by Tracy Grant
“The truth about what?”
“I don’t know. I’d have been curious if I hadn’t had more pressing matters to concern me. We should have returned to the ballroom ourselves once they left the terrace, but the damage had been done, and we still had matters to discuss.”
“Your gambling?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Oliver was remonstrating with you when Pendarves and Mr. Tanner overheard you. The conversation must have been advanced. If you still had matters to discuss, I can only assume there was more.”
Lady St. Ives tossed off the last of her rataffia and went back to the table that held the decanter. “Oliver was distressed. Mrs. Fraser, I know Isobel is a friend of yours, but perhaps you are not aware of the extent of her behavior.”
“Oliver confides to you about Isobel?”
Lady St. Ives splashed more rataffia into her glass. “He needed someone to talk to. I’ve tried not to be jealous. I’ve tried to look the other way. But to see him in such pain—“
“Over—“
Lady St. Ives turned to face Mélanie. The fitful light from the window behind her burnished her hair. Her face was in shadow, but her eyes sparked with anger. “Your dear friend Isobel has a lover.”
Mélanie just managed not to snap the stem of her glass. “Oliver told you that?”
“He had to tell someone.” Lady St. Ives returned to the sofa and dropped down without her usual grace. “I always thought Isobel was a much better person than I am. So endlessly patient with her children. So cheerful about visiting the sick and needy. So zealous about looking after Oliver’s political fortunes. She has a talent for goodness, the way I have a talented for playing the harp. I used to comfort myself by thinking that Oliver was a thousand times better off with her than he would have been with me.”
“What leads Oliver to suspect Isobel has been unfaithful?”
“He said it was obvious something was wrong when she returned from France before Christmas. She wouldn’t talk to him about it. So he hired someone to follow her.”
“Oliver told you this last night?”
“He told me over a week ago when he engaged the man.”
Mélanie tightened her grip on the stem of her glass. “Who is he? This man who was following Isobel.”
“A Bow Street Runner, I believe. They often undertake private work to supplement their income. I don’t know the man’s name. Last night Oliver told me that the runner had reported seeing Isobel have a rendezvous with a man.”
“Who?"
“Oliver didn’t tell me the man’s name. Perhaps he doesn’t know himself.” Lady St. Ives twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers.
Mélanie hesitated. It was an intolerable invasion of privacy and probably nothing to do with the murder. Still— She leaned forward. "But?" she said gently.
Lady St. Ives's gaze flew to her face, torn with conflicting impulses. "Later that evening after—After the dead man was discovered. After Oliver made his announcement to the guests. Oliver did it very well—like any politician, he's brilliant at putting a good face on things—but it was plain something dreadful had happened. I couldn't see him in the ballroom, so I went to look for him in his study. The door of Isobel's writing room was open as I passed by. I heard a sound from within. I confess to not feeling particularly charitable toward Isobel just now, but it was the cry of a despair I'd never wish on any fellow human."
Mélanie swallowed, her mouth bone dry. "You're sure it was Isobel?"
"I went to the door to see if I could help. Isobel said she was overset by what had happened, and she'd be herself in a moment.” Lady St. Ives regarded Mélanie. "There's no denying the strains of the evening. There could be a number of explanations for her distress. But putting it together with what Oliver had told me, it was difficult not to reach certain conclusions."
“I don’t imagine it’s easy,” Roth said as he and Charles turned into Rosemary Lane. They’d left their hackney a couple of streets over.
Charles scanned the street ahead. Patches of rainwater were still drying on the cobblestones, and the wooden shop signs swung in the wind, their chains rattling like something out of the ghost stories his sister had devoured in the nursery. “No. The more we learn the murkier the investigation grows.”
“Quite. But I was thinking of O’Roarke’s involvement. Difficult for you what with him being a friend of the family.”
Charles met Roth's gaze. “I’ve never been sure what Raoul O’Roarke is thinking or what motivates him.”
