Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Read online

  “You must bring me reports, then. Daily.” He smiled. “Detailed reports.”

  “I cannot direct my inquiries from your bed, Edward.” She smiled to take the barb from the words. “I shall be around and about in London for the next few days, I imagine.”

  “Do you mean to consult Mrs. Cunning? You will need this.” Versellion drew the fan from his pocket and held it out to her. Miss Tolerance examined it for a moment, then slid the fan into her own pocket.

  “Versellion, until I have some report to make to you, please be careful whom you trust.”

  Versellion took the hand she offered and turned it palm up, to his lips. “I place my trust in you alone,” he promised, folding her fingers as if to hold the kiss in its place. She put her hand in her pocket, sketched him a bow, and left.

  The rain had stopped. Miss Tolerance walked to Manchester Square.

  Her little cottage, empty for only three days, was musty and cold. Miss Tolerance lit a fire and changed at last from the secondhand clothes she had bought in Reading into a round gown and kid slippers. Across the garden the lights of Mrs. Brereton’s establishment glowed, warm and attractive in the drear of the night. Mourning for Matt, she thought, had not been permitted to interfere with business for long. She found herself reluctant to go across to the big house, but common sense—a wish to see if any mail had arrived, and a sudden powerful longing for her dinner—made her throw on a cloak and cross the garden.

  She was greeted as a prodigal returned. First the cook, seeing her in the kitchen doorway, threw her ladle into the soup and bustled forward as if she would gather Miss Tolerance to her substantial breast. The woman simultaneously scolded her for making them all worry, and promised her the best of a fine supper. Keefe, who encountered her as she passed through the pantry, was less demonstrative, but admitted that he was relieved to see her returned. “’Tain’t no secret we was all a mite concerned, miss, the house already in mourning and all. And in the usual course of things, you give word when you plan to be away. All well, miss?”

  Miss Tolerance, who was not accustomed to the notion that her whereabouts mattered to anyone but herself, assured him that all was very well. “I’m sorry to have worried anyone, Keefe. Is my aunt here?”

  She was directed to Mrs. Brereton’s private parlor and found her aunt seated before the mirror and applying a last delicate touch of rouge. Mrs. Brereton broke her habitual attitude of calm upon the sight of her niece, cast down the hare’s foot, and rose to greet her.

  “Sarah, my dear child! Where have you been? First, Matt dies, then you disappear for days on end. Can you not conceive of how worried we have been? And now—I’ve a guest coming for a souper intime. But will you stay and take a glass of wine?”

  “Happily, Aunt Thea. I am heartily sorry to have caused such concern. How does business?”

  Mrs. Brereton frowned. “Don’t change the subject. Where in heaven’s name have you been?” It was difficult to discern, from her tone and manner, whether Mrs. Brereton was the more relieved to see her niece safely home, or angered by her disappearance.

  “I was in the country, Aunt. Following an investigation.”

  “You missed Matt’s funeral,” Mrs. Brereton said. Angry, Miss Tolerance thought. “I would have thought you would be particularly keen to attend.”

  “Keener to catch his killer. I did want very much to be there, Aunt. How was it?” She noted now that on the sleeve of her garnet-red dress, Mrs. Brereton wore a narrow black mourning ribbon.

  Mrs. Brereton smiled. “The funeral was small but handsome. All Souls Chapel and everything Matt might have wished. None of his particular favorites came, of course, but Matt had many friends in the profession. Afterward we had a gathering here, and a cold collation, and many tears were shed quite honestly, since there was none but each other for the girls to impress. We missed you.” Mrs. Brereton handed her niece a glass of Madeira. “And you were pursuing his killer?”

  “I believe I was, ma’am. Did my absence cause comment?”

  “A little. Some of the girls were surprised, as you and Matt had been such friends. There had been some speculation that you and he …” Mrs. Brereton paused delicately.

