A Disappearance in Drury Lane

by Ashley Gardner

  Grenville, despite the chill, had elected to ride horseback, changing horses at inns along the way. He did not explain his choice, but I knew he did it in deference to his motion sickness. The gentle ride that had me dozing with my head on Donata’s shoulder would have had him quaking and ill in a trice.

  Seeing the smoke and chimneys of London as we rode down the last hill told me my blissful journey was over. The idyll of being with Donata and the comfort of the Pembrokes’ house was coming to an end.

  Why returning to the metropolis should dishearten me, I did not know. I’d be living in Donata’s comfortable South Audley Street townhouse now, with her butler Barnstable bringing me coffee and remedies whenever I wanted them. But the sight of so many buildings packed together after the peace of the countryside in Oxfordshire made my high spirits dissolve. Perhaps it was my nature to sink when entering the gloom of black smoke and too many houses, to rise when riding alone in the openness of wilder lands.

  Donata’s coach pulled up, very late in the night, at the house in South Audley Street. Barnstable, having left Oxfordshire the previous day to arrive before us, led us inside to put us to bed.

  The first impediment in my married life occurred then. Barnstable led me to a bedroom separate from Donata’s.

  “All gentlemen require their own chambers, sir,” Barnstable said with some surprise when I objected. “As do ladies. I do not believe his lordship and her ladyship ever occupied the same bedchamber in all of their marriage.”

  “I will point out that I am not Lord Breckenridge,” I said, weariness making me sharp. “Nor will I ever be. The current Lord Breckenridge is bunking down in a cot in the nursery. I am a simple army captain, who shares a bedchamber with his wife.”

  Barnstable had been taught not to argue with his employers, so he said nothing, only stood in the middle of the chamber looking put out.

  Donata wandered in as though she noticed nothing amiss. “Very well-done, Barnstable. Thank you. Is the chamber not to your taste, Gabriel?” she asked once Barnstable had discreetly retreated. “I know you are partial to my guest room, but it is far too small for you, and this one has a dressing room through there.” She pointed at a slender door in the middle of the wall.

  When I’d been an overnight guest in her house ere this, I’d always stayed in a tiny but comfortable bedchamber, or in Donata’s bed. The chamber currently in question was next to hers—Donata had the room in the front of the second floor, while this was in the back. Between the rooms was the narrow space of the dressing room.

  The chamber was luxurious enough, the bed a solid piece of furniture with a brocade canopy, plenty warm for winter nights. A large table and chairs were arranged before a wide fireplace already flickering with warmth, as well as a wingback chair and cushioned footstool, ready for a man with a tired, war-injured knee.

  It was sumptuous, but it bothered me. “This was Lord Breckenridge’s chamber,” I said.

  Donata ran her hand along the back of the wing chair. “The finest in the house. Did you expect Breckenridge to take a fourth-floor room or the attic next to the nursery?”

  “I’d expected we’d share a chamber. I did not marry you to keep my distance.”

  Donata shrugged and put on the indifferent air she did so well. “You have the run of the house now, Gabriel. Sleep where you like. This room is yours for any time you wish to be masculine and alone, far from feminine clutter.”

  I gave her a stiff bow. “My apologies. I do not mean to appear churlish, when you are going to such pains for me.”

  Another shrug. “It is your way to be churlish when you are uncomfortable and annoyed. I know you’d be much happier sleeping in a hole in the cellar, but Barnstable would feel the sting of it. I put you in here for another reason.” She dropped the indifferent air and gave me one of her pointed looks. “This was indeed my husband’s chamber. I want to forget he ever occupied it. What better way than to cover it with much better memories of you?”

  I stared at her. She returned the look without timidity.

  My response to her sentiment would have highly embarrassed Barnstable if he’d chosen that moment to return. But he never interrupted, and Donata and I began then and there to layer fresh memories over this room.

  *** *** ***

  Felicity, who had spent the night in a maid’s room in the attics, decided in the morning to be off. She’d meant to slip out without telling me, but Bartholomew alerted me, and I met her in the street when she emerged from the scullery. She said without rancor that she thanked me for my help, but she had a pal she could stay with, where she’d be safe. I reminded her how frightened she’d been of Mr. Perry, but she insisted she’d be perfectly fine with this friend—man or woman, she wouldn’t say.