“He went to great lengths to help at the time of Colin’s abduction.”
Behind the friendly interest, something in Roth’s gaze asked for confidences. A dozen different thoughts about Raoul O’Roarke tumbled through Charles’s head. Thoughts he couldn’t voice to anyone, not even Mélanie. Especially not Mélanie. And certainly not a Bow Street Runner. “He’s always been fond of Colin. He’s a powerful ally when one finds oneself on the same side. But he can be just as formidable an opponent.”
“What does Mrs. Fraser think of him?”
Charles forced himself not to breathe, because any breath he might draw would have grated. “She doesn’t trust him any more than I do. There’s Number 9.”
Roth ran his gaze over the sign that hung over the narrow building. A scarlet-bound volume and the faded words Hapgood’s Novels and Books of Interest. “Why give young Simcox the address of a book store? Because they’re using it to pass messages?”
“Perhaps Hapgood is another former Bonapartist spy?” Charles said, wondering if there was a chance in hell he could prevail upon his wife to write a list of all such she knew of. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew the answer. “Or perhaps—” His gaze moved to the floor above the shop. Narrow sash windows, a table visible behind one, a chairback at another. “It looks as though there are lodgers above.”
“You think St. Juste might have stayed here?”
“Easier to find anonymity in small lodgings than in a hired house in a fashionable part of town. Which doesn’t answer the question of whether or not Mr. Hapgood is someone in St. Juste’s confidence.”
Roth nodded. “For that matter, I suppose O’Roarke could be the one staying here. He likes books, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” Charles said. “So he does.”
Without further speech they crossed the street and opened the door of Hapgood’s shop. The musty, leathery smell of old books greeted them. The smell of Charles’s favorite rooms since childhood. Including the one Raoul O’Roarke had occupied on visits to his grandfather’s house.
The only sources of illumination were whatever wintry light the windows let in and two oil lamps, one set on a table in the center of the room, the other on a counter at the back. A man sat behind the counter, but at first all Charles could make out was the dark blur of a figure.
“May I help you gentlemen?” the man asked in a deep voice.
Charles threaded his way between bookcases and tables, wondering how anyone managed to see enough to examine the books that were offered for sale. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Hapgood?”
“I don’t know if it’s a pleasure, but I’m Hapgood.” He was a wiry, compact man, with thick, close cut salt-and-pepper hair and a strong, blunt-featured face. He was seated on a high stool behind the counter, turning the pages of a book set directly beneath the lamp. He did not close the book as Charles and Roth approached.
“We’re looking for this gentleman. We thought perhaps you might know him.” Charles pulled out a sketch Mélanie had done of St. Juste.
Hapgood pulled the sketch into the lamplight. “What’s he done?”
“What makes you think he’s done anything?” Roth asked.
“You gentlemen look as though you have more important things to do with your time than to go about asking questions without good cause.”
“He was murdered last night,” Charles said.
“Good Lord. ” Hapgood’s brows shot up. “And the two of you—“
“Are trying to find out why he was killed and by whom,” Roth said.
Hapgood looked from Roth to Charles. “And you are—?”
“This is Inspector Roth of Bow Street. My name is Fraser. Charles Fraser. Lord Carfax and Lord Castlereagh asked me to assist in the investigation. I’m—“
“I know who you. I’ve read your speeches. There was one a couple of months back against suspension of Habeas Corpus that I particularly admired. Not that you had a prayer of stopping its suspension.”
“Thank you,” Charles said. “And yes, I knew I didn’t.”
Hapgood closed the book he had been reading. "It must be difficult, all that work and passion only to see your ideas voted down.”
“My wife would tell you I have a fondness for taking a lance to windmills.”
Hapgood gave an unexpected smile. “My character reading may not be the most acute, Mr. Fraser, but I’d imagine you’re the sort who can tell a windmill from a dragon.”
“When the wind is southerly.”