  Miss Tolerance choked on her Madeira. “You should know better, Aunt. Lovers? Not unless I had learned to shave.” She took another sip of wine. “What word of your political pursuits? I saw notice in the Times of the Queen’s illness—”

  “No one cares for the Queen now,” Mrs. Brereton said. “It’s all the Princes—Clarence and Kent and Wales—and which is most like to be named Regent in her stead. I have heard that the Queen would not hear Clarence’s name spoken in the last few years—he has been heard too often criticizing her—and there is such a stink that attaches to his name on Mrs. Jordan’s account. Kent’s military history is so sad no one seriously believes he will be made Regent. Wales is really the most savory of the elder Princes: he merely wed a Catholic, and she had the kindness to reform him and die, removing herself as an obstacle and transforming him into an object of sympathy.”

  “Remarkably thoughtful of her,” Miss Tolerance agreed.

  “The parties are all in disarray. Lord Balobridge sent an emissary to Wales—by report—who utterly bungled the conversation. The Whigs should have jumped upon the occasion, but their best man has disappeared and no one else is so close in Wales’s favor. It’s catch as catch can. Every politico is trying to drop a persuasive word in the Prince’s ear.”

  Miss Tolerance trod gently. “So the Crown party has irritated the Crown, and the opposition—lost an entire Whig? One would have thought they were too large to misplace.”

  Mrs. Brereton laughed, but her niece detected a speculative look in her eye. “The Whig in question being a strapping fellow, I—Yes?” The last was directed to Keefe, who had appeared at the door. There was a murmured conference between them, and Keefe withdrew.

  Mrs. Brereton set her glass down. “My supper guest has arrived, and I must say goodbye for now.” She offered Sarah her cheek to kiss. “I am glad to see you home safe, dear child. Are you done now with the business that took you out of Town?”

  “I hardly know how to answer you. One bit of business has led to another and another, which I think may lead me to Matt’s killer. I shall be in and out for the next few days, I think, but I will call on you when I can.”

  With a smile that nearly masked her urgency, Mrs. Brereton brought her niece to her dressing room, which let onto the back stairs. “You will not mind, my dear?” she said, and watched until Miss Tolerance started down. From this urgency Miss Tolerance surmised the visitor was of considerable rank, or at least a man with considerable money to spend.

  She went down to inquire with Cole for her mail.

  Three bills, a new, and very welcome, bank draft from the estate of the late Sir Evan Trecan—not the full amount due, but above half, which was more than she ever expected to see on that particular account—and one item of personal correspondence. This Miss Tolerance took to a quiet spot just outside the kitchen to read. Its author stated that he was investigating the death of a Mrs. Smith of Leyton, and desired to speak with Miss Tolerance at her earliest convenience. It was signed Sir Walter Mandif.

  Miss Tolerance regarded this letter with resignation. Balobridge had apparently made good on his threat and raked up the matter of Mrs. Smith. She did not anticipate a meeting with Sir Walter with any eagerness, but ignoring such a summons was not to be thought of. She wrote offering to call upon Sir Walter at his earliest convenience, went to the blue room, where the usual informal dinner had been spread for the house’s patrons and employees, and collected a plate of food—she did not much notice what she took—which she carried back to her cottage.

  The fire had taken the chill from the air. She had brought the new number of the Gazette with her and turned, as always, to the Dueling Notices, gratified to find that none of the recently deceased owed her money. Miss Tolerance ate her supper, drank a glass of wine, and went to bed, n
oting that since she had slept there last, it had become unaccountably large and empty.

  Miss Tolerance was finishing her breakfast when Keefe brought word that she had visitors: two men from Bow Street, and a magistrate, whose card he delivered to her. Sir Walter Mandif had evidently been unwilling to wait until she should call upon him. Considering the matter, Miss Tolerance decided that Mrs. Brereton’s establishment was not the proper venue for such a meeting, and requested Keefe to show her visitors to the little house. It was the work of a moment to tidy the room; when the three men appeared, she was just sitting down again, settling the skirts of her blue morning dress around her.

  The Bow Street agents came in with the bluff certainty of men who expect their office will inspire dread. They were dressed alike in rusty black with the red waistcoats common to all Runners; the two waistcoats were different shades of red, one a bright yellowish vermilion, the other a dark scarlet. The kerchiefs tied about their necks were alike in their grubbiness; they might once have been white, but would surely never be so again; and the soles of their boots were caked with mud which flaked off upon the new-swept floor. They gave their names as Penryn and Hook, and took positions, one to the left of the door and the other to the right, as if to forestall any attempts at escape.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. May I offer you tea?” Miss Tolerance asked politely.

