Murder in St. Giles

by Jennifer Ashley

  “That’s where I left him,” Oliver said, and rose to depart.

  I pressed some coins upon him before he went, because much of Oliver’s money, except what he’d had in his pockets, had been held by Mr. White.

  “You’re a soft touch, Captain,” Brewster said after Oliver set off and the three of us strolled back toward his rooms. “What’s to say he won’t meet up with White somewhere outside of London and split the takings?”

  Nothing, I knew. But I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  When we reached Brewster’s lodgings, Mrs. Brewster asked her husband to fetch them dinner from the tavern at the end of the road. Brewster, to my surprise, walked away without a word.

  “Now then, Captain,” Mrs. Brewster said she settled me in the front room. “I have some coffee brewed. Give me a tick to warm it up.”

  I sat idly while she disappeared into her tiny kitchen. The chamber was furnished comfortably, without ostentation, but without meagerness. It was hardly derelict.

  Mrs. Brewster brought in the coffee, and then sat down and regarded me closely while I sipped.

  “I sent Tommy away because he don’t like it when I talk about Jack,” she said. “It were Jack’s fault, ye see, that I took up with a blackguard that led me to living in a bawdy house. Me mum and dad weren’t up to much, but they worked hard, poor souls. There were never enough money, and mum and dad were in the factories all the day long. Jack decided us little ’uns needed to earn our keep, so he sent us out thieving. We had to bring all we got to him, and he’d hoard the lot for himself. I met a man I thought would look after me, so I run off with him to get away from Jack.” She spread her hands. “I discovered my mistake too late, but I made more coin working in the bawdy house than I would have at a factory, so it suited me.”

  I tried to give no reaction while she told me this tragic tale. She spoke matter-of-factly, as though she’d come to terms with her lot long ago.

  “What about your sisters?” I asked when she’d finished. “Or brothers?”

  “I only had the younger sister.” Mrs. Brewster threaded her slim fingers together. “Jack was hard on her—we’d get a beating if we didn’t bring home enough every night, but I tried to protect her from him and took her with me when I ran off with the blackguard. Not long after that, Jack vanished from our lives, and we didn’t half breathe a sigh of relief. My sister, though, never really recovered from it. She got a factory job and married a man she met there, but she’s always been sickly. Lost her children afore they were born.”

  She trailed off in sadness.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Does she live in London?”

  Mrs. Brewster nodded. “I look after her still. She’s not much use on her own. Her husband’s gone now too.”

  I took a sip of coffee, uncertain how to respond. “You never saw Jack again after he left home?”

  “Once or twice.” Mrs. Brewster twisted her fingers more tightly. “He come to ask me for money—what else? Was in a nunnery then, and Ma Campbell’s bullies ran ’im off. He threatened his revenge, but he left me alone.”

  “Is that why he came this time? Revenge?”

  “I don’t know.” Mrs. Brewster wrinkled her brow. “He said I owed him, and I needed to pay, and he smacked me good and hard across the face. But that’s all he got out before Tommy run in and grabbed him. I started shrieking, I was that scared, and then I was afraid Tommy had killed him …”

  She broke off. “Captain, he never meant to. Jack was still breathing when Tommy carried him out down the back stairs. Ye have to find whoever finished the job. I can’t live without me Tommy.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I will do my utmost,” I vowed, trying to put comfort into my voice. “Did Jack say anything else? Perhaps mention a person he was meeting?”

  “No, but …” Mrs. Brewster sniffled. “He was saying the words—You owe me, Emily, ye little tramp. Give me every penny you got—but I had the oddest feeling he was thinking of something else the whole time. Like he’d rehearsed what to say. Distracted. Frightened. As though he were glancing over his shoulder.”

  “Frightened?” I asked. “That’s interesting. Frightened of whom?”

  “I couldn’t say, because nothing ever scared our Jack. Folks were scared of him. But he had a wild look in his eyes, desperate.” Mrs. Brewster shivered. “I don’t like to think of a man who could terrify our Jack.”

