“Not quite a lifetime,” his father said dryly. “I was younger than you are now, and it’s still vivid in my mind. To answer your question, I wanted an independent opinion, not colored by memories of the last revolt. Sometimes the official mind finds plots and complications where none exist.”
“May I also inquire why you let Captain O’Brien escape? I gather you did, from Mr. Markham’s letter. It seems quite unlike you.”
Lattimer smiled crookedly. “Trust you to pick up on an inconvenient fact!” He leaned back in his chair, his eyes focused somewhere beyond the walls of his library. “Markham and I met the man two or three times, without realizing what he was. He was a gentleman, or at least could pass as one, and a good fellow, daring and full of fun. Precisely what any young man would aspire to be. That day, though, we caught him dead to rights. We could hardly believe it. And we could not bring ourselves to deliver him to the authorities. So we let him go, though we had a little exchange of swordplay first. We delayed his rendezvous until the intended landing place was held by dragoons. It seemed enough. How he did curse! Then he bound up my thumb—I’d received a cut on it, bloody and painful but not very serious—and we all had a glass of whiskey before we set him at liberty. Markham and I failed to foresee the future. He must have changed a great deal, to have become willing to murder Markham. Of course, both Markham and I changed over the years, too…” He shrugged. “Now, off with you. I have important matters to see to.”
“Thank you, sir. You’ll want to fire off a letter to, er, someone, no doubt.”
His father almost laughed at that but covered it with a growled, “Hmpf.”
Alex would have liked to ask another question or two, but years of government service had made the elder Lattimer sparing with information. He knew how to find the answers himself, anyway.
****
The Stowe household sustained another visit from Thomas de Veil. He apologized for interrupting their evening, which Jane found amusing, as the family had not been accepting evening invitations, and Elvira had taken to her bed from boredom. She would be disappointed to miss the visit, Jane thought.
Sir Thomas accepted a glass of claret, saying jocularly that no one could regard that as a bribe or accuse him of being a “trading justice” for taking a glass during a visit. Many magistrates were regarded as corrupt, though de Veil bore a reputation for great energy and intelligence in the performance of his duty. Jane understood he actually investigated crimes himself rather than waiting for murderers and thieves to be brought before his court.
“I am pleased to be able to tell you that no legal action is contemplated against Mistress Jane,” he said, with a slight bow in her direction.
“Thank God. Then you have found the murderer?” Stowe asked.
“No. Not yet. You are not to repeat this, as it is most secret. I have received another communication from a certain department of the government, assuring me that there is no suspicion against your daughter, and that no further investigation of Mistress Jane need be made. ’Tis very irregular, but as you may know, one of my duties at this time is to ferret out Jacobites and possible traitors. Given certain items of information which have been passed on to me, and others which I have discovered, the motive for Markham’s murder was political rather than personal. I am glad of it. It may be uncomfortable for Mistress Jane for a time, as the true reason for her uncle’s death cannot be revealed to the public, involving as it does matters of state, and the risk of the lower orders panicking, but it will all be forgotten eventually. If Markham’s attorney, who is also his executor, should wish confirmation, refer him to me.”
When the magistrate was gone, Jane’s father gazed upon her with more approval than she could recall his showing in many years.
“ ’Pon my soul, things have turned out well after all. Tomorrow, I will pay a call upon Mr. Harris to ask when you can expect the will to be proved. I suppose you will sell the house?”
It took her a moment to realize that she had a right to make the decision. “No, I don’t think so. At the least, I should go through my uncle’s things. After that…I may wish to keep the house. I’ve always liked it.”
“Surely you do not think to live there? I can imagine few things less appropriate. The street is given over to upholsterers and used furniture.”
His approval had been short-lived.
“Of course not, sir. But I might lease it out. That would bring in a little income. Leaving my father’s house would have a very odd appearance.” Though her stepmother might prefer to live with Rupert and his wife, if she were widowed, or if Elvira were also dead, the Stowe house would be Rupert’s or might be sold. In any case, the possession of her own home, even in so ungenteel a location, would mean she would not have to be a poor relation in her stepmother’s or half brother’s home.
