The Tavistock Plot

by Tracy Grant

  Simon returned his gaze steadily. "And Mélanie's your friend."

  "You could call her that. You could call you that."

  A smile, faint but real, curved Simon's mouth. "You're a good fellow, St. Juste."

  "If you choose to call me that, it's quite your own affair. All things considered, though, I'm just as glad we aren't lying to Roth and Malcolm. That could strain even my abilities. Even Mélanie's, I imagine."

  "You have no idea," Mélanie said.

  Quick steps sounded in the aisle. "Daddy!" Jessica shouted.

  Mélanie ran to the edge of the stage, swung down, and ran to greet her husband. "You got here quickly."

  "I made it a point to." Malcolm caught her hands and squeezed them. His dark brown hair was ruffled and fell over his forehead, as though he'd tugged his hat off quickly, and his greatcoat looked as though he'd pulled it on in a hurry. His gaze darted over her face, taut with concern, then shot to the children and Simon and Julien.

  "There's been an accident," she said. "Lewis Thornsby. Julien and Simon were both here."

  Malcolm lifted her back onto the stage and swung up behind her. He stopped to hug Colin and Jessica, then followed Mélanie to where Julien and Simon stood beside Thornsby's body. Mélanie quickly explained the sequence of events.

  Malcolm stared down at Thornsby. "Before—"

  He broke off as Jeremy Roth strode into the theatre, greatcoat flapping about him, sharp features set with worry. And beneath the worry, the light of the chase.

  As Roth bent over Thornsby, Mélanie gave him the same update she'd given Malcolm. Roth lifted Thornsby's arm, then carefully set it down again. "Whoever did this knew what they were doing," Julien said.

  "He looks to have died about two hours ago." Mélanie looked at Simon and then at Julien. "I'd have been at the coffeehouse with Manon and the children."

  "I didn't come back until after that," Simon said.

  "Nor did I," Julien said.

  "He definitely left the theatre this afternoon with Letty and the others," Mélanie said. "I distinctly remember their all going out the door." Thornsby had been hovering close to Letty Blanchard, offering an umbrella against the threatening rain. "So he came back. Presumably to meet someone. Possibly the killer."

  "If not the killer, we have the question of what became of the other person he was meeting," Malcolm said.

  "Not to mention the weapon," Julien said. "Whoever did this was extraordinarily lucky or knew exactly where to stab to kill quickly. I'd say we're looking for a knife with a six inch blade."

  "I have a constable waiting outside," Roth said. "I'll have him make inquiries in the neighborhood." He looked from Mélanie to Simon. "You said he was hanging about Miss Blanchard. Was it reciprocal?"

  Mélanie exchanged a quick look with Simon. "I wouldn't say the feelings were as strong on her side as on his," Simon said. "But she didn't discourage him. It added to her consequence to have a young gentleman dangle after her, I suspect, at least in her mind. "

  "So you don't think he came back for a rendezvous with her?" Roth was blunt.

  "In the theatre?" Simon shook his head. "I know better than to rule anything out. But I wouldn't have thought it had progressed that far. Or that they'd have chosen such a setting if it had."

  Roth considered Simon. "Forgive me. But in the circumstances, I have to ask. Was Thornsby one of the Levellers?"

  Simon drew a breath. "You'd best see this. You too, Malcolm." He held out the sketch showing the rifle trajectory.

  Roth's sharp breath cut the air. "Since you're showing this to me, I assume there isn't actually a plot that you know of."

  "Do you really think there could be?" Simon asked.

  Roth's gaze was as steady as a rifle barrel in the hands of a sniper. "No, but I know better than to rule any option out."

  "If Thornsby was involved in a real plot, presumably any confederate—anyone wanting to cover up the plot—would have removed the paper," Malcolm said. "So it would seem whoever killed him either didn't know about the paper or didn't care if it was found. Or wanted it to be found."

  "Quite," Julien said. "We were having an interesting debate about that before you and Roth arrived."

  "It may well be a manufactured plot," Simon said, "but you have to take it to the authorities. And I know that means Carfax. I also realize he may well be behind the plot, and you probably won't be able to tell either way, and that even if he is behind it, he may use it against us."

