Point of Honour (Sarah Tolerance) Page 29

  Two murder weapons? Had Mrs. Virtue been killed by two men?

  Miss Tolerance completed her inspection and returned downstairs.

  Joe looked up at her. “‘Ad enough?” His tone was bitter.

  “I think so. When was she last seen alive?”

  The man shrugged as if he could not see the point of the question.

  “Dunno. In the course a business, people was always in and out. It was maybe five of clock this morning. Maid didn’t go in until near noon. Mrs. V don’t like people coming in to chat, pass the time. Didn’t like.”

  “Did you have brisk custom last night? Anyone not known to you? Anyone who seemed to be hiding his identity?”

  Joe looked at Miss Tolerance as though she were an idiot. “Half the men come ’ere don’t want—”

  “If you want the killer found, think,” Miss Tolerance said. “You have regular custom, I’ve heard the girls greet them by name. Any men who were not familiar? Did Mrs. Virtue have any callers? Can you give me anything—”

  “There was a couple of gents—sort as could buy better but like our girls. But there’s always a few of that sort in an evening—or a morning, come to it.” The doorman paused. “There was a man wore his hat down low, wore a greatcoat—”

  “A greatcoat in June? And you didn’t think this remarkable enough to mention?”

  “Christ, miss. Some gents come here don’t want to be known. Some as don’t care, some as think it gives ’em a rep as a hellboy and a goer, but we get some few don’t want their precious names linked to Blackbottle’s. Anyway, this cove didn’t ask for Mrs. V, just went into the parlor and took his choice of the girls.”

  “What time did this shy fellow arrive?”

  Joe’s face was red, his mouth working. Clearly his conscience was suggesting a complicity in Mrs. Virtue’s death which he could not bear. “Sometime after dawn. But he didn’t ask for her … .”

  Miss Tolerance saw no point in pressing further. She had her own idea of what might have happened. If she pushed the doorman too far, she might lose him. “I’m sorry, Joe,” she said at last. “She was a great lady in her way.” Again, she took out her pocketbook, and this time extracted a note. “You’ll want to put up a hatchment and other mourning gear,” she said. “If Mr. Blackbottle forgets, this should pay for them.”

  Joe nodded, took the note, and crumpled it in his hand. “That’s decent of you, miss.”

  As neither one could think of anything further to say, Miss Tolerance nodded in farewell and left the doorman standing there, rolling the note in his hand absently.

  Eighteen

  Miss Tolerance returned to her cottage, meditating upon death.

  In the several years that she had been an agent of inquiry, she had been called upon to ask questions, skillfully misdirect the truth to her own ends, and on occasion to defend her own life in the pursuit of a client’s objective. But in those years death had not accompanied her upon her rounds as it seemed to do now. Mrs. Smith, Matt Etan, now Fanny Virtue, dead. Versellion a likely target for assassination. Miss Tolerance had believed her new-wrought profession would make her independent and spare her the choice of death or whoredom. Apparently it was not to be so simple.

  From death and whoredom, her thoughts moved to Mrs. Virtue and Mrs. Cunning, thence to Versellion and Hawley, to Mrs. Virtue again, to Trux, to Balobridge, to Folle. Sir Henry Folle in particular provided her with considerable scope for rumination; she was morally certain that he had killed Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Virtue, and perhaps even Matt. The why of the murders was more difficult for her to imagine, unless all three had frustrated Folle beyond bearing by refusing to reveal what he wanted. She could imagine Mrs. Smith doing so, but fond as she had been of Matt, Miss Tolerance could not imagine him keeping a secret if telling it could save him pain. Likewise, Mrs. Virtue might have easily been bought of any secrets she held. But if Folle had demanded information that Matt or Mrs. Virtue simply did not possess?

  Miss Tolerance reminded herself that she really had no evidence of Folle’s involvement other than the handful of dried flowers that had fallen from his pocket the first time he tried to strike her, and a bruise on Mrs. Virtue’s cheek which might have come from the signet upon his walking stick. She was aware that her strong dislike for the man colored her feelings; hundreds of signets existed in London alone, perhaps dozens like Folle’s. Yet she could not escape the belief that Sir Henry Folle had struck that fatal blow.

