A Purely Private Matter

by Darcie Wilde

  Rosalind’s temper blazed. Do you really think I will be taken in by such a show?

  “There are a thousand ways that story could be contradicted. A half a dozen questions will give it the lie.”

  “But now there won’t be any questions, will there?” Mrs. Seymore laid aside the borrowed kerchief. Her manner was so entirely flawless that Rosalind suddenly felt herself to be gauche and clumsy. “At least, not as many. And if those strays do come home, I will tell the story again, exactly as I told it here.”

  “I hope that you are certain you will be able to do so.” Rosalind struggled to gather the shreds of her temper. “Just as I hope you are certain of what your husband will say at the police office and at the coroner’s inquest.” If you are not there to charm the gentlemen, mistakes might be made. “You must be aware that if this tale of self-harm is exposed, suspicion for Fletcher’s death will fall on Captain Seymore and his jealousies.”

  Mrs. Seymore looked shaken at this, but only for a moment. “My husband has only one thing to confess. He remembers very little of what he did or said on the night Fletcher was killed because he was so much the worse for drink. If it is necessary to verify this, then I’m sure his brother and the coachman will swear it.” She paused. “As could you, Miss Thorne. You were here when he came home.”

  Of course. Mrs. Seymore must have questioned her husband closely while they were alone upstairs together. Mrs. Seymore knew all the captain’s answers before she came down to greet the officers. He had been jealous. He had believed there was a liaison. He had confronted her with the fact, repeatedly. He had been drunk. It was around this that Mrs. Seymore had woven the story of desperate love and the threat of suicide. Captain Seymore safely could tell the truth. All the lies belonged to Mrs. Seymore.

  Again, Rosalind felt the surge of bitter admiration. She had underestimated this woman. Perhaps not quite as badly as Mr. Townsend, or Captain Seymore, but badly enough.

  And Margaretta was not done yet.

  “There is something you should know, Miss Thorne,” said Mrs. Seymore quietly. “As we were leaving, Mr. Townsend took me aside. He warned me away from you.”

  Rosalind felt the blood drain from her cheeks. “Did he say why?”

  “He said you had been involved in some unsavory business at the beginning of the season. You are not entirely delicate, he said, and he fears association with you might leave a blemish.” She paused, giving this time to sink in. “As you are my friend, I, of course, told him I knew all about the other matter, and that I held you entirely blameless. You were unlucky, that is all, and should not be held answerable for the sins of another.”

  “Well,” said Rosalind. “It would seem you have matters well in hand. I am sure Mr. Townsend will ensure you have no difficulties at the inquest. Therefore, you can have no more need of such assistance as I could offer.”

  She moved to get to her feet, but Mrs. Seymore stopped her.

  “That is not so, Miss Thorne,” she said. “I need you more than ever.”

  Rosalind drew herself up, her cold retort ready. But as she met Mrs. Seymore’s gaze, Rosalind saw the fear behind her melting eyes. She paused. A new thought tumbled heavily into place.

  “There is another reason Fletcher Cavendish might be lying dead,” Rosalind murmured. “Someone might be trying to place the blame for his murder on you.”

  “Yes,” said Margaretta, and this time the tremor in her voice was real.

  “But why? If you are right, there are already plans in place to disgrace you and declare your child illegitimate. Mrs. Seymore, can you possibly have that many enemies?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Thorne, and that is why I still need you.” The facade Mrs. Seymore had been able to maintain for the gentlemen slipped, turning the warmth of her distress to cold exhaustion. “I have managed to divert suspicion from my husband for the time being, but it may soon fall on me instead. That may have been the murderer’s ultimate plan. You must find out who really did this thing and how it truly happened. You must urge your man Mr. Harkness on. If there’s a fee, I’ll find the money.”

  Could it be true? It might. Rosalind knew. She knew this was a matter of families, of money, and of station. Those things could drive people to dare their absolute worst. But she knew next to nothing about the people involved. It might be that Mrs. Seymore’s fear was genuine, and well founded. But Rosalind had just watched this woman spin an elegant and dramatic lie out of thin air. That lie had been about the cruel death of a man she had known for years, and had declared the deepest friendship for. Such a woman would surely be ready to tear down the reputation of a relative stranger if she did not get what she wanted.

