“Of course you are,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “But I really think—”
“We don’t need a doctor,” Frost said again. She glared at Miss Tolerance and Marianne. Lord, it needs only this, Miss Tolerance thought. Her aunt’s appearance worried her more than the maid’s jealousy.
“How long has my aunt been like this?”
Marianne answered. “Since early this evening. A matter of five or six hours. We have twice given her powders, but nothing seems to help. Frost has been with her constantly.”
“I am sure she has.” Miss Tolerance smiled at Frost. The maid scowled. “Does my aunt have a doctor she prefers?”
“She’s consulted with Sir George Hammond once or twice, I know.”
“Have Cole send for him,” Miss Tolerance ordered.
“We don’t want the doctor,” Frost insisted. She wadded the cloth in her hand and dropped it into the basin as if throwing down a gauntlet.
“Perhaps you don’t,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “But I shall feel very much better if Sir George looks in. At very least he will praise your excellent care—and tell us if there’s anything else we should be doing.”
“Madam won’t want—”
“Perhaps not, and she may scold me when she recovers. In the meantime, Marianne, please ask Cole to send for Sir George.”
Marianne left with a look of gratitude. Miss Tolerance sat down to wait at her aunt’s side, and Frost fixed her with a look so arctic it should have returned Mrs. Brereton’s temperature to its normal state. Miss Tolerance closed her eyes.
Miss? Doctor’s come.”
She wakened from her doze. Looking at the clock upon the mantel, Miss Tolerance discovered the hour was well advanced—it was almost eight in the morning. At what time she had fallen asleep she did not know, but Miss Tolerance rose now to greet Sir George Hammond. He was tall, lean, and younger than his title suggested, but he wore an expression of professional compassion which Miss Tolerance found comforting. After an exchange of courtesies, Sir George advanced upon the bed and stood for several minutes, holding Mrs. Brereton’s hand and observing her face. He turned back to Miss Tolerance.
“Have you a sample for me?”
It had not occurred to her to have a sample of urine ready, but Frost had evidently expected it. Still scowling, she took a glass jar from the table and passed it to the doctor.
“Thank you,” both he and Miss Tolerance said at the same moment. Sir George went to the window and pulled a curtain back a little to examine the color of the urine in the light; he smelt it, dabbed a finger in and licked it thoughtfully, swirled the jar around for a moment and examined it again.
“The influenza,” he pronounced. “The fever is not dangerously high, but her unresponsiveness does inspire concern. However, as there is no rash, I don’t think we need fear that her earlier condition has returned. What have you given her?” He asked the question equally of Miss Tolerance, Frost and Marianne, who had followed him into the room.
“Two doses of Dr. James’ powders,” Marianne said.
The doctor nodded thoughtfully. “Fever does not appear to be the chiefest concern, but if that excellent remedy has not brought some relief we must try another. Well.” He sat at Mrs. Brereton’s writing table and took up pen and paper. “I shall prescribe a draught which should do the trick. But you must open these windows and give the poor woman a little fresh air. Bathe her with rosewater every hour until the fever breaks. She may have barley water—all she will take—and gruel, if she wakes hungry. As for the rest, when she is quite recovered from the influenza I want her to see a surgeon; I shall leave you the name of a fellow with some experience with her old ailment.” He wrote a name on another piece of paper.
“She seen someone for it,” Frost said flatly.
“Fine, fine. But it never hurts to take extra care.” Sir George did not appear ruffled by Frost’s rudeness. “Well, then. Take this to the apothecary. Every four hours, one spoonful in wine. I shall look in again tomorrow.” He bowed toward a space between Miss Tolerance and Marianne and started for the door. Miss Tolerance went after him.
“Sir George, you said something of my aunt’s condition?”
The doctor nodded. “A common enough one in this profession, my dear.”
She could not mistake his meaning.
“When I last saw Mrs. Brereton I gave her Mr. Warringe’s name, but never heard that she had seen him. If she has been physicking herself, or going to quacks, it is possible the affliction is still with her.”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “But you think Mr. Warringe can cure her?”
