‘Forgive me, Theresa.’
Mrs Agnetti closed her eyes. Lucy and Kitty exchanged another glance. ‘India,’ Lucy said, with forced gaiety.
The words rattled out of Mrs Agnetti like dice from a box. ‘It is strange to think of India now, here in London under snow. In Bengal it is always hot, even in winter, even in muslin, with a punkah-wallah to turn the fan. Our house was a palace of white marble on a hill, and Papa had a stable of elephants with jewelled saddles. And you never saw such gardens! Pomegranates and pineapples, flowers like the heads of dragons. I used to sit under a banyan tree and play with a tiger cub Papa gave me.’
She spoke like this for some time, Lucy and Kitty occasionally piping up to ask questions. Monkeys and Mohammedan servants, hookah pipes and Arabian horses, spiced rice and Hindu gods. Mrs Agnetti refilled her glass twice as she talked.
Feeling that she ought to offer a contribution, Pamela waited for a pause: ‘Why did you leave, Theresa? I would have stayed forever.’
‘My father was appointed consul to the kingdom of Naples.’
‘That’s where Theresa met Mr Agnetti,’ Kitty said. ‘He came to her father’s house to paint her portrait and they fell in love.’
‘You can see the portrait in the hall, if you have a mind.’ Mrs Agnetti glanced at a watch attached to her chatelaine belt.
‘I went to Paris with my duke once,’ Kitty said, ‘before the war. We visited the cathedral and danced in the Palais-Royal. Have you ever been abroad, Pamela?’
‘No, I grew up in an orphanage and then was a maidservant in the City.’ She was painfully aware how unworldly that sounded.
‘There’s no shame in that,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ve only ever been as far as Ireland myself. Took up with an actor, who convinced me to follow him there. It rained for two months, and it was harder to find a decent jug of wine than the philosopher’s stone.’
‘Did you know your parents?’ Kitty asked, with a sympathetic smile.
‘No, I was left at the orphanage as a newborn.’
Mrs Agnetti stared into her Madeira. ‘It is very wicked to abandon a child. I can hardly bear to think of it.’
‘My mother wasn’t wicked,’ she said hotly. ‘My father hadn’t stood by her. She said so in her note. She was only doing what she thought was for the best.’
‘Of course she was,’ Lucy said gently.
Mrs Agnetti filled her glass a third time, and took up her watch again. What was she waiting for? Agnetti’s return?
They passed another fifteen minutes in stilted conversation, until a knock at the front door seemed to answer the question. Mrs Agnetti drained her glass and set it down, smoothing her skirts. They heard the tread of the manservant in the hall. A few moments later, Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham entered the room. Pamela sat up straight, returning his smile.
He bowed to them each in turn, in his hand a black box tied with a pink ribbon. Could it be for her? Pamela hardly dared hope, yet when he presented it to Kitty, her disappointment was crushing.
‘There’s one for you too, if you’d like,’ he addressed Lucy.
‘That’s ground we’ve covered before, lieutenant.’
‘So it is.’ He turned to their hostess. ‘I’m here on Stone’s business, but first could I avail myself of an inkpot and pen? A rather urgent letter I need to write.’
Mrs Agnetti inclined her head with a faint smile. ‘Of course, lieutenant. Let me show you to my desk in the drawing room.’
She rose and he followed her from the room. No look back this time. No grin to make her skin burn. Pamela glanced uneasily at the box in Kitty’s hands. But he offered one to Lucy too, and he’d hardly have done that if Kitty meant something to him.
With Mrs Agnetti gone, the mood lightened. Kitty opened the box and took out a card which she laid on the table. It was black with a gold silhouette of a man with the head of a goat. Inside the box were rows of rose-petal macarons in twists of golden paper.
‘Don’t mind Theresa if she’s sharp,’ Lucy said. ‘She takes a while to warm up, but she will.’
Pamela smiled, unconvinced. She didn’t like people who could turn on a sixpence. Like Mad Miriam at the orphanage, who could lurch from smiles to spite in a heartbeat.
Kitty offered the box around, asking if they’d seen The Belle’s Stratagem at the Haymarket Theatre.
