“Such luxury,” he said fingering the dressing gown’s velvet placket.
We’d have to buy him secondhand clothes in the morning. He was far too small for anything Pomeroy, Brewster, or I had.
“Well, gentlemen,” Quimby said after he’d scraped clean a plate holding a cutlet, potatoes, greens, and a hunk of brown bread. “There isn’t much to tell. As you know, I came to investigate how Mr. Finch could have escaped his captivity and returned to these shores. We know that men not only depart from here but also return, and we are pretty certain how, but we have no proof. I didn’t do much more than linger in pubs, listening to conversation. All discreet inquiries—well, I’d believed I was being discreet—led, as I suspected they would, to Captain Steadman.”
“Yes,” Pomeroy said. “The merchant captain that made Seaman Jones very nervous when mentioned.”
“Exactly. Captain Steadman is, not to put too fine a point on it, a smuggler. He is a legitimate merchant, registered, sails around the Horn every year to India and islands in the Pacific. Does a good business, in his own small way, without treading on the toes of the East India Company and others. He pays them a bit of compensation, from what I gather, and avoids the markets they are most possessive of. But he’ll pick up things here and there and bring them back, without bothering to list them on the cargo manifest, if you take my meaning. Silk cloth, exotic animals, men.”
“Ah.” Pomeroy’s smile spread wide. “Got him.”
“Not necessarily.” Quimby took a slurp of ale and made a noise of satisfaction. “He’s regarded as something of a hero among the locals. He transports escaped slaves to the free land of Britain, brings back men—innocent ones, he claims—who have been sentenced to hard labor in the penal colonies. He’s quite a colorful figure, so they say, but others mutter about him. He doesn’t help these men and slaves escape out of the goodness of his heart. He gouges a large fee from them and is hard on those who don’t or can’t pay.”
“In other words, they go from slavery to indentured servitude,” I said. I ran my thumb over the head of my walking stick. “Perhaps I should speak to this captain.”
“No, ye don’t,” Brewster said at once. “Exactly the trouble I’m paid to keep ye out of.”
“I tried to,” Quimby said with a little smile. “Was able to make an appointment with the great Steadman. I went to the dock at the appointed hour, and was waylaid forthwith. I fought gallantly, or so I supposed, until I was disarmed, thoroughly beaten, my clothes stolen, and then had a very smelly bag put over my head. When I came to, I was in the hold of a mostly empty ship with one or two men too sick to rise.”
“Hard luck,” Pomeroy said as Quimby paused for a sip of ale.
“Indeed,” he said. “Not long later the other prisoners were driven down, their day at an end. The guards took me for one of them and chained me up, no matter how much I protested—some of these bruises are from them. And there I was. The next morning, I tried to explain again, but was clubbed for my trouble. So off I went to dig out a ditch in the shingle with my fellow prisoners, watched over by a very disagreeable man, quite ready with a whip. Cut me for daring even to speak to him.” He took another hasty drink. “I could only hope Sir Montague would notice my lack of correspondence and the fact that I did not return to London—that is, before I was shipped off across the seas.”
“He did,” I said. “He was most worried about you, and sent Pomeroy to seek you.”
“Captain Lacey found the last piece of the puzzle,” Pomeroy put in generously. “Good thing I brought him along—he’s expert at prying information out of men who won’t talk to the likes of Runners.”
Quimby gave me a grateful nod. “I assure you, Captain Steadman would be quite loathe to speak to any gentleman who approached him. I kept my identity as a Runner to myself and behaved as a man looking to move cargo. But he saw through that readily enough. I don’t believe he cared whether I was a Runner or a prince of the realm. I asked too much about his business and he took steps.” Quimby lifted his tankard to us. “I thank you, gentlemen.”
“The naval lieutenant and his pet sailor did not like us asking questions,” I observed. “But I would swear they knew nothing about your capture. Seaman Jones had not heard your name.”
“Possibly they had no idea. The thugs who took me were not of the navy. I believe Steadman pays those at the naval docks quite well to ignore him, but I do not believe they assist him. I heard no talk of that.”
