Wyre stopped at that. “Did you ever meet him, this patron? Could you identify him?”
“Not that night, sir. Later I did, though.”
“Who was he? Was this the country gentleman? Give me his name. Whisper it.” He turned his ear to the boy’s lips. “Was it Parlez-Vous?”
The boy shrank away. “He always wore a satin mask, sir. It covered half his face. Anyway, he never spoke to the likes of me. He was only interested in White.” The yager’s eyes slid back up to Wyre’s own. “Everyone was, sir, ’cept for Mr Sellis. He was the only one who couldn’t stand White. He told me he’d seen his – you know, seen it, sir. Said it was dripping. I thought that was just sour grapes, on account of not being able to afford White, once his price started to go up.”
French dishes . . . Parson Church’s gibe in his room at Mrs Mason’s suddenly rang in his ears. “Did you ever see any Frenchmen in the Swan?”
The effect was immediate. “Fuck me, no, sir!” The yager shook his head vigorously. “It wasn’t like that.”
Wyre leaned in close. “Listen to me – ”
The yager relaxed against the wall, and raised a trembling hand towards Wyre’s shoulder, the other coming to rest on his hip. The lawyer shunted him hard in the chest.
“None of that!” He swore savagely. “Don’t tell Mr Graslin about our conversation, or anyone else, and you may still come out of this unscathed. God knows you deserve the end of a yardarm.”
He left the flagrant misrule framed against the golden coach.
The Country Gentleman . . . another piece of code to place alongside Mr Parlez-Vous. Unless they were the same man. While he was turning the yager’s information over, he succeeded in taking a false turn. His confused doublings cost him a good ten minutes; when, at length, he arrived in the Cupola Office, the magistrate made a show of tapping his index finger slowly on the tabletop.
Wyre decided to say nothing for the moment about his encounter. This infernal swelter! He fished out Rose’s handkerchief, and pressed it to his damp forehead, folding the silk square back up afterwards, and placing it neatly beside his notebook.
Jackson was called up next. He gave Read a condescending look. “Ah troost this won’t be unduly protracted. I hardly need remin’ the inquest the Duke’s recovery hangs in th’ balance.”
The Bow Street man regarded him sourly. “A brief inventory of his Highness’s hurts will suffice.”
“Very well. Ah can teel ye, then, th’ skull was penetrated obliquely puckle inches above th’ right ear, enaw fur th’ pulsation ay th’ arteries tae be clearly visible. Only a mercy prevented part ay th’ Duke’s skull frae bein’ completely bludgeoned away. There were several wounds ay lesser consequence – oan th’ left arm, an’ oan th’ back ay his reit thigh. His Highness’s hands were also injured when he fended aff th’ sabre.” (Wyre watched the secretary’s wrist fly.) “That nae major vessels were severed was nothing short ay a miracle. As it is, th’ loss ay bluid will take several days tae make guid. In that time, th’ Duke should see nobody.””
Read sniffed. “I fear it will be necessary to trouble his Highness one last time.”
“Indeed? But yer constables hae already spoken tae him.”
“On the night of the assault,” Read said, firmly, “the Duke was unable to recount the episode with full clarity. Understandably enough. Since then, more details may have returned.” He cleared his throat. “The request isn’t made on trivial grounds, Mr Jackson. The Courthouse – ” he glanced at Wyre “ – believes a second assassin may have made the Palace a home. Certain things need to be ruled out, and only the Duke can do that.”
So the blame was being laid at Wyre’s feet.
Jackson was silent for a moment. “Then ah must insist you grant his Highness a further day’s peace. Tae attempt an interview any earlier would be folly in th’ extreme.”
Read nodded his acquiescence.
Jackson signed his deposition, glancing coldly at Wyre.
Neale’s wife entered next. She was a little younger than thirty, attractive in the city fashion. Her pale skin had acquired a little colour since the lawyer passed her in the corridor that morning. Her blonde hair was tied back now, and glistened in the light from the cupola. That curious stain beneath her right eye . . . had it darkened?
“Mrs Ann Neale? Wife of the valet Cornelius Neale?”
She nodded.
“I couldn’t sleep that night,” she began. “When my husband’s on duty I find it difficult. I must have decided to go for a walk. I heard an awful commotion and went to investigate.”
