The valet shrugged. “Why would I?” He looked at Read. “May I go now? His Highness . . .”
Read gave a curt nod.
Two maids were next on Read’s list, the first a well-spoken kitchen girl with pursy lips. Ann Ruddock, in service for three years.
“Give or take a month, sir.” She qualified her statement as if indemnifying herself against a future charge of perjury.
Read began.
“Did you ever see Mr Sellis carry a dark lantern?”
She smoothed her tunic over her midriff. “I saw it in his hand once before, if you please. It must have been three weeks ago. Mr Sellis was coming down from his bedroom. We wished each other good night.”
“Describe the lantern for us,” Wyre said. To his surprise, this elicited no groan of impatience from the Chief Magistrate.
“It was a round one, sir. Round and dark.”
“Where were you when his Royal Highness was attacked?”
“In bed, Mr Read.”
“In bed alone?”
“Mary Saxby and I turned in early that night.”
“And did you hear anything?”
“There was a noise in the passage. The clocks had struck eleven. We thought it must have been Margaret coming to bed.”
“Margaret?” Wyre said.
“Mrs Neale’s maid, sir.”
Yes, Paulet had told him that. “And was it Margaret?”
“She come later, sir. She’d been reading in the scullery and heard something. She didn’t like to be alone after that.”
“What was she reading so late?”
“Her gospels, sir.”
The Chief Magistrate let out a long sigh, and called Ruddock forward for her signature. Two scratchy marks. Despite her elocution, she was unlettered.
Ruddock’s place was taken by Margaret Jones, a couple of years older with a soft, round face. A few unruly strands of coal-black hair had escaped from the scallops of her bonnet.
“Four months, sir. Still settling in.”
Wyre caught the residue of Welsh inflection beneath more recently acquired city tones, but there was none of the carneying, wheedling way of that people.
“What are your duties, Margaret?”
“When I’m not helping Mrs Neale, sir, I d’ make the butler’s and housekeeper’s bed. Mr Sellis’s, too, that is, when he kips in the Valet’s Room. I’m supposed to lay the fires, but it’s been too warm since I arrived. Haven’t made one yet, sir. There’s a spare bed for the Adjutant of his Royal Highness’s regiment, when he comes to stay, sir.”
“Was the Adjutant here that night?” It appeared he’d earned the right to a few follow-up questions.
She tossed her pretty head.
Read took over; gruffer. “How often did you prepare Mr Sellis’s bed this last week?”
“Twice, sir.”
“Is that the usual number of times?”
“T’ be honest, it was the first time I dun ’em.”
“I thought you said it was your job,” the magistrate said sharply.
“Mr Sellis never asked me to do it, sir. Not till this week.”
“Never asked you?” Read bossed his chin.
“He likes – ” an alarmed pause “ – liked Ann Ruddock to make it, sir. The two were friends.”
“Kept each other warm at night, eh?”
“Ann was a comfort to him, sir. After Tranter, I mean. Tha’s all it was, sir.”
“Who’s Tranter?” Wyre said.
Margaret glanced across at Read. “Duke of York’s footman, sir. A particular friend of Mr Sellis and Mr Neale.”
Wyre scanned down the list of informants. No Tranter was listed. “Where is he now, Margaret?”
She looked alarmed again. “It ’appened a month after I arrived. Did ’imself in, Mr Tranter did. In the stables, sir. We y’eard the shot, me n’ Ann Ruddock. Constables arrived to look into it.” She looked at Read again.
“Biathanatos, Wyre,” the magistrate said in a quiet voice.
Another suicide? They were stacking up.
“We y’eard the shot,” the maid repeated. “Woke us both up. They found Mr Tranter in the morning, sir. On the cobbles, with his brains blown out.”
Wyre fixed her with a stern look. “You say Tranter was Sellis’s friend. Are the houses of Cumberland and York in the habit of fraternizing?”
She tossed her head again. “The schedules are different.”
“Did Sellis have many friends? In either household? Take your time.”
