Past Crimes: A Compendium of Historical Mysteries

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Thank God for that. I’m hardly in the mood to talk about the intricacies of David and his pupils. David was a radical revolutionary, did you know that? Probably ran Comte de la Fontaine out of his home personally, thereby allowing de la Fontaine to be preyed upon by an Englishman looking to line his coffers. Possibly best I do not bring this up at Grenville’s supper with his art critics.”

  “No, sir.” Bartholomew gave me a dubious glance. He never knew what to do with me when I started waxing philosophical.

  “Never mind. Go on, then.”

  Bartholomew poured me more coffee then made ready to depart with a look of relief.

  I was glad to see him go, because I’d recognized the handwriting on the top letter of the pile as that of Lady Breckenridge, and I wanted to read her missive in private. I shoveled in beef and bread while Bartholomew scrambled upstairs to gather a few things to take home with him.

  As soon as Bartholomew had trundled down the stairs and out—slamming the door hard behind him—I wiped my hands, broke the seal on the letter, and opened it.

  My dear Lacey, Lady Breckenridge wrote. I think that I shall never forgive you for persuading me to undertake this decidedly dreadful task. I must invent many more favors for you to do in return.

  I smiled, but with a touch of uneasiness, and read on.

  I have been seeing much of Lady Clifford of late, and I cannot express what a relief it is to return to my quiet home in the evenings. Barnstable brings me thick coffee, which he liberally laces with brandy, bless him. Though I believe an entire decanter of the stuff would not be enough to rid myself of the taste of the Clifford household. Heaven help you, Lacey.

  But I will cease complaining and come to the heart of the matter. It was easy enough to worm myself into Lady Clifford’s household. I approached Lady Clifford on the pretext of asking her to assist me with one of my musicales—there is a soprano who sings like an angel—I believe you will agree when you hear her.

  Who knows why Lady Clifford so readily believed I sought her help. Her taste in music is appalling—or, I should say, nonexistent. But I soldiered on, and she professed delight.

  The poor woman has not much more to do in her life but play cards and gossip. Even her companion, Mrs. Dale, does all the embroidery for her, while Lady Clifford sits and pretends to conduct interesting conversation. She does knit on occasion, for the poor, though so badly that I suspect the poor simply unravel the yarn and use it for some more practical purpose.

  These drawbacks are not entirely her fault. Her husband, I have now observed firsthand, tells Lady Clifford outright that anything she endeavors is foolish, and so she gives up before she begins. Lord Clifford tried to include me in one of these rants but, as you can imagine, he had no success in that regard.

  Lady Clifford is much too easily cowed by him. Bullies are encouraged by meekness, as I have come to know.

  Mrs. Dale, the companion, is not as easily cowed, but her strength lies in her silences. She is able to remain perfectly still, eyes on her sewing, no matter what storms rage on around her. She is not quiet like a serene pool—more like a stubborn rock that refuses to be worn down. Because of this, she hasn’t much to say for herself, although I note that, when we ladies are alone, some rather sarcastic humor comes out of her mouth. Not often, but it is there.

  Mrs. Dale does indeed take laudanum, as I suspected. Her excuse is headache, which, she says, is why she likes to sit so quietly, but that is all fabrication. When anything unnerving happens in that household, it’s a quick nip from the laudanum bottle. And believe me Lacey, unnerving things occur all the time.

  For instance, Mrs. Dale mislaid Lady Clifford’s knitting basket (on purpose, I suspect). Instead of simply telling a servant to find the blasted thing, Lady Clifford went into hysterics. She screeched at Mrs. Dale about her every fault, until Lord Clifford, who was home, had to come to see what was the matter.

  I stepped to the next room, pretending the need to refresh myself—and indeed, I was developing a headache as fierce as Mrs. Dale’s supposed ones. I heard Lord Clifford quite clearly tell his wife that the loss of the knitting basket was her own fault, that she could not keep account of any damned thing, and there was a reason he’d begun to favor Mrs. Dale over her.

  I am not certain he’d have said such a thing had he known I was listening, but then again, Lord Clifford hasn’t the best of manners. But really, what a thing to tell your wife! Lady Clifford cried all the more, Mrs. Dale joined her when Lord Clifford stormed out, and I returned to two weeping women.

