by Darcie Wilde
But Harkness was looking at Miss Thorne. “You seem rather less enthusiastic than Miss Littlefield.”
Rosalind turned her back on the table, and the letters. “Perhaps when I know for certain what it means, I will be able to muster a better feeling,” she said. “But right now, Mr. Harkness, we are still dealing in speculation and possibility.”
“What sort of possibility?”
“That of a very old crime.”
Harkness felt himself smile. “In that case, Miss Thorne, I know exactly the man we need.”
• • •
“Harkness,” said Tauton an hour later when he strode into Townsend’s private office. “I’m not sure what’s put you in more danger. Using this office without our superior’s gracious permission, or pulling me away from Mrs. Tauton’s supper.”
Harkness, finding himself in the unusual position of having to play host to Miss Thorne, had decided to appropriate Mr. Townsend’s office. He also sent Tommy across to the Brown Bear for coffee and whatever was hot on the fire, for Alice and Miss Thorne had admitted they had not stopped for their own suppers.
Alice, though, had left before the food arrived.
“Rosalind will give you the news,” she said. “I have to get home. I’ve been chasing about London the past several days, and it’s left George to write Society Notes, and I cannot tell you what a mess he’s making of it.” She pulled a face. “Come find me tomorrow, Rose.”
Rosalind agreed that she would.
“Miss Thorne.” Harkness got to his feet as Tauton marched into the office. “Allow me to introduce Samuel Hercules Tauton, principal officer of the Bow Street Police Office. Mr. Tauton, Miss Rosalind Thorne.”
“At last!” Tauton swept his hat off and gave his most theatrical bow. “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Thorne.”
“As am I, Mr. Tauton. As we’ve removed you from your supper, perhaps you’ll join ours?” She gestured to the remains of the meal on the table—bread and cheese and a roast duck with potatoes.
Tauton smiled, and slapped his paunch. “Never been known to turn down a bit of bread in all my born days. Especially not in good company.” He drew a chair up to the table. “A man in my position never knows when his next meal might be his last.”
“Mr. Tauton exaggerates,” said Adam as he resumed his seat.
“Mr. Harkness is too modest.” Tauton helped himself to the food in front of them. “I’d tell you tales of our young hero of the horse patrol, but”—he pointed his knife at Rosalind—“I’d hate to see the blush fade from those pretty cheeks.”
“I assure you, Mr. Tauton, I am not easily shocked.”
“No, I can see that about you. Well, now, I think you two have more on your minds than potatoes.” He held up a forkful of the vegetable in question.
“We were hoping to tax that famous memory of yours, Tauton,” Adam told him.
“I am entirely at your disposal,” he said. He also slurped down a prodigious draft of the coffee that had arrived with the meal.
“It’s the matter of Fletcher Cavendish,” Miss Thorne said.
“Rather thought it might be.” Mr. Tauton set the mug down with such a bang. “What have you found?”
Rosalind repeated the story she had already told Adam—how Alice had found Mrs. Coyningham and her lodging houses and how they learned that young Margaret Coyningham had run away with Fletcher Cavendish, but had changed her mind and somehow, somewhere, become married to Captain Seymore instead.
“Mr. Cavendish was born under the name of Malcolm Elliott,” Rosalind said to Tauton. “And we were wondering if you recalled that name ever coming before the magistrate’s court? Or into an investigation?”
“May I take it, Miss Thorne, you also do not believe that Fletcher Cavendish died at the hands of a jealous husband?”
“No, sir. I will believe many things of Captain Seymore, but not that he killed because of outraged honor.”
“Well.” Tauton scratched his chin. “I say you’re both reaching a good long way, but let me think a minute here.”
Sam laced his fingers together across his stomach. His small eyes stared into the distance, flickering back and forth as if he were reading in some ledger that he alone could see.
“What was the woman’s name?” he asked finally. “The landlady?”
“Mary Coyningham,” Harkness told him.
