A Dangerous Madness

by Michelle Diener

  She would stand out, bright as a shaft of sunlight, even sensibly dressed as she was in a dark coat and dark wool dress, but there was no helping that.

  With luck, she’d dazzle Beckwith, and he would not think anything unusual of their questions.

  He got out and held out his hand.

  She hesitated, then took it. She was thinking of the moment he’d helped her down last night, he guessed. And he was sorry he had only gotten one single good blow in to their attacker before he’d fled.

  “Your arm.” She looked down on him from the carriage’s top step with big eyes. “Is it all right? I should have asked how it was earlier.”

  He shook his head as he helped her down. “A little stiff. Lewis did an excellent job, and it really is only a scrape.”

  She said nothing more as she straightened her skirts, but she bit her bottom lip in a way he was coming to recognize as distress.

  James forced himself to focus on the job at hand, and check on the four footmen travelling with them. Two on top in the driver’s seat, one on each side of the carriage, all dressed in street clothes, not their livery.

  As he’d ordered, three dropped to the ground and melted into the crowds as soon as he and Miss Hillier stepped down, so the carriage looked exactly as it should, worn and with a single, half-asleep driver nodding off at the top.

  The other three would be a moment away, watching for any undue interest.

  James left them to it and took stock of the shop in front of them. Beckwith, Esq. Gunsmith was worked in green and gold onto a sign over the door, and the shop looked trim and prosperous.

  There was no one behind the counter to greet them when they walked in to the tinkle of the doorbell, and James could smell oil and the acrid, sneeze-inducing smell of gunpowder.

  He heard the sound of feet shuffling, and a man in his forties came out from the back, wiping his hands on a grey rag.

  “Mr. Beckwith?” James could see black powder ingrained in the man’s fingers, and dark smudges on his face and the apron he was wearing over his clothes. Even his grey and brown hair looked faintly stained with black, as if the gunsmith had run his fingers through it.

  “Aye. I’m Beckwith.”

  “You come recommended, sir.” James made his voice a little too hearty, and beside him Phoebe stiffened. He caught her gaze and grinned down at her. “I want to get a pistol for my wife to carry around with her.”

  Beckwith reached under the counter and pulled out a ledger. “What sort of size are you looking for?”

  Phoebe lifted her reticule. “To fit in here, please.”

  “Yes, I have just the design.” He flipped through the book and then turned it to face them. It contained a detailed sketch of a small pistol, with the dimensions and the price listed neatly to one side.

  “Do you happen to have one with this design?” James asked him, taking the pistol Lewis had found on the road last night from his pocket. “It’s a good weapon, and I saw your stamp on it. I thought to get one like it for my wife, only smaller.”

  Beckwith took it and turned it over in his hands. “Where’d you get this?”

  “A friend gave it to me.” James leaned against the counter, and watched Beckwith consider his words, his gaze never leaving the pistol in his hands.

  “Recently?” He eventually raised his eyes.

  “Relatively recently.” James smiled.

  Beckwith balanced the pistol between the forefingers of each hand and spun it, and James had the sense it was something the gunsmith did often when he was thinking. “This is my work, as you say, but from before I started specializing in smaller weapons. Four or five years back, I made this.” He caressed the barrel. “I don’t remember who I sold it to.”

  “Do you keep records? Surely they would tell you?”

  Beckwith shook his head. “I do keep records. But this one was part of a set of two, and I made maybe a dozen pairs of these, all identical but for the inlay in the handle. Why are you so interested in who it belonged to originally?”

  “My husband likes to know the provenance of things, Mr. Beckwith.” Phoebe had been studying the ledger while they spoke, but she intervened smoothly. “He likes to collect things, and know where they came from.” She smiled at the gunsmith, and distracted, he smiled back.

  “Well, I can’t help you, I’m sorry to say. Except to tell you that all those guns were bought by men of standing. They could have been bought and sold a few times since then, but if I recall correctly, every one of those guns went to a nobleman to begin with.”

  James forced himself to look satisfied. He could feel the heat of Phoebe’s body pressed close to his, and he longed to touch the delicate skin on her nape, bent again over the ledger as if she were truly interested in what was on the page.

  “How quickly do you want the pistol?” Beckwith only had eyes for Phoebe as well—he was ignoring James completely.

  “A week?” James wondered whether the gunsmith would confess he would be busy in the days to come, as a witness in Bellingham’s trial.

  Beckwith took a step back, and scowled. “Can’t do it, I’m afraid. Have something on.”

  “And what is that, Beckwith?” James made himself sound impatient and annoyed.

  Beckwith hesitated. “You’ll probably read it in the papers anyway. The man who shot the prime minister on Monday bought his pistols here. I’m to testify to it at his trial and I don’t know how long it will last.”

  Beside him, Phoebe did a good impression of shock and interest. “How terrible for you, Mr. Beckwith. Will it affect your business, people knowing you did business with him?”

