Murder in St. Giles

by Jennifer Ashley

  His horror was real. I could not decide whether he’d experienced this for himself or had only been told by his fellows, but I did not ask.

  “And having convicts participate in exhibition bouts is part of their reform?”

  “Ye misunderstand me, guv. That’s hushed up, that is. An amount of money passes from a gent to ones high up and a selection of men come out of the hulks and box for the gent’s pleasure. They choose trained fighters and also those what have no training to see what will happen. They bring out only able and strong men, to keep it sporting, but the blokes have no choice. They’re fought until they fall down and can’t get up. If any die, ah well. They’re robbers and the like, bad ’uns all.”

  I heard the echoes of Pomeroy’s words.

  “Has this happened to you?” I asked gently.

  “Naw, I’m too small to be of much use, and I told you, I can’t punch anymore. But I hear. Men used like fighting mongrels, only worse.”

  Marianne had likened the events to dog fights. “I imagine the magistrates do not know about these matches?”

  “I imagine they do.” The man grinned. “I imagine they’re taking cash to look the other way. The gents what buy the prisoners for a day are often the local magistrates themselves.”

  “This is a well-known occurrence, then?”

  “Known.” Lewis shrugged. “Not talked about, though. I’ll sit in Mr. Denis’s house and discuss it with ye, but I wouldn’t run to Bow Street and proclaim it at the top of me lungs. Or stand outside the Houses of Parliament and buttonhole me MP about it—if I even knew who he was. This is more of a keep quiet if ye know what’s good for ya sort a’ thing.”

  I had concluded as much. “Perhaps Mr. Finch decided not to keep it quiet?”

  “Don’t know why he wouldn’t. A day out fighting wouldn’t be anything he’d object to, would it?”

  I had no idea. And now that Finch was dead, I might never know.

  “Tell ya who you could talk to about Finchie, though,” Lewis said, holding up a bent forefinger. “He had a friend, maybe the only one in all the world. A tough man, like Finchie was, but they seemed to get on. He’s called Blackmore. Sydney Blackmore. He knew Finchie better than anyone. If ye want Finchie’s history, apply to him.”

  Chapter 16

  I regarded Lewis with eagerness, my interest piqued.

  “How do I find this man?” I asked in hope. Friends fell out and could become passionate enemies, well I knew. I might have just been given the name of Finch’s killer.

  Lewis shrugged, to my disappointment. “Who knows, guv? Blackmore’s a villain too. Could have been hanged, transported, or buried in a prison himself by now. I met the man once, long ago. Once was all I wanted.” He rose, finished with me. “If ye do find Blackmore, ye take Tommy Brewster with you to speak to him. Tommy and about six other blokes, all well armed. Understand?”

  With that, he left me, breaking into a cheerful whistle as he departed the room.

  The second man—the guard who’d been in Denis’s study—gave me no more information than Lewis. He’d fought Finch himself, and had the torn hamstring to remember him by. He’d heard of Mr. Blackmore, but never met him and didn’t know where he was now.

  The butler entered when I’d finished speaking with the second man, standing pointedly beside the open doorway. Before I departed, I asked the butler to tell Denis to send me word of anyone who knew of Sydney Blackmore, and more importantly, where to find him.

  I got a cold stare in response, but I trusted he’d deliver the message.

  I pondered the situation as I walked home. Though I’d discovered much more about Finch today, I was no further forward on deciding who’d killed him.

  Brewster had confessed to beating Finch when Finch threatened his wife, and that might be enough to convince a jury he’d lied about leaving Finch alive while he fetched his money. He could easily have stuck a knife into the man—why bother to pay him when it was easier to kill him?

  I had a more horrible thought. Perhaps Mrs. Brewster had stabbed Finch in fear of her life, and Brewster had beaten his body and left him in the deserted house to cover for her. They sent for me precisely because Finch would be traced to Mrs. Brewster, and it would not look well for her if they said nothing at all. Because Brewster had once nearly lost his life for me, they knew I’d be on their side.