The doctor shrugged. “No cure is certain, but I will tell you that your aunt is more likely to be cured with proper care than by some of the peculiar remedies advertised for the pox. If I could but persuade the ladies of your profession of that—”
Miss Tolerance straightened her shoulders. “My aunt’s profession is not mine, sir.” She forced a smile and offered her hand. “I shall see to it she calls upon your surgeon. Thank you for your call.”
He paused before he took her hand. “If you are not—what your aunt is, how is it you are here?”
“She is my aunt, sir,” Miss Tolerance said.
“Your family-feeling is to be commended,” he said drily. He shook her hand briefly, then left.
Keefe was dispatched to the apothecary. Frost, frowning, permitted the windows to be opened a few inches, as the doctor had ordered it, but refused to leave her post for refreshment. Marianne and Miss Tolerance went downstairs to break their fast. Miss Tolerance was shortly aware that the servants—from Keefe to the girl who brought their coffee—were looking to her for their orders. Mrs. Brereton kept no housekeeper; she was accustomed to making virtually all domestic decisions herself, and did not take the staff into her confidence.
“I cannot think what to tell anyone, other than that they should carry on,” she said to Marianne. “If I were not here, who would give the cook her orders or—do whatever must be done?”
“No one,” Marianne said flatly. “We’d cobble along best we could.”
“But surely you know more than I do—”
Marianne nodded. “But Mrs. B wouldn’t want me to take it upon myself.”
“Well, I will take that upon myself. If I ask you to manage things here while my aunt is ill, the order comes from family, and must therefore be unexceptionable.” Miss Tolerance added with humor, “And I do not ask, I implore it. Think how much better everyone will feel, knowing someone is in charge!”
“But you—”
“Not I. I have other matters to attend to. Keefe!”
The footman, returned from the apothecary, presented himself.
“Miss Marianne will have the ordering of the household until Mrs. Brereton is able to take matters back into her hands,” Miss Tolerance said. “Will you let the others know?”
“But Miss Sarah, oughtn’t you—”
“No,” Miss Tolerance was firm. “And no one with a jot of sense would think I should. But I’ll look in again this afternoon to see how my aunt goes on.”
“Very good, Miss Sarah,” Keefe said.
Marianne looked regretfully at her coffee. “I suppose I had best talk with Cook,” she said. “And I suppose that for the next few days I shall have to say adieu to most of my followers. If Lord Marton should call, Keefe, or Mr. Waxworth—” she went from the room, instructing the footman on which of her clients she would accept while Mrs. Brereton was ill. Miss Tolerance finished her coffee before she could be joined by any of the brothel’s clients or employees, and fled to her cottage.
Miss Tolerance washed and dressed herself in breeches and coat for riding and took up her hat and Gunnard greatcoat. When the stables had sent round her favorite hack she started off for the Liberty of Savoy again to hear what Mr. Glebb had been able to learn. As if to atone for the last week’s dreary skies, the sun shone strongly, piercing the perpetual coal haze and taking an edge from the cold. Miss Tolerance arrived at t
he Wheat Sheaf before Joshua Glebb, and again took refuge and coffee with the tapster, Mr. Boddick.
As the Wheat Sheaf received the London papers, Mr. Boddick followed the progress of the Peninsular War closely. A veteran himself, he was energetic in denouncing Bonaparte and his generals, but just as vociferous regarding the stupidities of England’s recent conduct of the war. As Miss Tolerance drank her coffee, Boddick reviled all parties—the government, the military, and God—about equally. He was particularly bitter about Wellington’s apparent refusal to chase the French forces out of Portugal after his victory at Busaco.
“Only one victory since summer! That’s not much for man nor nation to ‘ang ’is heart on! Specially not when them in Parliament’s looking to bleed a starvin’ nation in Wellington’s support”
“The troops must be provisioned,” Miss Tolerance said mildly, curious to see upon which side of this issue Boddick came down.