Lucy and Kitty chattered away for a time – about the stage and the fashions and the town – while Pamela chewed on a rose-petal macaron, wondering when he’d return. So many names she didn’t know and places she’d never been. One day I’ll have stories of my own, she vowed. ‘I sailed to Spain with my lieutenant once.
‘Aragon,’ Lucy said, at last, ‘the poor girl can’t follow a word you’re saying.’
Kitty beamed at her. ‘Forgive me, I do run on. It’s all a haze when you’re first on the town. I was the same. Such a simple goose. Lucy will tell you.’
Lucy’s eye fell on the decanter. ‘Put that away, will you?’ She rubbed her hip and grimaced. ‘I think I pulled something last night. Pamela, be a dove. Ask Agnes to bring a pot of coffee.’
Pamela rose and went into the hall. She called for the maidservant a little nervously, but when she asked for coffee, the girl responded politely, with a bobbed curtsey. Marvelling at the odd hierarchy in that house, she was about to return to the morning room, when a door opened a little further down the hall.
Mrs Agnetti emerged, followed by the lieutenant. He murmured something which Pamela didn’t catch, and Mrs Agnetti gazed up at him and smiled. He brushed the side of her face with his knuckles, his hand moving slowly south to graze her breast.
Pamela stared, her stomach knotting. Kitty called out to her to hurry up, and she turned swiftly, not wanting to be caught spying. She went back in to the morning room and sat down, taking a large gulp of Madeira to quench the flames that burned inside her.
In that house there was much to love and much to hate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LIKE THE COSMETICS of an ageing dowager, the white paint of the townhouses of Bloomsbury Square couldn’t quite hide the cracks and blemishes underneath. A century earlier, this part of town had been a fashionable neighbourhood, but the beau monde had long since decamped west to Mayfair, and only a few of the old families remained. The Dodd-Bellinghams were one, Mrs Corsham had told Child on their journey from the churchyard. Blue in blood, short on cash – one of those ancestral lines which had filled the benches of the House of Commons and the ranks of prestigious regiments for generations.
‘The late colonel served with distinction in the Austrian Wars and in India,’ Mrs Corsham said, as they alighted from her carriage. ‘On his return, he squandered his sons’ inheritance on women and hazard, and the lieutenant shares his father’s reputation.’
‘Young women?’
‘Perhaps. People say he is indiscriminate in his tastes. Every woman a conquest. He was sent to America because the colonel grew tired of buying him out of trouble, but to everyone’s surprise he had a good war. They say the King may award him the Order of the Bath.’
‘And his brother, Simon?’
‘Half-brother. His mother was one of the colonel’s mistresses. He married her after his first wife died and Simon took his name. It caused quite a scandal at the time.’
‘How did the lieutenant like that?’
‘Better than one would expect. Again, it was a surprise.’
The house had rusting railings and the brassware was in need of a polish. Their knock was eventually answered by a decrepit manservant in blue livery that looked almost as old as he did.
Mrs Corsham asked for the lieutenant, and they were shown into a gloomy hall, the plasterwork riven with cracks. It had that chill peculiar to large, old houses. Masculine voices drifted from one of the rooms. Child glanced at his client, a little concerned by her pallor and the way she held herself.
The manservant returned to invite them into a dining room, the burgundy wallpaper a patchwork of darker s
quares where paintings had once been displayed. A yellowed chandelier hung over an old mahogany dining table and a moth-eaten tiger’s head peered at them from over the fire. Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham and another gentleman were seated at the table, a dish of herring between them. A musk of sweat and brandy mingled with the fishy odour, and Child got the impression they were not long out of bed.
‘Mrs Corsham.’ The lieutenant rose, flashing white teeth. ‘You are a vision before some very weary eyes.’ He kissed her hand.
‘Lieutenant. Lord March,’ she said, turning to the other gentleman.
Child studied him with interest. Like the lieutenant, Lord March was about thirty, with a long, thin face and elegant features. Thick, dark hair, cropped short like the lieutenant’s. Dark, pretty eyes and a thin smile. Child glanced at his hand, but like the lieutenant he wore no rings.
‘Allow me to name Mr Child,’ Mrs Corsham said. ‘He is a thief-taker I have hired, to look into the murder of Lucy Loveless.’
