Petty Treason

by Madeleine E. Robins

  Miss Tolerance washed, brushed and put up her hair, and dressed in her respectable blue twill walking dress. It had not required Sir Walter to make her aware of Mr. Heddison’s prejudice against her; there was little point in antagonizing the magistrate with reminders that she was not a respectable female. Better to be cold and successful in feminine dress than warm and a failure in top boots and greatcoat.

  The Public Office in Great Marlborough Street was thronged with people of all conditions, albeit rather more of the meaner working class and the underemployed than their betters. The benches which lined the walls were already filled with visitors, witnesses and complainants, most of whom seemed to have brought children, livestock, and property of various ages, sizes, and degrees of cleanliness. The din was powerful; the smell only slightly less so. Despite the inadequacy of the heating (coals glowed sullenly in grates at either end of the hall) the room was uncomfortably warm, and highly redolent of human animal.

  Mr. Cotler, the clerk who had been on duty on the night of Anne d’Aubigny’s arrest, was in his place this morning. He wore the extremities of fashion approved by the dandy set: high collar points, large brass buttons on his blue coat, and a neckcloth tied in an elaborate, slightly grubby knot, as Mr. Cotler had apparently forgotten to wash his hands. His boots were shined, his hair pomaded, and his expression that of a man who feels himself superior to his surroundings. Miss Tolerance greeted him as an old acquaintance and requested a few words with Mr. Heddison. Cotler stared at her, clearly trying to recall who she was.

  “You must see so many people every day,” Miss Tolerance said sympathetically. “Will you permit me to remind you? I am the woman who accompanied Mrs. d’Aubigny’s maid when she was brought in the other night. And I need very much to speak with Mr. Heddison.”

  Cotler shrugged. “‘E’s busy, miss. Don’t know that I can call him away from the business.”

  Hoping for a bribe, Miss Tolerance diagnosed. Well, it was her own fault for having paid the boy the other evening. “The matter I am come upon is business, too. Will this help to assure that my message is brought to him?” she asked, and slid a half-crown along the edge of Cotler’s desk with one gloved finger. The clerk’s gaze followed the coin’s progress from left to right and back again; his own finger extended to take the coin. Attempting a fashionable wardrobe—even one bought secondhand—must take rather more money than Mr. Cotler’s wages provided.

  “Do you want to write a message out, miss? Or shall I just tell ’im what you have said?”

  Miss Tolerance said that she trusted him to convey the sense of her message, and returned to the benches to wait a summons. It was not quick in coming. A number of people came and went as she watched, transacting business, making promises and threats, scuffling among themselves once or twice. Miss Tolerance gave up her seat to a woman far gone with child, who rested a toddler on her knee; mother and child stared into the hopeless distance with a gaze that did not include their immediate surroundings.

  After more than an hour Mr. Cotler, who had risen from his desk half a dozen times since their conversation, waved Miss Tolerance forward. “Mr. ’Eddison’s compliments, miss, and could you talk to one of the constables instead? ’E’s very busy today.”

  Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Given the delicacy of my information I can speak only to Mr. Heddison. I am afraid I cannot trust his constables.”

  Cotler raised an eyebrow. “Not trust the constables? ’E ain’t going to like that.”

  “I did not imagine he would. I do not like it myself. Please tell him, Mr. Cotler. Neither the day, nor my client, nor I am growing any younger waiting here.”

  Whatever Heddison’s reaction to her second message, it was another hour before she was again beckoned forward.

  “Secon’ door on the left,” Mr. Cotler instructed her tersely. She gathered, from his expression, that he expected her discussion with Heddison to go badly. Miss Tolerance felt some qualms herself, but followed in the direction Cotler’s ink-stained finger had indicated.

  Mr. Heddison sat at a large, well-ordered desk to the left of the door. Neat stacks of paper lined shelves on the wall behind him, each stack held down by a miscellany of rusty iron objects: bootmaker’s lasts, bent horseshoes, a carpenter’s wedge. Five straight-backed caned chairs were lined against the right-hand wall; none appeared to have been moved out for the accommodation of visitors very recently.

