Keeping his focus on Potter’s eyes, Gideon could almost divine the thoughts running through the man’s head. He did not dare give in or he might become a victim of treachery. He had no choice but to fight to the death.
Growing shorter of breath, himself, Gideon got out, “I did not come here to kill you. I came to question you about Sir Humphrey’s murder.”
Surprise made the Colonel falter. Gideon was careful not to take advantage of the moment, knowing that he would get no answers from a corpse.
The moment passed so suddenly that he was grateful for the caution Maître Andolini had preached. In a fury, the Colonel lunged again. But this time his thrust was so wild, that with one fluid movement, Gideon was able to evade it, nick him on the sword hand, and grab him as the weapon clanged onto the pavement.
Gideon held on to the struggling officer by his neck. It was far from easy, since the man knew how to fight. But Colonel Potter’s resources had been sapped, first by the spirits he had drunk and then, presumably, by his activity at Mother Whyburn’s house. He was bigger than Gideon, but since Gideon could breathe and the Colonel could not, he eventually succumbed.
As soon as his captive started to go slack, Gideon lowered him to the pavement. Then, he stood over him, pressing the point of his épée to Potter’s throat, while waiting for him to recover consciousness.
Gideon’s own breathing was coming very hard. He could not recall ever being in such a hard fight. He was relieved that neither of them had been killed.
“Who are you?” was the first phrase that Colonel Potter managed to gasp out. He was holding his wounded hand to his throat, which made Gideon believe that he had already forgotten it, if the pain in his throat was worse.
“It doesn’t matter. But I do have a few questions for you.”
The Colonel cursed and struggled to sit, but the tip of Gideon’s sword on his chest convinced him to stay down.
“I shall not harm you again, unless your answers fail to satisfy my curiosity.”
Colonel Potter still refused to be reconciled. “What was Humphrey to you? Why should you care how he was killed?”
“I know how he was killed. It is the name of his murderer that interests me.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. You’re wasting your time if you think it was.”
“I’ll decide if my time is being wasted or not. I understand that you were angry with Sir Humphrey because he informed a member of the Hawkhurst household that you had been cashiered from the Foot-Guards.”
Colonel Potter cursed again. He tried to catch Gideon’s ankle to make him fall, but Gideon moved too quickly. He pinned the Colonel between his blade and the pavement.
“More of that,” he said, through gritted teeth, “and I shall assume your guilt and save the hangman the trouble.”
“I didn’t do it! I was angry—yes! Who wouldn’t be? Humphrey was an old fool! He couldn’t keep anything to himself, even if he were locked alone in a closet. He told that interfering spinster—what’s her name?—Mrs. Kean. And the next word I get from Lord Hawkhurst’s agent is that he’s very sorry, but his lordship has no need for my services.”
His sarcasm had already started to grate on Gideon’s ears, before he ended with in disgust. “Meddling old busybodies—the two of them! What business was it of theirs?”
“So, you killed him,” Gideon said. He did his best to hide his anger at hearing Mrs. Kean referred to with such disrespect, but he must not appear to know her. She would not be safe if Potter knew it was she who had asked for his help. Her reputation would suffer, at the very least.
“No! I’ve already told you. I did not kill Cove! What would the sense have been in that? I hardly think it would have made Lord Hawkhurst change his mind.”
The logic of his argument was sound. More importantly, he seemed to believe it. Gideon wondered if a person who would kill for a grudge or revenge would be able to state the reason against it as clearly as Colonel Potter just had.
His doubt about the man’s guilt disappointed him. He could not like him. Not as sullen and distempered a man as the Colonel was. He seemed the sort of person who was always quick to blame his own ills on someone else.
Gideon gave a hasty look up and down the street, but still no one was coming. He would have another few minutes at most.
He moved on. “Tell me what you know about Menzies.”
The Colonel gave a huff of disgust, before he started. Then, after a loaded pause, he said, “Tumbled onto his real name, have you?” Evidently he had realized that it was too late to pretend ignorance of Blackwell’s identity.