“On your own?”
“It was my duty. In the corridor I met his Royal Highness leaning on my husband. The blood was dreadful.” Her fingers crept to the fringe of her dress.
“Carry on, Mrs Neale.”
“I summoned the other servants,” she said, lacing and unlacing her fingers, “Mr Jackson, too. Then, on the Duke’s instructions, I went to rouse Joseph Sellis.” Her voice vacillated between poles of cool self-certitude and something more vulnerable.
“You weren’t frightened?” Wyre looked at her intently.
“His Highness wished it,” she said simply. “I knocked for Mr Sellis. When no one answered, I tried the door, but it was bolted. By that time, the porter was with me, and also I think Mr Graslin. I asked them to break it down.”
“Why did you do that?” Wyre said. “Mr Sellis wasn’t under any suspicion at that point.”
She was silent for a moment. “I heard a gurgling noise, like water in a man’s throat. I suppose it must have frightened me. The porter managed to get the door open. What he saw made him cry out.”
Read tilted forward. “What did you see, Mrs Neale?”
“I saw Mr Sellis lying in his bed with his throat slashed. I sent Smith to fetch help.”
Wyre frowned at her. “Was Sellis wearing his shirt and jacket?”
Mrs Neale nodded. Small, precise movements.
“Do you swear, under oath, you found him that way?”
Read was watching her intently.
Another nod.
“And the razor?” the Chief Magistrate prompted. “Tell Mr Wyre where it was.”
“It lay on the floor, a little distance away.”
Read clearly wanted this wrapped up. It was time to get to the point. Fast. “Were you ever left alone with Sellis’s body?”
The question seemed to take her aback. “For a short while, I suppose I must have been. But only while Smith and Graslin went for help.”
“And how long was that?”
“Not so very long. Mr Smith returned, and took me down to the porter’s room, where we waited for the soldiers.”
“Did anyone else, beside Mr Smith and Mr Graslin, enter the bedroom while you waited with Sellis?” Again, he sensed Read’s irritation building.
“No one at all.” She blinked. Bright, blue eyes; short, dense, blonde lashes. She was what Rose would call a catch.
“Finally, Mrs Neale, are the doors leading from the ballroom into the yellow room usually kept locked?”
“Both of them, Mr Wyre. They’re always locked at night. All the doors along that way are. I lock them myself, or Margaret, my maid, does.”
“No key was found in Mr Sellis’s private, off-duty bedroom. How, in your opinion, was he able to move there so quickly from the Duke’s chamber – right across the Palace?”
“Her opinion, Wyre?”
Miss Neale returned the lawyer’s gaze squarely. “It seems reasonable to assume someone must have unlocked them.”
“But not you, Mrs Neale?”
“Not me.”
Read cleared his throat. “How long have you known Sellis?”
“Since whenever it was he arrived here. Five years, I believe.”
“What would you say of his character?”
Her lip curled. “He was an intractable man. He couldn’t abide being contradicted, not even by the Duke. He would never acknowledge himself in the wrong.”<
br />
“Did the Duke treat him well?”
“With undeserved kindness. He gave Mr Sellis’s wife and family an apartment on the second floor, quite near to Mr Sellis’s off-duty bedroom, with a generous allowance of coal and candles. The Queen once presented him with a gift of muslin. Princess Augusta stood godmother to his daughter, and the Duke himself was godfather to his youngest child. We all found it a little – ” she checked herself.
“A little what?” Wyre asked.
“No one else received such attention. A few days before Mr Sellis’s death, the Duke invited him to ride in his carriage rather than on the outside in the rain. Inside, with him,” she repeated. “He told my husband, who told me.”
“Do you know what they talked about in his carriage?”
A shaft of light pierced the cupola, bleaching her face to a crimson mouth and two blue points.
“How could she possibly know that?” Read objected. He laid his palms heavily on the table. “Tell me, Mrs Neale, how did Sellis and your husband get along?”
“Well enough, I suppose. They weren’t what you’d call close-bosom friends. Mr Sellis was high-handed with all the servants, and my husband didn’t like that. But they worked easily enough alongside each other.”
“I understand your husband was in the habit of sleeping with a pistol hanging from the bedpost when he was on duty.”