  But interestingly, I found them trying to console each other. Dear, dear Annabelle wasn’t to blame, said Lady Clifford, and Mrs. Dale cried that dear, dear Marguerite was brave to suffer so much.

  They continued weeping and embracing even after I sat down and pointedly started going through the guest list for the musicale. I gather that the two were the dearest of friends before Lord Clifford decided he wanted both his meat and his sauce in his own house. Saves him the bother of going out for it, I suppose. The two ladies are putting up with it as best they can.

  The truce did not last long, however. Before another hour was out, Mrs. Dale was once more a hard-hearted, ungrateful bitch, and Lady Clifford a slow-witted fool.

  I took Mrs. Dale aside and asked her why she stuck it here. I do not for one moment believe that she has fallen in love with Lord Clifford. From all evidence, she rather despises him.

  Mrs. Dale blinked red-lined eyes at me and bleated that she stayed because she had nowhere else to go. This I can well credit. Her husband hadn’t a penny left to his name when he died, and Mrs. Dale immediately went to live with her girlhood friend, Lady Clifford. She’s been in the house ever since. Mrs. Dale did not say this, but I also had the feeling that she does not want to leave Lady Clifford to face Lord Clifford on her own.

  Both ladies are well under Lord Clifford’s thumb, and I strongly suspect that his interest in Mrs. Dale is more a game of power over his wife than any sort of sentimental feeling.

  This was confirmed by my maid who spent the time in the kitchens while I was there (and by the bye, she is not very forgiving of you, either). Lord Clifford apparently satisfies some of his baser needs with maids below stairs, including the very maid arrested for stealing the necklace.

  Of the necklace itself, I haven’t a dratted clue. I have run very tame in Lady Clifford’s house but have been unable to find a trace of it. I began with the most obvious place, Lady Clifford’s own bedchamber and dressing room. The woman has many baubles—Lord Clifford does not stint on hanging finery on her. He must be of the ilk that believes a jewel-encrusted wife reflects well on him. However, the necklace in question was nowhere in Lady Clifford’s chambers that I could see.

  Next was Mrs. Dale’s meager chamber, but again, I had no luck. What I discovered there was that Mrs. Dale wears Lady Clifford’s castoff gowns, modified to fit her rather narrower figure. Her jewelry is quite modest. Again, I suspect, gifts from her dear Lady Clifford before their falling out.

  Lord Clifford might favor Mrs. Dale in his bed these days, but he certainly hasn’t rewarded her with anything costly. Or, if he has, she neither displays these gifts nor keeps them in her bedchamber. I assure you, I was quite thorough.

  Other rooms revealed nothing. I could not do much searching in the main sitting room, because Lady Clifford and Mrs. Dale were sitting in it. Constantly. I took a quick look at the dining room, but I had little time, and it’s likely anything hidden there would be found by a servant.

  Not that the staff of Lady Clifford’s house is anything like efficient. I would sack the lot of them, and I told the housekeeper so. The housekeeper is an exhausted stick, not pretty enough for Lord Clifford, I gather, and he does run rather hard on her when he bothers to notice her at all. Were it my lot in life to be a housekeeper, I’d certainly try to find a better place.

  Nonetheless, the servants at least attempt to keep the large house clean, and anything hidden in the public rooms
would come to light eventually. That leaves the kitchens, the chambers of the servants themselves, and Lord Clifford’s private study and bedchamber.

  A servant might hide the necklace for her employer out of loyalty, but I do not think so in this case. I have not seen here the sort of affection some servants have for their employers. Barnstable looks after me as though he still regards me as the naïve young wretch who first married Breckenridge, ages ago it seems now. The staff in the Clifford household simply do their jobs, and from what my maid tells me, the family is not much respected below stairs.

  As I say, that leaves Lord Clifford’s private study and bedchamber. If I can contrive to enter them, I will, but apparently, there is but one reason a lady enters Lord Clifford’s bedchamber, and forgive me, Lacey, but there is a limit to my interest in this little problem. Lord Clifford’s chamber might have to go unsearched.