“Where have you seen the victim?” Roth asked.
“In my shop. And above it. Mr. Montford has rented a room from for the past month.”
“That’s his name? Montford?”
“That’s the name he gave me. What name do you know him by?”
“None,” Charles said, employing his own talents for deception.
“May I ask how he died?”
“He was knifed during a masquerade ball.”
“My word. I saw the story in the Chronicle this morning. But it never occurred to me— I begin to see why you were asked to assist with the investigation, Mr. Fraser.“
“When did you last see Mr. Montford?” Roth asked.
Hapgood scratched his head. “Three or four days since. He’s out a good deal.”
Charles felt something soft brush his leg. He glanced down to see a tabby cat winding itself against his boots. He bent down to stroke the animal. “Did Mr. Montford have a profession?”
“He’d been abroad for several years as a private tutor. His charge having gone off to university, Montford had returned to England to look for work. Or so he said.”
“You had reason to doubt him?” Roth said.
The cat jumped onto the counter. Hapgood scratched her ears. “Not at the time. But you gentlemen obviously have questions about him and it occurs to me that I have no proof of any of the things he told me.” He regarded Charles and Roth with an unblinking gaze, seemingly more intrigued than alarmed. “I must say I’m surprised to hear he met his death in the manner you describe. He struck me as a man who was well able to take care of himself.”
“Why?” Charles said.
Hapgood frowned. The cat lay down on her side and began to wash. “He was well-versed in classical literature and his stories about the peccadilloes of his young charge had the ring of truth. But— I had the sense he was constantly aware of where everyone stood in the room and knew all the possible exits. A man keeping an escape plan in mind. Or guarding against an attack.”
“Did Montford ever receive visitors?” Roth asked.
“Young man came round a couple of times. Tall. Curly dark hair. Montford said the young man was the son of a woman who’d worked for his family when he was a boy.”
“Where?”
“Where did he grow up? Shropshire. Though I doubt that was any more the truth than his other stories.”
Roth took a step closer to the counter. The cat batted at a fold of his greatcoat. “What else can you tell us about Montford?” Roth asked, petting the cat.
“Very little, I’m afraid. He kept to himself and as I prefer to do likewise we didn’t converse much.” Hapgood rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose you think I should display more grief at his death, but truth to tell, while I knew nothing ill of him, we weren’t well acquainted.”
“Did he ever have ladies visit him?”
“Not to my knowledge. Though he looked to be the sort of man who’d know how to be discreet.”
“What about this man?” Charles held out a sketch Mélanie had drawn of Raoul O’Roarke.
Hapgood examined it and shook his head. “No. But as I said, whatever Montford’s business, he conducted most of it elsewhere.”
Yet there was something guarded in Hapgood’s expression. Charles couldn’t swear he was lying, but nor could he be confident the bookseller was telling the truth.
“We’ll have to see his room,” Roth said.
“I assumed you’d wish to.” Hapgood pulled open a drawer beneath the counter and produced a tarnished brass key. “Third door at the top of the stairs. They’re at the back of the shop. The stairs, that is.”
Charles and Roth made their way past ranks of books and up the narrow stairs. The corridor at the stairhead held no illumination save the light from a window that faced the next house over. The window had been left half open, perhaps in an attempt to drive out the damp that pervaded the house and threatened the books below stairs. A gust of cold air greeted them.
They walked down the corridor to the third door. Charles reached for the knob. Before he could turn it, the door swung open, and a dark figure hurtled through and knocked him to the floor.
Chapter 13
I hope this finds you safely returned to Spain. I fear that with everything we went through, I never properly expressed my thanks. There is so much that must remain unspoken. But please, please believe that I will never forget what you have done for me. Despite the circumstances, I am glad we had the chance to become friends.