  Even Denis’s loyalty was not as certain as mine—I had honor where my friends were concerned, but Denis might think it better to cut his losses than risk helping. Brewster had much confidence in “His Nibs,” but Denis had before rid himself of men who could have brought the law down upon him.

  I imagined I did Denis a wrong in this thought, but my worry for Brewster and his wife had me wildly speculating.

  I considered Charlotte, the daughter. She had been genuinely distressed when she’d heard of Finch’s death, the only one so far to express sorrow. But she’d immediately turned our attention to Hobson, whom Finch had beaten for exploiting Charlotte.

  Charlotte’s lover, Ned, might have killed Finch in fear or anger—either believing Finch would hurt Ned for sleeping with his daughter, or that he’d convince Charlotte to chuck Ned out.

  There was Mrs. Brewster’s sister, Martha, though I could not picture her tracking Finch through the streets of St. Giles and stabbing him. But even small and sickly people could prove to have desperate strength, and she’d only need a lucky blow. She’d been as dismayed as Emily at his return, and he’d stolen her money. If Finch had already been insensible from Brewster beating him, it would have been easier for Martha to fell him.

  Shaddock, Brewster’s trainer, came next to mind. Deathly afraid of Finch and glad he’d met his end. Had Finch asked Shaddock to meet him to pry more money out of him? Shaddock had been a trained pugilist and he’d know how to defeat a man larger than himself. But would he still possess the strength?

  Young Mr. Oliver had that strength. Was it coincidence that he, a student of Shaddock’s, had been in St. Giles fighting right after Finch had died? And what about Mr. White? He and Finch both knew Shaddock—did Mr. White kill Finch for a reason connected to the trainer? Or out of fear—perhaps White was poaching on Finch’s territory in fight fixing and blackmail.

  Finally, I had this mysterious Mr. Blackmore. I had hopes of Denis in this regard—he knew the whereabouts of every criminal in Britain and even beyond its shores.

  Quimby was busy investigating the hulks where Finch had been imprisoned, and possibly quizzing a captain who made arrangements to bring prisoners back after they’d been transported. A dangerous undertaking for Quimby—I hoped he’d be circumspect.

  I stood in front of Donata’s house for several minutes before I realized I’d reached it, so lost in thought I was. Jeremy had opened the door, peering at me as though wondering why I did not enter. I went inside absently, no more enlightened for all my musings.

  I reflected as I handed over my coat and hat that I’d investigated murders when it seemed no one could be to blame. In this murder, so many people could have killed Finch—or at least, so many would have been quite willing to—that it was difficult to choose between them.

  I did not wish to blunder and send the wrong man—or woman—to the gallows. Unlike Pomeroy’s, my conscience, if I did so, would never rest.

  As Bartholomew dressed me a few hours later for my outing to meet Egan and Grenville, he remarked, “I heard Mr. St. John has left London.”

  My heart chilled. “Has he? And gone where?”

  Bartholomew plucked up a camel-hair brush and began to studiously flick it over every inch of the frock coat he’d slid onto me. “His house in Somerset.”

  I let out my breath. Gabriella would arrive tomorrow, but she’d come from the opposite direction, through Dover and Kent. Nor was Stanton rushing to Hampshire or Norfolk to harass the staff at those houses.

  If I knew where the devil Donata was, I’d rest easier, but I reasoned that she would avoid Somerset if Stanton lived there.
/>   “You’re certain?” I asked, holding out my arms so Bartholomew could finish the brushing.

  “Oh, yes, Captain. We’ve been keeping an eye on him since the first morning he came to threaten her ladyship. Matthias and I and Mr. Barnstable know every servant in Mayfair, and I asked my mates to let me know what Mr. St. John does every day.”

  “He hasn’t ever gone to St. Giles has he?” Pinning Finch’s death on Stanton would be highly satisfying, though I knew it was quite unlikely.

  “No, sir. Not that anyone has seen. But maybe you could push the murder onto him. Two birds with one stone, like.”

  Tempting, but I felt the need to negate the idea. “If we decided to pin a crime, any crime, on someone we didn’t like, without proof, we’d be no better than barbarians. Fortunately, the laws in this country are a bit more civilized.”

