A Covent Garden Mystery

  Marianne heaved herself from the chair. "I'll go down and get Ma Beltan to give me coffee," she said wearily. "What time do you think his nibs pries himself out of bed?"

  "I have no idea," I said. "He rises at a fashionable hour but might get up earlier today, because of our current problem."

  Marianne's face softened. "Bartholomew told me what happened. I am sorry, Lacey."

  I nodded. "Come back after you've found coffee. I have a few things I need to ask you while you're waiting."

  She wiped away more tears. "If I must." She moved past Lady Breckenridge, who watched her coolly. "You needn't worry, my lady. I am not after stealing him. I only borrowed his shoulder to cry on."

  Donata's brows arched as Marianne went on out the door. A lady of the demimonde such as Marianne should not have presumed to speak to a lady of the ton. They both should pretend the other did not exist. In their worlds, they did not.

  The door closed with a click, and Donata turned to me. "That is Marianne Simmons? The lady I saw in Grenville's box a few nights ago?"

  "Indeed, it was."

  Her face softened to understanding. "You told me you were forever smoothing the waters between them."

  "Yes, but the waters might now be too rough for me to steer. I will have to let the two of them flounder on their own for a time."

  "Hmm." Lady Breckenridge's eyes narrowed, and she drew Stacy's crisp leather-bound book out from behind her back. "I came to tell you that this makes for interesting reading, I must say. What the devil is it?"

  I started. I had taken the book from my pocket when I'd undressed the night before, and I realized I'd left it on the bedside table. I reached for it. "Nothing for your eyes."

  Lady Breckenridge lifted it high and walked away from me. "But it is quite intriguing. March Fifteenth, the Strand, blonde, brown eyes, innocent, quite pretty. I do not imagine this means a horse. I cannot make out the rest, SnTy2y. What on earth is that?"

  "The book does not belong to me," I said quickly. I held out my hand for it, but Donata ignored me, leafing through the pages as she paced.

  "To whom does it belong, then? And what are all these numbers and letters? Code for races on which this gentleman will place bets?" She looked back at me. "I think not."

  I rubbed my hands on my suddenly cold arms. "I did not mean for you to find that. It belongs to Jeremiah Stacy and might contain evidence as to whether or not he murdered Mary Chester."

  Her look of suspicion was replaced by one of interest. "Really? Why?"

  "I hesitate to tell you. It is rather sordid."

  "Excellent, then it will not be dull. Do tell me, Lacey. I am a bored widow in need of excitement."

  I smiled to myself at the description, then I launched into an abbreviated version of my discussion with Payne. Donata listened avidly, glancing at the book from time to time.

  When I finished, she grimaced. "Goodness, who would have guessed that Jeremiah Stacy would be up to such goings-on. Patrice Stacy is a vapid thing, but I do not think she deserves a husband with an obsession with prostitutes. Are all men so disgusting?"

  I was saved from having to answer by Marianne reentering the room, carrying a mug of coffee and a hard roll. "I believe they are," she said to Donata's question. "With a few exceptions." She plopped down comfortably at my writing table and took a noisy sip of coffee. "I heard you mention Mr. Stacy. What's he done?"

  I leaned against my chest-on-frame and folded my arms, giving up trying to pry the book from Donata's hands. "I wanted to ask you about him, Marianne. Whether you'd ever met him, what you thought of him, anything you've heard about him. He might have murdered a game girl and kidnapped another."

  Marianne raised her brows. "Really? I wouldn't have pegged him for that, but he is an odd cove." She tore off a bite of bread with white teeth and chewed thoughtfully. "I haven't seen him in some time, but he used to linger at the theatre in Drury Lane, waiting for the opera dancers and girls in the chorus to emerge. He liked to talk to us; sometimes he'd single one out, sometimes another. Some of the girls hoped he'd set them up as their protector, because he has plenty of blunt, but he never did."

  "He was never rough or threatening?" I asked. "No one was afraid of him?"

  Marianne shrugged. "He seemed harmless. He liked to talk and jest, liked to pretend he was friends with all the girls, though in truth, they only wanted his money. Some gentlemen are like that. For them, talking to low women and getting to know them is a thrill, even if they never touch any of them."

  Lady Breckenridge continued leafing through the journal. "I think I see. Stacy went one better and wrote of his encounters in this book. Rather like a man who describes sightings of exotic birds. Vulgar," she said dismissively. "His name is rarely on my guest lists, but it will be nonexistent now."

  "He wrote it down?" Marianne asked. "May I see?"

  Wordlessly, and before I could stop her, Lady Breckenridge held the book out to Marianne. Marianne took it, wiped her buttery fingers on the bread, and began leafing through the book. "I wonder what the letters and numbers mean."