Two red spots appeared on Mrs Neale’s cheeks. “I don’t approve of such things.”
“But you didn’t forbid it,” Wyre said.
“I made my objections clear.” A primness had crept into her voice.
“Before you went to bed that night – ” Read took over “ – did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”
“Only that it was devilish hot.”
“Would you say,” Wyre began carefully, “your husband is close to the Duke?” He sensed Read straighten.
“My husband attends his Highness. He dresses him. That is his job.”
“Do you resent the closeness?”
“Wyre – ” growled Read. He laid a hand on Little Boy Blue’s wrist, preventing him from recording.
Mrs Neale looked slowly at Wyre. “How dare you!”
“Thank you, Mrs Neale,” Read said hurriedly. “That’s all.”
After she left, Wyre braced for the inevitable. It came.
“You aren’t prosecuting in the fucking Old Bailey now. We know who the culprit is.”
“We’re missing something, sir. Somewhere in this house, information is being lost. I have an idea how we might – ”
Read gave a snort of derision. “People are a lot less complicated than your ideas. The guilt is Sellis’s, and his alone. I’ll admit you had me wondering for a moment, but the matter’s clear now. And Wyre – ” he gave him a withering look “ – you won’t get anywhere in this house alluding to Greek vices.”
The Chief Magistrate pushed himself to his feet, and announced an intermission.
Wyre went off to look for the water closet. Paulet was in the corridor arranging empty flower trays along the window sill.
“Getting them ready for Mrs Neale, sir,” the valet said genially. “As a matter of fact, I just saw her leave. Your inquest, sir, I mean. She looked out of sorts.”
Wyre was taken aback. He liked the man, but that was bold. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the inquest.”
“Of course not, sir. My apologies.” Paulet moved one of the trays six inches to the right. “I expect her information set the cat among the pigeons, though.” He dipped his chin, at the same time lifting his eyebrows.
“Her information?”
“About Mrs Sellis’s suspicions, sir.” He hesitated. “Sorry, Mr Wyre, have I got ahead of myself again?” He ran a finger down the side of his cheek.
“Why the devil didn’t you mention any of this to Mr Read?”
“He asked for my account, sir. I assumed Mrs Neale would have given hers.”
“So what about these suspicions?”
“Quite unfounded. Mrs Sellis got it into her head that her husband was being . . . how shall I put it delicately? That he was being pursued by Mrs Neale’s husband.” Paulet lowered his voice. “To show how cracked she was on the matter, sir, she also claimed his Highness was pressing similar claims.”
Wyre looked along the corridor to make sure they were alone. “His Highness?” He frowned. “You mean, the Duke of Cumberland?”
Paulet looked uncomfortable. “I assumed you’d have heard the Palace talk by now, sir. I suppose it was Mrs Sellis herself who started it.” In a strange gesture, he tapped a finger on a closed eyelid. “It upset Mrs Neale. That’s why I imagined she would have mentioned it.”
Paulet had just explained Mrs Neale’s anger in the Cupola Office . . .
“To be honest, sir, I felt sorry for Mrs Sellis. The torments she must have endured, knowing her husband was three times a week next to the Duke’s private sleeping quarters. Enough to unballast any woman.”
“Are you suggesting Mrs Sellis was the – ” Wyre stopped short of saying it. But a female assassin would explain why none of the strokes told.
“Oh dear, I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Wyre. It’s not my place to do that. In any case, whatever Mrs Sellis might have believed, she’d have put up with it, so long as she kept her coal and candles, and those nice big rooms for her children.”
Wyre blinked. He was sick of gossip. Sick of the air of the place. He left Paulet with his window boxes.
Now, where the hell was the privy?
46. Eye Contact
His ‘dark spells’, his mother used to call them, begging him to abandon pleasure for the insipidity of existence. A bitch of the first water, always playing one brother off against the other. Hadn’t he also turned out well? Why not remonstrate with Prinny and his band of dissolutes: Hellgate, Poodle, Skiffy and Tinman. The sobriquets said it all. (Far better than his own, though, he had to concede.) Why not upbraid Yorkie for his own peccadillos? God knows, there’d been enough of them – a whole string of unwashed actresses and bankers’ wives.