  Her fear was still there, I saw, but she was adamant. I wondered if something had changed, and what she knew, but she closed against my questions.

  What she couldn’t do, Felicity said, was stay in a toff’s house, where again, the staff expected her to work. She’d found her own way most of her life, and she would again. She thanked me for looking after her, and she went.

  I watched her walk down the street, her head up as she met the stares of Mayfair servants who were about on errands at this early hour. I realized that trying to keep Felicity was like trying to cage a tropical bird who’d only known wildness. She was still afraid, but she had an even greater horror of shutting herself away from the world.

  I would simply have to find Mr. Perry and make sure he never carried out his threats on Felicity. I was certain, at least, that Felicity would stay well out of his way.

  Donata had made it clear she’d keep her usual hours of rising sometime after noon, and Gabriella and her aunt and uncle were still resting after their late arrival. Therefore, after breakfasting alone, I returned to my rooms in Grimpen Lane, intending to finish the-clear out interrupted by Marianne and my subsequent adventures, and to begin my search in earnest for Mrs. Collins.

  I took a hackney to my destination, keeping a close eye out for any other ruffians wanting to break more of my ribs. I would not be caught so easily again.

  The dingy street and smoke-stained houses of Grimpen Lane were a far cry from the wider avenues and mansions of Mayfair, but at the same time comfortingly familiar. One can grow used to anything.

  It was early and cold, but the upstairs curtains in the house opposite mine were open their usual distance apart. Mrs. Carfax was the soul of frugality, saving on candles by having her companion, Miss Winston, open the curtains the moment she could discern dawn.

  I nodded up at Mrs. Carfax’s window, in case she or Miss Winston watched, took out my key, and opened the door that led to the dark stair alongside the still-shut bakeshop.

  A burly man stepped out of the shadows beside the shop so suddenly I had to bite back a shout. I recognized one of Denis’s men, sent, as always, to keep an eye on me.

  “Bloody hell,” I said when I recovered.

  He remained impassive to my temper. “Bloke is up there waiting for you, sir.”

  Not many months ago, this man, a former pugilist, as were most of Denis’s lackeys, had helped tear apart my old manor house in Norfolk. He’d made a very interesting discovery behind the kitchen fireplace and believed my response to that discovery shortsighted, tending toward the mad. His name, if I remembered aright, was Brewster.

  “What bloke?” I asked. “Perry?”

  “Naw. Wouldn’t have let him go up, would I? I’d have hauled him back to Curzon Street. This cove picks the lock and walks in, sweet as you please.”

  “Picked the lock? Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “Wasn’t about to, was I? He’s a Runner.”

  “Pomeroy?” I’d take Pomeroy to task if so. The Bow Street magistrate’s house was not many steps from Grimpen Lane. If my former sergeant had wanted to speak to me, he could have left a note at the door or in the bakeshop, or sent word to Lady Breckenridge’s.

  Brewster gave me another deprecati
ng look. “Would have said Pomeroy if I’d meant him. No, some other Runner. New blood. Never seen him before.”

  Curiosity worked through my irritation. Why the devil should a Runner break into my rooms? If he searched for something there, he’d be disappointed. I hadn’t much to find.

  Nothing for it but to see what he wanted. I opened the door, still unlocked, and made my way up the stairs.

  This staircase was steep, a more arduous climb than the stairs in Donata’s house. I’d left the borrowed walking stick behind in Oxfordshire, planning today to obtain a new one, and now, with my still-aching ribs and throbbing knee, I had to hang on to both rails to drag myself up the stairs. The faded shepherds and shepherdesses on the walls smiled at me in greeting.

  The door to my rooms was ajar. I walked in to find a large man with long red side-whiskers sitting in the wingchair in front of my cold fireplace. He was reading a notebook he’d taken out of one of the still-open crates, a notebook filled with my writing.

  I’d begun, after my return from Norfolk, to chronicle the adventures I’d lived through in the last two years. Grenville’s idea. He told me that such events would be fascinating reading for others—my children, at the very least, might want to read about what their aging father had got up to.