  “Thank you for seeing me, sir.” Miss Tolerance dropped a curtsy, which salute forced Mr. Heddison out of his chair to bow in return. As he had favored her with the response due a gentlewoman, Miss Tolerance was hopeful that his attention would be as respectful.

  “I hope you will not need much of my time, Miss—er—” the magistrate said.

  “I shall be as brief as possible, sir,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “It has come to my notice that there may be some inaccuracies in information which I believe was brought to you by one of your constables with regard to the death of the Chevalier d’Aubigny.”

  “And how would you know that?” Heddison asked. His gaze had returned to a paper on the desk before him.

  “I researched the matter,” Miss Tolerance said simply. “As I have only one investigation to follow, it is perhaps easier for me to devote my entire attention to finding a witness such as Mr. Millward—”

  The name Millward brought Heddison’s head up. “I shall not inquire how you came to learn that name. Have you located him?” he asked. “Boyse has had very little luck, and I want to ask some particular questions—”

  “I am afraid that will present some difficulties, as Mr. Millward does not exist.”

  Heddison looked at Miss Tolerance in silence for a full minute. “Just because you have not been able to locate him—”

  “Not at all, sir. I have been told that Millward was an invention.”

  “Nonsense. My constable must have received his information from somewhere—”

  “I think that the information must likewise be an invention, sir. If there is no Millward, whom would my client have approached to murder her husband? Have you not wondered how a woman like Anne d’Aubigny could be expected to find a man like Millward without causing considerable notice? The kindest construction I can put upon the matter is that Mr. Boyse was so eager to see my client convicted that he invented a bit of damning evidence.”

  Heddison’s wide mouth thinned until he looked like a dyspeptic lizard. “You accuse an officer of the law—”

  “I do, sir. I do not do it lightly.”

  “No more lightly than turn in a peer of the realm as a murderer,” Heddison said flatly. He peered at her to see if his barb had struck home.

  “No more lightly than that,” Miss Tolerance said coolly. “My governess suggested that acting rightly would not always be agreeable, and I think I may say that I have proved her right. If you think Versellion’s trial gave me any joy, Mr. Heddison, you are quite wrong. But on this present matter: Mr. Boyse claims, I believe, to have been approached by this Mr. Millward on the evening of November seventeen, between the time when you and he visited Mrs. d’Aubigny in Half Moon Street and the next day, when Mrs. d’Aubigny was taken in for questioning. I have witnesses who place him at the Duke of Kent in Oxford Street, in the company of a who—a woman known to be an intimate of his. The barman at the Duke of Kent remembers that he was there from half past eight to one in the morning, and says that no one approached Mr. Boyse there for more than a moment.”

  “That does not mean that this Millward could not have spoken to him before half past eight. Or later, after he left the public house.”

  “The woman Mr. Boyse was drinking with, and with whom he subsequently spent the night, was a Mrs. Strokum. He was with her until morning. The barman will attest that she was with him at the Duke of Kent. It was she who told me that Millward was an invention. She did her best to shield Mr. Boyse, sir, telling me at first that there was a man named Millward but that Boyse had never spoken to him—I think she meant to pr
ovide an alibi to your constable. Later, after Mr. Boyse had beaten her—”

  “Beaten—That is quite enough! Can you prove any of this? I should have Boyse in to refute it.”

  “I can provide the barman and Mrs. Strokum, sir. She is in hiding just now, not caring to invite another beating by Mr. Boyse, who threatened to kill her if she gave any information about Millward or himself.” She held up a hand to forestall another interruption. “Mrs. Strokum said that Mr. Boyse did speak to one man that evening, but only long enough to exchange a few words, not the involved story your constable told you. From her description I am quite certain that the man Boyse spoke to was a Mr. Henri Beauville, who was an intimate friend of Etienne d’Aubigny.”

