Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance)

by Madeleine E. Robins

  “Mrs. Cunning.” A vista of possibility had suddenly opened before Miss Tolerance.

  “Yes. And La Virtue did not manage herself at all well. I put that down in part to old Versellion, for it was he introduced her to the Chinese vice—poor thing, she could barely remember her own name for a time after their parting, quite drowned her sorrows in opium, if one could say that. But as she’s still alive, and still managing Blackbottle’s business for him, I daresay she recovered herself from the habit.”

  Miss Tolerance rose to her feet, staring at her aunt. “Why did you not tell me these things earlier?” she asked. “My God.”

  “You never asked me,” Mrs. Brereton said mildly. “You asked about Deb Cunning, but not La Virtue. Sarah, will you not finish your chocolate?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I cannot. I regret to leave so abruptly, but—”

  She did not stop to finish the sentence. Mrs. Brereton was left to drink her chocolate in silence.

  Anticipating another trip into Cheapside, Miss Tolerance returned to her cottage and changed into men’s clothes. The morning was bright and warm; in the garden a breeze murmured through the leaves with a green scent on it. Miss Tolerance started out on foot. The ideas forming in her head were so loose and yet so compelling that she required the walk in order to focus upon them and attempt to draw them into some whole and reasonable form.

  Mrs. Virtue had been the lover of the old Earl of Versellion. Had Mrs. Cook known this? Had Humphrey Blackbottle acquired the fan for Mrs. Virtue particularly because of its connection to the old earl? It seemed logical to believe that Mrs. Virtue must know more of Versellion’s history-and of the fan—than she had permitted Miss Tolerance to learn, despite the word of honor given as Francesca d′Ippolito. For a few minutes Miss Tolerance’s anger—at Mrs. Virtue for her deception, and at herself for not catching her at it—burned very brightly. But the exercise of walking was as beneficial to rational thought as she had hoped; within a few streets of Manchester Square, Miss Tolerance recalled that she had never mentioned Versellion’s name to Mrs. Virtue. It was possible that the footman Versellion had sent with his payment had been indiscreet, and that Mrs. Virtue had deduced the identity of his employer, but after another street’s worth of consideration, Miss Tolerance discarded this idea as unlikely. She had heard Versellion order the footman’s discretion, and did not believe the order would have been lightly disobeyed.

  It was as likely as not, then, that Mrs. Virtue had told the truth. Miss Tolerance began to compose a plan whereby she would confront Mrs. Virtue and in some way extract any information the madam had about Versellion’s family without drawing a line to the matter of the fan.

  “′Old up, miss.”

  A hand with blackened nails had gripped her arm strongly. Looking up, Miss Tolerance recognized the Bow Street Runner Penryn. “Zor Walter Mandif’s compliments, and he’s been wanting a word, if it’s convenient.”

  Miss Tolerance, stopped in her tracks, said nothing but looked pointedly at the hand on her arm. It was removed.

  “And if it is not convenient?” she asked.

  Penryn smiled. He was in need of a razor, and his dark hair fell, overlong, over his forehead; from his odor Miss Tolerance deduced that he was not affecting the Romantic, but merely of slovenly habits. In his grin she saw a frank pleasure in the power of his office, compounded with some curiosity about herself.

  “Mozt people find it convenient, miss. Zor Walter’s two streets over, at a coffeehouse, and begs you’ll join ’im there.”

  Miss Tolerance considered for a moment and revised her plans. There was no point in antagonizing the Runners or their tame magistrate, and it was unlikely that Mrs. Virtue would disappear during an hour’s delay. She would follow Penryn, but she found it impossible to go without at least a token show of reluctance.

  “I do not know if it’s wise for me to follow a man I barely know into a side street,” she murmured.

  The Runner looked affronted. “Are you implying that Bow Street cannot take care of its witnesses, miss? Or of doing them ’arm itself?”

  Miss Tolerance lowered her eyes demurely. “I would not think of doing so, Mr. Penryn.”

  After a moment the man seemed to take the joke. One side of his mouth crooked up, and he muttered something about women. “Come along of me, then, miss.” He wheeled around, clearly anticipating that Miss Tolerance would follow, and strode off. She caught up in a few swift steps, adjusted her pace to match his, and they went off to find Sir Walter Mandif.

