Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

“Nothing immediately useful, no. It is quite a large household for only two people, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. d’Aubigny smiled wanly. “We keep too many servants. That will have to change. For our circumstances a maid, a man, and the cook should have been sufficient. But Beak came with the hire of the house, and Mrs. Sadgett as well. Etienne thought the desirable situation was worth the expense; I think he believed that a large household gave him more consequence as well. But Beak is too old to do half of what we would ask of a footman, and so we have Jacks as well. And Mary Pitt. And my Sophie has been with me since—”

  “Please, I did not mean that you must account for your household to me, ma’am. Only, it is a great many people, even with your husband’s valet gone. And what of Mrs. Vose, ma’am, whom I met on my first visit here?”

  Anne d’Aubigny’s countenance grew bleak. “She is my husband’s cousin.”

  Miss Tolerance’s attention was caught by a perceptible pause between the last two words. “Did you not tell me your husband had no relatives now living?”

  “I meant he had none living who would be able to lend him money,” Mrs. d’Aubigny said. “I have no—”

  What the widow did not have, Miss Tolerance was not to learn. In that moment Beak announced the arrival of Mr. William Heddison and Mr. Boyse, of the Greater Marlborough Street Public Office. Beak waited for instruction.

  Mrs. d’Aubigny turned to Miss Tolerance. “The magistrate! Must I see him? He plagues me every day.”

  “I think you had better see him,” Miss Tolerance said gently. “If you do not, he will certainly take it amiss.”

  Mrs. d’Aubigny nodded, and Beak turned to invite the law into the widow’s parlor.

  Having heard her friend Sir Walter’s opinion of Mr. Heddison, Miss Tolerance was curious to meet him. However, the widow had a right to meet with the man privately, and so she told her.

  Anne d’Aubigny shook her head with the first evidence of strong emotion she had given all day. “Please don’t leave me! He glares at me so, it frightens me!”

  Miss Tolerance nodded. She did not voice the thought that what the widow regarded as harsh treatment, someone less fortunately situated by way of birth and fortune might regard as extraordinary politeness.

  Beak returned with Messrs. Heddison and Boyse following. Heddison was a short, plain-dressed man with close-cut gray hair and a wide, thin mouth pressed into an expression of impatience. He had the air of a man who will do his duty but expects no joy from it. His companion was at least twelve inches taller than the magistrate, and so broad that his waistcoat, which was a reddish-brown suggesting the customary red of the Bow Street Runners, strained across his gut. Silvery-white hair fell over his collar, and his round face was smallpox-scarred and red; the color, Miss Tolerance suspected, was only partly from the November wind. As the men entered the room, Heddison looked directly for Mrs. d’Aubigny; Boyse, on the other hand, squinted about him as if appraising the worth of the furnishings. He walked on the balls of his feet, which served to make him loom menacingly. Miss Tolerance was reminded that Sir Walter had said Heddison’s constables were men he would not want in his employ.

  She and Mrs. d’Aubigny rose to their feet. Heddison bowed to Madame d’Aubigny and Boyse bobbed his shaggy head in a way to suggest the courtesy. At the same moment both men became aware of Miss Tolerance’s presence, and of her dress. Boyse appeared to shrug off the company of another person of whatever appearance; Heddison started a bow in her direction and stopped, as if uncertain what he beheld.

  “Miss Tolerance,” Anne d’Aubigny said. “May I make Mr. Heddison and Mr. Boyse known to you?” Miss Tolerance realized with amusement that the widow was enjoying the magistrate’s confusion. She bowed to the men and took her seat. “Miss Tolerance has been engaged by my brother to look after my interests.”

  “Your interests, madam?” Heddison thought about this for a moment. Then, “I know your name. You’re the woman that testified in the matter of the Earl—”

  “I am, sir,” she said.

  “And you are acquainted with a colleague of mine, Sir Walter Mandif?”

  Miss Tolerance nodded.

  “We have met. He spoke of you,” Heddison said thoughtfully. “I hope you do not plan to obstruct my investigation.”

  What had Sir Walter said of her, Miss Tolerance wondered. “It is the farthest thing from my mind, sir. Mr. Colcannon feared that Mrs. d’Aubigny might be in danger, and asked for my help.”