  I am afraid this letter will not help you much. In conclusion, if the stolen necklace is still in the house, it is well hidden. And if it secretly has been sold, I cannot tell either, because no one here ever discusses the necklace at all. A forbidden topic, I gather.

  The atmosphere is strained and full of anger, and Lady Clifford, Mrs. Dale, and Lord Clifford make a strange threesome. There is no love lost between them, and much misery exists.

  Now, then, Lacey, in return for my prying, I will ask one of my favors right away—and that is for you to attend said musicale tonight. I have observed that you dislike crowded gatherings, but you must put a brave face on it and come. If nothing else, your presence will give me a chance to speak more to you about this problem.

  Wear your grand uniform and stand about looking imposing, as you do, so that my guests will have something to talk about. They grow bored and need a good whisper about the captain friend of Grenville’s who turns up at Lady Breckenridge’s gatherings now and again.

  Besides, in truth, you will quite enjoy the soprano. Unlike Lady Clifford, I do have fine musical taste, and I shall have Barnstable look out for you.

  Ever yours in friendship,

  Donata Breckenridge

  Chapter 7

  Bartholomew would not return tonight, so I had to dress myself for the musicale. Bartholomew was convinced I could no longer do this on my own, but he kept my clothes so clean that they always looked fine, no matter how clumsy I might be at buttoning my own coat.

  I peered into the small square mirror in my bedroom as I brushed my thick hair and fastened the braid across my chest. The regimentals of the Thirty-Fifth Light consisted of a dark blue coat with silver braid and dark cavalry breeches with knee-high boots. I wore the regimentals for social occasions, this being the finest suit I owned.

  Imposing, Lady Breckenridge had written. I glanced into the aging glass again. She either flattered me or poked fun at me.

  I took a hackney across London to South Audley Street and entered Lady Breckenridge’s house with a few moments to spare.

  Lady Breckenridge prided herself on her musicales and soirees, styling herself as one of the tastemakers of London. Therefore, her sitting room was filled to overflowing, and I sidled through the crowd as politely as I could.

  Sir Gideon Derwent was there, his kind face breaking into a smile when he saw me. Next to him was his son Leland, a slimmer, younger version of the father, and a pace behind them, Leland’s great friend, Gareth Travers. The Derwents were a family of innocents who invited me to dine with them at their house in Grosvenor Square once a fortnight. There, they’d beg me to entertain them with stories of my army life. Travers had a bit more cynicism, but he seemed to enjoy the unworldly companionship of the Derwents as much as I did.

  We took seats for the performance. Lady Breckenridge, dressed in a russet gown that bared her shoulders, introduced the lady as Mrs. Eisenhauf, a young Austrian who was just beginning her career. A pianist played a few strains on her instrument, and the soprano launched into her aria.

  I found myself floating on a cushion of music, sound that filled my entire body. The woman’s voice soared, loud and full, then dropped to the tiniest whisper, never losing its strength and quality.

  Those around me were enchanted as well, but after a time, I stopped noticing anyone else. I heard only the music, observed only the curve of Lady Breckenridge’s cheek, her face soft with enjoyment. Lady Breckenridge might once have been the naïve young wretch she described, but she’d left that girl far behind.

  For a moment, I forgot about necklaces, weeping ladies, de la Fontaine’s unhappiness, and the cold rain outside. There was only this bliss of warmth and music, and Lady Breckenridge’s smile.

  The aria ended, not in a crescendo, but in a few low notes of pure sweetness. As soon as the lady closed her mouth, the room erupted in applause and shouts of Brava! Brava!

  They surged forward to meet her, swamping Lady Breckenridge, who stood next to her protégé. I wondered why Lady Breckenridge had brought me to this crush if she wished to speak to me privately as her letter had stated. I’d never get near her.

  I spied Lady Clifford, dressed in a blue velvet gown too tight for her figure, her high feathered headdress bobbing as she moved among her acquaintance. Hearing snatches of her conversation, I learned that she took much of the credit for arranging the gathering and persuading the soprano to sing.

  Lady Clifford spied me watching her. She made her way to me, clamped her hand around my arm, and drew me into a corner.