He rubbed the pit of his eye. Why assume the same standard of reason and taste for all? Good works were accidents, of no more consequence than the size of a man’s nose, or the colour of his hair. The so-called moral law was no rule of life for him. A Duke should live as he saw fit.
His thoughts returned to the man on the stairs, back in that devilish house of contradictions. Neatly turned out in his yellow braided waistcoat. His physician’s waistcoat. Yellow waistcoat, black notebook. Oh, yes, Mr Parlez-Vous had told him all about the book.
No notes. Under any circumstances.
They’d been plain. No record of visits, no mention of the sponsor. Surely the reasons were obvious?
But the man on the stairs had chosen to ignore the edict.
He was a practical problem now. And practical problems called for practical solutions. As a matter of fact, he’d been assured, one was already decisively – incisively – in train. And it amused Yorkie to call him mad. Well, madmen were always prudent in their own affairs. Wasn’t their Royal father the exemplum?
He plucked the sham eye from its little bowl on the dresser, and dropped it into his palm, experiencing the roundness.
The heat when the eyemaker had formed the glass shell into a golden ball, and breathed in vision with a blowpipe . . . The blood vessels were added with red glass, the iris with a smart loop of the wrist. Finally, the candle of the eye was introduced with a drop of black. He remembered the first time the eyemaker dropped the fiery orb into his hungry cavity.
Leaning his face to the mirror, he pulled his upper eyelid out, and spooned the ball in. A perfect eye that fooled no one. Not the man on the stairs, that thief in the night, stealing up from the edges of his blind spot.
47. Gutta-Percha
Wyre returned from the privy to find Rose’s handkerchief gone. His inquest notes were also missing.
Read was blunt. “The room was left unoccup
ied, Wyre. The servants here are like any others. The handkerchief’s one thing, but you should know better than to leave interview notes lying in full view.” The magistrate seemed distracted, rather than angry. “Anyway, what took you so long? We’ve had report of a mortality.”
The switch to the language of officialdom arrived like a punch in the chest. “Whose?” Wyre didn’t need to ask.
“Some apprentice yager,” Read said gruffly. “Got kicked by a horse. It can happen if you get too close. Maybe he chose the wrong end.” He looked carefully at the lawyer. “He wasn’t down to be interviewed, before you get excited. It doesn’t have a bearing.”
“A horse, sir?”
“One of the pretty fillies they keep in the stables. Stoved his head in.”
Wyre doubted it. More likely, Mr Parlez-Vous had stood on the other end of a club-hammer, a stable iron, perhaps, dispatching his victim just like he’d bludgeoned the Bow Street fly in the service tunnel. He decided to keep quiet. It was too late for the chinny lad – and perhaps it was better this way. Quicker than the noose. Yes, he’d probably done the boy a favour. Mr Nares’s fingers would have closed.
A bright-eyed scullery maid was up next, followed by three young things of the type that could be called comely. Each deposition had a tutored feel, almost wholly devoid of the quirky details that gave the life to personal experience.
At half past four, Paulet appeared with a letter in his outstretched hand.
“Communiqué-for-Mr-Wyre-care-of-Mr-Read.”
The valet raised an eyebrow, a strange, plucked thing. “I believe it’s from a client of yours, sir,” he said, looking at a spot somewhere behind the lawyer’s shoulder. “If I’ve understood things.”
Miss Crawford, it had to be. Wyre’s heart caught on his ribs. Some good news about Aspinall might put this whole thing straight. But any hopes he entertained in that direction quickly evaporated: the letter described what seemed to him merely another runaround. A child had come up to Miss Crawford in the park, and pressed a note in her hand promising information. The implausible site of enlightenment was The Cranes, a well-known dockside palace of demirepdom. Five o’clock that evening . . . could he meet her? She suggested the Lakeman’s cottage, St James’s Park. It wasn’t far – but Christ, it didn’t leave him much time. Obviously, she was going, with or without him. He cursed. Miss Crawford was what wags in a gentleman’s club might refer to lickerously as a ‘stunner’, to be enjoyed discreetly from the corners of flickering eyes. Cranes men – some of the women, too – on the other hand, would look at her in the same way a half-starved cur would eye a plate of meat.
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