  “The man who could terrify Jack might have killed him,” I said.

  I’d learned in my life that a bully who’d never been crossed possessed the confidence of an emperor or a rajah of India, until he met a bully even greater than himself. Finch must have encountered such a one.

  I wondered if Finch had made this enemy before or after he’d been transported—if he’d been transported at all. I would have to look closely into the history of Mr. Finch.

  I agreed with Mrs. Brewster that Tommy would have to be cleared, because I did not want to do without him either. Brewster had become a friend, and I would do no less for him than I would for Grenville or indeed, my own family.

  Brewster returned with a joint of beef on a covered plate. Mrs. Brewster carried it to the kitchen, but I declined her offer to share the meal with them, and took my leave.

  Brewster walked out with me. “We ain’t destitute, Captain. Ye don’t need to fear taking food out of our mouths.”

  I knew Denis paid his men well. Brewster had also managed to return from our journey to Egypt with a few valuable pieces from our find.

  “It was not from charity that I refused. It was the look on your face,” I said. “You did not fancy dinner conversation with me. Also I am anxious to return home and see if there has been any word of my wife.”

  “She’s perfectly safe,” Brewster said, unoffended.

  “I believe you. But I will feel better when I know exactly where she is and when she will return.”

  Brewster gave me a shrug. I knew that if his wife had pulled up and fled, he’d never take the word of one of Denis’s thugs that she was fine and well. I could see, however, that Brewster was unmoved by my concern.

  He put me into a hackney, and I returned to South Audley Street. There I went ’round to the mews to see what had become of the dog.

  John the stable boy proudly led out a golden specimen whose clean fur had been brushed until it shone. The dog’s long ears were perked, and his tail waved slowly but eagerly.

  “You’re a lovely lad,” I said, giving his shoulder a sound pat. “You’ve done well with him, John.”

  John, whose hair was in far more disarray than the dog’s, looked pleased. “Did you give him a name yet, sir?”

  “Haven’t thought of one. Have you?”

  John nodded, his gaze on the dog. “I thought we could call him Oro. It’s Spanish. Means gold. Course, coachman says it’s daft to name a cur.”

  “He’s not a cur.” I patted the dog again, and his tail waved harder. “This is a fine dog from someone’s hunting kennel, bred to fetch birds from the marshes. He is lost, or was stolen.” I stroked the silky head. “Oro is a good name for him.”

  “Is he ours now?” John asked, eyes still averted. “Or will you find the gent what lost him?”

  Oro seemed pleased to be with us, and I had the sudden desire to present him to Gabriella. She’d like him, I thought.

  “Needle in a haystack,” I said to John. “If I happen to hear that his owner is looking for him, well and good, but his home is here for now.”

  John grinned in relief and finally met my gaze. “Thank you, sir.”

  Oro was already a remarkable beast. He’d made me bring him home and now decide to keep him.

  Darkness was falling by the time I left the mews. I washed in my chamber and went down to the dining room, where a single place had been set at the table.

  I could only hope Donata and Peter had reached their destination or a safe place to put up for the night. And I hoped she’d break her stubborn silence and send wor
d to me.

  I did have a caller as I ate a light supper, my appetite diminished. But it was not Grenville, as I’d expected, but Marcus Lacey.

  Chapter 9

  I shook hands with a man who was close to my age, my height and build, and had the same dark hair and eyes.

  While he didn’t have my leathery skin earned by years of marching under sun, wind, and rain in all climates in the army, he retained the sunburn he’d acquired in Egypt.

  “I thought you were in Norfolk,” I said when the greetings were over.

  Marcus took a seat at the dining table, and Bartholomew, looking interested, served him a cutlet and wine.

  “I was.”

  “How are they there?” I asked cautiously.

  “Wary.” Marcus flashed a brief smile. “But growing used to me.”

  Marcus had been nonplussed at my acceptance of him as my cousin. Donata’s man of business continued to check Marcus’s bona fides, but so far, I was convinced he was indeed my first cousin on my father’s side, and possibly the rightful heir to the Norfolk estate. Those in Norfolk, however, were understandably not as quick to embrace him

  “I have had time to learn the house and ride over the farm,” Marcus said as we ate. “The renovations your wife has begun are going smoothly.”