  "Almost certainly," Malcolm said. "Since using it against you would have been the point of such a plot in the first place."

  Simon met his friend's gaze. "In which case, if we don't tell him, we're playing right into his hands."

  Malcolm clapped a hand on Simon's shoulder. "Not playing into Carfax's hands can be fiendishly difficult." He looked at Roth. "Before we go to Carfax, let’s go through Thornsby's things."

  "In case there's proof he's a mole?" Simon said.

  "It would clarify the situation."

  "Given that no one will occupy the royal box until opening, I think we can afford a few hours," Roth said.

  Malcolm turned to Mélanie. "I'll get the children home," she said. "Then, I think, if it's all right with Jeremy, perhaps I should break the news to Letty tonight."

  Roth nodded. "By all means. The sooner we question her, the better. It would be good to see her reaction to the news. And she'll be far more likely to confide in you."

  "Any assignments for me?" Julien asked. He was leaning against a flat pushed into the wings. Viola and Orsino's castle from the Christmas pantomime Mélanie had performed in a month since.

  "Not yet," Malcolm said. "But we may. Unless you saw anything else of interest?"

  "Not that I haven't related. I stumbled into the drama after the main action occurred. But I'll own to a distinct curiosity. Especially as it concerns Carfax."

  Malcolm nodded. "Your insights with Carfax are distinctly helpful. You don't have any reason to think there's a League connection?"

  Julien raised his brows. "Do you?"

  "Only that the League have a way of following us about. They've shown an interest in the Levellers. And their interests and Carfax's tend to cross. Or converge. Or both."

  "I don't know of any connection," Julien said. "Which doesn't mean there isn't one. I'll make some inquiries."

  "My thanks." It was another sign of the changes of the past months that Malcolm was thanking Julien quite without irony. "You'd best be on your way. I imagine Kitty's wondering where you are."

  Julien raised his brows again but gave a faint smile. "Your family's interest in my domestic arrangements is quite remarkable. I suppose this is what it means to have friends."

  Malcolm echoed the smile. "You might say that, St. Juste. They do make it harder to be anonymous. But there are compensations."

  Julien nodded, grinned at Colin, touched Jessica's hair, and swung down from the stage.

  Chapter 2

  Lewis Thornsby had had rooms in Piccadilly, not far from the fashionable bachelors' quarters in the Albany where Malcolm had once lodged himself and where Simon nominally still kept rooms, though he spent most of his time with David and David's niece and nephews whom they were raising.

  The porter let them in without questions when Malcolm showed his card. There was no need to even mention Roth's Bow Street credentials. The more time they got before the scandal was all over London, the better.

  The room was dark and smelled of brandy and cedar. Malcolm held up the candle the porter had given them. Disorder met his gaze. Shirts, waistcoats, cravats, coats, and breeches spilling off chairs, strewn on the floor.

  Roth drew in his breath. "A search or—"

  "The general untidiness of a young bachelor? I'm not sure." Malcolm took a step forwards, then went still. Even before his mind had consciously formulated what he'd heard, he was across the room and through the door to the next room. He put the candle down on a table inside the door and hurled himself across th
e room onto a shadowy figure halfway out the window.

  The man let go of the sill abruptly as Malcolm hauled him to the ground. The candlelight from across the room flickered over the face. "Kit?" Malcolm stared down into Kit Montagu's blue eyes. "What the devil—"

  Before he could say more, a crash sounded from the next room. Another man raced into the room with Roth in pursuit. Roth's quarry leapt over Malcolm and Kit and through the window Kit had been trying to climb out of. Malcolm grabbed the window ledge, pulled himself up, and sprang after. He landed in a crouch in the street, hands smarting as they hit the cobblestones. A shadowy figure was just turning the corner. Malcolm ran after. Three silk-hatted young men staggering out of a carriage blocked the pavement. Malcolm's quarry darted round them and their hackney, losing precious time. Malcolm pushed his way between two of the young men, sending one stumbling on the area steps and the other falling backwards against his third friend, ran towards the street, and used the pavement to propel himself into a jump onto his quarry's back.

  "What the devil?" said one of the young men behind them.