  “Mmm.” Bartholomew returned to brushing the coat. “Pity.”

  Thank God for the laws, I thought as I climbed into the landau not long later. If not for them, I’d happily give Stanton to Pomeroy and assuage my conscience by telling myself I kept Peter safe. I could spout lofty rhetoric, but I rather agreed with Bartholomew’s views on simple justice.

  Jackson’s boxing rooms in Bond Street attracted the cream of the ton, who were instructed in the “gentlemanly” art of pugilism. This evening as I entered, a pair of thin aristos were standing in shirtsleeves, batting at each other with fists as Jackson, a broad-shouldered man who was double each of these gentlemen’s weights, gave them pointers.

  Grenville pulled his gaze from the match and raised a hand to me as I entered. Standing next to him was a slim man with dark hair, who nodded cordially as I approached.

  “Captain.” Pierce Egan clasped my hand in a firm shake. “Well met. It has been a long time since Astley Close.”

  “Indeed.” I’d liked Egan when I’d met him—he’d been the voice of reason at that bizarre house party.

  “My felicitations on your nuptials,” Egan continued with good humor. “And your growing nursery.”

  I bowed, pretending my heart didn’t expand at his words. “I am the most fortunate of men.”

  “I believe you. Shall you go a round?”

  The pair of spindly gentlemen had shaken hands and moved off, discussing what they’d learned, their fists still moving in demonstration. Several more pairs of gentlemen took the floor.

  “Not with this.” I tapped my left leg with my walking stick.

  “I have seen that such things do not hamper you when you fight,” Egan said, eyes sparkling. “When you are enraged enough.”

  “That is true. However, I then spend the day after that in agony. So, I will be prudent and not lose my temper.”

  Egan sent me a grin. “What about you, Grenville? I have heard of your prowess with your fists. Shall you give someone a milling?”

  “I’ll have a go.” Grenville was already in shirt sleeves and waistcoat, the discreet Gautier, his valet, waiting with other manservants on the far side of the room to reclothe their gentlemen. “I am certain a number of chaps in this room would be proud to give me a bloody nose—or as you might say, Egan, draw my cork and pour out my claret. Ah, Debenham, shall we box?”

  Grenville went off with another sprig of aristocracy, leaving us in relative privacy.

  Egan turned to me, interest in his lively eyes. “Grenville wants me to repeat my tale of pugilism in the wilds of Kent.”

  “With prisoners from the hulks as the entertainment,” I said.

  “Yes.” Egan’s amusement deserted him. “You know how devoted I am to the sport,” he said as we strolled to the other side of the room. “I breathe it morning, noon, and night, and regale the populace about it in between. But this was unsettling. Reluctant men were bullied unmercifully, thrashed if they did not defend themselves. A number of them did not even know how to fight, not in the pugilistic sense. They brought a few men who, it could be seen, were not hardened criminals, and were reduced to a pulp for the fun of it. It was sickening.”

  “How did this gentleman who owned the house arrange it?” I asked, choosing my words carefully.

  “You do not have to be coy, Captain. I did not give his name to Grenville, but upon thinking it over, I’ve decided to tell you. It was Lord Mercer.” When I must have looked blank, Mr. Egan added, “An earl of very old lineage. The earls of Mercer have dwelled just south of the Isle of Sheppey, on the sea, since before the Conquest, to hear him speak of it. Mercer doesn’t come to Town much, lives in a huge pile that must be left from Norman times, retaining the cold from every winter since. The matches were held in the garden—if you can call it a garden—within some very picturesque ruins of a large Greek temple. Those were new. Mercer has a genuine ruin out there, the remains of an old keep, where men waited, penned up and under guard until their turn to fight.”

  “One man was nearly killed, Grenville said.”

  “Yes, poor bastard. Not one of the untrained or reluctant fighters, as you might think. They proved they had mettle when they had to fight or die. One of the pugilists, big fellow. They forced him into so many matches he couldn’t stand. If I’d not intervened, they’d have thrown him back in again and again until he died. Mercer thought I’d be pleased by the show. Lady Mercer stood proudly next to her husband through all this. Ghastly people.”