Hortense Bonaparte to Mélanie Lescaut,
1 November 1811
Charles slammed into the floorboards and heard Roth hit the ground. By the time he pushed himself to his feet, their assailant was climbing through the open window at the end of the passage. They reached the window in time to see a greatcoated figure dart out of the alley into Rosemary Lane. Too late to give chase. He’d be lost in the crowd and they hadn’t seen enough to identify him.
Roth leaned against the wall, handkerchief pressed to his nose which was streaming blood. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or sorry that Mrs. Fraser didn’t accompany us.”
“Relieved because she didn’t see the two of us bested by a single man or sorry because if she’d been here it might not have happened?”
“Precisely.”
“Are you all right?” Hapgood’s voice came up the stairwell followed shortly by Hapgood himself. The cat trotted behind him.
“There was someone in Montford’s room,” Charles said. “You didn’t know he was there?”
“If I had known of it, surely I’d either have warned you or attempted to delay you, assuming I was the man’s confederate. He escaped?”
“Out the window,” Charles said. “Not our most shining moment.”
“Are you injured?” Hapgood asked with unexpected crispness.
“Only bruises and a bloody nose,” Roth said, voice muffled by the handkerchief.
“And the damage to our pride.” Charles looked out the window again. “Mud on the side of the building. That didn’t come from his escape—he jumped. So it looks as if he climbed in. I doubt he’s your confederate, Hapgood, unless you’re singularly inhospitable to your confederates. You’d better see if you think anything from taken from Montford’s room.”
Charles stepped through the open doorway into a room filled with the smell of citrus and sandalwood and some sort spice. Cloves perhaps or cardamom. Blended with a subtlety that indicated expense. A lamp had been left lit on the chest of drawers. The room was scrupulously neat save for the writing table drawer, which had been pulled from its tracks and set on the tabletop. A search by a professional, interrupted in midstream.
Hapgood entered the room after Charles and surveyed the scene. “I can’t swear to what might be missing from his personal effects. The room looks as I remember. But I was only in here once.” He glanced at the drawe
r that had been removed from the desk. “Do you think whoever searched the house is likely to come back? There’s a very pleasant young woman who rents the room across the hall. Sings at the King’s Theatre. Lovely voice. I don’t like to think of any harm coming to her.”
“I’d advise you to use extra caution in locking up,” Roth said. “And to warn the young lady. I can assign a patrol to keep watch on the house.”
“I’m obliged to you.” Hapgood scooped up the cat who had jumped up on the bed and was kneading the blanket. “If I can’t be of further service, I’d best return to the shop. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I do have customers every now and again.”
Charles surveyed the room, his wife’s description of St. Juste’s rooms in Paris fresh in his mind. The trunk at the foot of the bed and the shaving kit on the chest of drawers might be the same St. Juste had had then. The leather looked to be good quality but mellowed with age. “How’s your nose?” he asked Roth.
Roth took the handkerchief away from his face. “Seems to have stopped bleeding.” He stared at the bloodstained handkerchief for a moment, then stuffed it into his greatcoat pocket.
“Papers or clothes?” Charles asked.
“I’ll take the papers.” Roth struck a flint to the taper on the writing table. The clean smell and pristine white indicated beeswax rather than tallow. It had not been poverty that had sent St. Juste/Montford to Rosemary Lane.
Charles opened the doors of the wardrobe. The garments that first met his eye spoke of Mr. Montford the former-tutor-in-search-of-employment. Coats of sturdy, slightly scratchy wool, well made but several years out of date, cut for comfort more than fashion. A single greatcoat, beginning to wear through at the elbows.
"St. Juste knew the value of dressing for a part," Charles said. “Anything in the writing desk?”
“A couple of letters from a Timothy Compton at Cambridge, telling Montford he’d never have been able to keep his head above water at university without the excellent preparation. St. Juste seems to have been a bit of an egotist even in his forgeries. Very adroitly done, though. There’s even a bit in Latin. Typical sort of undergraduate blather. At least what I’ve always assumed to be typical undergraduate blather.”