  Rosalind forced herself to concentrate on the situation in front of her. “You have put yourself into a precarious position, Mrs. Seymore,” she said. “You are correct. After your husband, you are the next person the officers will suspect. You cannot depend on your story being left unexamined, even by Mr. Townsend.”

  Because there was a hole in Mrs. Seymore’s tidy story, a detail she had forgotten, and without it, the whole structure of her story would collapse in an instant. Margaretta had not told Mr. Townsend about the accusing letters. Those letters changed the tone and nature of the trouble existing between Mrs. Seymore, the captain, and Mr. Cavendish. Used properly, they could reinforce the story of unrequited love, suspicion, and self-harm.

  So, why hadn’t Mrs. Seymore mentioned the letters while the Bow Street men were here?

  A soft scratching sounded on the door, and a footman entered. “A letter for you by hand, Mrs. Seymore. I thought it best . . .”

  “Yes, give it here.”

  The servant obeyed and departed. Mrs. Seymore opened the missive and read it.

  “Well, Miss Thorne,” she sighed. “The business will begin sooner than I expected.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is from my sister-in-law. We are summoned to the house, or at least, I am.” She paused. “Will you consent to come with me?”

  There were many reasons not to, and very few reasons to do it. But those few were strong as iron bands and shackled Rosalind to this woman just as securely. Because if Rosalind disappointed Mrs. Seymore, Mrs. Seymore was in a position to destroy Rosalind’s reputation.

  “When are we expected?” Rosalind asked her.

  “Tomorrow,” replied Mrs. Seymore, folding the letter back in crisp lines. “She is giving us a day’s grace to examine the state of our souls. Then, Miss Thorne, you will see for yourself exactly how much I have to fear.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The Nature of the Inquiry

  Likewise it is to be inquired who were culpable, either of the act or of the force: and who were present, either men or women.

  —John Impey of the Inner Temple,

  The Practice of the Office of Coroner

  “And that’s all you can tell us, sir?” Townsend asked Captain Seymore. “Nothing else?”

  Captain Seymore had ridden with Harkness and Townsend back to Bow Street. Now they all sat together in Mr. Townsend’s well-furnished private office. Mr. Stafford had been pressed into service, and was stationed at one of the side tables with his book open to write down the captain’s account of what had happened.

  Not that the account was lengthy, or detailed. Captain Seymore, by his own repeated, red-faced admission, had spent the night of Fletcher Cavendish’s death, blind drunk. This condition had persisted from about ten of the clock that night until the next morning when he was brought home, where his wife demanded to know where he’d been. That, he told them, was when he learned that Cavendish was dead.

  “And was this also when you learned Cavendish had threatened to harm himself?” Mr. Townsend’s inquiry sounded a great deal like a suggestion.

  Seymore scratched at his face. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the patchy stubble gave his chin a soiled look.
“Probably. I was still trying to get my head above it then.” Seymore scowled at Stafford, who sat with his pen poised over the book. “Believe me, sirs, if I had known the blaggard was planning to kill himself that particular night, I’d have drunk less.”

  “You were seen at the theater more than once,” Harkness said. He hadn’t had a chance to speak with the staff at the hotel yet, but he was sure he’d hear something similar. Whatever else he was, Captain Seymore was not subtle, or thoughtful. Those talents belonged entirely to Mrs. Seymore. “A repeated quarrel, or a worry, such as a lawsuit, may prey on a man’s mind.”

  “The scoundrel was making advances to my wife. I warned him off, but he persisted. I had to keep after them. Him,” he corrected himself.

  “Mrs. Seymore says she quite properly rejected those advances,” Mr. Townsend reminded him.