“Coyningham, is it?” Back and forth, back and forth, turning over the pages of the mental ledger. “Something . . . no. I’m sorry. If they were up to something between them, it’s not something I’ve heard about.”
Harkness resisted the urge to curse at length. Miss Thorne might not be easily shocked, but he’d no wish to test that statement.
Rosalind’s jaw clenched, and he knew she was suppressing her own disappointment. He thought about the other piece of paper he carried in his pocket. He’d been tracing more than one lead in the past few days, but this one . . . Looking at her now, angry and disappointed, he once again considered the wisdom of being the one to deliver this particular news.
Tauton was getting to his feet. “I am sorry I could not be of more help to you, Miss Thorne. But I will keep thinking on it. If anything does turn up”—he tapped his forehead—“I’ll be sure to let Harkness know at once.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tauton,” she murmured.
There has to be something. No business like this comes out of nowhere. There’s too much at stake, too much . . .
“Miss Thorne,” Adam said suddenly. “Where did you say Mrs. Coyningham kept her houses?”
“Simonds Lane,” she answered.
“Let’s have a look at the map,” he said to Tauton. “Maybe that will joggle something loose.”
Tauton sighed and waved his hand for Harkness and Miss Thorne to go first out into the patrol room. Rosalind went at once to the great map of London and Westminster that had been tacked to the wall. She frowned at it for a long moment, tracing the tangle of streets, alleys, and yards with one finger. “Here,” she said.
Tauton leaned so close his nose almost touched the wall. Miss Thorne stepped back to stand beside Harkness. He tried not to think about how in the middle of all his worries, he had enjoyed these few hours playing host to Rosalind, listening to her talk, watching her animated features. He tried not to breathe too deep, to take in the clean scent of her.
Get hold of yourself.
Because she’d also told him she’d been in the company of the Duke of Casselmain just today. Harkness was not a man to ignore such a fact, no matter how much he might want to.
“That’s it!” cried Tauton, shocking Harkness out of his distracted reverie. He turned around, beaming all over his broad face. “Harkness, you’ve gone over the death of the old marquis in this business, haven’t you?”
“Oh, blast!” cried Rosalind.
Harkness felt his jaw drop.
“I knew I was missing something obvious!” she said. “Tell us quickly, Mr. Tauton!”
Tauton knew better than to smile, at Miss Thorne at least. “Not your fault. I imagine no one’s spoken of it. A family so concerned about blood and dignity and so on would be less than eager to explain how his lordship had been found dead in the gutter in a rather mean neighborhood.”
“But I knew he was not above reproach,” said Rosalind. “I’d been told he was not only a gambler, but probably a card sharp. And possibly regularly cheating other gentlemen.”
Both men stared blankly at her. Rosalind told them about her visit to Woolcombe and all she had learned from an extraordinary old lady named Miss Onslow.
When she finished, Tauton shook his head. “I hate to tell you this, Miss Thorne, but you may have just cut the legs out from under your own hopes there.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why, Mr. Tauton?”
“I remember it clear as day. Old Lord Weyland was
found here.” Tauton laid a finger on the map. “Now, that’s two streets from Simonds Lane. At the time, his death was put down to robbery and indiscretion. Many’s the gentleman who thinks more highly of his ability to defend himself than he’s reason to.”
“But there was something more there?” said Harkness.
Tauton nodded and rubbed his finger along the side of his nose. “He still had his purse on him, and it was full.”
Both Adam and Rosalind stared.
“You see the problem there?” Tauton gazed owlishly at them. “How does a man die from a hooligan’s blow, or even, you should forgive me, Miss Thorne, an altercation with the keeper of a particular sort of house, and not lose his purse? Or his watch and his silk coat? But I remember,” he murmured. “He was as intact as if he’d died at home.”
“Could it have been an apoplexy?” asked Harkness.
“No. His face was entirely smashed in.”
“An accident?” suggested Miss Thorne. “A bad fall?”