  “Danger?” Heddison scoffed.

  “A violent murder took place in this house, sir. Until we know why and who did it, we must consider Mrs. d’Aubigny at risk as well.”

  Heddison stared at Miss Tolerance blankly for a moment, then turned abruptly to Madame d‘Aubigny. “I have some questions to put to you, ma’am. Do you wish this person to stay?”

  Anne d’Aubigny nodded. “I have no secrets from Miss Tolerance, Mr. Heddison.”

  The magistrate took a seat, unasked, leaving Mr. Boyse to stand behind him, looming like an unshaven tower. The constable sniffed deeply, rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, then wiped that hand on his breeches. When he looked upon the widow he scowled.

  “Well, then.” Heddison began with a series of unexceptionable questions: when did Mrs. d’Aubigny retire on the night of the murder, who had bolted the doors, at what hour were the doors customarily unlocked again, did her husband ever lock the door to his own chamber—all questions Miss Tolerance herself had asked. From Mrs. d’Aubigny’s rote response, this was not the first time Heddison had asked them either. The widow sat with her hands in her lap like a child before a harsh preceptor, clearly fearful that at any moment a mistake might bring her a scolding or worse. Miss Tolerance judged it time to add a word.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Heddison, but may I add something you will like to know?”

  The magistrate turned to face her with the same expression he might have worn if the pantry cat had spoken to him.

  “It appears that the kitchen door was unlocked when the cook arrived on the morning after the murder.”

  “Unlocked when the cook arrived?” he repeated.

  “Yes, sir. All the servants swear they did not unbolt it. Which suggests that someone else did.” Miss Tolerance did not want to point out that if the servants had not done so, that left Mrs. d’Aubigny and the chevalier as the likely culprits. She did not like the possibility that could suggest to Heddison.

  “The old man, Beak, may have forgot to bolt it in the first place, or may have forgot that he unbolted it in the morning.” Heddison turned to Anne d‘Aubigny again. “Do you know how that door came to be unlocked, ma’am?”

  “I, sir? No, I could not say.”

  “Could not say? Someone in your household may have let a murderer in and you cannot say? You expect that I will believe that?”

  Anne d’Aubigny’s lips trembled. “I do, sir. I am afraid—” she attempted a joking tone. “I am afraid I do not even know what sort of lock the kitchen door has. I could not swear to its mechanism.”

  The magistrate may have doubted this, but Miss Tolerance, having seen the staff’s protectiveness, found it credible if unfortunate.

  Heddison cleared his throat. “What of your door, ma’am?”

  “My door?”

  Heddison nodded. “Was your chamber kept locked at night, ma’am?”

  Mrs. d’Aubigny shook her head. “My door has no lock, sir.”

  “No lock?”

  “No lock, sir. My husband had it removed. He said such a thing was—had no place in the household of a gentleman.”

  In the light of what she had learned of d’Aubigny’s character, Miss Tolerance thought this a very sinister piece of information. Mr. Heddison seemed to regard it only as proof of gentlemanly eccentricity. He did ask a few pointed questions about the state of the d’Aubignys’ marriage—never quite asking if it had been a happy match. Mrs. d’Aubigny twisted her kerchief and looked from time to time at Miss Tolerance, who cou
ld only smile encouragingly.

  At last Heddison rose to his feet.

  “I will talk to your manservant. Thank you, ma’am.” He bowed curtly in Mrs. d’Aubigny’s direction, ignored Miss Tolerance, and left the room with Mr. Boyse, sniffing, just behind him.

  Anne d’Aubigny turned to Miss Tolerance as if to finish a conversation only just interrupted. “You see? What is one to make of such treatment? One would think they believed I had left the door unbolted.”

  Miss Tolerance shook her head sadly, wondering how best to make Anne d’Aubigny understand her peril. Plain speaking was surely her best course.

  “‘Tis worse than that, ma’am,” she said quietly. “They think you may be the murderer.”

  Eight

  “Believe me the murderer?”

  Miss Tolerance closed her eyes and took a breath. She is an innocent, she thought. No one has ever thought worse of her than that she drank up all the nursery cream or took two sweetmeats from the dish instead of one. She opened her eyes and spoke quietly.