  I was not the most articulate of writers, and I was not best pleased to find a complete stranger sitting in my rooms, reading my words.

  I put one hand on the doorjamb to steady myself. “Who the devil are you?”

  The man unfolded himself from my chair, cradling the journal in his hands. He was nearly as tall as I was, and he filled out his suit in the same way as did the pugilist Brewster downstairs. The suit was cheap—black wool, shiny with wear at cuffs and elbows, but neatly mended. His waistcoat was dull gray with a watch fob hanging across it.

  The Runner had a square face with heavy red brows, light blue eyes, and thick, reddish-brown hair he’d tried to tame with pomade. His eyes held arrogance but also amusement, as though he enjoyed laughing at the slowness of others.

  “Interesting reading,” he said, holding up the book. “Quite clever how you worked out who truly did a murder during the chaos after a battle on the Peninsula. Reaching back into the past with no witnesses to solve a crime. Remarkable.”

  “That is a private journal,” I said, my lips stiff. “And you did not answer my question.”

  “Left out in plain sight in the top of this crate.” The Runner closed the book and returned it to the pile of the others. “I wasn’t to know, was I?”

  “A crate behind my locked flat door, not to mention the locked door at the bottom of the stairs. Forgive me if I thought my things safe. Now then sir, who are you?”

  The man came to me, extending his hand. “Spendlove. Timothy Spendlove. I am new to the Bow Street house, but I’ve been patrolling from the Queen’s Square house for some time. I’ve been needling Pomeroy to introduce me to you, but you know Pomeroy. If he doesn’t want to do a thing, he’s immovable as a mountain.”

  I didn’t much want to shake the hand of a man who’d broken into my rooms without shame, but I did anyway. A man’s handshake can tell much about him. Spendlove’s was firm, the flesh of his palm hard, but he didn’t try to squeeze or use undue pressure.

  “Why did you want an introduction?” I asked, when we released the grip. “To discuss what is in my journals?”

  “No, indeed. Though they are interesting.” Spendlove patted the leather cover of the top one. “I am not here to discuss your past, Captain, but your present. In particular, why you are interested in the whereabouts of the actress Mrs. Abigail Collins and why Mr. John Perry is interested in you. And why, after your abduction by Mr. Perry, you ran at once to Mr. James Denis.”

  I closed my mouth over my retorts. I did not at all like that Spendlove knew everything that had happened to me in the last week, and where I’d been. He didn’t mention Felicity, but if he knew about Mrs. Collins, Perry, and Denis, he’d know about her too.

  Spendlove smiled at my reaction. “I should be clear. I am most interested in your connection with Mr. Denis. The others are superfluous. I’d like to know all about Denis, every single detail. I have made it my life’s work, you see, to have James Denis arrested, tried, and hanged for his many, many crimes. Therefore, I will value anything you can tell me. Some of your activities involving him have been a bit, shall we say, questionable, and it’s best that you relate everything I want to know. Do you understand me, Captain Lacey?”

  Chapter Seven

  My leg throbbed, and I had to sit down. The only open space was the upright wooden chair next to my table, so I made my painful way to it and sank to its unyielding surface.

  I understood Mr. Spendlove quite well. Since I’d met Denis I’d tried to keep myself from being caught up in his world and its consequences, but here I was.

  “What makes you think I can help you?” I asked. “I’ve been trying to stop Mr. Denis for two years.”

  “Have you now?” Spendlove looked down his large nose at me. “And yet, I’ve observed you assisting him to shut down one of his rivals, kill a few men, and sell on pieces of stolen artwork. Stopping him? I’d say you were assisting him.”

  “No.” I clenched my jaw. “Denis uses people, like me, whether they wish to be used or not. He turns any event to his benefit. If you’ve been watching him, you will know this.”

  “I do know it. I also know he has magistrates looking the other way at his crimes—he doesn’t pay them, you understand, they pay Mr. Denis to leave them be and hand them a criminal or two from time to time. But never mind about that. I came here today to give you a friendly warning.”

  I regarded him in irritation and did not respond. Spendlove’s thin smile widened.