  "I have no idea," I said. "His coachman did not know either. Stacy's personal code, for whatever he wanted to note without being obvious."

  "A point in Stacy's favor that he let you see this," Lady Breckenridge said.

  "His coachman answered my questions readily enough, apparently with Stacy's blessing. Stacy seems quite eager to be open and aboveboard, as though he has nothing to hide among gentlemen. The coachman could be a very loyal servant, however, and help Stacy cover up anything he might have done."

  "The smaller letters are all y and n," Marianne said, studying the pages. "Probably for yes and no. So the larger letters are a question or a quality, and the answer is yes or no."

  "You might very well have hit on it," I said.

  "What are the numbers then?" Lady Breckenridge asked. "If 2y is 2 yes . . . I wonder what that means?"

  The fact that the two of them, my lady and Marianne Simmons, were clinically discussing sordid notes made by a gentleman about street girls made me shudder. I could only stand by and watch.

  "I wonder if S stands for syphilis," Marianne said. "All entries are marked with an S with either a y or n following. That would be of concern to a Mayfair gentleman with a family. Perhaps one reason he walks among the street girls and gets to know them is to discover what diseases they have. Sn means they are healthy, and therefore acceptable."

  Lady Breckenridge nodded. "Yes, I can see the fastidious Stacy making certain they have no disease." She sniffed and opened the reticule that she'd left on the writing table, from which she withdrew a thin cigarillo. "Rather like purchasing horseflesh. Does he check their teeth?"

  "Perhaps that's what T stands for," Marianne said, scanning an entry.

  "Teeth, yes, I suppose that makes a sort of sense."

  "Unless it means something more sordid."

  Lady Breckenridge lit the cigarillo with a candle. She filled her mouth with smoke then let it trickle out with her words. "I can think of several sordid things that begin with the letter T."

  "So can I," Marianne agreed.

  I lifted the book from Marianne's hands. "That will be enough of that."

  Marianne frowned. "I am trying to help, Lacey. If Stacy offed this girl, I shall be very angry with him. Grenville will have to cut him dead."

  Lady Breckenridge had sunk gracefully into the wing chair, a little smile on her face at my discomfiture. There were no other seats in the room, so I remained standing.

  "Grenville has already cut Brian McAdams," I said. "He is another possibility for the murderer."

  Lady Breckenridge wrinkled her nose. "I am pleased to hear it. McAdams was a friend of my late husband. I have been cutting him for years, but Grenville's gesture will blackball him entirely."

  "Even if Stacy did not kill Mary Chester, do you think, Marianne, that he could kidnap a girl and hold her against her will? Do you think he is the sort who would do that?"

 
Marianne shrugged. "I'm not certain. He was always friendly and chatty, but as I said, a bit odd. His good nature could mask cunning, but as you know, I never trust a gentleman." She finished with a bitter twist to her lips.

  "My thought was that perhaps Stacy did kidnap Mary Chester and Black Bess, and very possibly my daughter. Perhaps he did not mean to kill Mary, or perhaps someone else did that--McAdams with his rough ways. When Stacy discovered that either he or McAdams had killed Mary, he panicked and carried her to Bottle Bill's, knowing about Bottle Bill's violent drunken spells--having learned this either from the girls or from his own observation."

  "You could always ask him," Lady Breckenridge said. "You and the sword in your walking stick."

  "I intend to." I ran my hand through my unruly hair. "I would like to have Pomeroy arrest Stacy while we continue to look for Bess and Gabriella, although I am afraid that if Stacy is taken, McAdams might harm the girls. Pomeroy could arrest both, but moving against two upper-class Mayfair gentlemen is risky for him."

  "You could have Pomeroy arrest Stacy and then follow McAdams to see what he does," Lady Breckenridge suggested.

  "I thought of that as well. Denis has already put men to follow Stacy and McAdams, so we may see what they do, and I will certainly grab Stacy and shake him again. What I want most of all . . ." I stopped and drew a breath. "Is the return of my daughter."

  Both ladies looked at me, true sympathy in their faces. Each of them had a son, and they knew what I felt.

  "Stacy and McAdams might be innocent of this crime," I said after a time. "Bottle Bill is a panicked and pathetic man. He will say what he needs to say to keep himself from Newgate. He might have killed Mary himself, even accidentally, and be lying through his teeth about it."

  "Then what do we do?" Marianne asked.

  "Keep searching," I said. "I'll not stop until she's found."

  "Neither will we," Lady Breckenridge said. She did not come to me. She remained seated with her cigarillo, but her eyes told me more than words what she felt.