“Could Menzies have killed Sir Humphrey?”
“Maybe.” His tone was indifferent. “He’s an arrogant bastard. But I don’t know why he would.”
“He left before the opera was over. Why?”
“How should I know?” the Colonel said, angry again. “If you want to know, you’ll have to ask him.”
“I will as soon as I can find him. Would you happen to know where he is?”
The Colonel shook his head, and Gideon could hear the weariness in his voice. “I don’t know where he stops. I don’t like him, I tell you! So why should I care where he lives?”
“Because he’s a Jacobite agent, and so are you. I know what he does.”
“There are more of us than you think.”
“How many?”
Gideon held his breath for the answer, but the Colonel retreated. “Nobody knows,” he grumbled. “But there are enough that I’ve no cause to live in Menzies’s pocket, I assure you. I doubt that anyone on this side of the water likes him. He treats us English Jacobites like lazy bumkins. He’s always demanding more money then cursing us when we can’t come up with it.
“I’d like to see him come up with all we have! Or risk his life. He thinks it’s easy! And he thinks he’s better than us because he’s closer to his Majesty. Sometimes I wonder if they realize how dangerous it is for us. Look at what Walpole’s doing now!”
“Is that why you wanted the position with Lord Hawkhurst? You were hoping to get more money for the cause?”
Potter made a motion that might have been a shrug. “Lovett’s been trying to turn him. He thought that putting a Jacobite at his elbow might help to speed things up, fool that Hawkhurst is.”
Ignoring the slight to his name, since this was a fairly good description of Harrowby, Gideon pondered the news grimly. He wondered if the strategy would have worked. Harrowby was certainly persuadable, but when it came to politics, his first consideration would always be his own safety, and there was nothing safe about supporting James. There was nothing quixotic about his cousin.
Something else was bothering him, though. Mrs. Kean had said next to nothing about Lord Lovett.
“What about Lovett? Had he any animosity towards Sir Humphrey?”
Potter laughed. “Not he! They’ve been friends a long, long time.”
“But surely if Cove could not keep a secret, he was a danger to all of you. Particularly now, when the government is making so many accusations of treason.”
Colonel Potter shook his head again. “It wasn’t Lovett. He’s been too careful. And so have I. Humphrey could have spilled his guts in the Lords, and there would be nothing to back up his story. And who would bring a prosecution on the word of a man like him?
“Besides, they were friends, I tell you.”
“Then, if neither you nor Lovett did it, who did?”
Colonel Potter barked a laugh, but a hint of guilt was in the way he moved his head. “I hear the money’s on Dudley Mayfield. Why don’t you waylay him, if you want a confession?”
“Did you see him do it?”
Potter squirmed, and Gideon prodded him again.
“No!” After an inward struggle, he added, “But he’s the only one that makes any sense. The fool can’t hold his drink. He gets violent. He’d already attacked Humphrey once.”
“You didn’t see him. But I hear he left the box with you.”
&nbs
p; He felt as much as saw the Colonel go tense. “Who told you? Who hired you to prove I killed Humphrey?”
“No one’s hired me.” Gideon ignored his first question. “You left the box with Mr. Mayfield—then, what?”
It took a bit more prodding, but at last the reason for Potter’s guilt came out.
“Yes, so I took young Mayfield to get a drink—what of it?” he admitted grudgingly. “That doesn’t mean I wanted him to kill Humphrey. I’m not saying I would have minded if he had dealt him a good blow—not after he betrayed me like that! Humphrey deserved it. But how could I have known that Mayfield was carrying a knife?”
His voice was as sullen as usual when he said, “I just thought it might be amusing to see the yokel go after him. But it wasn’t my fault if he killed him.”
“How much did he drink? I shouldn’t have thought there was enough time for him to get very drunk.”