“He kept to ’imself, mostly, sir. Liked to spend his free hours with his family. Either tha’, or he was down in the stables, polishing the Duke’s carriage. Used t’ talk like it were his.”
“Were you shown the items recovered from the Duke’s closet?”
Read drummed his fingers.
“I saw the lantern,” she said carefully.
The magistrate broke in. “We already know that item belonged to Sellis. Now, listen here, Margaret. On the night Sellis attacked his master, did he ask you to make his bed in the Duke’s chamber?”
The maid’s bottom lip began to tremble.
“Keep going, Margaret,” Wyre said. “You’ve done nothing wrong. We just want information.”
“That’s right, keep going, missy. Why was Sellis so keen for you to make his bed that night?”
“I was in the Housemaid’s Room, sir, wi’ Sarah and – ” she screwed up her face in concentration “ – Jayne Tetherhead. Mr Sellis came in an’ said I was t’ prepare his bed in the Valet’s Room. He told us the Duke would ride out to Windsor in th’ morning.”
“So you made up his bed,” Read said. “What time was this?”
“It would have been about nine o’clock, sir. Mr Sellis left. He mentioned something about dressing his Royal Highness for drinks wi’ some uniformed gentlemen. When I finished, I returned t’ the householders’ side to give Mr Salisbury’s sitting-room a quick tidy – ”
“Christ, Wyre, are you following this? It’s a bloody maze. And who’s Mr Salisbury?”
“Duke’s steward, sir. Mr Sellis tol’ me to get the sitting room ready for the morning, in case it were needed before I got up. When the Duke was finished with him, Mr Sellis come through on his way to his bedroom. I asked if the Duke still meant to go to Windsor. He jus’ give me one of his black looks, and said he hoped my corners were better brushed than last time.”
“Where the hell’s the sitting-room?” Read demanded.
“It’s what we d’ call the room in front of Mr Sellis’s bedroom, sir. His private, off-duty bedroom, I mean. Not the one the valets share. It’s a through room.”
“A through room. God Almighty, Wyre, wish I had one of those.” Read sniffed savagely. “So you were in the sitting room, having this cosy little chat with Mr Sellis. Quite sure you weren’t in his bedroom?”
Wyre pushed down the image; but Read’s line was interesting. After all, Sellis would have needed someone to keep all those doors – at least five of them – unlocked along his escape route from the Duke’s bedroom back to his off-duty chamber. Was Margaret the accomplice? A Welsh snake in the grass?
The heat had settled in the Cupola Office. Little pearls of sweat dripped into Wyre’s eyes. He reached for Rose’s handkerchief, dabbing at his neck and brow, before folding the silk cloth neatly again on the desk.
The maid looked appalled. “Mr Sellis wished me good night, sir. Tha’s all. He looked unwell.”
“I bet he did,” Read said, his face dark. “He was probably thinking about what he’d planned for later. Quite sure you’re not covering for anyone? Tell us now, and things will go easier for you.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “No, sir. Honest!”
“Did he lock his door after bidding you goodnight?” Wyre asked.
“If he did, I didn’ hear nothing.” A blush that began just above the girl’s abundant breasts spread up her neck, arriving at her cheeks. What a big activity voice was. It took a lot of blood.
She nodded again, her eyes wide.
“What did you do when he went to bed?” Wyre struck a kindlier tone.
“Jus’ finished up in Mr Salisbury’s room, then I went t’ bed myself.”
“And you slept like a baby,” said Read.
“I read till I fell asleep, sir. I was woken at eleven by someone shuffling aroun’ out in the passage, the one that d’ run along the back.”
“The back?” Wyre asked.
“Between our rooms and the main corridor. I couldn’ get off again, then. A little later, Mary come to bed. I asked her why she was wandering about in the passage so late.”
“Wait a minute,” Wyre said, frowning, “Ann Ruddock is adamant she and Mary lay in bed waiting for you to join them. They thought it was you wandering about.”
Margaret looked confused. “I was in bed with Ann, sir.”
“So who the devil was in the passage?” Read demanded
“Dunno, sir. Mary said it wern’ her.”