  I’d never heard of the Earl of Mercer, but if he rusticated in the country, it was not odd that I hadn’t. And if he and his wife were as gauche as Egan painted them, their names would never pass Grenville’s lips. He preferred to ignore those who irritated him.

  “They swore you to secrecy, Grenville said.”

  “Threatened me is more like.” Egan shuddered. “Lady Mercer sensed my unhappiness, took me aside, and explained things to me. I wasn’t to ruin his lordship’s bit of fun. Where was the harm? These men had done bad things—let this be their punishment.”

  My hand tightened on the head of my walking stick. I remembered Lewis’s words in Denis’s dining room—Once you’re slung into prison or a hulk, you’re nothing. Ye cease to be human.

  “Grenville also said that you tried to report what had happened and were waylaid.”

  Egan’s eyes glinted with anger. “Oh, yes. Taken aside on a dark London street and knocked about. Very competently. I heard Grenville had a sudden interest in pugilists, particularly Jack Finch, so I told him about it. And now you. I shall have to be careful on my way home tonight.”

  “I will see that you arrive safely,” I said with sincerity. “Thank you for your story.”

  “What is your interest?” He watched me with keen attention, his journalist’s curiosity apparent.

  “My man found Finch dead.”

  “Ah, yes. Grenville told me as much. Foul Murder in St. Giles, newspapers say. And you do not wish your man to be blamed.”

  “Finch was in one of those hulks once upon a time,” I said. “I assume Lord Mercer hosts these bouts regularly. Perhaps Finch fought in one, before he was transported. When he escaped, he might have threatened Mercer about them, and was killed by those who did not want the secret to get out.”

  Egan turned a shade of yellow-green. “Would Mercer go that far? Good Lord, I hope not, or I’m for it.”

  “It is worth finding out,” I said with conviction. “For your sake if nothing else.”

  Egan swallowed but maintained his sangfroid. “I believe a visit to the Continent might be in order. Perhaps I’ll write about pugilism in Paris for a bit. But I will comfort myself by believing you’re wrong that this is the reason Finch died. The bouts were exactly the sort of thing a man like Finch would go in for. Oh, good show, Mr. Grenville.”

  Grenville had deflected Debenham’s blow when it came at him, caught Debenham’s fist, and spun the man around. Debenham stumbled and fell to one knee.

  End of the match. Grenville stepped back, flushed and breathing hard, and helped his opponent to his feet. Pugilism at its most gentlemanly.

  After our instruction at Jackso
n’s Mr. Egan and I adjourned with Grenville to his home in Grosvenor Street and took a meal. Marianne was out—visiting her acting friends, Grenville said, so we dined and drank hock and brandy in large quantities, as though we were carefree bachelors.

  I had been a bachelor far too long to find anything carefree about it, but I did enjoy the excellent conversation with Grenville and Egan, and I learned more than I’d ever thought possible about horse racing and pugilism.

  Grenville invited Egan to spend the night, which the man accepted with gratitude. Egan indeed fixed on a journey to Paris for a few weeks, and would leave in a day or two.

  I walked home from Grosvenor Street with Brewster and told him what Egan had told me. He listened with interest, and he, like Denis’s man Lewis, didn’t seem surprised.

  “I’ve never been sent down meself,” Brewster said. “But a thief is the same as a murderer to some, and it’s a shame any villain escapes the noose, they say,” he finished bitterly.

  “Would Finch have been outraged at these fights? Or embraced them?”

  “I believe he’d have enjoyed himself. I didn’t know he and Blackmore were such mates. Met Blackmore a few times in my day. Can’t say it were a pleasure.”

  “I am hoping Denis knows where I can put my hands on him.”

  Brewster looked heavenward, where smoke and clouds blotted out the stars. “Which means I’ll have to be next to you when you talk to Blackmore, me fists at the ready. And possibly a cudgel and a pistol too.”

  “I can ask Denis to speak with him first,” I suggested. “Men tend to be calmer after a visit with him.”