Ask me no questions,
and I'll tell you no fibs.
-OLIVER GOLDSMITH
"She Stoops to Conquer"
Prologue
England, 1748
Incident in London
"One o'the clock of a fine Friday morning! And all—ll's well!"
The watchman's singsong proclamation went largely unheard, and at this point in his rounds he had little need of his lantern. Tonight, my lord Geoffrey Boudreaux gave a ball to celebrate the christening of his infant great-grandnephew, Master Trevelyan Jonathan Boothe, and Boudreaux House on Grosvenor Square was ablaze with light. The flambeaux on each side of the entrance cast their flickering brilliance on the eager faces of the small crowd that lingered to see the late arrivals and a few early departures. And, because of the warmth of this July night, many windows were open, allowing the pleasant sounds of music, talk, and laughter to be heard.
Special constables kept the common folk clear of the red carpet that led from the kennel to the steps of the mansion while, in a steady stream, luxurious coaches came and went, receiving or disgorging the noble and the famous, and a few of the infamous, of London's Society.
Preparing to step into the street so as to pass by, the watchman slowed his stride and for a moment joined those gazing into the windows. He could catch glimpses of the immaculately bewigged heads and rich coats of the gentlemen, the colourful silks and satins of the ladies' wide-hooped skirts; of feathers tossing in high-piled coiffures, jewels sparkling, and fans being plied vigorously. "Ain't no wonder!" he muttered. "Must be fair sweltering in there."
"Wish you was sweltering with 'em, don'tcha, mate?" enquired a voice in his ear, and a fat man with a perspiring face leered at him mockingly.
"No, I don't, if you wants ter know it," he answered. "Ain't me place, nor I wouldn't—"
From one of the upper windows a piercing shriek rang out so charged with terror that the watching crowd was struck dumb.
"Hey!" interrupted the fat man, pressing closer against the railing of the area-way. "Hey! What's afoot?"
Even as the watchman jerked his head around, he was conscious of a difference in the festive sounds. The music had stopped. The laughter was dying away and the chatter took on a note of alarm.
A youthfully ambitious special constable started up the steps. Making a recovery the watchman cried, "Stand aside for the Watch! Move aside there!"
Abashed, the young constable stepped back, but brightened when the watchman thrust out his lantern together with an admonition to "Hold this here!"
The watchman was admitted to the mansion by a scared-looking lackey. It was very apparent that consternation reigned inside, and the curiosity of those outside increased when a lackey and a footman emerged and went off at the run.
"Gorn ter fetch a Runner from Bow Street," said the special constable knowledgeably.
The fat man nodded. "Must be bad, then. Here," he added, his voice eager, "you don't never think there's been a murder done?"
Several of those listening uttered shocked gasps at this remark, but the constable put an end to such gruesome suppositions. Murders, he said, did not take place at the homes of fine gentlemen such as Lord Boudreaux.
In less than half an hour a coach clattered up the street and the footman alighted. He was accompanied by a tall, sombrely clad man with a solemn expression who carried a short baton surmounted by a crown. This symbol of Bow Street confirmed the opinion expressed by the young constable and earned him several admiring glances, bringing a gratified smile to his face.
The footman and the man from Bow Street went swiftly into the mansion and the doors were closed, leaving the titillated crowd to engage in ever more lurid conjectures as to the nature of the crime the officer of the law would discover.
That gentleman, who made himself known as Mr. Warkin, was conducted to a luxurious second-floor bedchamber and presented to the occupants. Mrs. Letitia Boothe, a slender young matron, was seated on a chaise longue, weeping softly and being comforted by her husband, Mr. Snowden Boothe. The watchman was talking earnestly with Lord Geoffrey Boudreaux. The elderly aristocrat's fine-boned scholarly face was pale and ravaged by the shock of what had taken place in his home, but he greeted the Runner with quiet courtesy. On the floor, a sheet had been spread over a human form, and Mr. Warkin went in grave silence to remove the sheet and stare grimly at the lifeless woman it had covered.