“What a sensible girl you are!”
She was ridiculously pleased by his praise.
Chapter 8
The Pleasaunces’ butler had no odd jobs to be done and was altogether less hospitable than Markham’s. An irritable master or mistress, Alex concluded.
“Nor your housekeeper, neither? I can turn mattresses and save the maids’ backs, take down bed curtains and draperies, carry boxes to the attic or cellar…”
“If we had work to be done, one of the footmen would do it, or we would send for a man we’d used before. The master does not like strangers in the house.” the butler pronounced.
A woman appeared at the butler’s shoulder. By her age and plain dark gown, Alex took for to be the housekeeper. “My sister’s boy come to deliver a package from her and stayed to talk for a minute, and master would have it he was a housebreaker’s spy.”
“You know as soon as he understood the lad was your own nephew, he realized there was no harm in it,” the butler said curtly.
“And particular as to his study, too. Though what he studies there, I don’t know. Bess has been cleaning it for two years and never a complaint from him, and then one day he claims she’s stirred up the papers on his desk, and now the door’s kept locked and she can only get in to clean while he or the young master is there. Bess was in tears over it, and it means cleaning it a different time every day, according to when one of them happens to be in. The master won’t like it when the weather gets cold and there’s no fire lit or even laid until he’s ready to go into it in the morning,” she went on. Clearly, the master’s eccentricity regarding his study rankled.
The butler, who must have heard it all before, said repressively, “I’m sure if it was one of the other girls, instead of your niece, you wouldn’t waste a moment thinking of it.”
“I would, Mr. Thwaite, because if there’s a thing I can’t abide, it’s unfairness. She swore she never touched the papers, and she can’t ever have done before, or he’d have mentioned it. He’s not slow to complain if all isn’t just as he likes it.”
“But if she didn’t move them, why would he want to keep his study locked?” Alex asked. He wore the shabby yellow wig again today which altered his appearance substantially, and not for the better. “Unless he’d missed some money out of there, and the papers was only an excuse.”
“It can’t be that,” the butler replied, “as the money is locked in one of his desk drawers, and him with the only key. If the drawer was forced, Bess would have noticed that, and he hasn’t mentioned it or had a man in to fix anything, so what I believe is, Bess stirred up his letters, not meaning to, you understand. Maybe brushed against them and they fell on the floor, and she was frightened to admit it.”
“She’s always been a truthful girl, having been brought up careful even if her da is a Dissenter.” The housekeeper’s temper was rising now.
“Least said, soonest mended in service,” the butler said.
Then Alex was encouraged to leave, though the housekeeper gave him a slice of pound cake to eat as he went. All he had learned was that Pleasaunce occasionally vexed his staff and had begun locking his study. Oh, and the cook made
excellent cake, with a little brandy for flavoring.
Had his father intentionally failed to mention that if Rupert Stowe was engaged in a treasonous conspiracy, it probably involved his good friend Charles Pleasaunce as well? It seemed a logical deduction: Pleasaunce had connections in France, and Stowe had had a list of French arms, with quantities and drill instructions. Surely Anthony Lattimer had reached the same conclusion. Confirmation by getting an independent opinion or merely his habit of keeping his own counsel? Alex wished he could get hold of a sample of Charles Pleasaunce’s writing, but there seemed no way to do it. It would be proof of Pleasaunce’s involvement, if it matched.
The matter of Paul Pleasaunce’s locked study was curious. If Bess the maid had been truthful, one might speculate there was something in the study that the elder Pleasaunce wished to keep secret. Breaking into it in the middle of the night was not a job for an amateur. That was the sort of adventure a boy of eighteen or twenty—or a lunatic—would undertake. Rather like letting a Jacobite smuggler get away! He himself had more sense. He would send his father a message about it. And arrange to keep out of his way, too, so his progenitor could not order him to desist from his enquiries.