  “I had hoped you understood, ma’am. You are threatened, not only by the real murderer, but by the chance that you may be the Crown’s best suspect. The law considers the murder of a man by his wife worse than mere homicide—the punishment is a terrible one. It is why I beg that you take your situation seriously. Your brother believes your greatest danger is from an attacker; my fear is that Mr. Heddison may decide that you had cause and opportunity to kill your husband yourself.”

  Mrs. d’Aubigny stared at her hands, curled in her lap. “Do you think I could do such a thing?” she asked. In the black mourning dress and cap, in this ill-lit room, her pallor was almost luminous. She appeared even smaller than Miss Tolerance knew her to be. “Do you think I overpowered my husband?” Her voice shook. Another moment and she would likely be in full hysterics.

  Miss Tolerance knelt by the widow’s chair and took her hand. “Please believe, ma’am, that I do not think you are the murderer. But you are best served by the truth with no varnish upon it: Mr. Heddison very likely considers you a suspect in your husband’s death.”

  “And what—what is this terrible punishment? Are not murderers hanged? What could be worse than that?”

  “Burning,” Miss Tolerance said baldly. She let this intelligence sink in for a moment before she went on. “You understand now why it is imperative that you tell me anything which may be helpful in my investigation.”

  Madame d’Aubigny nodded and allowed herself to be seated again.

  “You were going to explain Mrs. Vose’s presence in your house, ma’am. Since I have recently seen her at the salon of Madame Camille Touvois, you may imagine that my curiosity is considerable upon this point.”

  Anne d’Aubigny began to twist her handkerchief.

  “Miss Tolerance.” Her voice was very low. “In order to explain, I must confide in you certain things I do not want—I had rather die than see spread.”

  “Rather die?” Again Miss Tolerance felt a pang of impatience. “That is too easily said. Please believe I will do my best to see that the secrets of your marriage are not broadcast. However, if it is a choice between upending those secrets or, by my silence, conspiring in your execution, you will understand that I have been hired to keep you alive. Please, ma’am, who is Mrs. Vose?”

  “She was my husband’s mistress.” Mrs. d’Aubigny twisted her handkerchief until it was a hard gray line between her fingers. “You had probably guessed that. But—how am I to make you understand her true role here, Miss Tolerance? My husband meant her to be a humiliation to me, but she was often a friend. A protector.”

  “A protector?”

  Anne d’Aubigny pursed her lips as if to contain strong emotion. “Yes. I am not so foolish—no longer so foolish—as to believe her actions were entirely disinterested. I’m sure she had some benefit in taking my husband’s attention from me; I only know that when she came to him he did not—”

  “He did not come to you.” Miss Tolerance nodded soberly. “Please forgive my plain speaking. I have learnt a little of your husband’s tastes—and that he made himself unwelcome with them, in the very houses that cater to such interests. If they, who are accustomed to a measure of brutality, would not tolerate him, I can only imagine his behavior to you. But you say he brought her here?”

  Mrs. d’Aubigny nodded. “She said her lodgings were not suitable.”

  Miss Tolerance could well imagine what Josette Vose’s lodgings were like. “I can certainly understand your loyalty to her while your husband lived. I am less able to fathom why I found her here, the first morning that I called. You were not come together to mourn the chevalier, surely?”

  “Mourn? No.” Mrs. d’Aubigny sniffed at the absurdity of the idea. “But Josette came to condole with me, and asked if I would like her to stay for a day or so. She was kind to me, Miss Tolerance; I had come to depend upon her. You saw how she protected me—even from you! But after a few days she left us—said it was better that way.”

  “I see.” Miss Tolerance reflected upon Anne d’Aubigny’s peculiar knack for awakening sympathy and protectiveness. She herself had felt it; why should not Josette Vose, to whom she was more intimately connected? Still, that woman who had dismissed her from the house, and whom she had seen paying court to the Duke of Cumberland, did not much accord with the image of a tender mother hen.

  “When was the last time Mrs. Vose was in your house before the murder?”

  The widow shrugged. “A day or two before, I think.”

  “She was not in the house on the night of the murder?”

  Anne d’Aubigny looked at Miss Tolerance blankly. “She did not tell me so.”