Lord March frowned. The lieutenant raised his eyebrows. ‘Odd thing to do.’
‘I’m sure you’ve heard by now that it was I who found the body, lieutenant. Perhaps you also heard that I found a ring when I returned to the bower. Jonathan Stone tells me there are four of them, and that neither he, nor your brother, are missing theirs. Our next port of call was to be Lord March. How fortuitous, then, that he is here.’
The lieutenant inclined his head. ‘As it happens, I was intending to call on you later today. The ring is mine. It was stolen from me several weeks ago. We’ve been keeping it from Stone, or my brother would have told you the other day. The ring was a gift from him, you see, and I knew he’d be annoyed that I’d been so careless. You’re my Galahad, Mrs Corsham. I’m much obliged.’
They studied him with scepticism. ‘Stolen?’ Child said.
‘Yes, by your dead doxy, Lucy Loveless. I’ll happily tell you the story, though perhaps Mrs Corsham would prefer to wait next door. It’s a trifle indelicate, I’m afraid to say.’
‘I am a married woman, lieutenant. I’m sure I will endure.’
‘Don’t say you weren’t warned.’ He gestured to the empty chairs. ‘Won’t you sit down? Herring? No? Don’t blame you. I’d offer you a bowl of coffee, but the Mohammedan Gruel that Grimmond sees fit to serve is execrable.’
Mrs Corsham placed the ring upon the table. The lieutenant slid it onto his index finger, and Child could see it fitted him perfectly.
‘I knew Lucy from Agnetti’s house,’ the lieutenant said. ‘I am often there on Stone’s business, and she was one of his sitters.’
‘What business is that?’ Mrs Corsham asked.
‘Carrying sketches back and forth from his estate at Muswell Rise. Stone prefers not to come into town unless he can help it. When I’m not at his vintner or his bookbinder, I’m at Agnetti’s.’
‘I never picked you for an errand boy, lieutenant.’
He shrugged, unabashed. ‘We don’t all have wealthy fathers to settle our debts like March here. Mr Stone lets me work off the interest this way. It suits us both – for the moment at least. I hope my affairs will stand in better shape before too long.’
‘Lucy Loveless,’ Child said, returning to the point.
‘She and I struck up an acquaintance at Agnetti’s, and one night she asked me to take her to supper. I engaged a private room at the Prince of Wales, and a very pleasant time was had by both parties. Until I awoke a few hours later, to find the girl gone. My head was spinning, and I believe she slipped a draught into my wine. It was only later, when I got home, that I realized my ring was missing.’ He admired it now, turning his hand to catch the light. ‘I’m surprised she hadn’t sold it. Maybe that’s what she was doing in the bower – meeting a villain to do the deal, who then killed her? My brother says Stone paid seventy guineas apiece for these rings. Hell, right now, I’d kill for that.’
‘Did you report the ring stolen?’ Child asked.
‘Of course not. I have my reputation to think of. My superior officers understand that a gentleman has needs, but an official record of his peccadilloes is a different matter. I expect she counted upon it. Scheming jade.’
‘You were angry?’
‘Wouldn’t you be? She denied it, but I knew it was her.’
‘I ask because you were seen exchanging words with Lucy outside her lodgings a few days before she was killed. Can I ask what about?’
‘I was passing and saw her on the street. I confronted her again about the ring, but she still refused to admit it.’
‘I heard you pushed her?’
‘I may have got carried away in the heat of the moment. It was nothing she didn’t deserve.’
‘Did you also have words with her at Vauxhall?’
‘No, I didn’t know she was there.’
‘You didn’t go to the bowers at any point?’
He made fists on the table. ‘Does someone say I did? I’m not sure I like the path you are treading, sir.’
Lord March laid a hand upon his arm. ‘He’s only doing his job, Neddy. Let him ask his questions. It’s not as if you have anything to hide.’
The lieutenant eyed Child sullenly. ‘If Lucy’s dealings with others were similar to her dealings with me, then frankly I’m not surprised that she was murdered. But if you’re asking if I killed her, the answer’s no. I left Vauxhall early to have dinner with my brother at the Prince of Wales.’