“Maybe. Or, from what Miss Thorne just said, maybe one of those gentlemen he cheated caught up with him and decided not to bother with the business of the dueling ground.” He looked to the map again. “I was a young man then, green as grass, but I do remember seeing him on his back like he was, with that sorry, broken face, and thinking that perhaps our Lord Weyland had died elsewhere, and been moved.”
CHAPTER 40
For the Sins of the Past
The public, too much shocked at the idea . . . welcomed the tale which represented him as governed by deadly malice growing out of the more impassioned and noble rivalry.
—Thomas De Quincey,
On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts
“I should not let you go alone,” said Mr. Harkness as they both hurried from the Bow Street Office.
“We have no time,” she said. “Mrs. Coyningham will not talk to me again, and the Seymores and Weylands will not talk to you. We must divide and conquer. Will you send word to Little Russell Street as soon as you can?”
“I will,” he said. “You may depend upon it.”
There was something under those words that Rosalind did not choose to put a name to. She turned away and climbed into the carriage that was waiting for her.
Before Rosalind ordered the driver to take her to Margaretta, however, she told him to stop at her house.
“Mr. Barstow.” Rosalind called the startled patrolman. She also, most improperly, opened the carriage door and leaned out. “Will you come with me?”
“Where to, miss?”
“Mrs. Seymore’s house,” she told him. “I’m going to need your help gaining admission.”
Ned, who was clearly used to circumstances that could change in a heartbeat, smartly touched the brim of his hat. “Quite right, Miss Thorne. Very happy.”
The crowd of newspapermen in front of the Seymores’ house had thinned somewhat, but there were still a good dozen or so lounging against the railings, talking together, shouting at the prettiest of the maids passing by and casting the occasional hard looks at the constables flanking the door.
“Now then, lads,” said Barstow as he ushered Rosalind up the steps. “No need to bother yourselves, this is Bow Street business here.” He rapped smartly on the door. Eustace, who looked like he hadn’t slept in the past month, opened it.
“No one . . .” he began.
“That cannot possibly apply to me, Eustace.” Rosalind smiled as she blatantly barged past him, leaving him to sort out the matter and manner of her entry with Ned Barstow.
The timid little maid squeaked as Rosalind barged down her passageway and almost dropped the vase she was polishing.
“Never mind, Margie, I know my way.” Rosalind breezed by. “Your mistress is in her study, is she not?”
“She’s up . . . upstairs, miss, but . . .”
“Thank you, Margie.” Rosalind gathered her hems and mounted the stairs, looking for all the world like she belonged there. She did not even pause before opening the door to Mrs. Seymore’s apartments. But once inside, Rosalind stopped dead.
Mrs. Seymore’s pretty boudoir was a sea of trunks. Her lady’s maid was in the process of removing a walking costume from the wardrobe to the bed to pile with a half-dozen others.
Mrs. Seymore turned to see Rosalind, and anger blazed in her eyes, but only for a moment before it was smothered up by her usual sangfroid.
“Miss Thorne. I was not expecting you,” she said. “May I take it you have some news?”
“Yes,” replied Rosalind. “I know that Fletcher Cavendish killed the old Marquis of Weyland.”
“What!” cried the maid before either of the ladies could speak or move. “C’est impossible!”
“You may go now, Josephine,” said Mrs. Seymore. “And you will keep your mouth shut.”
Josephine all but dropped the gown she carried. “Oui, madame.” She curtsied, and fled.
Margaretta closed the door behind her and turned the key in the lock. She stood there, with her hand on the door for a long time, composing herself.
“How did you find out?” she asked finally.
“Alice and I spoke with your mother,” Rosalind told her. “And with what she told us, the officers at Bow Street were able to piece together the rest.”
“Alice told me you were perceptive, and enterprising.” Margaretta crossed to the chair in front of her mirrored dressing table and sat down, both hands laid across her belly. “Very well. The former marquis died in my mother’s house. It was an accident, and it cannot possibly matter to anyone now.”