  The Runners exchanged a look; this was clearly not the expected reaction to their presence. The third man, who stood in the doorway surveying the room, spoke for the three of them.

  “It is kind of you to offer, Miss Tolerance, but I doubt we shall be here long enough to require it.” His voice was dry.

  She had somehow expected, from his name and position, that Sir Walter Mandif would be bluff, red-cheeked, and beefy, with a booming voice and an impatient eye. The man who had entered behind the Runners was slightly built, not above medium height, with light hair brushed back from a high forehead in defiance of the current style, and a long nose which emphasized the length of his face. His demeanor was unexceptionable, his dress gentlemanly but not exquisite, and his gaze shrewd.

  He bowed. Miss Tolerance curtsied and begged him and his companions to sit. These preliminaries observed, Sir Walter spread the tails of his coat and sat upon the settle. The Runners continued to stand, frowning down at her.

  “You are inquiring into Mrs. Smith’s death, sirs? How may I be of help to you?” Miss Tolerance asked.

  The shorter of the Runners stepped forward and took a notebook from his pocket. He flicked through the pages and read from words he had obviously written there himself. He had a strong West Country accent: hard esses and tormented vowels. “Zeems as you was the last person to see the deceased Mrs. Smith alive.”

  Miss Tolerance responded serenely, “I cannot say that I was, Mr. Penryn. She was certainly alive when I left her one day, and as certainly dead when I returned the next. But the last person to see her alive is surely the person who killed her.”

  From the settle, Sir Walter said, “I take it you disclaim that honor?”

  “Utterly.” Miss Tolerance did not smile.

  “But you did see the deceased two times in two days,” Penryn said. “You ain’t denying it.”

  “Not in the least, sir.”

  “And what call ’ad you to be going out to Leyton twice in two days?” the other Runner broke in. By the evidence of his voice, he was London born and bred, and unlikely upon principle to believe anything Miss Tolerance said.

  She sipped at her tea and took that moment to order her thoughts. “On the first day, I visited Mrs. Smith on the suggestion of Mrs. Cockbun of that town, to whom I was referred by the tapster at the Queen’s Arms. I was in hopes she could assist me in an inquiry I was making. We spoke briefly and then I left. On my second visit, I had made the trip to retrieve something of mine I had left there by accident.”

  “And the nature of that property?” Sir Walter regarded her blandly. He might have been discussing fishing, or the price of wax candles.

  “A riding crop.” Responding to the magistrate’s expression of polite doubt, she added, “It was a gift from a dear friend, now deceased; I have it here if you would like to see it. I rode straight to Mrs. Smith’s, found her dead, and reported it immediately to the justice of the peace.”

  Sir Walter referred to his notebook and nodded. “A Mr. James Gilkes. He tells me that you seemed uncommon interested in searching the deceased’s household.”

  Miss Tolerance smiled with a blandness to match Sir Walter’s. “Does he say so, sir? Perhaps that was only in comparison with his own lack of interest in the matter. I hoped to find evidence. Mr. Gilkes appeared to be in hope of his dinner.”

  For the first time in the interview, Sir Walter Mandif’s smile conveyed sympathy. “He struck me very much the same way, Miss Tolerance. Did you also detect a certain distaste for the victim, based upon his notion of what she had been?”

  And for myself, based upon what he believed I was, she thought, but said only, “I did indeed, sir.”

  Sir Walter nodded but did not pursue the matter of Mr. Gilkes further. “You waited upon Mrs. Smith on Tuesday morning, and returned the next day at about the same hour?”

  “A little earlier the next day, I believe.”

  “And in the time between, what were you doing?”

  Miss Tolerance thought back. “I stopped first at the Queen’s Arms to send some wine and food to Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Cockbun, to thank them for their help. I returned to this house, did some shopping in Bond Street in the afternoon, had a brief interview with a client that evening, and went to bed. It was not until the next morning I realized where my crop was, and then I returned to Leyton.”

