The Sleeping Partner Page 18

  Sir Walter nodded and bent to examine the corpse.

  Miss Tolerance, very much aware that she was here as an observer, stood to one side and watched as Hook and Sir Walter bent to roll the dead man over on his back. He had been beaten so severely that his face looked like something better suited to a butcher’s stall, and there were marks of throttling on his neck. Half-dried blood mixed with muck oozed sluggishly from one ear. Miss Tolerance swallowed hard, then leaned forward to point at something.

  “He was struck there,” she said, indicating a swollen area behind the ear. “Perhaps that was the first blow, which rendered it easier for his assailant to continue?”

  Hook opened his mouth, then closed it. Sir Walter nodded thoughtfully.

  Hook sank to his haunches and began to pull out the pockets of the dead man. Each article he removed, he handed without comment to Sir Walter: a small purse of red leather stamped with a fading gilt design, containing six shillings fourpence halfpenny; a broken clay pipe; a pocket knife; two pocket handkerchiefs, one ink-blotted and the other incongruously clean; a pouch of tobacco; and a knitted scarf in stripes of gray and red. There was a wallet with a dozen more scraps of loose paper, most with figures written on, a few with names or addresses, all of which Hook read to Sir Walter before handing them over.

  “I beg your pardon, what was that last?” Miss Tolerance asked.

  Hook looked at her with frank dislike, clearly wishing that she would go away and leave the business to the men. His eyes flicked to Sir Walter, then he sighed and repeated, “An address for someone name o’ Thorpe, at Squale ‘Ouse in Pitfield Street.”

  Miss Tolerance frowned. The sunlight was making her head hurt, the smells of urine, dung, and blood made her queasy, and she felt stupid and slow. Something about the address—it meant something to her. Squale House.

  “May I see the paper?” she asked.

  Sir Walter nodded to Hook, who handed it to her, scowling.

  The note was written in tidy clerk’s script on a scrap of vellum: Thorpe, Squale House, Pitfield Street.

  “In that neighborhood, Squale House ain’t no mansion,” Hook said.

  “No, it’s an almshouse,” Miss Tolerance said vaguely. For a moment she could not recall how she knew that, and yet she saw the place in her mind, and a plaque: Squale House for the Relief of the Poor. She had wondered who Squale was.

  And then the threads knitted themselves together. But what was the name and direction of Lord Lyne’s younger son doing in the pocket of a nameless corpse?

  Chapter Twelve

  It is a curious feature of a blow to the head that, for some time after the injury itself occurs, the thoughts and memories of the victim may be considerably disordered. Miss Tolerance had made this discovery on earlier trials and found it no less true, or frustrating, now. Her limbs would take her where she wished; her stomach had settled, the pain was abating. But to her disgust she found that she began sentences and forgot how she meant to end them; that where she sensed a connection between two thoughts she could not always articulate it. Riding with Sir Walter from Primrose Street to Manchester Square, Miss Tolerance struggled to explain.

  “I know—I know that I know something more than I can put my finger upon. The paper—”

  “There were a great many papers in that unfortunate man’s pockets,” Sir Walter pointed out. “I wish you will not distress yourself. You are still far from well—”

  “I beg your pardon, Sir Walter, but I am not an invalid! I thank you very much for your care—indeed, I can hardly express my gratitude!—but please do not tell me not to distress myself. When I know there is something I am forgetting, it does not help to be treated like a pretty simpleton.”

  “I would never presume—” Sir Walter began.

  I have hurt him. “I know.” Miss Tolerance made her tone conciliatory. “I am sorry, Sir Walter. My irritation is with myself, with my uncooperative brain, which will not tell me what it has locked away. And I, all ungentlemanly, lash out at you when you have naught but concern for me.”

  To his credit, Sir Walter took Miss Tolerance’s apology and her assertion seriously. With a little humor he pointed out that Miss Tolerance had time to wait until her thoughts re-arranged themselves. “There is no hurry. The poor fellow will not become more dead.”

  That made good sense as far as the dead man himself was concerned. But Miss Tolerance was certain that the man must be connected to Evadne Thorpe—and for Miss Thorpe time might be of the greatest concern.