“It does matter,” said Rosalind. “You know that it does. If for no other reason than it matters whether or not you had anything to do with it.” Rosalind touched her hand. “If I found this out, Margaretta, others will as well. It will be used at the trial. So will the fact that you are preparing to leave.” She nodded toward the trunks and the clothing.
“I planned to leave after the trial,” said Mrs. Seymore. “Therefore, I needed to be ready at a moment’s notice.”
“You can say that, but will you be believed?” asked Rosalind. “At the moment, it looks like you are getting ready to flee from justice.”
“Justice,” sneered Mrs. Seymore. “Justice has nothing to do with any of this.”
Privately, Rosalind felt inclined to agree with that pronouncement, but she kept this to herself. “Then think on this,” she said. “The man who died in your mother’s house all those years ago was a marquis. You are married into that family, and that family is playing for the title. You write poems and dramas, Mrs. Seymore. What conclusion does your story crafter’s instinct tell is going to be reached?”
Mrs. Seymore’s beautiful features twisted tightly. “He was a vile creature!” she cried. “He was a sharp and a blackmailer and had the gall to play the outraged husband! He tried to kill Malcolm!” The force of her words brought her to her feet and Rosalind fell back a step. Margaretta’s breath heaved. She was flushed, raw, and angry, and entirely herself. For the first time, Rosalind saw the girl she had been, the daughter of Simonds Lane, who had left herself behind so long ago.
But that, too, was only for an instant. The discipline of long years caused Mrs. Seymore to pull herself back, to gain control over breath and speech. “What happened was entirely an accident,” she said, her low, musical voice ringing through the boudoir as clearly as her shouts had. “Malcolm—Fletcher—was only defending himself.”
“You know that? You saw it?”
She’s going to lie, thought Rosalind as she watched the uncertain shifting of Mrs. Seymore’s face.
“No.” Margaretta sat back down, heavily and gracelessly. “I only came into the room afterwards.”
Rosalind moved to stand beside her. “Tell me what happened.”
She set her jaw. “Malcolm . . . that was the name I knew Fletche
r by in those days. He took rooms in my mother’s house. Oh, you should have seen him then, Miss Thorne,” she whispered. “He burned like a fire at midnight. He was poor and ragged and he could charm anyone and anything. I’m not sure he ever actually paid his rent,” she added. “And as you’ve met my mother, I’m sure you realize what an amazing thing that was.”
“I can imagine,” said Rosalind.
“We were nearly the same age. I was my mother’s helper and I expected I would inherit her houses and be a landlady, but, well . . .” She ran her hand once over her stomach. Her corsets had been loosened, Rosalind saw. “I will say this for my mother. She wanted to do as well as she could by me. We’d had a pair of schoolmasters as tenants once, and she’d talked them into giving me lessons for their room and board. They taught me to read, and read me poetry. I fell in love with it. I even started writing. A little. In secret. I never showed anyone my work, though.”
“Until Mr. Cavendish . . . Mr. Elliott came.”
Margaretta smiled, but only a little. “He didn’t just read to me. He talked to me, about dreams and ambitions. He told me how he’d come from nothing at all, and now he was walking among the finest people. He told me how they were so easy to fool. Put on the right dress, he told me. Say your aitches. Make your curtsy, tell them a story that entertains them, and they never look further. He showed my poems to the newspapermen he knew and spun stories about the genteel orphan girl who was an unheralded poetess of great genius. Some of them began to pay me for them.”
“Were you lovers?”
Margaretta laughed once, coldly. “Girls raised in boardinghouses lose their innocence quite young, Miss Thorne. I knew all about men and their honeyed words, and I’d seen too much of Malcolm’s ways to tumble that easily. Women threw themselves at him, and he never once thought to get out of the way.” She paused and that fond and distant smile grew hard as glass. “He liked to tell me about them, as a friend. It amused him, I think, to debauch me by proxy,” she added. “But he knew I’d never say anything to anyone, especially my mother. If she’d gotten wind of the number of women he brought back to rumple her clean sheets, she would have pitched him out on his ear, charm or no, and then I’d lose my friend.