“Aye, and indeed they do. Nothin’ takes the heart out of a soldier more than being hungry, miss. But this War Support Bill? Three bad harvests, with the common folk starvin’ in the countryside, and still His Royal Grace of bloody Cumberland’s made damned sure that him and his noble pals won’t pay a groat toward keepin’ thesselves safe.”
“Mr. Boddick, you sound positively Republican,” Miss Tolerance said, smiling.
“Heaven forfend, miss. But that War Support Bill’s a grand way to stir up sympathy for Bonaparte, if you ask me. Folk who ain’t been abroad and don’t know is likely to think they’d be in no worse case did Boney win. Well, miss, I marched through Holland with Cornwallis; I know what the French done to the countryside.”
“I, too,” Miss Tolerance agreed. She and her lover Charles Connell had been in Belgium in 1800 when Brune’s armies had taken the country. She was under no illusion that the French force was the army of liberation Bonaparte styled it.
“Britain never fails in a clinch, miss. We’ll pull through and put Bonaparte down; who else is there to do it?”
Miss Tolerance sipped her coffee as Boddick disposed, one by one, of each of the nations of Europe, suggesting their fates if the war were lost, and again if it should be won. His predictions were fascinating and lurid. Finally his opinions ran down and, apparently abashed at his own vehemence, the barman apologized if he had spoken too strong, and began to polish his taps. Miss Tolerance finished her coffee and pleased herself by imagining the effect Boddick would have had upon the political theorists at Camille Touvois’ salon.
Joshua Glebb arrived shortly thereafter. Established in his accustomed place, Mr. Glebb informed Miss Tolerance that he had made her inquiries.
“Now, here’s a thing,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve asked around among all my acquaintance. Your chevalier, he owed money right enough, to a dozen tradesmen and, near as I can tell, all the sharpers in the clubs. Liked to live well, Moosoor Dobinny did; coat from Weston and breeches from White and Thomas, wine from James and Son and snuff from Freiborg and Trayer. Whoever kept ’is household practiced tuppenny economies—second-best bit of beef and mutton stew for the servants’ hall—but that can’t have helped much. And since you asked, he did sell off paintings and gew-gaws about town. But then that stopped.”
Glebb took a long and grateful draught of coffee and poked a stubby finger into the pie Boddick had brought him. A rich scent of beef and onion rose up with the steam thus released. Glebb sniffed appreciatively and took up his fork.
“What stopped?” Miss Tolerance asked.
“The selling off,” Glebb mumbled through his pie. “Same time as some of the tradesman’s duns was paid off. I suppose the gaming debts was covered as well—I can’t know about them. But here’s a thing,” he said again. The soft folds of skin under Glebb’s chin shook as he chewed and considered. “No one loaned ’im the money. Not bank, not cents-per-cent, and not gullgroper. That money didn’t come from no one I know—which is to say, it didn’t come from no one.”
“What about gaming? Could his luck have changed long enough for him to have discharged his debts?”
“I didn’t hear of it. The question occurred to me, so I asked it, too. It ain’ natural, money just appearing and I can’t trace it. It ain’t what I like.”
Miss Tolerance gave this outburst of professional pride a moment of respectful silence. Then, “Could he have borrowed money from a friend, or someone not in London?”
Glebb nodded. “That’s my suspicion, miss. Maybe he has an old auntie was an easy touch? All I know is, your Moosoor Dobinny owed money to all and sundry, and then he didn’t, and no one in the moneylending line in London helped him to do it. Now,” he added. “A man’s time is worth something, miss.”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “It is, Mr. Glebb. Thank you.” She felt for her pocketbook and handed him a bank note. “I hope that will be sufficient.”
Mr. Glebb regarded the note affectionately. “Handsome, miss. Very handsome. Well, I think that concludes our business.” He looked over her shoulder. Miss Tolerance understood by this that her time was at an end, and deferred to a squat, swarthy man who was awaiting Mr. Glebb’s attention.
Mr. Adolphus Beak, who opened the door to the d’Aubigny house, recognized Miss Tolerance at once despite her unorthodox dress. The crowd outside was only a little reduced from what it had been a few days before.