  Beckwith frowned. “Don’t rightly know, but why should it? I take pride in my work an’ most pieces is custom made. No ruffians or petty thieves can afford the likes of a Beckwith Original.” He gestured at the pistol in his hand in outrage. “Even a gun like this one, though it’s not unique, is hand finished. And it cost a pretty penny. I cater to Quality, I do. A few gents like yourself, in the law or business, just like that Bellingham fellow, too, but mostly the Upper Classes. And how was I to know that Bellingham was stark raving, I ask you?”

  James lifted his hand to rest on the small of Phoebe’s back. “You couldn’t, of course.”

  “Quite right.” Beckwith glared at him fiercely, and then seemed to realize James had agreed with him. He huffed out a breath. “Quite right.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Beckwith.” Phoebe smiled. “I would like to order this pistol.” She pointed to the drawing on the page. “I’ve been in a few situations recently where I’d have been happy to have one with me. I can wait until you are able to get to it, though. Shall I send someone around in two weeks to see how far along you are?”

  Beckwith had obviously not been expecting a sale, and he smiled at Phoebe warmly. “I’ll be as fast as possible, Mrs. Lewis, but two weeks is fine.”

  James hid his surprise at her order. He hadn’t planned to buy anything here, but there was no doubt Beckwith was pleased by it. He held out his hand for the pistol he had given Beckwith to look at.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help with this.” Beckwith handed it back reluctantly.

  And as James took it from him, almost having to pull it from the gunsmith’s grasp, he thought he hadn’t been the only one lying.

  Beckwith was most definitely not sorry.

  Chapter Thirty

  Phoebe didn’t think Wittaker would let her come with him to visit Bellingham’s solicitor, Harmer, but he surprised her by getting out the coach and offering her his hand.

  “The carriage can’t stay here, and I’d rather have you with me,” he said when she raised her brows in query, and as she got out she saw he was right. There was no place for a carriage to pull up here, they could only drop their passengers off and move on to find a place further along the road.

  They made their way into the building to Harmer’s offices, up stairs of dark, lemon-scented wood.

  Harmer himself was in the s
mall reception room, giving instructions to his clerk, and Phoebe liked him immediately. He was round and big, but in a way that spoke of a generous country squire rather than a man prone to greed and voracious appetites. His eyes were sharp, too, and intelligent.

  “Your Grace.” He looked Wittaker over with surprise, and Phoebe realized he must be puzzled at the duke’s understated mode of dress. And his reason for being there at all.

  Wittaker flicked a look at the clerk. “Can we speak to you in private?”

  Harmer nodded, and led the way into a large office off the reception room. It looked out over the street, with four long, thin windows that let in the light and sound of the city below.

  “I must admit, I didn’t realize you knew me,” Wittaker told him as soon as the door was closed.

  “You were going to present yourself under a different identity?” Harmer paused with his hand still on the door knob, and stared at them.

  Wittaker shrugged. “I wasn’t sure. But it doesn’t matter. You do know me.” He glanced at Phoebe and then back to Harmer. “This is Miss Hillier.”

  Phoebe exchanged greetings with Harmer and they eventually sat around his desk.

  “I don’t really know how to proceed, in the circumstances.” Harmer looked between them. “Do you have need of my services for something…delicate?”

  Phoebe looked at him blankly, wondering what on earth he could mean, but Wittaker seemed to have no such confusion.

  “Nothing like that. I’ve been charged with investigating the assassination of the prime minister for…someone in Whitehall. And I thought, as Bellingham’s defense, you could help me.”

  Harmer’s jaw went slack. “This is about Bellingham?” He looked over at Phoebe, as if trying to fathom her presence.

  “What have you found out about him?” Wittaker leant back in his chair, and Phoebe thought she was coming to know him well. He exuded calm and patience, but she knew he was tightly wound as a jack-in-the-box.

  “What do you want to know?” The suspicion in Harmer’s voice was unmistakeable.

  “Where was he getting his money from, for a start?” Wittaker let himself relax even more in his chair.

  “I haven’t even got that far.” Harmer rubbed a plump hand through his sandy hair. “I’ve only just been appointed to the case, and I’m already hearing the trial is set for tomorrow. I honestly thought it was a joke, but my clerk just came back from Gibbs’s office and apparently, that is not so. I’ll be on my way over to speak to Gibbs myself. There is no way I can adequately prepare a defense in such a short time.”

  “No.” Wittaker sat a little straighter. “Does anything that you have found point to Bellingham being part of a conspiracy?”

  “That’s what this is about?” Harmer grimaced. “I can’t tell you. I’ve really only had less than two days to review what little facts I’ve been given. He claims not. But I don’t think he’s sane. That will certainly be my defense.”

  “Have you come across anyone who could help us? Someone who knows him well?” Phoebe wondered what the people who knew him thought of what he’d done.

  Harmer looked down at a pile of notes on his desk, and Phoebe had the sense he was delaying while he thought his response through. “Only the obvious, his landlady, Mrs. Robarts. I’ve sent off to people in Liverpool, but there is no way they will have received any letters from London before this evening, and none will have had time to make it down to London for the trial. Even if they did, I wouldn’t know whether they would speak for or against Bellingham by the time the trial begins.”

  “Where can we find Mrs. Robarts?” Wittaker stood, and pulled back Phoebe’s chair for her.