  The coach set her down in Spanish Place. Sir Walter walked with her to the gate and waited until she had unlocked it and passed through to the garden. “You will let me know if there is any other assistance a friend may offer?”

  “I will.” She thanked him again. They parted cordially, but Miss Tolerance sensed that Sir Walter might have more to say at another time, and was not certain whether she entertained that thought with pleasure or dismay.

  Her cottage was cool and orderly, as she had left it. Miss Tolerance changed from her walking dress—which had sustained a good deal of dirt and damage over the past three days—into a round gown of blue and white calicut suited to the warmth of the day. Thus refreshed, she walked across the garden to relieve Marianne’s mind about her absence, and to hear the newest household news.

  Cook greeted her with a look, and then a second look, pronounced her worn to death, and threatened to feed her until the roses returned to her cheeks. Keefe, on his way out of the kitchen with a tray, stopped long enough to welcome her home. “We’re always a mite concerned, Miss Sarah, when you’re off adventuring. Them boys have been coming regular.”

  “To the kitchen door, I trust.” Miss Tolerance accepted a scone from Cook, since she could see it would do her no good to refuse.

  “Aye. Miss Sarah. With bits of paper they called reports. I have them here—”

  Miss Tolerance demurred. “Your hands are full; I’ll collect them later. Have I missed any important business here?”

  The porter looked as though he would say something if only he could. “Excuse me, they’re waiting in the salon for their coffee, Miss Sarah.”

  “Of course, Keefe. Thank you.”

  When the porter was gone the cook was more forthcoming; as she did not serve, or mix with, Mrs. Brereton’s clientele, Cook considered that she had license to talk as she would—although she would have beaten her kitchen staff raw had they taken the same license. Cook was beating egg whites in a copper bowl, standing over the table where Miss Tolerance was eating her scone. “Things is been all sixes and sevens for days, Miss Sarah. Since that man—you know, ‘e come poking all round the house, talking about economies and making sure we ain’t taking advantage of Ma’am.”

  “Mr. Tickenor?”

  Cook nodded. “He’s got his nose into the whorin’ too, if you see what I mean—”

  Despite the evocative image, Miss Tolerance was not entirely certain she did. “He is interfering with the staff?”

  “It’s all a hubble-bubble. He don’t think Mrs. B should be serving the molly trade, and that’s scairt young Harry to death, fearing Ma’am will turn him off. Nor Mr. Tickenor don’t hold with hot water for the girls to be cleaning up with after, and he tol’ Emma she was letting her gentleman take too much time—”

  “Has Mr. Tickenor spoken to my aunt of his concerns?”

  Cook whisked her eggs ferociously. “Ma’am’s all took up with wedding plans. Left all the business to Miss Marianne—”

  And Marianne had no authority to stop Tickenor’s interference. “Perhaps my aunt needs to know how unsettled the staff is, and how like that is to disrupt the custom.”

  “Do you say something, Miss Sarah. We’s all been hoping you would.”

  Miss Tolerance remembered the public slap her aunt had given her the last time she had tried to speak for the staff, but what was she to do? “I shall, Cook.” She did not look forward to the conversation.

  Upstairs she learned that Marianne
was engaged and Mrs. Brereton going over her accounts in her salon. Miss Tolerance was aware of the headache in the back of her head; she ignored it and started up the stairs.

  “My dear niece, how delighted I am to see you!”

  Gerard Tickenor’s voice boomed in the quiet of the hall.

  Not niece yet. Miss Tolerance curtsied. “Good morning, sir. How do you do?”

  “Very well. Learning what I can of your auntie’s business. With my business experience I hope to be a help to her.” Tickenor smiled at Miss Tolerance; the smile put her in mind of the grin of a large dog.

  “I’m sure my aunt will appreciate your help, sir. What sort of experience is that?”

  “Tin mining, my dear. Very lucrative.”

  “How fortunate for you.” Miss Tolerance did not mean to antagonize the man, but she heard herself saying, “Of course, this is not a tin mine.”