  Mr. Heddison’s mouth pursed. He stared at Miss Tolerance for a moment.

  “What do you expect me to do with this information?” he asked at last.

  “I hope you will see that your chiefest evidence against Anne d’Aubigny has evaporated, and you will secure her immediate release from Cold Bath Fields Prison. For the rest—I have the greatest respect for the magistracy and should dislike to have any of Mr. Boyse’s transgressions become public. I leave that matter entirely to your judgment.”

  Heddison smiled sourly. “That’s mighty kind of you. But even if you can prove any of this, it still does not remove Mrs. d’Aubigny as a possible murderer. What motive could Boyse have to produce such a fabrication?”

  “You must ask him, sir. Or ask Mr. Beauv—”

  With startling speed Heddison took up a walking stick that leaned against his desk and swept it in a furious arc. Miss Tolerance jumped back; her hand went automatically to her left hip for the sword she was not wearing. The head of the stick breezed past her and hit the door with a loud crack.

  Cotler’s head appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?” He appeared to find this mode of summons nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Fetch Mr. Boyse in here. At once.”

  Miss Tolerance bit her lip, letting her racing heart slow.

  “Did I startle you?” Heddison asked. “My apologies. Take a seat, if you will.”

  Miss Tolerance doubted the sincerity of the apology, but took a chair from those along the wall, pulled it before the desk, and sat. For the next several minutes neither she nor the magistrate spoke. It was not a comfortable silence.

  The door opened and Mr. Boyse stood there, filling the space with his height and girth.

  “Have you had any luck in finding your man Millward, Boyse?”

  Boyse looked from Heddison to Miss Tolerance and back again. “What’s she been saying to you, sir?” He stepped into the room until he was beside Miss Tolerance’s chair. It was like having a furnace set beside her; his size and heat were palpable. Miss Tolerance was certain he meant to intimidate her with his proximity; she looked up at the constable, nodded coolly, and looked away.

  “You will answer the question, Mr. Boyse. Have you been able to discover anything about this Millward whom you say Mrs. d’Aubigny hired to kill her husband?”

  “Tried to hire, sir. He refused the job, if you’ll recall. No, I h’ain’t found hide nor hair of ’im. Vanished clear off the face of the earth.” Boyse turned and smirked at Miss Tolerance. She smiled politely.

  “Did your Mr. Millward give you any idea of how Mrs. d’Aubigny found him, or why she thought he would accept her offer to employ him as an assassin?”

  Boyse shrugged. “Barman told her ’e’d be likely to do a bit of work for her.”

  “So there exists a barman who could testify that Mrs. d’Aubigny approached Millward?” Heddison asked sharply.

  Boyse realized his misstep; if he could not find Millward, surely he should be able to find this barman. “That’s what Millward tol’ me, sir.”

  “And when you spoke to Millward—have you any idea at what hour the conversation took place?” Heddison asked.

  Boyse shrugged. “Somewhere’s between I was dismissed—round about seven—and midnight, I’d say. Of course, I’d have time to get myself properly pogy,” he added confidingly. “Say it was p’raps ten or so, sir.”

  “And this took place where, this conversation?”

  Boyse shrugged again. “As I said, I was fair mystified. Don’t recollect the location. Somewheres in London.”

  Heddison nodded. The purse of his lips became more pronounced.

  “There appear to be witnesses who state that you were at—the Duke of Kent?” He turned to Miss Tolerance, who nodded. “The Duke of Kent, that night, where you are well known, and left with a woman—”

  “Betty Strokum told a tale on me, sir?” Boyse’s menacing affability slipped. “She didn’t ought to do that. Of course, you can’t trust whores, sir.” He turned and looked meaningfully at Miss Tolerance.

  “Or barmen, Boyse?”

  This appeared to confuse Boyse. “Barmen, sir?”

  “Are barmen less reliable sources of information?” Heddison sighed. “How did you know it was Mrs. Strokum I meant? She was beaten the other day, and accuses you of—”

  “What, beating her? Whores need a good thumping now and then, sir,” Boyse said. “Wouldn’t you say, miss?”