“Safer to leave them out of it,” Brewster grunted. “If he had navy lads doing things for him, he couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t talk when they were out of his reach. Even if unintentionally.”
“I agree,” Quimby said. “Steadman runs his own empire. The lads in the hulk knew much about him, though. Said that for the right price, he’d send a boat to pick up men from the penal colonies who could get free of their shackles and outrun the guards. A large price, but some, like Mr. Finch, could pay it. Or at least be certain of raising the sum once they reached England again.”
“Huh,” Brewster said. “Explains why Finch came to touch me and Em for blunt. And why he wanted the same from his youngest sister and his own daughter. He needed to pay his fare.”
Quimby’s eyes widened, his professional interest pushing aside his exhaustion. “Daughter?”
“Found her after you departed,” I said. “Charlotte put him up for a few days and doesn’t know whom he met in his final hour.”
“Thinks her man what sends her out on the streets killed him,” Brewster said. “Bloke called Hobson. Could have been.”
“Hmm, worth looking into,” Quimby said.
“Let the poor man sleep, Captain,” Pomeroy broke in. “He’s all in. We can finish interrogating him tomorrow.”
I returned Pomeroy’s gaze with a neutral look. His solicitude was not so much concern for Quimby’s health as the fact that he did not want me giving Quimby further clues. He was still annoyed with me for not bringing the case straight to him.
However, Pomeroy did have a point. “Quite right,” I said, rising. “Sleep well, Mr. Quimby. You should have a commendation for your courage.”
“For walking into a trap and getting banged on the head?” Quimby touched his hair, damp from the water pump in the yard. “Not very clever of me.”
But he’d come through it with equanimity and without panic. There were plenty of hardy men who would have despaired in his place and possibly already died. I had cultivated great respect for Mr. Quimby.
We decided on a swift retreat to take Quimby to safety, and left in the early hours of the morning. We didn’t know what kind of forces Steadman had, and as only two of four of us—Pomeroy and Brewster—were able-bodied fighters at the moment, we concluded that prudence should prevail.
I could have wished time to visit Lord Mercer, in spite of Sir Montague’s warning, but perhaps it was best we went.
Pomeroy insisted on asking the landlord to deliver a cask of brandy to Lieutenant Ostman, by way of the gate guard from last night. Always good to keep a promise, Pomeroy said. I agreed, and paid over the cost, to the landlord’s delight.
The drive back to London was too slow for my taste, but a faster pace might have been difficult for Quimby. Pomeroy, who again snored loudly most of the way, didn’t seem to mind, and neither did Brewster, who once more kept the coachman company.
When we reached London, Quimby insisted on going straight to Sir Montague. It was late, but that man received him, and Pomeroy and I sat in to listen as Quimby outlined what he’d told us. Quimby added what he’d learned about the convicts being taken from the hulks to fight in pugilist matches for Lord Mercer. Apparently this happened once every couple of months, with a new set of convicts every time.
I contributed my information that Finch’s friend, Mr. Blackmore, had been killed at these games, which made Sir Montague’s eyes sparkle with both anger and canny determination. Lord Mercer bringing convicts to his house for a day’s entertainment was one thing
—getting a man killed for his sport was another.
I did not remain long at the magistrate’s house as I wanted to return home, and Brewster chafed to be off to his wife. Pomeroy said he’d see Quimby home, and the two left together. Brewster insisted on riding with me all the way to South Audley Street before he bade me good night and disappeared.
Donata was in, Barnstable told me as he calmly admitted me, but I saw when I reached the sitting room that she’d been out that evening. Her gold silk gown with its bodice sliding a long way down her shoulders was something she’d only wear to a soiree or the theatre.
She was in the sitting room, because Grenville was with her, as was Marianne in a similar shoulder-baring gown.
“There you are, Gabriel.” Donata came to me as though I’d merely been out visiting a friend. She kissed my cheek. “No doubt you’ll want one of your hot baths, but Grenville has interesting news.”