  “A warning that I’ll stop at nothing to get Denis,” he said. “If you have to be hanged into the bargain, so be it. I don’t much care how many magistrate friends you have, or if Sir Montague Harris or Thompson of the River Police praise your wit and ability. I won’t let anything stop me, especially not a retired captain with too much time on his hands. So, stay out of my way. Leave off the inquiries about Mrs. Collins too, there’s a good chap. We at Bow Street know all about her fleeing London after she received her mysterious package. Obviously such inquiries will be dangerous to you—already have been, haven’t they? Bow Street can’t be expected to dig you out of a scrape because you could not keep your nose away from what did not concern you.”

  “Let me worry about that.” I made myself stand up again, though my leg had stiffened as I sat in the cold, and straightening it hurt. “I am uneasy about Mrs. Collins. There’s nothing to stop me from inquiring after a friend.”

  “You’d never heard of the woman until a few days ago, except as an actress you watch with your viscountess and that idle Mayfair dandy.” Spendlove tapped the top of my journal. “In here, I can see what you think about the slowness of Pomeroy and the rest of the patrollers and Runners. I agree with you somewhat about Pomeroy’s wits, but he’s the man to have by your side when a villain is trying to get away, believe me.” He gave me a cold look, though his little smile never faded. “You are not the law, Captain Lacey. Leave it to those whose job it is.”

  “Every citizen in England is obliged to assist the Watch and the magistrates,” I pointed out.

  “Assist, not interfere. I’ll find Mrs. Collins, don’t you worry. And bring down Mr. Denis. Choose your battle, sir. And have a care which you choose. I’ll bring you down with Denis if I have to. Don’t matter to me that you just married into the upper crust. They answer to the law as does everyone else.” Spendlove moved past me while I stood still, aching and not a little angered by his arrogance. “Good day, Captain. Heed my warnings, and we’ll remain friends.”

  So saying, he grabbed a low-crowned hat from the shelf next to the door, gave me a nod, clapped on the hat, and walked down the stairs, whistling.

  I remained in the middle of the room, unmoving, while I heard him go out the door
to the street. More whistling sounded outside, a greeting of Good day, madam, to someone passing, then his clumping footsteps faded into the distance.

  I stood still until a dart of pain shot through my leg again, and I had to sit back down on the hard chair.

  Eventually anger overtook my pain and surprise. Spendlove had come here today to needle me and alarm me—picking the locks and entering my rooms had been calculated to demonstrate how much I should fear him. But Spendlove did not understand how difficult I was to intimidate.

  Also, if Bow Street had been as diligent as Spendlove claimed about looking into Mrs. Collins’ whereabouts, Marianne wouldn’t have worried enough to ask me to search for her. Mrs. Wolff and Coleman likewise wouldn’t be so troubled.

  No, this was Spendlove’s need to elbow his way into a new magistrate’s house and take power for himself. I should dismiss him. Pomeroy at times grumbled that I got in his way, and didn’t mind taking me to task over it, but I’d never let his bluster bother me.

  However, as I climbed to my feet again and straightened my journals in the crate, Spendlove’s words sank in and would not become dislodged. I was not frightened of him, but I knew he’d become a new ripple in the serenity I’d hoped I’d finally brought into my life.

  *** *** ***

  By the time I’d finished filling my crates and sent word to the company I’d hired to take the things to Donata’s house, the morning had advanced, and the bakeshop was open. Two sturdy men arrived to carry the crates down the stairs and to a wagon waiting in Russel Street. They took everything, leaving behind only the furniture that had been in the flat when I’d arrived. The bits and pieces of furniture Grenville had given me or I’d purchased over the years had gone to South Audley Street before I’d left for the wedding.

  I looked around the empty flat after the men made their final haul, strange feelings assailing me. So this was the end. The last of my memories of Grimpen Lane.

  I’d lain in much pain in the bedchamber’s huge tester bed, recovering from both my war injury and my melancholia. There too, I’d curled around Donata and realized how much I loved her. In the sitting room, I’d argued with Marianne, discussed cases with Grenville, faced Denis and other men who’d tried to do me harm, lived through terror about my daughter’s safety, and experienced impossible joy when she’d been found. These rooms had been both a haven and a hell, and I was startled how much I was loathe to leave them.