"A proper bit of the devil's work," he muttered. "Shocking that such things should happen in England. Shocking! I'll own, melord, as I'd hoped your footman was mistook and that the unfortunate female had survived." He drew out notebook and pencil. "With all respect, I shall have to take down statements, sirs and ma'am." He glanced to the watchman who was waiting in wide-eyed silence. "I hope you've made sure that nobody won't leave these premises?"
Lord Boudreaux interpolated, "I have requested that my guests remain for a while. As for questions, the watchman has already taken statements from us all. This dreadful brutality has come as a great shock to Mrs. Boothe, and she is in no state to endure more questions tonight. Mr. Boothe and I will be only too glad to cooperate with you, however."
There could be no doubt that Mrs. Boothe was deeply grieved. Her gentle face was streaked with tears, and as she went out on her husband's arm she told the Runner in a broken voice that the dead girl had been her abigail for several years and that she had been very fond of "dear Meg."
Mr. Warkin prowled about the room, read the watchman's notes, and questioned Lord Boudreaux briefly. He then left the watchman to guard the dead woman, and accompanied his lordship to a ground floor study. When Snowden Boothe joined them there he found the Runner seated at the desk writing busily in his notebook, and Boudreaux, looking rather weary, watching him from the sofa.
"I'm glad as you could come, Mr. Boothe," said the Bow Street Runner. "I've writ down details as given, and will now read them aloud. If you can add to 'em, I'll be grateful."
Boothe nodded and crossed to stand beside the sofa.
Mr. Warkin coughed behind his hand and began:
"Victim of murder most foul: Margaret Potter, spinster, aged six and thirty, personal maid or abigail to Mrs. Snowden Boothe. No known enemies or unsavoury acquaintances. On evening of Friday, My 12th, a ball was given at Boudreaux House, Grosvenor Square, in honour of birth of son to Mr. and Mrs. Snowden Boothe, the lady being grandniece of Lord Geoffrey Boudreaux. Victim, or murderee, was in employer's bedchamber. She failed to go downstairs for supper, and upon being sought for was found shortly after one o'clock in the morning in a expired condition, having been struck on head with great force. Murder weapon, some heavy object, not found on premises." He looked up. "Correct up to now, gentlemen?"
"So it would appear." His lordship frowned and remarked heavily, "Jove, but it fairly chills the blood to think that even the lowest criminal could do so cruel and pointless a thing!"
"It does indeed," said Boothe. "And how strangers could have got in here, with the house full of people, baffles me."
"Very right, sir," the Runner agreed approvingly. "Unless they was—(a) admitted by someone, possibly Miss Potter. Or—(b)—" he paused, leaned forward and uttered in a dramatic fashion, "—they were not strangers!"
Boothe stared at him.
Lord Boudreaux said coldly, "I am perfectly sure that poor Meg Potter had nothing to do with such rogues. She was a most superior woman."
"As for the guests," put in Boothe, "one or two of 'em have been knocked into horse-nails from time to time, I grant you. But there was no one here tonight so purse-pinched as to have robbed his host and carelessly murdered an innocent servant. I think it more likely that the thieves were alarmed when Meg surprised them, and struck harder than they
intended."
Mr. Warkin pursed his lips. "Possible, sir. But it's also possible as they done just what they intended. The rewards they thought was worth the risks, and—"
Leaning forward, Lord Boudreaux interrupted intensely, "And now you have come to the most puzzling aspect of this horrible business. Their reward was trivial!"
Boothe said, "Well you may look surprised, Mr. Warkin! But it is so. My wife's jewel case contained among other articles a very fine diamond necklace, a superb ruby brooch, and a large emerald pendant. All of which were left. The thieves took instead a single strand of pearls, a gold bangle, and an antique ring."
"Curious, melord," the Runner acknowledged. "Most extreme curious. Unless… What about that housemaid who screamed? Might she perhaps have driven 'em off before they had the chance to take the lot?"
Boothe said, "The girl who found Meg fainted. We were attempting to revive the housemaid when she came to her senses and screamed."
"Then they'd already made off. Clear and no hindrance," muttered the Runner thoughtfully. "With a small haul when they'd had time and opportunity to snatch a big'un."