  “There are people who saw you during this time?”

  “There is a woman in my aunt’s employ with whom I went shopping; I am sure she will tell you we spent the afternoon together. I cannot give you the name of my client, sir, but there are servants here who can tell you that I had a visitor.”

  Mandif nodded. “That will do for now. One last thing, Miss Tolerance. May I inquire about your business with the late Mrs. Smith?”

  “In a general way I can tell you I was hoping she would help me to locate another person, a retired woman like herself.”

  “You cannot tell me more specifically?”

  Miss Tolerance shook her head and did her best to indicate her heartfelt regret. “It was upon a matter of business, and I undertake to preserve the confidentiality of all the inquiries I make, sir. To tell you more about my business with Mrs. Smith would be to risk breaking my word.”

  Sir Walter closed his notebook and regarded Miss Tolerance squarely. “Yours is an unusual occupation, ma‘am. ’Tis not often one hears a woman refusing to tell a secret.”

  “’Tis not often a woman’s livelihood depends upon her ability to keep counsel, sir,” Miss Tolerance said.

  Hook and Penryn conferred in whispers by the door, but did not share their conclusions with the magistrate. Without turning, Sir Walter asked Penryn if he had taken down the witness’s statement in the entire, and when the Runner said that he had, Sir Walter rose to his feet.

  “This matter is not yet closed, ma’am. You should hold yourself available for further questioning, should the need arise.”

  At the same time that she was assuring Sir Walter Mandif that she would happily do so, Miss Tolerance marveled at the brevity of the interview and its relative civility. “You may always find me here, or through my club, Tarsio’s. Sir Walter, is a murder in Leyton not outside of Bow Street’s jurisdiction?”

  “We were retained to look into it by a neighbor of Mrs. Smith who dislikes the notion of robbery and murder upon his doorstep. I cannot say that I blame him.”

  “And did this neighbor direct you to me?”

  “Indirectly, Miss Tolerance. You spoke to the captain’s wife, who directed you to Mr. Gilkes. It was Mr. Gilkes who gave us your name.”

  “Not the Viscount Balobridge?” s
he asked.

  “Balobridge?” Sir Walter seemed genuinely surprised. “The politician? No, why would he? I have not the honor of Lord Balobridge’s acquaintance.”

  Now it was Miss Tolerance’s turn to smile blandly. “I am delighted to hear it, sir. The viscount had asked me for information which I could not provide to him, and he threatened to lay information with Bow Street about my involvement in the matter of Mrs. Smith’s death.”

  “And how the devil did he know of it? Well, permit me to put your mind at ease upon this point, Miss Tolerance. Bow Street is not in the custom of fulfilling threats, even for such notable peers as Lord Balobridge.” Sir Walter bowed again and left, with the Runners falling into step behind him, a quite military parade through Mrs. Brereton’s quiet garden.

  The morning mail brought a letter from Versellion which enclosed the note she had given to Mrs. Virtue to guarantee the purchase of the fan. Across it the words Obligazion Redemed had been written in small black capitals, and the initials F.V. Miss Tolerance was shocked to realize that in the turmoil of the last several days, she had completely forgotten the marker; being reminded of the obligation by its redemption was pleasant indeed. Also in Versellion’s letter were banknotes—“against the expenses of further inquiry.” Miss Tolerance at once sat down with her counts-book, wrote the sum in, and struck off a number of expenditures against it. That done, she sent a note to the stables to arrange for the hire of a horse, changed her clothes, and set off for Greenwich and Mrs. Deborah Cook, once Deborah

  Cunning, to authenticate the Italian fan for good and all.

  As Miss Tolerance had expected, Mrs. Cook was not only at home, but delighted to see her. Her round face beamed as she sent the maid for tea and cakes. They waited, talking of unexceptional things. When the tea had been brought and poured out and partly consumed, Miss Tolerance took the fan from her pocket and presented it to Mrs. Cook. The older woman opened the fan and smoothed its silk with tender fingers before she looked up, her eyes bright with sentimental tears, to announce that it was indeed the fan she had been given by Versellion’s father five-and-twenty years before.