“Oh, the boy can put them away. Still, no more than three or four, before he was off down the stairs after a harlot. She took his fancy, and he ran right after her.”
“Did you see where they went?”
The Colonel scoffed. “Did I follow him, do you mean? That’s not how I get my entertainment. And after spending ten minutes in his company, I was glad to see him to. The fellow’s a boor. I talked to a friend, drank another glass or two with him, then walked back to the box.”
The light from a linkboy’s torch appeared suddenly from the corner. Gideon recoiled instinctively, raising his sword from Potter’s chest, and the Colonel jumped to his feet. He looked about him for his own weapon, but it was out of his reach.
He cried out instead, “Thief! Thief! After him!”
Gideon ran.
He fled in the other direction, towards Half Moon Street, turned left, and ran flat out. The Colonel’s cries came fainter, but his accusations gained in strength. “Assassin!” was the last one Gideon heard as the street before him narrowed almost to an alley. He made a left into the Strand, then before the Colonel could round the corner, another quick left.
At the base of a dark and wretched court, he found a second outlet into an alley, which cut a path from the Strand back into Maiden Lane. Stopping in the shadows before he entered it, he stripped off his mask, and changed it for his sober wig. Then he turned back towards Maiden Lane, walking past the paupers who lay huddled along the walls, trying to sleep. He used a limp to disguise himself, but he still hurried, keeping an obvious grip on his sword, in case a genuine thief decided to try his luck.
He ignored the commotion behind him, as voices were raised in a call for the Watch. The Watch House was at least a quarter of a mile further down the Strand, and there were several alleys off of it any one of which he might have taken. Besides, even if he still answered the description of the man who had assaulted Colonel Potter, which he no longer did, Gideon knew he could easily outrun the Watch.
* * * *
The debate over the guilt of the former Tory ministers raged on in Parliament and the violence in the streets increased. Mrs. Mayfield and Isabella, who had been planning to spend part of the summer in Tunbridge Wells, gave over any thought of traveling until they could be certain of being safe. The King had not dismissed Parliament for the summer yet, and with more trials to come, none of the members dared leave town. People still rode out to Court and to the theatre, but the Hawkhurst ladies would not stir from the house without most of their footmen along for protection.
Hester was frustrated by how little she could help St. Mars with the investigation. As a woman, she could not easily spy upon the gentlemen who had made up their box. She could only hope to get information from her family, one of whom might have seen something significant.
She was reminded of the need to find the real killer, when she walked into her aunt’s bedchamber to return a piece of mended linen and found her railing against Dudley. A family quarrel, even at the top of her lungs, was not something Mrs. Mayfield would bother to hide, especially not if she could bring someone else in on her side.
Hester moved discreetly to the wardrobe that held her aunt’s clothes, replaced the linen, and was retracing her steps to go out, when she was stopped.
“You tell him, Hester!” Mrs. Mayfield said. “Tell him what his foolishness has cost me. Why, I hardly dare hold my head up when I go to the toy-shop. And I daren’t set foot near the Exchange, for I’m sure my ears would burn with all the gossip.”
Standing in the middle of the room, and hanging his head as if to avoid another blow, Dudley glowered at Hester, as if he dared her to add one word.
“I’m sure that Dudley never wished for any of this to happen, Aunt.”
“Well, he might not have wished for it. But it did!” Mrs. Mayfield said, outraged. “I might have known that you would take his side. You have always been ungrateful! There’s nothing to choose between the pair of you! If it weren’t for the honour of the Mayfield name, I should say that you deserved each other.”
The shock and horror on Dudley’s face was as nothing compared to the revulsion Hester felt. With more experience at hiding her emotions from his mother, however, Hester concealed hers more politely.
It was, nevertheless, a moment before she could find breath with which to speak. “I know that you would never countenance such an inappropriate match for your son, so instead of quarreling, why do we not see if we can a find a way to mend his reputation?”