Read gave her a contemptuous look.
Margaret began again miserably. “It was someone shambling along in old slippers, tha’s what Mary said. Couldn’ see his face.” She lifted her head. “I said to Ann it must be the devil come to – ”
Read held up his hand. “Thank you, Margaret. We have all we need.” He slid her deposition across the table for her signature.
“Do you enjoy working for Mrs Neale, Margaret?” Wyre said as the maid signed with a surprisingly neat hand.
Margaret looked up. “She’s always kind, sir.” She gave a little curtsey and left.
Read shook his head. “The devil, my arse. Preachers on every street corner, banging on about deliverance. These silly girls lap it up.”
“You do realize the maids’ stories don’t tally?” Wyre began. “That noise in the passage – ”
Read waved his hand dismissively. “Ann Ruddock has her Marys and Margarets mixed up, that’s all.” He ran a finger round the back of his collar. “Christ, this heat! Look, forget the little vixens and focus on the important thing. Some bugger was creeping about, and we both know who that was.”
“But shouldn’t we interview the Duke of York about his footman, this Tranter fellow?”
“For pity’s sake,” Read said wearily. “I already told you. York’s not to be disturbed. The Palace is co-operating with the inquest solely on that understanding. Only his doctors may see him. Anyway, the Tranter incident was months ago. It has no bearing.”
Wyre unfolded his silk handkerchief again. The cupola’s glass was a lens for the relentless sun; they were slowly roasting alive. (Even the secretary looked as if he’d like to divest himself of his powder blue jacket.) Wyre looked down at his handkerchief, his eyes settling on the pretty letters Rose had embroidered in the corner. C.W. What combination of happenstance and fortune had ensured those initials weren’t the ones stitched onto a pair of slippers found in a closet one night at the Palace?
“The Duke of York was here the night Cumberland was attacked, sir. He ought at least to swear an affidavit. For the record.”
“For the record? What are you, one of those Jacobins? A dirty democrat?”
“For the record,” Wyre repeated, knowing it was hopeless.
45. Horse Play
At midday, two dark-haired maids arrived with dishes of cold meat and vinegar, followed by Paulet with plates and cutlery.
Had any letters arrived for Wyre? The valet indicated the negative.
Read picked at his meal then got wearily to his feet. “We resume at one,” he said, and left without further comment.
Wyre reached for his pocket watch. That left almost an hour for what Leighton would call familiarizing himself with the terrain. If he couldn’t quiz York, he’d have a gander at his stables, where Tranter met his end.
The coaching outbuildings were situated at the western limits of the royal curtilage, a stone’s throw from the high brick wall that looked down on Pall Mall’s widened pavements. If the pistol shot that ventilated Tranter’s skull really had woken Margaret all the way over in the servants’ quarters, she was the epitome of a light sleeper.
A stableman of stupendous proportions was working in the courtyard, forking dung into a huge pyramid. Villagers in Dean forest would call him a galligantus. He was so tall, he appeared closer than he really was. It had to be the hulking fellow Read had joked about so earthily to the surgeons – unless there was a whole brood of giants roaming the city: a modern-day Goliath and his brothers. Angels, unrighteous women, strange flesh. Wasn’t that the heady brew? What would the Southcottians make of this man, a very beast of the Apocalypse.
The colossus grinned toothily, waving a vast arm slowly back and forth. A simpleton, then. One of Wyre’s nieces was slow. He waved back, then headed for the cobbles where the maid said Tranter had lain. Wyre put his head into the stables, and breathed in a warm peaty aroma. The stink traps were well tended. Three oily-skinned horses greeted his intrusion with skittish neighs, pushing at their bits. Fine animals, nothing loose or leggy about them.
Leighton’s dandy-charger leaned against the wall. So Paulet had been good to his word. The contraption seemed oddly at home among its equestrian rivals. Wyre didn’t doubt ostlers around the country would soon be getting used to these mechanical geldings.
He spun round at a scuffing sound. Had the freakish simpleton followed him in? Instead, a chinny lad in green fustian stood at his shoulder. Heart hammering, Wyre grabbed the yager’s collar and bustled him up against the wall.