“Indeed, I do.” Grenville seated himself close to Marianne and resumed the goblet of brandy he’d set aside to politely rise when Donata did. “We were correct that Cousin Stanton did not go to Somerset at all. He went to Lincolnshire.”
He took a sip of brandy, mirth in his eyes.
He knew I’d fume at his abrupt message with no explanation, and he was right. “Out with it, man,” I said. “I am too exhausted to guess. Why the devil did he go to Lincolnshire?”
“Simple.” Grenville smiled, enjoying himself. “He swore up and down that you had gone there ahead of him. With Peter.”
Chapter 23
As weary as I was from the long ride, pressed between Pomeroy and the carriage wall, my blood began to tingle at Grenville’s words.
“Are you certain? How do you know this?”
“So said Mr. St. John’s mistress,” Marianne answered. She also had brandy, and took a calm sip. “She’s an actress from my old company, a lady who never used to speak to me, but of course she will now.” Her blue eyes held an equal measure of disgust and triumph. “She was not happy that Mr. St. John decided to rush north and at the same time told his acquaintance that he was off to his estate in Somerset. She knows all about Mr. St. John wanting to become his young lordship’s guardian, and that he is sure that you, Lacey, and Lady Breckenridge, were trying underhanded ways to keep him from doing what was right.”
“She confirmed that Stanton has indeed run through much of his fortune,” Grenville added. “She is uncertain how, as he does not confide in her about his business, and she apparently has no interest. I have begun making inquiries, and I’m optimistic they will bear fruit.”
“The lady has a low opinion of you, I’m afraid, Lacey,” Marianne said. “But I doubt this will harm you. Her opinions aren’t much valued. She, however, is adamant that Stanton should be the next viscount. His due, she says.”
“She is confident he went to Lincolnshire?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” Marianne’s face was girlish under her fair hair, but years of struggle had given her wisdom. “He heard a rumor that you had rushed quickly to Lincolnshire, somewhere on the sea. As your home in Norfolk isn’t far from this coastal village, I suppose he found the story plausible. He assumed you’d taken Lady Breckenridge’s son there for nefarious purposes.”
“I must wonder who put this rumor about.” I turned to my wife, who could be devious in her own way.
“Nothing to do with me,” Donata said, lifting a hand. “I wish I’d thought of it, but I did not.”
As she spoke, I believed I knew exactly who had thought of it, and why. I would have many errands in the morning.
Grenville rose. “Off to bed with you, Lacey. Sleep away your fatigue and tell me of your adventures tomorrow. I am agog to learn of them but not so cruel as to keep you awake to satisfy my curiosity. Rest well, old chap.”
He led Marianne out, her arm through his, the two murmuring, heads together, even as they went.
“She is good for him,” Donata said after Bartholomew had closed the door, leaving us alone.
“Marianne?” I made for the sofa and stretched out my aching leg. “I agree with you. I was thinking she looked happy, but I see he does as well.”
My wife pulled an ottoman to me, sat upon it, and began removing my boots.
“I’ll ruin your frock,” I said, unable to move.
“No matter. Lady Hertford wore a similar one tonight, and it looked dreadful on her, so I will no doubt have it altered or give it to Jacinthe to do with as she pleases. I take it you found poor Mr. Quimby? You’d be much more melancholic if you hadn’t.”
“Yes. Found him. He went home, and by now is likely sleeping the sleep of the just. He ran afoul of dangerous men.”
Donata slid the boot carefully from my injured leg and briskly rubbed the back of my stiff knee. “Dangerous indeed if they thought nothing of capturing a Runner.”
“They might not have known he was one. He told no one.”
My wife sent me a disparaging look. “A stranger in a village asking many questions? Of course they’d believe him a Runner, or at least a gentleman sent by the magistrates, or possibly a foreign spy poking around the dockyards. Most people do not take well to others prying into their business.”
I grunted as my knee loosened. “They threw him into a prison hulk. I’d say they were displeased.” I gave her a brief version of the tale, some of my words groans as she continued her massage.
When I finished, Donata released my leg and moved to the sofa to sit with me. “I hope this Captain Steadman will be immediately arrested.”