  I did not know the details of the restoration, leaving that to Donata’s capable planning and the supervision of Terrence Quinn, an old friend who’d lost an arm in battle and now was my steward.

  “Good,” I said. “Mrs. Lacey and I will journey there this summer.”

  “Ah.” Marcus finished his cutlet and idly traced designs through the mushroom sauce. “I came to London to speak to you, in truth …”

  Now we came to it.

  “About the farm.”

  A gazed at him, perplexed. I wasn’t certain exactly what I wished him to say, but a discussion of cropland was not it.

  “What there is of the farm, you mean,” I said, lifting my wine glass.

  “The north field has been lying fallow, but it could bring in a decent yield,” Marcus said. “That is, if we plant it soon—we’ve already left it a bit late. But it’s been in clover for years, and the soil is rich, ready.”

  I’d had no idea what was in the north field, and I felt a twinge of guilt at my neglect. “What does Mr. Quinn say?”

  “Mr. Quinn agrees with me.” Marcus laid his fork across the porcelain plate. “So do we plant the field, or not? If the rains are right, we could have a nice crop of barley come harvest. If it’s well done, it will bring a good price with the brewers.”

  I shrugged. “If Mr. Quinn says so, then have him go ahead. I know nothing of farming, I’m sorry to say.” I’d spent my life in the army, which meant I’d trampled crops instead of growing them.

  “Well, I do.” Marcus shot me a look that held more fire. “I farmed in the wilds of Canada, believe it or not. Challenging, but I did it. Wheat, and sweet corn for the cattle.”

  “I see,” was all I could think of to say. If Marcus was who he claimed, then he had every right to do with the fields what he liked.

  “Plant the barley, then,” I said. “Terrance is no fool, and he’s lived in the area most of his life. Take his advice on all things.”

  Marcus peered at me. “You decide things quickly, Captain.”

  “Best way. Saves weeks of pondering and worrying.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  I waved my hand. “Then I face the consequences. I do not seek to put the blame for my blunders on others.”

  “A risky way to live.”

  “That is true, but I do not seem to be able to change my habits.”

  “Ah,” Marcus said, “that explains the fact that you chased and fought me instead of wisely retreating and letting others catch me.”

  “I must wonder why you, being a Lacey, expected anything less,” I said.

  Marcus lifted his glass to me. “Touché.”

  I lifted mine in response then set it down without drinking. “You are expecting me to believe that you made the journey to London from Norfolk solely to ask whether you should plant the north field. A letter would have sufficed.”

  “An excuse, as you’ve no doubt deduced.” Marcus cast an eye to Bartholomew, who was doing his best to be the perfect, invisible valet.

  I followed his gaze. “Bartholomew, you may go. I’ll ring if I need you.”

  Bartholomew let none of his disappointment show as he bowed and glided from the room.

  “You may speak freely,” I said.

  Bartholomew would no doubt be hovering near the door, but I wanted him there in case Marcus did anything violent. Marcus might have grown impatient in the months of waiting to prove who he was.

  No matter what happened in popular melodramas, just because a man turned up and claimed to be the rightful heir, the family didn’t simply turn everything over to him without question. Proofs were in order, reliable witnesses sought.

  “I wanted to see if we could be friends,” Marcus startled me by saying. “I’ve gone a long while without much family.” He spoke slowly, as though choosing his words. “Living with anger grates on a man.”

  “I well know this,” I admitted.

  Again we sat in silence, and finished our wine. I rose to lift the bottle and pour more for both of us.

  “I apologized to Mr. Brewster for shooting him,” Marcus said. “But I never did to you. Because of course, I was aiming for you.”

  “This is an apology?” I asked with a touch of amusement as I trickled red liquid into his glass.

  “An attempt at one. You are a better man that I expected, given what I knew about your father. But you are not he, no matter what heinous crimes he committed.”