"Which makes the taking of an innocent life seem even more savage and pointless," said Boothe in disgust.
"I doubt they considered it pointless," said Lord Boudreaux. "They wanted no witness left to describe them to the authorities."
Boothe argued, "Yet it seems such a fearful risk to take, sir. Had they committed the robbery alone they'd have had a chance of transportation were they caught. But why invite the hue and cry that will result from so brutal a murder? And certain execution? They'd have done better to have gambled that Meg wouldn't be able to describe them accurately."
"Ah, but she might have," said Mr. Warkin. " 'Specially if they was known to her. This way, they'd be sure. Still, I'm bound to agree that having brought the stain of murder to blacken their immortal souls, you'd think as they'd have took enough to justify such wickedness. The question being—why didn't they?" He chewed on the end of his pencil for a minute, then said, "No answer popping into me nob, or tibby, I must ask another question of you gents. Which is, was there anything unusual about the items or objects took? Any carvings or precious gems on that bangle, for instance, as might make it easier to trace?"
Lord Boudreaux said rather testily, "The watchman asked that same question. According to my grandniece the bangle was of good quality, but not remarkable in any way."
With a despondent look the Runner said, "Unfortunate. Most unfortunate. You said there was a old ring took, I think? A family heirloom, Mr. Boothe?"
"Possibly. But not of our family. A friend of my wife wore the ring to a ball a year or two ago. My wife admired it, and her friend made her a present of it. I'll own that I wasn't much taken with the ring myself, but I understand it is of great antiquity."
"Hmmn. I expect Mrs. Boothe can give me a description of it."
'That won't be necessary," said Boothe. "I can tell you.The ring is of gold, fashioned in the shape of a dragon with rubies for eyes."
This piece of information dispelled the gloom from Mr. Warkin's countenance. He licked the end of his pencil and had recourse to his notebook once more. "Very interesting," he muttered. "Very. Also stole, one… old… dragon ring. With red… eyes."
Lord Boudreaux's lip curled. "Solved the case for you, has it?"
The Runner gave him a reproving look. "That there ring will be the undoing of them vicious murderers. Mark my words, gentlemen. A pearl necklace is like any other pearl necklace. And gold bangles—well, they ain't so rare. But a dragon ring! No one what sees that ain't going to ferget it! We've got 'em now! When that there ring is fenced— we've got 'em!"
"Provided," said Snowden Boothe dubiously, "they intend to fence it."
"God bless my soul, sir," exclaimed the Runner, opening his eyes very wide. "Them murdering villins mean to get rich by their crimes, I promise you. What other reason would they have for taking Mrs. Boothe's valuables?"
His face sombre, Lord Boudreaux muttered, "What, indeed?"
Incident in Sussex
Few people were abroad at this hour, especially on the rutted and pot-holed lane that wound through the Ashdown Forest. There was no moon, and a change in the weather had brought a chill wind that moaned fitfully, sometimes flailing the branches and awakening a mighty chattering of leaves, and sometimes fading to so hushed a stillness that it was as if the forest held its breath. It was a night to make a man hold his breath also, and listen for something, though he knew not what. A night fit only for ghosts and goblins, whereby honest men scurried for home and set a good solid bar across the door.
And it was just the kind of night Bill Wiggins liked. Taking care not to crash the two pheasants securely tied under his coat, he scaled the manor wall and plunged into the forest with not a qualm for ghost nor goblin. A sturdy and practical man, with little interest in matters of the occult, his every thought was for how pleased Mattie would be, and the children. The birds were plump and would feed them for a week, maybe.
Something wet and cold was carried on a powerful gust to splash on his cheek, and he grinned up into the impenetrable blackness and started to hum to himself. Better and better. No keepers would brave the gloom of the forest in wind and rain, and in a half hour or less he'd be home and safe from the threat of capture, prison, and the hangman's rope, or maybe the doubtful mercy of transportation. "No conies tonight, Mattie me love," he muttered exultantly. "Pheasant, old lady!"
The wind slept again, the immediate smothering silence having such an uncanny quality that, despite his confidence, Bill paused, then moved to the side of the rutted lane. Just in case.