****
Roger Markham’s funeral took place one week to the day after his death. Fortunately, the weather had continued cool and the oak coffin was well constructed; no odor was detectable. Only the coffin and the carriages of some of those present hinted that the deceased was of some importance. The obsequies for a man of his wealth might have been considerably more elaborate. Jane and Mr. Harris, the attorney, agreed that given the circumstances, and the fact that he had avoided ostentation in life, the arrangements should be simple. Mr. Harris had prepared a list of Uncle Markham’s close friends, mostly professional men and merchants, and sent out the invitation cards. He had taken care of the other details, too, for which Jane was profoundly grateful. Her own black gown was completed in time, and was surprisingly becoming, as she had ordered it without assistance from Elvira. Her uncle’s servants and Jane, her father, and Mr. Harris made up the mourners, except for one man of about her father’s and uncle’s age who was obviously a gentleman. He did not seem to be acquainted with anyone else present.
“Papa,” Jane began as they were on their way home, “did you notice that gentleman in the tobacco-brown coat who appeared quite different from my uncle’s other friends?”
“I marked him particularly for that reason; he had an air of fashion and leisure. Your uncle’s associates for many years have been men of the middling sort or City men. They may have come of decent families, but taking part in trade or business coarsens one. Yet when there is not enough money, the younger sons at least must follow some career, unless they have the good fortune to marry well. That man was apparently lucky in his family and is able to live as a gentleman should. I wonder he did not introduce himself.”
Her father was still in good temper. Her conscience pricked her for believing that its source was her inheritance and not Sir Thomas’s assurance that she was freed from suspicion. Unfilial it might be, but she had known her father too long to be blind to his faults. Not that one should think about a parent’s faults but really, if one were honest, one could not overlook their existence. “He reminded me of someone, though I can’t think who it could be.”
“I’m sure I’ve never met him. I hope Cook has made that apple florentine for supper. I meant to ask you to tell her to do so, but forgot.”
“If she hasn’t, I’ll have her make it for tomorrow.”
****
Attorney Harris had said she might begin sorting through her uncle’s belongings, as the inventory had been completed, and he had taken charge of all the business documents. She was doing it in stages, as time allowed. She had given the valet Uncle Markham’s good clothing. He could sell it and make a little extra money, in addition to what he had been left in the will. The older, shabbier garments had been bundled up and put aside to be given to the poor.
She was going through the desk, sorting the personal papers. Mr. Harris had obviously been through them, as the drawers were neater than she recalled. Markham had always been orderly in his handling of business correspondence and bills, but his personal letters were a jumble. There was no reason to keep them, but she did not quite like to throw them away, so she boxed them up to store. His memoranda to himself were not worth keeping—“wigmaker!” “Order more clar.”—but she found herself glancing over them anyway. She could hear his voice in them.
At the bottom, she found his commonplace book, where he noted down more significant things, almost in diary fashion. She found the last page he had written: “Emeralds for J next birthday? Ask jeweler.” She glanced through the previous several pages out of idle curiosity. A notation to see his tailor; another about buying “all vol. Harleian Misc. pamphlets.” Then, “Unconvincing. The old trouble? Visit Cocoa Tree. Write A.L. again.” A page before that, dated the day she had last visited her uncle: “Ask R.S. to explain. Adam & Eve Tav.”
She wished the two entries were as obscure as some of the others, but “Ask R.S. to explain” seemed all too clear. Rupert’s visit to the ship troubled him. He must have arranged to meet her half brother at the tavern, and whatever explanation Rupert had given for his presence on the docks had not satisfied her uncle. The rest of that second entry was mysterious enough. The Cocoa Tree was a chocolate house, she knew, but what had drinking chocolate to do with Rupert or anything else?