  The Radical Coffeehouse was either a very unpopular place, or one whose denizens were not generally abroad until later in the day. Miss Tolerance stepped into the coffee room, which was large, shadowy, but banded with glittering stripes of sunlight from the windows, in which she could see the dust of ages stirred up by the sullen efforts of a girl scrubbing down tables. The place smelled of damp wood and mold, tobacco smoke and wood smoke, and very faintly of coffee. Miss Tolerance found Sir Walter Mandif sitting against the far wall, bleached by a shaft of sunlight, with a newspaper open on the table and a tankard to hand. He rose when he saw his visitor approaching and thanked her for attending him with the same courtesy he might have extended to a woman more regularly attired and situated than she was. Mr. Penryn, having provided the prize, withdrew to the bar and left Miss Tolerance with Sir Walter.

  “You choose an interesting venue for this meeting, Sir Walter. Would it not have been better done to meet with me at my cottage, or perhaps at Tarsio’s, if not at Bow Street itself?”

  Sir Walter offered her coffee, which she declined. “I thought, perhaps, a neutral meeting place,” he said. “This business appears to be more complicated than it first looked, and discussing it in a brothel did not seem prudent.”

  “My home is not a brothel, Sir Walter.”

  “No, indeed, Miss Tolerance. But it is situated awfully close by one, is it not?”

  Miss Tolerance admitted the justice of this. “But which business is it that you wish to discuss?”

  “The death of Mrs. Smith, of Leyton.”

  “Are you still interested in it? Not many would be so solicitous of justice for a poor old Fallen Woman.”

  “It is the murder of just such as Mrs. Smith, the poorest and most helpless, which does the greatest harm to our society, do not you think?” Mandif raised his tankard to his lips, tasted its contents, made a face, and set it down.

  “I do, as it happens. But not many of your rank share that view, I think.”

  “The poor, the working folk, are the plinth on which society stands. England could survive without the peerage, but without farmers or millers or weavers? Not likely.”

  “And so you pursue criminals to protect the poor and working classes?” Miss Tolerance was fascinated. “Do I still number among your suspects?”

  Sir Walter’s expression was thoughtful. “Until Fortune presents me with a more likely one, or you present me with absolute evidence that you could not have done it, I must with regret consider you so. In point of fact, I have no other.”

  “What a very uncomfortable position I am in.” Miss Tolerance considered what she might safely say. To accuse Folle without proof—and presently she had almost none—was dangerous. But she did not relish the thought of being called to meet with Bow Street at every turn.

  “I have learned a few things which might be of help to you,” she said finally. “I suspect you and your assistants would do well to find and speak to a Mr. Hart.” She described him. “I have reason to believe that he knows something of this business. You might also set one of your dogs upon the trail of Sir Henry Folle, to see what he can sniff up.”

  Sir Walter’s eyebrows raised and his bland fox-face became suddenly sharp. Miss Tolerance found the change unnerving.

  “Aiming rather high in your suspicions, ma’am. Have you evidence to back your accusation?”

  Miss Tolerance was aware that she was in danger. She was a woman alone, Fallen, known to live by the swor
d, making vague accusations about a member of a distinguished political family. She saw the chasm open at her feet and stepped across it as carefully as she could.

  “I have not accused anyone of anything, Sir Walter. But this morning, at my aunt’s house, Folle said something which led me to believe that he knew Mr. Hart and was not unacquainted with the matter of Mrs. Smith. Pray believe me, if I had anything more specific to offer you, I would.”

  Sir Walter leaned back in his chair.

  “Are you certain I cannot procure a cup of coffee for you, Miss Tolerance?” he asked at last. “Or perhaps some ale? They brew their own.” He looked into his tankard without pleasure. “Very badly.”

  Miss Tolerance was startled into a laugh. “You make an inviting offer, sir, but thank you, no.”

  “As you wish.” Sir Walter leaned forward again, elbows upon his newspaper. “Miss Tolerance, I realize that you feel some sort of professional obligation to be discreet, but I urge you—do not pit yourself against me, or against Bow Street. If you know anything that will help me in finding the killer of Mrs. Smith, please tell me.”