“What the devil do you mean by creeping up on me like that?”
“Beg pardon, sir!” the youth said in alarm. “I saw someone going in as shouldn’t. Didn’t realize it was you, Mr Wyre.” His eyes darted wildly
“How do you know my name?”
The lad hesitated. “We was told to keep away from you, while the inquest’s on . . .”
The boy’s cheeks were two mounds of cherries, lips like a Cheapside gash. Wyre recognized the signs a mile off.
“Who told you? Spit it out!”
“Mr Graslin, sir.” The boy stared at his feet.
So he was good with names. Wyre decided to try him with some others.
“Ever heard of a waiter called Thomas?” He tightened his grip. “What about Robert Aspinall? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Vere Street gang. Friends of yours, by any chance?” (The boy blanched.) “I’ll bet you were thick with Mr Sellis. I understand he liked to hang around the stables. Just like you.” Wyre thrust him against the wall again, eliciting a satisfyingly sharp yelp.
“I ’ardly knew ’im, sir. Saw ’im a couple of times when I was returning ’orses. Mr Sellis showed me his Highness’s barouche.”
Wyre followed the lad’s eyes into the shadows. Parked at the rear of the stables, next to a preposterous high-perch phaeton, was a fine carriage, all elegant blazons and elaborate Corbeau panels. A dickey box jutted out above the cabin at the rear. Wyre thought of Crispin Street and Thomas’s letter.
“What about when you were off duty? Ever meet Sellis in town?” The boy’s eyes drifted away; Wyre gave him another shove.
“He took me once t’ see the mad folk, sir. We went to the park afterwards, then on to a tavern. Can’t remember which one. He kept me in ale th’ whole afternoon. It was no more than that.”
“Did he ever act improperly towards you?”
An appalled silence.
“If you tell me,” Wyre said quietly, “I give you my word you won’t be asked at the inquest. With us, it’s just two men talking. With Read, you’ll be under oath.”
The hunter’s face twisted in an ag
ony of uncertainty.
“Out with it!”
“It was in the jakes, sir,” the boy said, his voice strangled, “in the tavern. We got up together to piss. I made a joke about his . . . about it being all shrivelled up. He said if I dared touch it, I’d see it grow heavy soon enough. He took my hand and placed it there. I removed it at once, sir. Sellis laughed, and said he knew someone who’d pay with more than ale for such things, if I cared to meet him.”
“You were in The White Swan, weren’t you?” Wyre gave the boy’s collars a twist.
“No, sir, not there, on my oath!”
Wyre sensed the deep convective stirrings of information. “You were there.” He smiled grimly. “And it wasn’t the last time you accompanied Sellis to that turd pit.” Wyre imagined Sellis’s hand creeping over the hunter’s breast, reaching down.
The boy’s eyes began to swim. “Sir, I’ve been caught before. Mr Nares the magistrate said next time – ”
“Make a clean breast of it to me, and I’ll see none of this comes out.”
“I can’t – ”
“Make a clean breast,” Wyre repeated. “No one will hear of your behaviour. If you refuse, Mr Nares will hang you.”
The boy’s lips acquired a bluish cast. “Up in the private rooms, sir,” he said; short syncopated bursts, “that’s where they . . . where they set out beds. For the use of men who had a mind to be married, sir. Sellis told me . . . said there was a country gentleman come to town, an’ if I gave him a wedding night I’d be paid handsomely. I stayed till midnight, sir, but no gentleman came. I told one of the other men, an’ he said he was no country gentleman, he was the city. By then it was too late to go home. Sellis said I should lie with him instead. Two other stinkers came to the room, each promising a shilling if I’d turn my back.” He took a deep breath. “Sellis brought me to several husbands afterwards. There were others like me, but White was the worst.”
“I know all about the drummer-boy. Tell me about Sellis.”
The yager appeared not to hear. “White wanted to quit the army, an’ had almost saved enough – his new patron paid ten times what the others did.”
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