‘Lucy’s landlord says someone was trying to destroy her livelihood by spreading rumours she had the pox. An anonymous letter was sent to the Whores’ Club and they threw her out. Did you have anything to do with that?’
He grinned. ‘I might have done. Teach her to steal from me.’
‘How did you find out that she had served time in Bridewell?’
‘I forget. Someone told me.’
‘She was also badly beaten about six months ago.’
‘Not by me. I don’t hit women.’
‘Only push them.’ Child met his unapologetic gaze. ‘Any inkling who might have hit her?’
‘When I saw her bruises, I presumed it was Agnetti. They’d had some sort of falling out.’
‘Do you know what their argument was about?’
‘Something to do with his wife, I think. She and Lucy were friends.’
‘It sounds implausible, does it not?’ Lord March put in. ‘A prostitute and a diplomat’s daughter? But I assure you it’s true. I observed the women talking and laughing together myself.’
‘You met Lucy too, then, sir?’ Child said.
‘Yes, I did. Jonathan Stone commissioned a portrait of a club of which I’m a member. I sat for Agnetti a few times during the course of its painting and we became friends. There were often girls around the place. Lucy was one of them.’
Beside him, Mrs Corsham stirred. She had steadily avoided looking at Lord March since they’d sat down, but now she turned.
‘Whatever she did to Neddy,’ Lord March went on, ‘she didn’t deserve to die like that. I wish you every luck in your endeavours to find the killer.’
Bluebloods, Child theorized, fell into two camps: arrogant fucksters like the lieutenant, and those who hid their arrogance behind a veneer of condescending charm. At least the fucksters didn’t expect you to be grateful.
‘Can I ask what you were doing that night in the bowers, sir?’
‘Just taking a stroll. I explained it all to the magistrate. Regrettably, I saw nothing that could help him. I’ve racked my memory.’
‘Did you tell Sir Amos that you knew the dead woman?’
‘No. I didn’t know then who she was.’
‘You didn’t recognize her?’
‘I barely glanced into the bower. Mrs Corsham will testify to that.’
She gazed at him coolly. ‘Yes, that much is true.’
Her tone intrigued Child, as did her volte face regarding his innocence. There is something between them, he thought. Or at one time there was. He wondered if they’d been meetin
g one another in the bowers.
‘A lot of coincidences,’ Child said. ‘You both knowing Lucy. Both present at Vauxhall. You in the bowers. The lieutenant’s ring.’
‘Everyone attended Vauxhall that night. And the lieutenant’s already explained about the ring.’
‘Ask Agnetti, if you don’t believe me,’ the lieutenant said. ‘I talked to him about the theft at the time.’
‘Then there’s Lucy’s interest in the Priapus Club.’
Lord March held his gaze. ‘Her interest?’
‘She had drawings of the four of you – the founders – pictures she’d stolen from Agnetti.’
‘What of it?’ the lieutenant said. ‘I told you she was a thief.’
‘I’m curious about her motive for that crime.’
Lord March spread his hands. ‘We are as much in the dark as you, sir.’
‘Will you tell me about your club? What you get up to?’
‘Very well, though I’m struggling to see the relevance. We have a shared interest in Greece and Rome, and we meet once a month to discuss it. Simon Dodd-Bellingham usually gives a talk on historical or philosophical matters. Often Mr Stone will show off a new acquisition for his collection. Sometimes I give a recitation. I’m working on a translation of Catullus, and I also write a little poetry in the classical vein myself.’
‘How many members does the club have?’
‘It must be over a dozen now.’
‘Can you give me a list of the names?’
‘Why would you want to know? Did Lucy Loveless have pictures of the others too?’
‘Just curious.’
‘Then I’m afraid the answer’s no. Not without good reason. No gentleman would thank me for dragging his name into a murder inquiry.’
Child thought about pressing him harder, but doubted he’d get very far. ‘Is poetry your metier too, lieutenant?’
‘Bores me to tears, if you must know. No offence, March. But I find the club’s philosophy enlightening.’
‘And what is that?’
He waved a hand vaguely. ‘That the Church doesn’t have all the answers. The ancients have lessons for us too.’
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