  He seemed entirely sincere. Miss Tolerance could only match his sincerity with her own. “Sir Walter, what I could offer you now is only supposition and vague notions. I have given you the little I can; I know what I believe, but I cannot prove it.”

  Mandif nodded. “I do not mean to bully you. Indeed, you do not strike me as the sort of woman who can be bullied.”

  “Perhaps not, sir, but I am fully sensible of how little position I have to defend in this business. Sir Walter, if you will take my word, I will promise you that when I can demonstrate any of my suspicions to you, I will do so. It will be considerably easier if I do not need to fear tripping over Mr. Penryn and his partner at every turn.”

  The magistrate nodded. He raised a finger and Penryn, watching over the rim of his tankard, nodded and joined them.

  “See if you and Hook can turn up a Mr. Hart,” Mandif ordered. “A spice and cracksman, from the sound of him. Miss Tolerance, where did you last encounter Mr. Hart?”

  Miss Tolerance grinned. “In Penfold Street.” She explained the circumstances of their meeting.

  Penryn was incredulous. “You ‘eld a rapparee like that up w’ a mirror?”

  Sir Walter waved that question away. “And the last you saw of him?”

  “Running from a crowd of gentlemen who intended to teach him a lesson for setting upon a helpless female.”

  Mr. Penryn shook his head in appreciation, running his grubby hand from nose to chin and back again. “‘Elpless!”

  “Mr. Penryn, if you find this Mr. Hart, I would suggest that you take anything he says with regard to this lady with a grain of salt,” Sir Walter said mildly. “I commend your resourcefulness, Miss Tolerance, but I suspect you have made an enemy.”

  Miss Tolerance concurred. “My object at the time was to extract information while securing my own safety, Sir Walter. I confess I was not thinking of Mr. Hart’s dignity.”

  “You will understand, Miss Tolerance, that until such time as Mr. Hart’s role in the death of Mrs. Smith is confirmed, I must, with regret, continue to regard you a possible suspect.”

  “I never doubted that would be the case, sir. Now, if you need nothing more from me, I was about business when Mr. Penryn found me. May I go?”

  Sir Walter rose and bowed over her hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Miss Tolerance. We will doubtless meet again.”

  Miss Tolerance said all that was polite and took her leave. While she liked the magistrate, it was not difficult to hope that such a meeting would never take place.

  She had lost the train of thought which had occupied her earlier. Miss Tolerance hired a hackney and directed it to Cheapside, then leaned back, revisiting her plans for Mrs. Virtue. It was hot and stuffy in the carriage, and she felt a headache growing in the back of her head, likely because she had broken her fast with nothing more than her aunt’s chocolate several hours earlier. When she dismounted at Cheapside, she first stopped at a pie shop and bought a pork pie, eating it quickly, taking time only to swat away the hand of a child pickpocket.

  Feeling better for her luncheon, Miss Tolerance picked her way through the crowd and turned in to the familiar, unpleasant precincts of Bow Lane. Drunkards of both sexes slept in the doorways, but the narrow street was otherwise almost empty. From somewhere above her head came the sound of a child weeping. Miss Tolerance found the door to Blackbottle’s and rapped upon it smartly. Joe, the porter, appeared at once with a face that said she was not whom he had expected.

  “You!” The man looked worried; no, more than worried. His skin was ashy, his brows drawn together in a grimace of anxiety, and his voice was hoarse. “What the hell do you want?”

  Miss Tolerance stepped carefully. “Good afternoon. I need to speak to Mrs. Virtue. I know it may be early for her, but—”

  “You can’t. Shove away.” He started to close the door, but Miss Tolerance shouldered in just far enough to keep him from doing so.

  “Wait!” Miss Tolerance reached for her wallet. “She will want to see me, I promise. And I can make you—”

  “Push off, you quean!” The doorman’s face was congested with rage. “Keep your fuckin’ money! Won’t buy your way in ’ere no more.”

  Warily, Miss Tolerance tried one more time. “Mrs. Virtue will want—”

  “Nothing!” the man roared. “She’s dead. For all I know, it’s a-counta you coming and going ’ere. Christ knows what’s going to happen now!”

  At the news, Miss Tolerance took a step back and stared at Joe. Of all the things she might have expected, she had not imagined this. “Dead how?” she asked. “When?”