“Sir Montague will see to it, if Steadman didn’t slip his moorings the moment we rescued Mr. Quimby.”
“You are a good man, Gabriel.” Donata rested her head on my shoulder and smoothed my shirt under my unbuttoned waistcoat. “I believe I knew that the moment I met you.”
“No, you did not,” I said. “You thought I was a toady of Grenville’s trying to curry his favor.”
“Very well, then I knew the moment you knocked Breckenridge on his fundament. I wanted to cheer. You are good, Gabriel, though such declarations embarrass you. You could have left Mr. Pomeroy and Sir Montague to deal with this, but Mr. Quimby might have been dead if so. You are too modest to admit such, but I know it was your doing that found Mr. Quimby and got him out so swiftly.”
“I thought that was stubborn ruthlessness,” I said. “And being foolish enough to charge in where others practice prudence.”
“No, indeed. Prudence is all very well, but when no one else will act, sometimes ruthlessness is what is needed.”
“Mmm, well.” I was too tired to argue. “How is Gabriella? Has she been enjoying your outings?”
Donata was quiet a moment, long enough to alarm me.
“What is the matter?” I asked, sitting up. “Is she ill?”
“Goodness, no.” Donata soothed me back down. “She is quite a strong young woman, like her father. But I am not sure she is enjoying herself. I do not mean she sulks and broods like some young ladies do—she is very polite, and she does like the plays and musicales. But she accompanies me and Lady Aline out of duty, I can see.”
“I do not believe it is the company she objects to, but the purpose,” I said gently. “She is not in a rush to marry.”
“No girl is. We believe we can flirt and dance and be a diamond of the first water forever. But it does not last, and I do not want to see Gabriella lonely and unhappy. She is lovely and is well-mannered, and she will make a very good wife. She can be a grand hostess in a year or two, with only a little help.”
“Perhaps she has no desire to be a grand hostess.”
Donata raised her head. “Forgive me, Gabriel, but as I have said before, you are a man and cannot understand. Unlike gentlemen, we ladies are not allowed to pursue a political career or join influential circles in your clubs that keep us out. But we can hold grand suppers or musicales to mix the right people and encourage lords and MPs to make the changes we would like to see. Or we hold discussions of books and plays, and let
such things lead to talk of reform with the very lords and Cabinet ministers who can make that reform happen. That is the power of ladies. It is not inconsiderable, our power.” She drew a breath, quieting. “This is what I am trying to give Gabriella, to marry her into the correct families so that her influence, and her happiness, will be at its greatest. Not an easy feat, I must say.”
I gazed at Donata in surprise. I knew she deemed Gabriella’s marriage important, but I hadn’t realized the depth of her objectives.
She wanted to give Gabriella a career, the life of a prominent lady, the sort of life Donata had achieved, despite her bad marriage. Though Breckenridge had been personally horrible, his family and title bestowed upon Donata, as Lady Breckenridge, much influence and power. That power would help Peter grow up to be a successful peer and not a feeble branch of the family tree.
“I beg your pardon,” I said with sincerity. “I suppose you are right that I saw your purpose as a bit frivolous. Believe me, I do want to see my daughter happy.”
“Good,” Donata said in relief. “Then perhaps you can begin to help me.”
I winced. “You mean by greeting guests and swanning about in suits that do not allow me to turn my head, do you not?”
She patted my chest, her hand warm. “You will do splendidly.”
I was at last able to bathe and take myself to bed, and my wife joined me, to my gratification. In the morning, I was sore from jouncing over hard roads, but I made myself go out for my usual ride. The remedy for aching muscles, I’ve always found, is to use them.
I felt a trifle better when I returned. Donata was still asleep, and Gabriella was as well, since Donata now had her keeping late hours like a lady of fashion.
Brewster arrived, looking none the worse for wear for our journey, and asked what I’d be getting up to today. He did not look happy when I immediately said I needed to speak with Denis.
“If His Nibs has me thrashed for letting you bother him day in and day out, Em won’t be happy.”
Murder in St. Giles Page 19