  Tickenor made a gesture to brush her objection away. “Business is business.”

  “As you say, sir.” Miss Tolerance’s head was hurting, and that, with her dislike of the man, seemed to compel her to say more. “I believe with a tin mine the objective is to take as much of the ore out of the ground as possible. With a brothel, the objective is to serve the custom so well that they return—and with a custom such as my aunt has built up, that is a complex business. One spends money, as I understand it, to bring in more money. Or so my aunt has often said.”

  “You seem to have given the matter much thought, niece.” The last word had an unpleasant emphasis. “Are you perhaps more interested in the house than your auntie believes?” Tickenor moved a little closer to her, as if he meant to intimidate her by his nearness.

  “La, no, sir.” Miss Tolerance was bland. “I have my own business to attend to. My aunt knows that I have no interest—”

  “Mrs. B has told me about your business. Dressing up like a man and nosing into questions that don’t concern you. No sort of work for a woman. Dangerous.”

  With the lump on the back of her head Miss Tolerance could hardly disagree, and yet, “I would be very bad at my aunt’s business, sir. But I do care for my aunt, and for her people.”

  “Her people?” Tickenor’s smile had slipped. “Your aunt’s people are very much indulged.”

  “Are they? I should have said it was the clientele that was indulged. But my aunt’s people are very loyal, and know how lucky they are to have an employer who appreciates their work. I do hope you will take the time to learn about the business before you make changes, Mr. Tickenor. Good morning.” Miss Tolerance curtsied and made to step past him, but Tickenor’s hand came out and grasped her wrist painfully.

  “You will not fight me, niece.”

  “Why, what gives you the notion that I am fighting you, sir? When you are my uncle I am sure we will deal very well together.” Miss Tolerance reached down and grasped the hand holding hers, pressing her thumb hard into the joint below Tickenor’s thumb. His hand opened and Tickenor pulled it away, cursing. “I beg your pardon, sir. You were hurting my arm.” Miss Tolerance curtsied. “Excuse me. I am overdue to make my duty to my aunt.”

  Miss Tolerance was up the stairs and out of Tickenor’s reach before he could stop her again. At the door to Mrs. Brereton’s salon she paused to compose herself. Tickenor must be very certain of Mrs. Brereton, to show his hand so baldly. The conversation she must have with her aunt now would require tact and a nimble wit; Miss Tolerance hoped that her injury had not rendered her too dull to say what she must.

  Mrs. Brereton, neat in an ivory gown, sat at her writing desk perusing ledgers.

  “Sarah! Come in!” She closed the top book. “Marianne said you were in the country, but you hardly look as if you have been enjoying country air. You look pinched. Come have some tea.” Mrs. Brereton rang for Frost and ordered a tray. Frost looked warily at her employer, and at Miss Tolerance without her usual glare of dislike. If her aunt’s behavior was shifting Frost’s loyalty, matters must be dire indeed.

  “What have you been about?” Mrs. Brereton pushed the counts-books on her writing table aside.

  “My client’s business, Aunt Thea.”

  “So you will say nothing more about it. Well, you look as green as grass.”

  “Only tired. This will be restorative. Thank you, Frost.” Miss Tolerance poured out tea. “How do you do, aunt?”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Brereton took the cup her niece offered. “But so busy! I have a wedding to plan for as well as the house to run. It is so fortunate that Gerard is taking an interest.”

  “Very fortunate,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “And Marianne is making herself useful, I am sure.”

  “I suppose so.” Mrs. Brereton sounded doubtful. “Gerard says she resents his involvement.”

  “Perhaps they simply misunderstand each other, Aunt Thea. Perhaps the way they manage is different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Miss Tolerance trod carefully; her aunt was not ready to hear criticism of her betrothed. “Marianne is used to the way you have always done things, ma’am. Too, she is a woman, accustomed to doing things quietly. Mr. Tickenor is a man—” she made her tone admiring. “He is forceful. Of course the staff are a little anxious as they do not know what to expect of him.”

  “What to expect? That he will be a husband to me and help in running the house. What else should they think? What do you think?”