  Perhaps seeing the effect his news had upon her helped the porter to regain himself. Joe took a breath and said, somewhat more calmly, that the body had been found perhaps two hours earlier, when the maid went up to bring Mrs. Virtue her chocolate.

  “How did she die?” Recalling her aunt’s comment that morning about the Chinese vice, and her own vague impressions of sweet smoke on the air, she imagined the woman drifting away on a cloud of opium.

  “Beaten.” Joe dropped the word as if it were a weight he could not bear to carry. “Some bastard got past me somehow. Beat ’er brains out proper—maid had right hysterics at the sight. I sent a man to Blackbottle to tell ’em, ’e’ll know what to do. But Christ Jesus, the bastard got past me—”

  Miss Tolerance stood very still. “Beaten? I must see her.”

  The corner of Joe’s mouth turned down. “I told you, she—”

  “No, let me look at her now.”

  “Why? You going to gawk at the poor ol’ thing? What call you got—”

  “Let me see her,” Miss Tolerance repeated. She was suddenly filled with impatience. “For the love of God, I may see something that will help find the killer.”

  “‘Zat what you do, miss? Catch killers? Rather uncommon line a work for a female.” Joe stood, arms crossed, filling the doorway. “You was catching killers the last time you come, too?” The doorman smiled unpleasantly. “Or maybe you brung ’em along of you, showed ’em right to the door, like—”

  She could not knock the man down and force her way past him; Miss Tolerance held on to her temper and spoke so quietly she knew Joe would have to strain to hear her. “I no more led killers to your mistress’s door than you let a killer in that door. If we have both been used, then let me do what I can to right the wrong and find Mrs. Virtue’s killer.”

  Joe bowed his head, as if the effort of thinking all of this through were very great. Finally he stood aside, wordlessly, and let her pass. Miss Tolerance passed the little salon, where a half dozen women in grubby robes and dresses sat weeping; only as she ascended the stair did Joe call after her, “Make sure you’re gone before Blackbottle gets here!”

  The first floor was uncharacteristically quiet. Most of the doors, including the one to Mrs. Virtue’s apartment, stood open. Miss Tolerance
was struck, as she entered the room, by how undisturbed it first seemed; the furniture and knickknacks were in their accustomed places, the door to the farther chamber was ajar. The fire had burnt to embers, the candles had guttered out, and as neither the maid nor Mrs. Virtue had drawn the drapes to admit sunlight, it was quite dark. Miss Tolerance went at once to the windows and pulled the drapes back, the better to examine the body that lay in an unnatural attitude on the sofa.

  The pie she had eaten earlier rose in Miss Tolerance’s throat. It was an effort to perform her examination coolly. Mrs. Virtue lay with her shoulders and head flung over the back of the sofa and her arms splayed backward, almost touching the floor. She wore an elegant dress of red and gold tissue that strained at the awkward position she lay in; one of her breasts had slid half out of the bodice. An embroidered slipper had fallen off, or perhaps been kicked off in an attempt to defend herself, Miss Tolerance thought. She had been struck across the face, but the blows that had killed her were to her head: temple and crown bore the impressions of the blows in blood, skin, and shattered bone. Because of the angle at which she had fallen, blood had flowed downward, matted her fiery hair, and puddled on the floor, where it was half dried now. Looking more closely at the body, Miss Tolerance saw bruises on the woman’s neck and shoulder from which she gathered the weapon had been hard, heavy, and wielded with much force. From the bruise that purpled one cheek, she also gathered another thing: whatever had struck the madam across the face had been carved or engraved.

  An intaglio signet, perhaps.

  Miss Tolerance inspected the vicinity of the sofa, noting the order everywhere except on the person of the victim. Had Mrs. Virtue’s assailant put things back after a struggle? She suspected that the killer had taken away his weapon—in the shape, she could not help but think, of a gold-crowned walking stick inset with a carved signet—but perhaps there was evidence of why the struggle had taken place. No, nothing of the sort. But on a second glance she realized that one of the candlesticks by the sofa bore the smears of quick polishing, as if someone had wiped away the marks of gore from its surface. When she lifted the thing, she noticed, with a sickening turn to her stomach, a few long strands of red hair clinging to the bottom of the candlestick.