“Write A.L. again” on the other hand, must refer to the letter to Alex Gordon’s superior. One thing was clear to her: Rupert could not have had an innocent reason to be aboard a ship. If Rupert had confided some peccadillo to him, the sort of thing no young man would divulge to a female relative, Uncle Markham would have understood and sent him off with some advice on how to avoid future trouble. Rupert might not have unburdened himself to their father, fearing a bear-garden scold. Her uncle’s more sympathetic ear should have prompted Rupert to do what he usually did in difficulties—transfer them to someone else. Had it been only a matter of Rupert owing money, Uncle Markham would almost certainly have refused to lend him any (ha! lend, indeed!), but he would not have found her half brother’s story unconvincing.
What debt could Rupert have incurred that he would hesitate to admit? A gaming debt, a tailor or bootmaker pressing for payment, a woman needing support for their illegitimate child? She discarded the last possibility as unlikely. Rupert would simply have ignored her. Could he have wanted money to invest in a cargo? Marginally more likely, perhaps. Her father would not have approved of his son involving himself in something so close to business. If Rupert had spoken to her uncle about it, and the latter found it “unconvincing,” it most likely meant he thought it not a sound investment, which, given that he knew something of the captain and ship, was reasonable. But then, why visit the Cocoa Tree? Or write to A.L.?
Mr. Gordon had not mentioned a second letter. Had he not been informed of it? Had her uncle not written it? Or was it policy, not to tell her everything he knew? Men were always concealing things, important things, from women. So tiresome of them! As if by not mentioning anything indelicate or dangerous, they could protect one. Obviously, Alex Gordon believed Rupert was involved in smuggling arms. But Rupert must be an innocent dupe as he was not clever enough to manage such a thing on his own. He could not be guilty of any serious misdeed.
She sat for some minutes, trying to decide. She need not tell Alex about the notations, especially if he had not seen fit to tell her about a second letter. Assuming Uncle Markham had written one, and Alex Gordon knew of it. Her uncle had apparently intended to visit the chocolate house first. Whatever did men do at chocolate houses, apart from sipping chocolate? They were not places a lady could go, any more than she could enter a bagnio. She thought they read newspapers there and talked, probably about coarse subjects they would not mention in front of their female relatives and acquaintances. She wished she could snort “Hmmpf!” like her father. Th
e expressions of irritation or disgust suitable to ladies were far too mild.
But 2500 muskets, able to be loaded and fired three times a minute, made the matter serious. Uncle Markham had taken the presence of the Sea Mew and its smuggler captain seriously, and she thought, for all his airy manner, Mr. Gordon viewed the prospect of smuggled muskets as a grave threat. She would like to see him again. She could ask him if there had been another letter and what significance there might be in her uncle’s intention to visit the Cocoa Tree.
Jane took a sheet of paper, selected a quill, and dipped it in the inkwell. It would be far more discreet to write from her uncle’s house and send it by one of his servants than to do so from her home. Her stepmother and father would be sure to hear of it from Wilson or a footman, and would ask who she was writing and why. Her late uncle’s staff, on the other hand—her staff, now—would not betray her.
****
When Alex decided to continue looking into Markham’s murder, in spite of his father’s order, he had taken a room in a cheap inn. If he came and went from their Bloomsbury Square home in the sort of disguises he might need, it would come to his papa’s attention (and worry the servants). Besides, he didn’t want to have to explain to his mother why he was dressing like a country bumpkin or a laborer or a costermonger. He feared his current activities would strain even her sense of humor to breaking. On the other hand, leaving the inn dressed as himself would also cause talk. It might even be dangerous, if it led someone to the correct conclusion. To make the transition, he donned an old plain suit, such as might be worn for everyday by a country gentleman with no aspiration to fashion, or perhaps by a middling successful tradesman.
The footman admitted him just as his mother was descending the stairs.
He greeted her a little nervously. She was, as his father had noted, inquisitive. Like mother, like son.
Most Secret Page 6