Mrs. Mayfield sat down on the stool to her dressing table and buried her face in her handkerchief. She was dressed in dishabille, the hair on the top of her head curled over pads. Her maid would soon be up to dress her for a visit to Madame Schulenberg. Hester was to be excused from their visit to the Palace today, for her aunt had insisted on accompanying Isabella herself. She wanted to see if the gossips had ruined Dudley chances for a place in one of the young princesses’ stables.
Mrs. Mayfield looked up, her eyes tired and swollen. “First, it was just a bit of temper. And now, it’s murder!”
“I did not kill Sir Humphrey, Mama!”
“Well, you might as well have done it, for all anyone cares!” Her shriek bordered on hysteria.
Hester took a deep breath for patience, before endeavouring to calm her aunt. “But I am certain that you never give anyone the slightest reason to believe that you doubt your son’s innocence. And that being the case, they will soon take their lead from you.”
Mrs. Mayfield sent her a resentful glare. “Of course, I never let them see. But Dudley has got to act on his own behalf! I cannot always be saving him from every scandal he makes.”
Hester wanted to ask her why she had summoned him to town if his behaviour was always so bad, but she knew the answer already. Mrs. Mayfield would never be satisfied until she had wrung every possible penny and honour for her children.
“It would help if we could discover who Sir Humphrey’s murderer truly was. If he were known, everyone would want to forget about the other incident. They would feel bad for having suspected Dudley when he was innocent.”
Both Dudley and his mother turned to stare her, their expressions changing from surprise to something akin to hope, making Hester believe that they might even listen to reason.
Then, Mrs. Mayfield said, “You could be right.” A glimmer of cunning shone in her eyes, and she said, “We shall say it was that Blackwell fellow!”
Hester’s spirits sank, but she only had herself to blame for imagining that her aunt might use good sense.
“I believe we would be more effective, if we knew for certain who it was.”
“And how do you propose to establish that, Mistress Prig, when it could have been anyone in the theatre?”
“Not anyone. We mustn’t forget the knife. It had to have been someone with access to this house.”
This reminder did nothing to soothe Mrs. Mayfield’s feelings, since it would seem to implicate Harrowby, as well, and Hester got the distinct impression that if her aunt had to sacrifice someone, she would sooner not have to choose betw
een her son and her son-in-law, the earl.
“Sir Humphrey might have taken the knife himself,” she exclaimed. “Then when he tried to stab the person he took it for, whoever that was might have managed to turn it against him.”
“I find it hard to imagine Sir Humphrey’s intending to stab anyone,” Hester said. “And if he did want to kill someone, why would he have taken a weapon from this house?”
“To throw the blame on my son. That’s why! I never believed he had forgiven Mayfield, and, if he had not even that much Christian charity in him, then it’s no wonder he was a murderer.”
Hester tried to stifle her exasperation. “But why point the finger at Sir Humphrey? Both Lord Lovett and Colonel Potter have come into this house. And, much as I would hate to think it, it is even remotely possible that one of the servants could have been bribed to steal the knife for Mr. Blackwell.”
“I do not see why you insist on making this so difficult,” Mrs. Mayfield said, on the edge of fury again. “Why not just leave it that Mr. Blackwell killed Sir Humphrey? He’s not even a friend of ours, or of anyone else’s that I can tell. No one will care if he takes the blame.”
“Except for Mr. Blackwell, himself,” Hester muttered to herself. But she had to confess that she hoped he was the murderer. He had done nothing to endear himself to any of their party.
She wished she had never broached the subject of an investigation with her aunt, and she spent the next few minutes trying to dissuade her from calling a magistrate in order to give a false testimony. Finally, she convinced her against it by saying that if her charges could not be proven they might draw even more suspicion on Dudley.
Dudley had remained silent throughout their argument, relieved to have Hester distract his mother’s attention. But when his mother’s maid came to dress her, he followed Hester out of her room.
“Wait, Cousin,” he said, once he had closed the door behind them. “Do you really think you can discover who did Sir Humphrey in?”
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