  Miss Tolerance kept her eyes on Heddison, who was in no way as sympathetic to his constable’s humor as Boyse seemed to expect. The magistrate turned to her.

  “At what time did the barman at the Duke of Kent say Boyse arrived there, Miss Tolerance?”

  Miss Tolerance took a notebook out of her reticule and paged through it. “About half past eight o’clock, sir.”

  “Eight o’clock? That would certainly allow a few hours for him to become inebriated, as he says. The question arises: where was he in the hours before that?”

  “Was he not working for you?” Miss Tolerance asked with some surprise.

  At almost the same moment Boyse leaned forward confidingly, as if hoping to convey some information to his employer without including Miss Tolerance in the communication. “When I brung you the evidence, your honor, we talked about my—my deereeliction of duty. That I stepped out on that ’ere assignment.”

  “And I had assigned you to—” Heddison paused, as if in recollection. “We did discuss it. Your dereliction started at what time, Boyse?”

  The constable stared at his employer. “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “At what time did you start drinking, man?”

  “Oh. Maybe six of the clock, sir.”

  “And you never foll—got to the piece of business I had assigned you?”

  Boyse’s eyes shifted from left to right, from Mr. Heddison to Miss Tolerance. “No, sir. I went straightaway to drinking.”

  The men were speaking around a piece of information Miss Tolerance did not have. It was not a sensation she liked. “The barman at the Duke said that Boyse was not drunk when he arrived, sir. He arrived—” she looked at her notes again. “‘Sober and full of himself,’ I was told.”

  Boyse put out his hand as if he might take the notebook from her, then thought better of it. The hand, his left, dropped to his side, just by Miss Tolerance’s shoulder. Miss Tolerance felt unnaturally aware of the meaty hand so near to her. Uneasily she turned back to Heddison, to see what he made of all this. His expression was quizzical.

  “Do you know Mr. Beauville, Boyse?” Heddison asked.

  The warmth which had radiated from Boyse’s body abruptly faded. Miss Tolerance looked up at the man and saw his gaze still fixed upon her. His smile looked like a mask behind which an animal was trapped. He did not answer, and the quiet in the room became both oppressive and communicative.

  “Perhaps we ought to put all the cards upon the table,” Heddison suggested. “Miss Tolerance says that there never was a Millward, Mr. Boyse. She claims to have testimony—from people who are readily available—to this effect.”

  Boyse turned his head and spat.

  “If you cannot provide a better account of your whereabouts on that night, I will be forced to give more credence to her evidence. When you left my compan
y on that evening your instructions were clear, and the only reason I absolved you of negligence in leaving off the task to which you had been assigned was that you chanced upon evidence in the case …” Heddison trailed off, looking at his constable with concern.

  “I should very much like to know what this task was to which Mr. Boyse was assigned,” Miss Tolerance said. Both men ignored her.

  “I hope I have not been mistaken in you, Mr. Boyse. The law allows us some latitude in how we achieve justice, but where there is testimony to counter—”

  Boyse, still standing uncomfortably close to Miss Tolerance, seemed to be on the verge of explosion. His pocked face was very red, and he rubbed his fingers together as if the friction might discharge his anger. She sat poised on the edge of her chair, ready to leap away from him if necessary.

  “What, Betty’s word? The word of a whore? I told her if she said anything I’d have her by the throat—”

  “You beat her? A witness?”

  “A witness? That drunken bunter? If I did beat her she’d never ’ave noticed it. They get used to it in your line of work, don’t they, miss? Whores? Looks like you and Bet got more’n one thing in common.”

  Without volition Miss Tolerance found that her hand had moved to her cheek, where the shadowy bruises of her own beating were still visible. She looked up at Boyse with horrified fascination, and something slid into place in her mind.

  “What hand do you sign your name with, Mr. Boyse?”

  Both Heddison and Boyse looked at her as if she were mad.