  “Fratricide, no less.” I upended the bottle and set it on the table. “My father was a selfish, cruel man. He made my mother’s life a misery. If it is true that he killed your father, he has no forgiveness from me. Condemn him all you like. I will join you.”

  Marcus gave me a slow nod. “I suspected you felt so. You have proved to be not like him, and speaking to the inhabitants of Parson’s Point, I find that they agree. They much admire you and much loathed your father. I am asking your pardon for confusing the two of you in my mind.”

  “It is given,” I said without heat as I sat down again. “We are friends then?”

  Marcus opened his hand. “It is a beginning.”

  “It is indeed.”

  There did not seem to be much more to say. We continued to drink wine as we moved to less treacherous conversation—speaking of the repairs to the house and happenings in the village of Parson’s Point.

  After another half hour, Marcus departed. He refused my offer to put him up here or in my rooms in Grimpen Lane, claiming he’d found lodgings of his own. He had plenty of pride, I saw, like a true Lacey.

  As soon as Marcus had gone, Bartholomew approached me with a note from Grenville. He’d invited Donata and me to dine with him and Marianne, four friends together.

  “Send my regrets,” I told Bartholomew. “We’ll attend when her ladyship returns.”

  Bartholomew, who had begun his career as Grenville’s footman, eyed me doubtfully. “Mr. Grenville won’t be happy if you don’t turn up.”

  “Mr. Grenville will have to accept it,” I answered.

  I did not wish to enjoy myself with Grenville while I worried about Donata. I alternately feared for her and raged at her.

  To be fair, I’d deserted her at the theatre when I’d wanted to quiz Brewster. She might have looked for me to tell me her plans and carried on when she could not find me. I wondered if an incident after I’d gone had set her off, or if she’d planned to hide Peter as soon as Stanton appeared at the front door in South Audley Street.

  I spent a restless night and woke with a headache. Rain was pouring down in the morning, not improving my mood.

  Brewster appeared shortly after I finished breakfast.

  “I want to discover why Finch came to L
ondon,” I told him as Bartholomew slid my greatcoat onto my shoulders. “We’ll start with wherever he took lodgings and trace him from there.”

  “Seems fair.” Brewster looked on as Bartholomew tried to hand me an umbrella and I declined it. A hardened cavalryman did not fear a bit of rain. “I’ll take you to Shaddock, my trainer,” Brewster continued. “If you want to know about fighting and how Finch might have been killed, he can tell you.”

  “I would be happy to meet him.” I’d planned to ask Brewster for an introduction to the man for that reason and also because I was interested in the trainer who’d produced a champion like Brewster.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Bartholomew began, a hopeful light in his eyes. “But Matthias and me, we can ask about for tales of this dead man. Find out who he talked to, maybe easier than you can.”

  He had a point—I had a reputation of working with Runners and magistrates, which might make those in St. Giles reluctant to speak to me, even with the threat of a hovering Brewster.

  “St. Giles is a dangerous place,” I said in warning.

  Bartholomew’s smile could be called placating. “I’ve lived in London all me life, Captain. I know blokes from all corners. Jeremy the footman comes from St. Giles. People will talk to family and their friends quicker than they’ll talk to you.”

  “Lad’s right,” Brewster said. Rain dripped from his hat to spill on Donata’s polished inlaid floor. “Even I’m an outsider in St. Giles, no matter how long I lived there. Em’s the one what’s known.”

  “Very well,” I told Bartholomew. “But be careful. At any sign of trouble, be wise and flee.”

  “Depend on it,” Bartholomew said gravely.

  I slapped on my tall hat. “Keep no secrets from Grenville. Tell him what you’re dragging your brother off to do. Also inform him that my cousin Marcus has returned. I’d like the three of us to dine soon, if I can discover where Marcus is billeted.” He’d departed without disclosing that fact.

  Bartholomew agreed and Brewster and I ascended into the coach Barnstable had hired for me for the day. I wanted Donata’s landau to be at her disposal if she returned.