  “Have you found the thief, Captain?” she asked, a bit too loudly for my taste.

  “I am afraid I’ve turned up nothing, yet,” I had to say.

  “I wanted to tell you, I believe my husband was right that I made a mistake asking for your help.” She smiled at me, but the smile was strained. “You have no more need to bestir yourself. Waters came home, and so that is all right. The real thief will be found by the Runners, eventually. Nothing more for you to do.”

  I hid my surprise at her request, but perhaps Lord Clifford had bullied her into dismissing me. “You at first believed Mrs. Dale had taken the necklace,” I said. “You told me so.”

  Lady Clifford flushed a blotchy red. “As to that—I again made a mistake. Annabelle has many faults, but she would not be so foolish as to steal something so valuable as the necklace. I did not realize . . .”

  She trailed off, not telling me what she hadn’t realized.

  “Did your husband tell you that I found your other necklace, Lady Clifford?” I asked.

  “Other necklace? What other necklace?”

  “The one you took to a pawnbroker near Hanover Square. Your husband identified it as a yours. Said it was a necklace you’d owned before your marriage.”

  Her flush deepened but I saw relief in her eyes. “Captain, really, you should not have interfered there. It was mine to sell as I pleased.”

  “You sent Waters to sell it for you, did you not? The proprietor described her.”

  “Yes, well I could not go myself, could I? Not to a pawnbroker’s.” She nodded so vigorously that her feathers bent and swayed as though she stood in a heavy wind. “I see what you are thinking, Captain. That I sold the larger diamond necklace as well, for my own reasons. Well, I did not. I certainly did not.”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  Her agitation dissolved into surprise. “Do you?”

  “I do. Would you like me to continue to find the answer? And the necklace?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I think it doesn’t matter anymore.” She paused then shook her head, feathers dancing. “No, it does not. But I thank you, Captain. Thank you for believing me.”

  She clutched my arm again, fingers crushing, then at last released me and flowed back into the crowd.

  I still could come nowhere near Lady Breckenridge, so I enjoyed myself sipping brandy and speaking to the Derwents and Gareth Travers. I asked Sir Gideon his opinion of Lord Clifford, and he gave me a surprising answer.

  “Not a good-humored man, certainly. And his household is not a happy one, from
what I hear. No, his benevolence lies elsewhere. He has given much money to help the London poor and is a staunch supporter of many of my reform efforts. He’s made speeches in the House of Lords on my behalf.”

  I contrasted this picture to the snarling, unpleasant man I’d met, and Sir Gideon chuckled.

  “You are amazed, Captain. Yes, it comes as a bit of a shock to those who have made his acquaintance. I offer no excuse for his demeanor. Some men are born surly, I suppose. But he was able to convince the magistrates to release his wife’s maid. He speaks loudly to the right people about the appalling conditions of prisons and of corruption among magistrates. He was able to bring her home and have the charges dismissed.”

  “To think, I imagined this would be a simple matter,” I said.

  “Nothing is simple where Lord Clifford is concerned. He is a cipher, Captain, even to me.”

  I thanked Sir Gideon for his opinion, and we turned the conversation to other matters.

  Guests seemed determined to stay until breakfast, but once the soprano said her farewells and departed, they began to migrate toward the doors. Lady Breckenridge edged me away from the lingerers, until we ended up relatively alone at the fireplace.

  She put her hands to her cheeks. “My face hurts from all this bloody smiling. The things I suffer for my artists.”

  “But you enjoyed the performance,” I said. “The pleasure I saw in you was real.”

  A hint of the earlier smile returned. “Yes,” she said. “But cease the compliments and listen, before someone decides to drag me off into an inane conversation. I have something to tell you that was not in my letter. Which, I trust, you read carefully.”

  “Every word,” I said. “It was quite intriguing.”

  “I am certain it was. However, when my maid was dressing me this evening, she imparted intelligence from Lady Clifford’s kitchens. Waters, the maid, was enjoying telling her harrowing tale of Bow Street gaol and being up before the magistrate. Reprieved at the last moment by testimony from Lord Clifford.”