  I think you have no idea of what Mr. Tickenor plans, once he has married into your property. “It is only that your people have been so much accustomed to looking to you for their guidance; it will simply take a little time for them to look to another.”

  “Look to another? Don’t be stupid, Sarah.” Mrs. Brereton was becoming agitated. “I know you are not happy about my marriage—do not bother to deny, it is writ upon your face—but I will not have you sowing discord here. You and Marianne and Frost have had the ruling of the roost for long enough. It is high time that I took back the reins!”

  “And handed them to Mr. Tickenor?” Again, Miss Tolerance cursed her too-ready tongue. “I am sorry, aunt. I am tired, and saying I know not what. But may I offer one small piece of advice? Tell the staff—above and belowstairs—that they have naught to fear from this change.”

  “They know it.”

  “No, aunt, they do not. Something beyond their control is happening, and they fear it. Your word is law here: tell them there is no need to worry.”

  “You may tell them I said it.” Mrs. Brereton sounded pettish.

  Miss Tolerance’s head hurt, and it was increasingly hard to be civil. “As you have pointed out, ma’am, Marianne and I have no power to make such assurances. Your people wish to hear from you.”

  Mrs. Brereton pursed her lips. “It is indulging them shockingly. Tickenor says I am far too lenient with them—”

  “And yet your business has done very well under that lenient rule.”

  That thought pleased Mrs. Brereton. “Yes, it has.” She simpered: Miss Tolerance could not remember seeing her stately aunt simpering. “Very well. I shall speak to them. Now, pour me more tea, Sarah, and let us talk of something else. You know that many festivities are planned to celebrate the Prince’s elevation to the Regency? It should bring everyone to London.”

  “And every man to Mrs. Brereton’s?” Miss Tolerance said lightly. “How fortunate.” They spoke of politics for a time, or rather, Mrs. Brereton spoke and Miss Tolerance made appropriate noises. Her mind had returned to her own work and the whereabouts of Evadne Thorpe. “I beg your pardon, Aunt?” Mrs. Brereton had asked her something.

  “Where are your wits, girl? If two days in the country makes you so dull, you should never go there at all. I said, do you find it chilly? April is always so: too warm to keep the fires lit, too cool to be comfortable.” Mrs. Brereton took up a light shawl of banded silk and arranged it about her shoulders.

  Miss Tolerance’s attention was caught by the shawl. It was woven in stripes of silver and burgundy, with a narrow stripe of
gold at each end. “Aunt, thank you for the tea. It has left me feeling very much better,” she lied. In fact, her head was pounding. “I have two days’ work I must make up. I hope you will not mind if I take my leave.”

  The April sunlight dazzled as she walked across the garden, and she was grateful to reach the dimness of her cottage. There, despite the headache which had caused her to speak so intemperate to her aunt and Mr. Tickenor, Miss Tolerance had one task before any other. How had she left matters with Lady Brereton? That she would communicate any news she had of Miss Thorpe. And then she had fallen off the Earth’s face. Lady Brereton was likely eager for news, and while Miss Tolerance had little of use to tell her, she took up her pen and wrote a brief note.

  I regret that a stupid indisposition has taken me from pursuit of your business for the last two days, but I am now recovered and promise to return to the matter with renewed energy. I hope to be able to report something useful very soon.

  Miss Tolerance sanded and sealed the note and brought it across the garden to Cole, who promised to have it delivered at once. She had been optimistic in the note; by the time she had returned to her cottage again, her head hurt so badly she could barely keep her feet. Miss Tolerance was forced to acknowledge to herself that she had no energy to speak of, that her thoughts were still far too disorganized to admit of deduction, and that only thing she was about to pursue was a nap.

  Dark had fallen when Miss Tolerance awoke. She lit a candle and went downstairs to find that someone from the kitchen had left a tray for her: half a roasted chicken, new bread and butter, some cheese and an apple. Miss Tolerance did not want to light the fire for tea, so she poured a glass of wine which she forgot to drink, and sat down to her meal. Afterward she took out her writing desk and attempted, as she often did when the disparate threads of an inquiry stubbornly refused to come together, to make sense of what she knew.