  The captain looked at the wall, and at the door. Looking for his way out, thought Harkness. “She did. After the thing became known, at least. She . . . Margaretta’s a beautiful woman, and everybody thinks she married beneath her. They swarm around her every night, and every night, I’m made more of a laughingstock. No, no.” He held up his hand. “Don’t. I know what I am and I know what you are, sir.” He favored Mr. Townsend with a tight, unpleasant smile. “You’re another of Margaretta’s oh-so-dear friends looking to protect her from her fool of a husband.”

  “We are investigating what might be a breach of the king’s peace,” said Mr. Townsend firmly. “And I should think a husband would be concerned whether any part of the matter could touch upon his wife’s reputation.”

  “Yes. You would, wouldn’t you? But it’s your reputation you should care about, Mr. Townsend. It’s one thing to admire the silken goddess and pity her for being saddled with her boorish husband. But it’s not so much fun to think you’ve been taken in by a garden-variety coquette, is it?” Seymore leaned across the desk. “She’s using you, Mr. John Townsend, just like she’s using me, and you’d do well to remember that.”

  Time to put a stop to this. “Captain Seymore,” said Harkness. “From what you tell us, your wife had a wide range of acquaintance. Why did you suspect a liaison with Mr. Cavendish above any of the others?”

  “Because he was Fletcher Cavendish!” Seymore shouted. “He just had to crook his little finger and the women hiked their skirts! And for all her pretty little flirtations, Margaretta was no different. She’d met her match in him. It would have been funny, but she . . .” He stopped, seemingly suddenly aware of what he’d just said about his wife. “I just wanted it to end,” he said softly. “I wanted him to leave her alone. I wanted my wife in my home, and things to be as they should.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Mr. Townsend, but coldly. Captain Seymore’s vacillations and slurs had worn his patience away. “Quite right and natural. I think we have what we need. Mr. Stafford? If you’ll just read over what’s written there, Captain Seymore, and sign it as being true and correct.” The captain stared at the page for a moment, then plucked the quill from the ink stand and scrawled his name across the bottom.

  “Are you done with me?”

  “We are. Mr. Stafford, have Tommy call a carriage for the captain. Thank you.”

  Stafford closed the book, and escorted the captain out without comment.

  Mr. Townsend sighed and sank back into his chair. He peered around the edge of the draperies at the street beyond, and the clot of people trying to squeeze into the Brown Bear. “I wonder what old Selby is charging for a look at the corpse,” he murmured and shook his head. “Well, Harkness, what do you think?”

  “I think, sir, that if we don’t clear this up quickly, there will be a breach of the peace over it.”

  “Just so. You need to find Cavendish’s family to claim the body as quick as may be, and if they can’t, or won’t, the theater manager must be made to do it. That is the first thing. The second . . .” Townsend tapped his broad fingers against the edge of his fine desk. “The second is that Sir David must hold the inquest as soon as possible so that the correct story is made public and those most concerned are spared the worst of the idle speculation.”

  “Then, you believe Mrs. Seymore?” said Harkness.

  Townsend shot him a narrow glance. “Have you reason to doubt her?”

  Harkness thought back to the Seymores’ elegant parlor, and how Miss Thorne had watched Mrs. Seymore so closely. He was certain Rosalind had been unaware of the range of emotions that played across the features she normally kept under such rigid control. Surprise had deepened to shock, and finally, fleetingly but unmistakably, to disgust. Miss Thorne quite clearly could not believe what she was hearing. Therefore, yes, Harkness found he had reason to doubt Mrs. Seymore.

  Unfortunately, it was not a reason he could give to Townsend. Especially not since the captain had been right about one thing: Mr. Townsend was far more concerned about protecting Mrs. Seymore’s reputation than her husband seemed to be.

  Harkness found himself wondering what else the degraded captain might be right about. Now, however, was not the time to ask that question. “Sir David’s a thorough man,” he said instead. “When he calls the inquest, he’ll be rigorous in his questioning. If we’re to close the matter quickly, we’ll need every possible fact in our hands, so there can be no question as to whether the verdict is correct. Along with Captain Seymore’s sworn testimony, and the affidavit from Mrs. Seymore, we should at least know if the knife belonged to Cavendish, or the theater.”