  A peculiar answer, Miss Tolerance thought. Then she recalled that the widow had taken a sleeping draught on the night of the murder, and had even slept through the discovery of the body.

  “Did your servants mention her?” she asked.

  Madame d’Aubigny shook her head.

  The Coroner’s Court had not mentioned the presence of Mrs. Vose either, Miss Tolerance thought. She was left with the sense that there was a question she had not yet asked. Unable to frame that question, she went on.

  “You understand that this information will change my investigation. Did you tell Mr. Heddison of the chevalier’s relationship with Mrs. Vose?”

  Anne d’Aubigny shook her head, her eyes very wide. “She was here the first day he called—we said she was my cousin. How could I tell Mr. Heddison what she—what she is?”

  “How could you not?”

  “But why should it matter? Josette said—”

  Miss Tolerance bit her lip. She could well imagine any number of things Mrs. Vose might have said. “I understand your gratitude to Mrs. Vose—I’m sure she is blameless.” In fact, she was sure of no such thing. “But those around her might not be. If she had an admirer—or a pimp, or a brother who resented the chevalier’s attentions? You must write Mr. Heddison and tell him of Mrs. Vose’s true relationship to your husband.”

  The widow’s lip trembled. Miss Tolerance leaned forward in her chair and took the other woman’s hand, holding it in a strong grasp. “I would not say you must do this if I did not believe it necessary to your safety,” she said. “I will go and speak to Mrs. Vose myself. Do you know where she lodges?”

  Mrs. d’Aubigny pulled her hand from Miss Tolerance’s. “I believe she said she lived near Marylebone Road. It might be Knox Street, but I am not certain. Please, Miss Tolerance, it distresses me to trouble Mrs. Vose, who has been so good to me—” Her breath was coming fast, and the handkerchief in her hands was impossibly twisted.

  “All I intend is to talk with her, just as I did with Beak and Mrs. Sadgett and the rest,” Miss Tolerance said soothingly. She permitted a few minutes of silence to pass in hope that the widow would recover herself. When Anne d’Aubigny’s breathing had slowed and her pallor was tinged with pink, Miss Tolerance said, “I have two more questions and then I will leave you. Are you acquainted wi
th a friend of your husband’s, a Mr. Beauville?”

  Miss Tolerance had the sense that Mrs. d’Aubigny had braced herself for a more difficult question. “I know his name, and I believe my husband was often in his company, gaming and at sport, but we never met. I understand Mr. Beauville is an émigré, like my husband.”

  It was no more than Mrs. Lasher of Green Street had said.

  “You would not know his direction?”

  Mrs. d’Aubigny shook her head. “I knew that Beauville was his intimate. And that they shared a fondness for the same amusements.” Her tone was bitter. “Otherwise, I cannot help you.”

  “I’ll run him to the ground one way or another. Perhaps Mrs. Lasher—she keeps the establishment I mentioned to you—can be persuaded to be more forthcoming.”

  “Mrs. Lasher knew my husband well?”

  “Well enough to describe him and his habits tolerably well. She said he was so devoted to his amusements that he was accustomed to bring his own kit of—” Here Miss Tolerance stopped, unable to define what such a kit would have contained. “It is my understanding that the chevalier had a collection of implements for use with women like Mrs. Vose.”

  “The box.” Mrs. d’Aubigny’s eyes had closed. She nodded.

  Miss Tolerance looked at the widow, shuddered and damned her own stupidity. A blow was one thing; but somehow she had not believed d’Aubigny could practice the worst of his cruelty upon his wife. Had she thought Anne d’Aubigny was naive? She swallowed bile and asked as gently as she could, “Can you tell me anything about it?”

  Anne d’Aubigny spoke without inflection. “The box was made of rosewood, I think. It had come over from France with the family. It was lined with red silk. In it he had …” She shook her head. “I do not know where the box is.”

  “Is there any reason you know of that the box might be material to my investigation?”

  Mrs. d’Aubigny shook her head. Her eyes were still closed. Miss Tolerance waited in silence while the widow regained her composure.

  “Perhaps that is all I need trouble you with today, ma’am,” she said at last. “It is only my real concern for your safety that made it necessary to speak of such distressing things.”