  Harmer stood himself, his movements quick and nervous. His gaze flickered between them as he gave them an address. “I’ll be honest, Your Grace, I hope this investigation of yours comes to nothing. I don’t need any more complications to this case.”

  Wittaker was already leading them to the door, but he turned back to Harmer. “It’ll come to something. Whether it is something that can be brought up in the farce of a trial tomorrow is another matter entirely.”

  Harmer gave a slow nod. “Whatever happens, the Attorney General is not doing right by the law, neither the letter of it, nor the spirit.” He gave Phoebe a polite bow. Wittaker had not explained her presence, and she could see Harmer was curious about her. She smiled and murmured her thanks, and they left him standing, looking thoughtfully after them.

  When they came down the stairs, Phoebe saw Wittaker’s driver had managed to squeeze the carriage in to a small driveway just a short distance from Harmer’s offices. They climbed in, and Wittaker called up the address Harmer had given them.

  He had been quiet after they’d visited the gunsmith, and now he was even quieter.

  He looked lost in thought, cut off from her, and a wave of longing for a connection like they’d had earlier this morning rose up and broke over her. She leaned forward and brushed her fingers down the side of his cheek.

  He grabbed her hand and raised startled eyes to hers. “What is it?”

  Her own daring astounded her.

  “I… You looked unhappy.” Embarrassed, she tried to pull her hand from his as she sat back against the uncomfortable seat of hard, cracked leather.

  He wouldn’t let go.

  Instead, he brought her fingers to his lips, and kissed the tips lightly. “It has been some time since anyone cared if I was happy.” Only then did he let her go.

  There suddenly wasn’t enough air in her lungs, and she let the cry of a street seller outside the window distract her from the intensity of his gaze. When she looked back at him, he was watching her, arms across his chest.

  “What has you so deep in thought?” Her voice sounded rusty, like a door long locked and only just opened.

  “I have a feeling we are chasing our tails.”

  She nodded. “And yet, what else can we do? We are following the best leads we have.”

  “If there was something better we could be doing, we’d be doing it. But I don’t like feeling like a headless chicken, blundering about.”

  “We’ve learned a few things already, and it’s only ten in the morning.” She wondered whether her aunt had realized she was out yet, or if she was still in bed, recovering from the shock of last night.

  He shrugged. “I’ll admit the gun from last night is one more connection with Bellingham. But we already knew the people trying to kill you were behind Perceval’s assassination. Beckwith was reluctant to say who might have owned that gun, but it was more a guarding of his clients’ privacy than anything else, I think. And we knew more than Harmer did about Bellingham.”

  “You think visiting Mrs. Robarts will be just as useless?”

  “I don’t know.” He tapped his fist on his thigh, his shoulders rigid and stiff. “I suppose she may have known what business he was doing. Or if business associates met him at his lodgings. She would have had day to day contact with him.”

  “You’re worried we don’t have enough time. That the trial will start tomorrow and we won’t have a chance to find out who was behind this.” She spoke quietly, and he met her gaze as he nodded.

  “There are so many people who wished Perceval ill. And with Bellingham refusing to name anyone but himself, in the time we have, I have to face that we may not get to the bottom of this.”

  She kept her gaze on him steady. “You’ll get to the bottom of it. Even if you aren’t in time to do it before the trial.” She had sensed that from him since the moment they met. He was relentless.

  He made a face. “What good will that do?”

  “Maybe none. But you will do it.”

  He braced himself as their old carriage came to a rocking halt. “You’re right. It’s personal for me now, but even if it weren’t, I’d follow the trail until I find the culprit.”

  She waited for him to get out and offer his hand to her before she spoke again. “What will you do with them, when you find them?”

&nb
sp; He turned, with her hand still in his, to look at the small house wedged between two others in a pretty street. “I’ll turn over their names to the man who asked me to look into this in the first place.”

  “Will he do anything about it?” She resisted being led forward, suddenly needing to know that this effort, this danger, would not be for nothing.

  “As much as he can. I believe that.”

  It would have to be enough.

  A young maid answered the door when Wittaker knocked, and led them into a snug little parlour, where a pretty woman sat, knitting, with a young boy playing with tin soldiers beside her by the fire.

  “Mrs. Robarts?” Wittaker bowed, and even though he was not dressed as usual, and might have been any well-to-do gentleman, Mrs. Robarts scrambled to her feet, and nudged her son to do the same.

  “You with the newspapers?” She frowned at the thought, but her brow cleared as Wittaker shook his head.

  “No. We’re not. I hope you take our word that we are inquiring into the matter concerning Mr. Bellingham for the Crown, and cannot reveal too much.”

  Phoebe didn’t think Mrs. Robarts would accept an explanation like that, she certainly wouldn’t have, but the woman blushed, and nodded immediately. “Of course, of course.”

  She invited them to sit, and when they were settled, Phoebe thought the tiny room looked even more cramped with Wittaker taking up so much space in it.

  “Mrs. Robarts, I understand you are holding a promissory note for Mr. Bellingham for twenty pounds?” Wittaker shifted on the small armchair he’d chosen, and it gave an ominous creak.