  Folle’s great aim, it seemed to her, was to discredit and ruin his cousin Versellion. In her head, Miss Tolerance played scenes between Mrs. Smith and Folle, Matt Etan and Folle, Fanny Virtue and Folle; in each scene that same murderous rage which she had seen briefly turned upon her overwhelmed Folle when he was balked of the information he sought. In each scene he loosed his fury and left, still without the wherewithal to ruin Versellion. Perhaps that was why he had hired Hart and his associates to attack Versellion.

  However convincing this logic might seem to her, Miss Tolerance was well aware that it was just now only storytelling. She needed evidence to support her musings. Once home, she sent a note round to the stables to ask that a horse be made ready, and another to Versellion, asking for a few moments of his time later that afternoon. She then spent half an hour cleaning her sword and pistols. She carried them with her when she left for Leyton.

  She was not certain what she hoped to find at Mrs. Smith’s cottage, or even if there would be anything left to find. She stopped first at the Queen’s Arms, long enough to inquire of the barman what the local news was of Mrs. Smith’s murder. He recounted the reluctant involvement of the justice, Mr. Gilkes, who had convened the coroner’s court right there in the taproom of the Queen’s Arms. There had also been considerable local excitement at the visit of two men from Bow Street. Mrs. Smith, it seemed, had had some coin put by to satisfy her legal debts, and a nephew in the north to whom the cottage and her effects had been left. That young man, the barman said in tones of disapproval, was taking his time coming to see his new holdings, and thus denying the local merchants their share of his custom. Miss Tolerance heard this gossip with private satisfaction: perhaps the furniture sellers and their ilk might not yet have stripped the place.

  In fact, except for a ten days’ accumulation of dust and the ripening smell of the river in the summer warmth, Mrs. Smith’s cottage was just as Miss Tolerance recalled it. She satisfied the curiosity which had been balked on her last visit with the justice of the peace, and inspected the two tiny upstairs rooms, which yielded nothing of worth. In the kitchen, the neglected foodstuffs had either rotted or been attacked by rats or squirrels. It was in the parlor that Miss Tolerance concentrated her attention. She could not say what she was looking for; a dropped kerchief with Folle’s monogram would have been useful, or one of Folle’s visiting cards. Since those were unlikely, she began a methodical survey of the dark little room. The honey-colored light of late afternoon seemed hardly to penetrate the foliage without and the lacy curtains within; still, Miss Tolerance was loath to push the curtains aside and make the neighbors a gift of her presence. She had no ambition to be found, by some curious servant, on her hands and knees, combing the rug with her fingertips.

  A quarter hour yielded one of Mrs. Smith’s flowered candles and some wax dripping, and a handful of the potpourri that still scattered the rug. When she stepped out of the cottage, the late afternoon light was dazzling; she took a moment to let her eyes adjust, looking about her on the chance that an assailant might have followed her. Unchallenged, she returned to Manchester Square.

  Versellion had replied to her note, asking her to meet at Versellion House. After returning the horse to the stable, securing her discoveries in a locked box in her cottage, and changing into feminine attire, Miss Tolerance made her way toward St. James’s Square. It was now that hour of the early evening when riders and carriages had returned from the promenades, and pedestrians from forays to Bond Street and Piccadilly. In many houses women were beginni
ng the process of dressing for dinner and the evening’s entertainments. All of haute London was in retreat, moving away from each other to prepare for their next encounter. The rest of London, however, was still at work, delivering parcels, sweeping crossings, and picking pockets. It seemed as if those two worlds, of work and diversion, moved past each other with barely a contact. Unless, of course, they meet in me, Miss Tolerance thought.