“Do they never go home?” Miss Tolerance asked.
“When they do, others come in their places, miss,” he said. “All of them crazed to see the place where murder was done. Shameful.” Beak eyed Miss Tolerance’s attire as if to include it in his pronouncement.
“Quite. But I have come to see your mistress.” Miss Tolerance said. “Will you tell her I am here?”
Beak started as if regretting his moment of familiarity. “Madame is upstairs in her little parlor. Will you follow me, please?”
Miss Tolerance followed.
Anne d’Aubigny’s parlor was indeed little: a small, square chamber at the front of the house. Unlike the salon downstairs, the parlor did not appear to be missing anything by way of mantel clock or painting, but that might be because there was so little one might reasonably have sold. Miss Tolerance had the impression that the room had been furnished with odds and ends of furniture not wanted elsewhere in the house. It was certainly a dreary room: the drapes were half-drawn, occluding the winter light, and no candles had been lit. The widow herself was seated by the fire with a book of sermons in her hand, open but face down.
“Miss Tolerance, ma’am,” Beak said, and bowed himself out of the room. Miss Tolerance waited for a moment; Anne d’Aubigny appeared lost in her thoughts.
“I hope I see you well, ma’am?” Miss Tolerance advanced and bowed.
“Oh.” Mrs. d’Aubigny appeared to return from a place very far away. “Oh, yes, thank you,” she began, and made a halfhearted attempt to rise. As she dropped into her chair again the widow focused at last upon her visitor. Her surprise and dismay at Miss Tolerance’s costume was no less evident than Beak’s had been.
“I apologize for coming to you in this peculiar dress, but it is convenient for those days when I must call in some of London’s less genteel neighborhoods.”
“Oh,” Mrs. d’Aubigny said again. “But surely you must meet more ill use in that—in those—”
Miss Tolerance smiled. “On occasion. But not so much that I would give up the option to dress this way. It gives me greater freedom in moving about the city.”
“Freedom,” Anne d’Aubigny repeated, as if the word were an exotic one. She recalled herself and asked how Miss Tolerance’s inquiries were faring.
“Well enough so that I have new questions for you, ma’am. I spoke to a source who tells me that while it was well known that your husband had recently come into funds, the money was not loaned to him by any banker or usurer in London.”
A line appeared between Mrs. d’Aubigny’s brows. “How could this person know such a thing? Not loaned by anyone in the whole of London?”
“It is this gentleman’s livelihood to be acquainted with all the people in London who are in the business of lending money. I am confident that when he says this, it is true. He did wonder if perhaps your husband had borrowed money from a relative or friend privately, or from someone outside of London, where he has fewer contacts.”
“My husband has no relatives living, not in England—and if any are alive in France, I am sure they are in no case to loan him money.”
“That does leave us with a puzzle,” Miss Tolerance said. The widow had not yet invited her to sit, and it was difficult for her to maintain a confidential tone when she stood over her client in a pose which must emphasize, not their common femininity, but the distance between them. “I confirmed with his superior at the Home Office that the chevalier was unlikely to have borrowed money from anyone there. Had he any friends not in London—”
“I don’t know where it came from, nor where it went—except the little that he gave me to pay the household expenses.” The widow lowered her head sulkily. “Why is this money of such importance?”
“It is a mystery, and such must always command attention. And it was you who suggested that money might be the motive for your husband’s murder.”
As Miss Tolerance watched, Anne d’Aubigny shook off her sulks. “I have forgot my manners, Miss Tolerance. Please sit down. You are quite right, of course. I did say that. But I cannot tell you what I do not know—and that is whence Etienne received that money.”
“I understand. And frankly, ma’am, I do not think that money alone could inspire so violent a crime. There was rage in the act which killed your husband, ma’am. Rage or madness.”
The widow shuddered. “You may imagine how I have thought about this, Miss Tolerance. Indeed, I have racked my brain for some idea, and still I have none. No one in my household told you anything of use, I take it?”
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