His heart gave a lurch when he saw a faint glow off to his right. There wasn't no cottage over that way. Shouldn't oughta be no light, neither. He stood very still, staring, then crept closer. If it was a trap, if they was laying for him, better to know, 'fore he blundered into something.
The wind roared in renewed blusterings, and the light came and went with the tossing of branches and shrubs. He was close enough now to hear the stamp and snorting of nervous horses. The source of the glow became visible. "Cor," whispered Bill.
He had come upon a clearing wherein a fine carriage stood. The four spirited horses were fretful because of the storm, and a coachman at the heads of the leaders was trying to calm them. If there was a footman behind, or on the box, he was out of sight. And if there wasn't no footman…
'Aha! A woman's in this, I shouldn't wonder,' thought Bill, who harboured a streak of romance under his phlegmatic exterior. 'Some young Buck's come to meet his light o' love on the sly, and she's—'
Hooves were coming up behind him. With a gasp of fright he leapt for the screen of a holly bush and crouched low, praying he'd not been silhouetted against the glow of the waiting carriage's lamps.
A moment later wheels rumbled within a yard of him and went on past to pull up closer to Bill than to the other carriage. The coachman swung down from the box to open the door, and a gentleman descended: a tall man, his cape drawn tightly about him and his tricorne pulled low.
"Put out the lamps, fool," he growled, and stamped over to climb inside the first carriage.
From within, another voice, sharp and harsh, commanded, "Coachman, wait by my friend's carriage. And do not come back until he leaves me."
The door slammed shut. The lamps on both vehicles were extinguished.
Bill heard heavy footsteps drawing near, and a man grunted, "Perishing night."
"Makes yer wonder," said the other coachman, keeping his voice low, "what could be so blistering important as to bring them two fine gents into this 'ere godforsaken wood."
"Don't make me wonder, mate. I don't see nuthink, I don't 'ear nuthink, and I don't never wonder 'bout nuthink. Them as wonders, mate, them's dead 'fore they've time ter spit. So me, mate, I don't."
'Cor!' thought Bill Wiggins again, and with the next gust of wind prudent poacher and plump pheasants melted into the night.
&nbs
p; Unlike the sagacious coachman, however, Bill did wonder. He had evidently stumbled upon a secret meeting. They'd been gents, no doubt of that, and from what the coachman had said, mighty dangerous gents. 'Up to no good,' thought Bill. Lucky for him he hadn't been a few minutes earlier, else he might've been caught when the first coach arrived, and likely he wouldn't be here now, with his two fine pheasants. It was a rum business. He decided not to tell Mattie about it. A good soul was Mattie, but she was a woman, and he'd never met a woman yet who could hold her tongue. He hastened his steps. She'd had a long wait, and Mattie fair hated waiting.
In the clearing he had just left, one of the gentleman in the darkened coach was of a similar frame of mind. "You must know, Emerald," said he in a cold and authoritative voice, "that I do not care to be kept waiting."
The big man seated opposite responded curtly, "Nor do I care for clandestine rendezvous."
"Do you not? You would have preferred perchance that we chat over a card table? At Brookses? Or the Cocoa Tree? Don't be foolish, Rudi!"
"No names, damme!"
"I'faith, but one might suppose your nerve to be failing. And so early in the game. Calm yourself, dear boy. Who can overhear in this desolation?"
"Never make the mistake of doubting my nerve, Squire." There was a note of menace to the deep voice. "Nor of becoming complacent. The slightest relaxation of vigilance could become habit. It needs but one slip, and we all would wear a hempen cravat."
A soft laugh. "Very true, my dear. I accept the reproof. Still, we have made excellent progress, you must allow. We hold all but three of our—er, prizes. The training program goes well, and our cargoes have been most gratifying." Waiting for a comment, he received none and frowned slightly into the darkness. "Well? You signalled for a meeting. I'll have your report, an you please." A pause, and he said sharply, "For God's sake speak up, man! There are only owls to spy on us."
"I could wish that were so. I fear, however, that I am spied upon by more than owls."
"The devil! Do you say you have allowed yourself to be identified as a member of our League?"
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