said smoothly as Gibbon inched forward. “I arrived only moments before yourself, as my coachman will confirm. If you carefully inspect both bodies, you will find that they have lain thus for some time. The flesh is quite cold.”
Crump had little wish to perform so intimate an examination. Too clearly he remembered the enchanting creature that had called him Siegfried.
With an impatient gesture, Ivor stepped forward. “Don’t press your luck!” the Runner said. “I’d as soon empty this barking-iron into you as look at you, and that’s God’s truth.”
Lord Jeffries ignored the warning, moving not toward the doorway to freedom but to the recamier, his silk-lined opera cloak in his hands. He looked down upon the sprawling, naked body, the yellow hair matted with congealed blood, the face battered beyond all recognition, its nose crushed, one eye dangling from its socket. Gently he spread the cloak over all that remained of a lively little opera dancer, who had once been addressed with proposals of a libertine nature—by a royal duke, a lofty marquis, and a cit of considerable fortune—conveyed through milliners and mantua makers and their ilk. Never again would hopeful suitors send their agents to Zoe.
Crump stared at the bloodstains on his lordship’s clothing and at the mark upon his cheek. It looked very much as if the Viscount had been struck. “Gibbon!” snapped Crump, anticipating a need for assistance. There was no reply, and he glanced over his shoulder. Lady Bligh’s butler, handcuffs and all, had fled.
Chapter 24
“I know,” Lord Barrymore said ruefully, “that I’m not a regular out-and-outer, but neither am I a dashed loose-screw! I suppose I’m a rather dull fellow, with too strong a sense of propriety, but I can’t help but see that you’re fretting yourself in flinders. Is there nothing I may do to help, Miss Montague?”
Mignon regarded Tolly, who was dressed for an expedition to the races, with an unprecedented warmth. His face had lit up with pleasure when they met by chance in the hallway, and so appreciative a reaction was balm to her lacerated sensibilities. “I thank you,” she replied, “but no.”
Tolly took her hand. “I can remain silent no longer. Dearest Miss Montague, I have a great regard for you—indeed, I have gone so far as to befriend your brother, not for his sake but your own, since it is apparent that his presence grates on your nerves.” He smiled. “Too, I did not wish that Maurice should remove you from Town.”
“It is very good of you,” replied Mignon, no little bit surprised.
“No, it was not good of me,” retorted Lord Barrymore. “It was entirely prompted by self-interest. Hush now, let me finish, before Maurice makes an appearance and another opportunity is lost. If you would consent to be my wife, I believe it would make me the happiest man alive.”
Mignon stared, as stunned as if a piece of furniture had suddenly spoken to her. “I am truly sensible of the honor you do me,” she murmured.
“And you are very much obliged!” Tolly retorted. “Fustian, my dear. I will not press you for an answer. This is neither the time nor the place.”
True, thought Mignon. Few damsels could claim to have received a proposal of marriage in the entry hall while waiting for their brother to descend. “Nevertheless,” she said, “you have paid me a great compliment, and I must count myself honored by it. I regret that I cannot give you an answer now, but I do not know my own mind.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.” Lord Barrymore cast a distracted glance at the staircase. Various irascible utterances from above indicated that Maurice was about to descend. “For now, it is enough to know you do not hold me in disdain.”
Mignon had no wish to meet her brother and undergo yet another scold. With the slightest of curtseys she turned and hurried down the hallway. Lord Barrymore’s proposal had affected her more strongly than she would have thought possible, for during it he had revealed himself as another, more appealing man. Had she always been prone to such errors of judgment? Odd that she had never before noticed that Tolly possessed qualities admirable in a husband: gentleness and strength, concern and tolerance. What did it matter if Lord Barrymore didn’t send her senses reeling or her pulse fluttering? He at least would never idly gamble his wife’s fortune away.
Dulcie, clad in a rose silk gown with embroidered bands and a lacy frill around the neck, was seated beneath the stained glass window in her Grand Saloon. Sunlight streaming through the colored glass caused a rainbow to nestle among her pink curls. “My husband,” she remarked to her captive audience, pausing only briefly as Mignon stepped into the room, “is currently on Elba, where he is being treated firsthand to an explanation of Napoleon’s code of etiquette, a manual of manners eight hundred pages long. Bat confirms Castlereagh’s misgivings that the island is too small to contain Napoleon’s restless energy, and too close to the mainland to prevent his hearing all the latest news.” She stretched out a ruby-laden arm to the circular table beside her chair. On this sat the orange cat and a skull brought for some inexplicable reason from the Armory. “Did you know that in Dresden the living are thrown with the dead into the river? Death is all around us. But at last I know who our murderer is. Shortly these misdeeds will be solved, and their perpetrators brought to light. As well as to trial!”
Alarmed by the sound of rattling china, Mignon took the tea tray from Charity, who had followed her into the room. “Silly twit!” reproved the Baroness. The maidservant fled.
Mignon set down the tea tray on the table by her aunt, where it made a bizarre arrangement in juxtaposition with the skull and the tomcat. Neatly avoiding so much as a glance at Viscount Jeffries, she retired to a far corner of the room and seated herself near one of the tall velvet-d
raped windows. Tolly, she thought, would never have treated a lady so shamefully. Bluebeard hung upside down from the draperies and crooned tunelessly into her ear.
Dulcie appeared to be in fine fettle, judging from her energetic manner. This happy state did not extend, however, to the rest of her household. Gibbon, who had been freed from his handcuffs by his knowledgeable mistress, labored in a state of severe perturbation, terrified lest Crump appear to take him under arrest. Culpepper, having overindulged in champagne the night before, had so grievous an indisposition that she winced and blanched at the slightest noise. Nor were Dulcie’s guests possessed of merrier spirits. Viscount Jeffries looked as grim as the dread reaper, while Willie was sunk in deepest gloom.
“Culpepper!” The Baroness nodded her lovely pink head, and her abigail left the room. Dulcie then surveyed her guests, all of whom had been presented with tea. “Now we will get down to business. Jessop, it would be vastly diverting to hear how you came by that bruise.”
Absently, the Viscount touched his cheek. Mignon stared fixedly into space. “An inconsequential encounter,” he replied brusquely. “Nothing to signify except that Crump thought it resulted from a struggle with Zoe.” He set aside the teacup that had been pressed into his reluctant hand. “You say you know the murderer. Will you name him, Lady Bligh?”
“Not yet.” The Baroness reached for the skull, which she deposited in her lap. Piqued, Casanova thudded to the floor and draped himself across Ivor’s gleaming boots. “Tell me more about your interview at Bow Street.”
“Crump was sure I had murdered Zoe and her maid, and built a good case around the blood stains on my clothes. He wasn’t inclined to believe I’d obtained them when I knelt by Zoe’s body to ascertain if she was dead.” A muscle twitched in Lord Jeffries’s lean jaw. “Fortunately, Sir John was a trifle less credulous. As he pointed out, I could have escaped without Crump ever seeing me, had I so wished.”
“You could also,” mused the Baroness, absently inserting a slender finger into the skull’s eye socket, “have acted precisely as you did in an effort to appear sublimely innocent.”
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