  "Never mind," another said, "let's get Simpkins inside before he's sick in the street."

  Malcolm's quarry had gone limp. "All right, Mr. Rannoch, you'd better ask whatever you were going to ask."

  "Billy?" Malcolm stared at one of Carfax's dirty-tricks minions. "I might have known."

  "Then you know more than I do," Billy Hopkins said. "His lordship just told me to go to those rooms, look through the young man's things, grab any papers."

  "Was that after you killed Lewis Thornsby?" Malcolm asked.

  "Is that his name? I didn't kill him. I didn't kill anyone. Not tonight. Not recently."

  His tone was so aggrieved Malcolm almost believed him. "What else did Carfax say?"

  "Nothing. You think he discusses the finer points of missions with me? He saves that for you. You'd better talk to him yourself if you want to find out."

  That was actually a good point. "All right," Malcolm said. "Turn out your pockets."

  "Don't be stupid, Mr. Rannoch. I didn't have time to look. I'd just got there when you and Mr. Roth came in, and I jumped into the wardrobe and then Mr. Roth found me."

  That was plausible, but Malcolm still searched Billy before sending him on his way. This was how things went with Billy surprisingly often. There was rarely any way to keep him in custody and he rarely had any actual evidence on him.

  "One more question," Malcolm said, grabbing Billy's arm, before he could scramble to his feet. "When did Carfax send word to you?"

  "Less than an hour since. Maybe forty-five minutes. I'd just sat down with a pint in the Crown & Anchor. Hadn't even drunk a third of it."

  So Carfax might have been reacting to news of Thornsby's death rather than covering up because he'd been behind it. Possibly.

  Malcolm let Billy go and sat back on his heels. "Tell Carfax I found you before you could finish his errand."

  Billy shrugged his shoulders. "Right you are, guv'nor. Any other message?"

  "That'll do for now."

  "Right. Be seeing you again, I'm sure. Sooner than not, I reckon, with all that's going on."

  "I reckon as well." Malcolm got to his feet and pulled Billy up. "Take care of yourself, Billy. We may need you later."

  "You always manage to find me, Mr. Rannoch."

  "That I do. Make it easy for me and I'll be easy on you."

  "Between you and Carfax, you're always easier on a fellow, Mr. Rannoch. But then, you've never offered to pay me."

  "No. It's not a bad idea. Except that you'd probably pocket change from both of us."

  "I expect I would, Mr. Rannoch." Billy tugged his coat smooth. "A bloke has to keep an eye out for the main chance."

  Malcolm found Roth in the midst of a methodical search of Lewis Thornsby's rooms while Kit sat on a straight-backed chair, watching but scrupulously not touching anything.

  Roth looked up from a stack of papers on the writing desk. "Didn't think I could catch you. Seemed more important to start going through things here."

  "Quite right." Malcolm closed the door. He'd come back in using the more conventional route.

  Kit looked up and met his gaze. "Jem from the White Rose sent me word about Lewis. One of Roth's constables had gone in to ask questions. I didn't know you were investigating. All I could think was what might be in Lewis's things. I mean—" He cast a quick glance at Roth.

  "I'm aware of the risks the Levellers run," Roth said in a dry voice. "I would think by now you'd know I'm sympathetic."

  "You still work for Bow Street and the chief magistrate still reports to the home office. I don't want to put you in an awkward position."

  "Fair enough," Roth said. "Perhaps you and Rannoch should speak in the adjoining room. He can decide what to tell me."

  Kit hesitated a moment, then at a nod from Malcolm followed him into the adjoining room. "It feels damnably awkward," Kit said, as Malcolm lit a lamp. "Wouldn't dream of keeping anything from Roth in the regular run of things. He's a friend. But—"

  "No, you're right to be concerned for the situation you put him in." Malcolm turned to face Kit. "What was Thornsby involved in?"

  "Nothing." Kit scraped a hand over his hair. "Nothing I know of, that is. Nothing outside of what the Levellers were—"

  "Generally involved in?"