  Versellion House was in a state of alarming turmoil; every door on the ground and first floors had been thrown open, and a press of maids and under-footmen seemed to be polishing every visible inch of the public rooms. The ball, Miss Tolerance recalled. The ball at which Versellion hoped to finally sway the Prince of Wales to the Whig cause. With surprise she realized that the party was to be the next night. She felt curiously distant from the hectic activity around her; the effect of too much death, she thought.

  Miss Tolerance was shown to the same salon on the first floor where she had argued with Versellion about Trux. The evidence of super-polishing made her loath to sit lest she wrinkle the brushed and shining perfection around her. Instead, she walked about the room, examining the paintings again.

  “Lost among my ancestors?”

  Miss Tolerance nodded and turned away from the paintings. Versellion was dressed for riding, and the disorder of his hair suggested that he had just returned from that exercise. He had a flush of excitement about him, as if the preparations for the ball had infected him. Even his movements seemed quick and staccato.

  “I regret I am so caught up here I cannot ask you to stay this evening,” he said. “But tomorrow night—”

  “You will have a house filled with people until dawn.” Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I thought it best to tell you certain things before then.”

  “You have news?” He drew her to a sofa and sat down with her.

  “Not the sort of news that will rejoice you, I hope. Mrs. Virtue, the woman from whom I bought the fan? She is dead.”

  Versellion went very still. “Christ, is there no end to it?” He looked down, running his hands over his face as if he could scrub the news away. “You must think it to do with the fan, or you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I think …” Miss Tolerance paused, took a long breath. “I think your cousin Folle is the killer. Of Mrs. Virtue and my friend Matt, and of Mrs. Smith of Leyton.”

  The earl drew his hand down to cover his mouth. “My God,” he said at last. “Why?”

  “Why do I believe it to be so? Or why would he do such things?”

  The earl did not answer. He sat, eyes closed, hand still covering his mouth, as if to contain the words and feelings which filled it. At last he said, “You think he is capable of it? I know Henry has a temper …”

  Miss Tolerance raised a hand to her head as if remembering where his blow might have struck her. “I have been on the wrong end of his temper, Versellion. Where you are concerned, I truly think your cousin is not in his right mind. But there is more. A tough I encountered the other day gave your cousin Folle up as the author of the attacks on you, and Mrs. Virtue …” She paused, trying to find a delicate way to say what she must. There was none. “Mrs. Virtue wears a bruise in the shape of your family’s crest, doubtless from that damned stick your cousin wields so freely.”

  Versellion’s hand clenched on his jaw until the knuckles whitened. Then, quite suddenly, he relaxed his hand and sat back on the sofa, regarding Miss Tolerance sadly. “What must be done, then?”

  Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I have not sufficient evidence to give Bow Street—who do not scruple to tell me how interested they are in my part in these deaths. Without evidence, or direct confession, ’twill be difficult indeed to have the matter taken seriously.”

  “He’ll be here tomorrow,” Versellion said thoughtfully.

  “At the ball? Is that wise, Versellion?”

  “My aunt invited him, and Balobridge—that whole Tory lot, long before I knew that Wales would honor us with his presence. I cannot revoke the invitations, after all. It is Aunt Julia’s party far more than it is mine.”

  “Will it serve your aunt’s purposes to have you assassinated at her ball?” Miss Tolerance asked irritably.

  “My concern has been how to keep them from queering my game—approaching Wales while I am trying my party’s case with him. But perhaps you could serve a double purpose: keep me safe and surprise a confession from Henry.”

  Miss Tolerance eyed her lover with doubt. “At your party? What do you imagine I would do? Confront him at a contredanse and, at the change, have him drop to his knees and confess all? He’s more likely to add me to the happy ranks of his victims.”

  “At my party?” Versellion echoed. “I only say that if you could engage him for half an hour, it would give me time to speak with Wales privately. And something useful might come of it—my God, if Balobridge catches wind of what you suspect and believes my cousin endangers his own safety, he’ll give Folle up fast enough.”

  “Edward, what you propose plays out very like the last act of a farce. Truly, what do you think would happen?”

  “You would distract my cousin and Balobridge and permit me to carry on my discussion with the Prince uninterrupted. And”—he smiled—“I would have the pleasure of seeing you dressed for a ball.”