  “Yes. That’s sound. With that in hand, as it were, there can be no doubt as to the truth.” Townsend glanced at the clock on his mantle. “See to it, Harkness. I have an appointment at Carleton House and cannot keep His Royal Highness waiting. He was very much an admirer of Mr. Cavendish’s,” Townsend added significantly. “I am sure he will be glad to hear the matter is in safe hands.”

  Thus dismissed, and put on notice, Harkness left Townsend’s office.

  Mr. Townsend’s private office opened onto the patrol room—the place of business and intelligence for Bow Street’s principal officers. Where the walls were not covered in maps of London and Westminster and the network of roads and turnpikes that surrounded them, they were covered in shelves full of bound volumes of newspapers and clippings. More recent newspapers from across England hung on racks or were stacked on the tables, including Bow Street’s own publication, Hue & Cry. This broadsheet circulated among the policing offices and its pages were given over to descriptions of crimes and criminals, as well as descriptions of stolen property that was either still missing or had been discovered in pawn, or some other such place outside the home of the rightful owner. Such as with a fresh corpse in a theater dressing room.

  “Fine business this, eh, Harkness?” cried Samuel Tauton, who sat at one of the reading tables. Tauton was older than Harkness by at least ten years. He was also shrewd as any fox and possessed a memory for faces that was second to none. At the moment, he was in his shirtsleeves, engaged in the surprisingly domestic task of sewing the pocket of one of his plain coats. At least, it seemed domestic until one looked closer and saw Tauton was attaching a series of fishhooks to the pocket lining.

  Harkness knew what Tauton was doing. He’d wear the coat, with its pockets padded out by handkerchiefs, and go walking by the theaters, making an easy mark of himself. But the thief who tried to relieve this particular gentleman of his purse was in for a rude and painful surprise.

  “Damnable business.” Harkness settled himself at one of the writing desks and pulled paper, pen, and ink out of the drawer.

  “Can I be of any help?” Tauton bit his thread in two.

  “Not yet, but thank you.” Harkness dipped the pen and wiped it carefully. “I’ve got to get a description of the weapon out for Hue & Cry and the other papers. After that . . .” Harkness shook his head. “After that, it’s a matter of asking questions and trying to have the facts lined up for the inquest.
”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then.” Tauton carefully drew his coat on and gathered up his thread and packet of needles. “I’m to go help keep the crowd by the Drury Lane orderly.”

  “I think I’d rather have that job,” muttered Adam.

  Tauton laughed. “I think I would, too. Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, my boy. Good luck.”

  “Good hunting,” replied Adam. Tauton clapped him on the shoulder and left him. Harkness turned back to his blank page, and began writing. But even while his hands went through the motions of writing out the notice, his mind was occupied by other thoughts. Chiefly of a proud, golden-haired woman with a pair of unsettlingly direct blue eyes.

  Rosalind Thorne.

  Adam had first met Miss Thorne when they’d both become involved in the affair of a young man named Jasper Aimesworth. Aimesworth had the bad luck to be killed in the famous ballroom at Almack’s Assembly Rooms. That Miss Thorne was a beauty had been immediately apparent. But Harkness had quickly discovered she was also highly intelligent and possessed of a dry and ready wit. They’d soon formed a strange and informal, but highly effective, sort of partnership.

  The world of gentility frowned upon men such as himself. The Bow Street “runners” might be celebrated and feted in the abstract, but in particular, they were sneered at as thief takers and moneygrubbing busybodies. They had no writ, warrant, subpoena, or any other means that could compel the members of the upper classes to speak with them, no matter how grave the matter might be.

  Miss Thorne, on the other hand, had been born among those who closed their doors in Harkness’s face. She inspired all manner of confidences and, indeed, made a living for herself assisting those genteel and aristocratic ladies who found themselves tangled in matters beyond their personal scope.

  Therefore, it was not entirely surprising to find her involved with a woman on the verge of a criminal conversation suit, and possibly a divorce. And now the death of the man accused.