  "Quite. That is—" Kit drew a rough breath. "Thornsby wrote the occasional article. He'd speak up at meetings. He wasn't bad with words. And his heart was in the right place. But he wasn't a leader. And he never seemed the sort to go out and run risks. He seemed more drawn by the appeal of being a Leveller than the practice of it, if that makes sense."

  "It does."

  "It sounds beastly, doesn't it, with him—"

  "Death is always a tragic waste," Malcolm said. "It's particularly so with a young man like Thornsby who seems to have had everything to live for and to have given no cause for anyone to see him as an enemy. But platitudes and worrying about what we say won't help us get at the truth."

  "No, I can see that."

  "So if you didn't think Thornsby was involved in anything particularly dangerous, why the rush to search his rooms?"

  Kit stared at Malcolm with wide blue eyes. "Well, I mean, he was one of us. Even our mildest pamphlets stir government ire. Carfax tried to have us all taken into custody less than a month since. Thornsby was dead suddenly through violent means. I'm no investigator, but it's difficult not to wonder if that had something to do with the Levellers. Even if it didn't, I knew it meant people would be searching his things. Thornsby may not have been a leader, but he could be intemperate. God knows what he might have scribbled down, especially as a draft he never meant to see the light of day."

  Malcolm nodded. It was plausible. He had scribbled drafts of speeches and articles that might wreak all sorts of havoc should anyone go through his papers. And yet he wasn't at all sure he'd heard the full story. Kit was a friend, but then, just as Kit counted Roth a friend and wouldn't tell everything to him, Kit might well keep things from Malcolm as an MP. Not to mention as an investigator into a crime about which Malcolm couldn't shake the sense that Kit knew more than he was telling.

  "Did you?" Malcolm asked. "Find anything? Because you've heard me say more than once that one can never be sure what will prove to be important in an investigation. And showing it to me isn't showing it to Carfax."

  "I know that." Kit's gaze was steady. He hesitated a moment, then reached into his coat and pulled out a paper.

  Malcolm glanced at it in the lamplight. It was a scribbled draft proposing abolition of the House of Lords. "I wrote something like this myself when I was at Oxford. Published it too."

  "And you had Carfax breathing down your neck."

  "Very true. More than we knew." Carfax had set one of Malcolm's closest friends to spy on Malcolm and Simon and his own son. "Do you think Carfax has an agent among the Levellers?"

  Kit's gaze slid to the side then back to M
alcolm. "We've been afraid of it for some weeks."

  Malcolm nodded. "For what it's worth, Simon told me as well." He folded the paper and tucked it into his own coat. "I'll be careful with this. Anything else?"

  Kit shook his head. "I didn't have a lot of time before you and Roth burst in."

  Kit might not be an investigator or an agent, but he was clever and he'd been through more than one investigation. He'd know the value of turning over one piece of evidence to divert notice from another one was hanging on to.

  "Let's see what Roth's found," Malcolm said.

  In the adjoining room, Roth had assembled a pile of papers he thought relevant. "Mostly drafts of things Thornsby was writing for the Levellers." Roth looked at Kit. "I won't show them to anyone unless they prove relevant to the investigation somehow. A couple of letters from his father expressing concern about his life in London. A couple of notes from Letty Blanchard. Brief and fairly innocuous but much creased, as though he treasured them. And this." Roth drew one paper from the stack. "Not quite sure what to make of it."

  Meet me at the White Rose the day after tomorrow at ten in the morning. You must understand I can't commit more to writing.

  "Do you recognize the hand?" Roth asked Kit.

  Kit shook his head.

  But Malcolm recognized it, and the sight of the note made him grow cold and spun the investigation in a whole different direction. It belonged to Kitty Ashford. Julien St. Juste's mistress. Malcolm's own first love.

  Chapter 3

  As Malcolm stared down at the paper, struggling with the implications, the door creaked open. A sharp gasp followed. Malcolm, Roth, and Kit spun towards the door. A young man stood there, wrapped in an olive-drab greatcoat, hesitating as though unsure whether to attack or take flight.

  Thornsby hadn't shared his rooms with anyone. So— "You must be Thornsby's valet," Malcolm said. "We aren't thieves. My name is Rannoch. Inspector Roth of Bow Street, and Kit Montagu."