  “I have no such dress. A few evening dresses, some round gowns—you have seen pretty nearly the full extent of my wardrobe, in fact—and nothing appropriate to this sort of occasion. And it is far too late—”

  “I will take care of it,” Versellion promised. “Sarah, I believe this is the best possible thing. The mere fact of the setting—my cousin will never expect to see you, will never expect you to approach him. He will be entirely unprepared for a confrontation. Perhaps you will wring something from him.”

  “And do you mean to invite Bow Street as well, to hear the confession you imagine your cousin will make? Masters Penryn and Hook would make a charming addition to your aunt’s guest list. No, Edward, it won’t do, not any of it.”

  She took back her hand, which he had taken in his own at some point, and sat without further comment. After a few minutes, Versellion sighed. “I won’t press you. And as I should have almost no time to give you, I suppose it is foolish of me to feel that you should be there.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment,” Miss Tolerance said. “But listen: I do think that you should instruct your bodyguards to increase their caution in the next few days.”

  The earl looked chagrined. “You will scold me when I tell you I dismissed them—nothing has happened since we returned to London and I dislike being followed around wherever I go. After all this time—”

  “If I am right and your cousin is the killer, the thought of you solidifying your position with the Prince of Wales may be enough to drive him beyond caution. Particularly in light of Mrs. Virtue’s death, I would say the time of greatest jeopardy is probably now. Please, Versellion, promise me you will hire them back.”

  “I do not plan to leave the house between now and the ball, and I am quite adequately guarded by my people here—not to mention the legion of servants my aunt has retained to assist with the ball. I haven’t the time to give to the matter—if it will make you feel better, I promise I shall hire them back.”

  Miss Tolerance felt moved to scream, but bit down on her anger. Versellion had never been able to fully believe in a threat to his person. Why should she expect he would change now? “I shall not see you, then, until after the ball,” she said at last. “I hope all goes well for you.”

  He took her hand again and raised it to his lips; it was both a caress and a farewell. Already, she felt sure, his mind was upon politics again, massing arguments to sway the Prince of Wales. “It shall. It must,” he said.

  She took it, quite rightly, as her dismissal.

  Mrs. Brereton was hosting a musical evening that night. In Miss Tolerance’s experience, this modest term did not adequately express the extravagance of Mrs. Brereton’s enter
tainments, which featured songs, tableaux, and performances of a distinctly carnal nature played out by employees of the house, most clad only in vague draperies of gauze and spangles. The music itself was excellently performed and generally ignored. As on these evenings the wine flowed even more freely and expensively than usual, and the behavior of the patrons was generally outrageous, Miss Tolerance preferred to avoid the house. She let herself into the garden by way of Spanish Place and went straight to her cottage. The evening was warm and humid, but she stirred up the fire and put the kettle on for tea. Later, she thought, she would go across to the kitchen long enough to beg her dinner. For now, she took up her counts-book to tend to her bookkeeping.

  Half an hour later, as she added up a column of figures for the fourth time, someone knocked on Miss Tolerance’s door. She put down her pen with some relief and went to answer it; she was surprised to find Marianne, with a tray of covered dishes.

  “I had thought all of you were employed with the entertainment,” Miss Tolerance said. She stood aside to let the other woman enter.

  “I can’t sing, won’t act, and don’t much care to stand about in a spangled slip to be pawed at by the boys,” Marianne said matter-of-factly. “I generally ask for these evenings off. Thought you might like a bite of something.”

  Miss Tolerance discovered her appetite in the presence of food, and the two women ate cold beef, cheese, fruit, and pastries while waiting for the kettle to boil again.

  “I’m glad you thought of it,” Miss Tolerance said when they had finished their meal. “I’ve wanted to thank you again for your care when I was sick.”

  Marianne shook her head; her brown curls swayed with the motion, and one dropped over her eye. “You needed a friend,” she said simply. “Should have brought that book again, Tom Jones. Thought you liked it.”