  *** *** ***

  The search continued that morning, through the afternoon, and on into evening, with various contingents reporting to me. Pomeroy sent messages from Bow Street with information gleaned by his patrollers.

  Coaching inns had been searched and landlords questioned, to no avail. None remembered seeing a girl fitting Gabriella's description at their inn, either alone or with a young man. Sir Gideon Derwent persuaded a few magistrates to invade and close down several known bawdy houses, but Gabriella was not found in any of them. Neither was Black Bess.

  Colonel Brandon came to report to me himself around eight o'clock that the inns he and the soldiers had checked along the road to Dover had yielded nothing. If Gabriella had fled to France, no one had seen her. Brandon had sent the soldiers farther, to check Dover itself and any ships leaving for Calais.

  "Thank you," I said sincerely. "Your help has made much difference."

  "I would feel better if I had some news to report," Brandon said.

  "Even knowledge that she has not been somewhere helps. We can narrow the search, concentrate effort elsewhere."

  We stood in the bake shop, where I had returned for coffee and bread for supper. Brandon lowered his voice so that the lady who had come in to purchase a loaf would not overhear. "How long do you plan to search?"

  "As long as it takes," I said. "The rest of my life if necessary."

  He scrutinized me with his piercing blue eyes. "You do know that she might never be found. I dislike to tell you that, but it happens. We saw it all the time in Spain and Portugal, where families would be separated and sons and daughters lost."

  "I know." I remembered the despair and grief of people searching for one another in the Spanish towns we had taken and the sickening feeling that I could do nothing to help them. French soldiers dragged off daughters for their pleasure, sons to recruit against their will. The English, there to drive out the French, had not necessarily been kinder.

  "I know you will not cease," Brandon said. "I will help as I can."

  "Tell Louisa it was not her fault."

  "She is apt to take the blame, especially in matters where you are concerned."

  "Whatever happened to us?" I asked abruptly.

  "Eh?" He gave me a sharp look. "How do you mean?"

  "We used to be fast friends, in the first days, in India. You got me my commission. You pinned the rank on me yourself, smiling like a proud papa. And then . . ."

  Brandon scowled. "And then I realized that you were a stubborn, arrogant, hotheaded pain in the fundament."

  I had to smile. "If you thought so, why did you not cut me? Why help me rise through the ranks? You risked your money and your good name on this arrogant hothead."

  He looked uncomfortable. "Because you were a damned fine officer, that is why. We needed good officers, and much as I hate to praise you to your face, you were one of the best." Brandon loosened his collar. "Besides, if I had dropped you, Louisa would have killed me."

  I wanted to take offense at his words, but there was nothing for it. I laughed out loud. The bread-buying lady stared at us on her way out. "You are a poor specimen, Brandon."

  "You were not married long enough to understand." He gave me a superior look. "When your Lady Breckenridge gets her fingers into you, it is I who will laugh." He nodded to me, then to Mrs. Beltan behind her counter. "I'll be going, Lacey. I will help you search as long as you need me."

  His face a bit redder than usual, he ducked out of the bake shop, slapping on his hat. Any conversation that hinted of sentimentality or reconciliation embarrassed him.

  I finished my dinner and went out in search of Felicity. I found her in Covent Garden, talking to another game girl in the shadow of the theatre. I didn't know the girl's name, but she had often called out to me as I walked in the area, teasing me with her friends.

  "Any good news, Captain?" Felicity asked as I walked away with her after a short exchange of banter with the other girl. "Lela there hasn't seen Black Bess in ages, or anyone who looks like your daughter, I'm sorry to say."

  "Thank you for trying. But I do want to speak to you about something else. May we?"

  Felicity flashed a smile as I gestured her onward as though she were a society lady at a garden party. We made our way toward where an ale seller had set up makeshift benches by laying boards across empty ale kegs.

  I reflected that "exotic" described Felicity well. Her deep brown eyes and bone structure conjured visions of harems of the East, complemented by dark skin and glossy black hair that enticed a man's touch. She showed off each of her advantages, wearing a gown of striking blue that accented her skin, and dressing her hair in heavy braids looped against her head. She could smile with a combination of red lips and white teeth to entrance a man's gaze to her mouth. She did not dress immodestly, but any gentleman looking at her would find his thoughts turning to desire.

  I seated her on a relatively empty bench and sat down next to her. I removed Stacy's journal from my pocket, opened it to a page I'd marked, and held it up so we both could see it.

  "Great happiness," I read in a low voice. "Sn2y3y. Pleasure untold. I have not quite worked out what all the twos and threes mean, but I do understand what he means by great happiness. It's another way of saying Felicity."

  Her eyes were still, but I sensed quick thoughts behind them. "What is this, Captain?"

  "The notes of a man called Stacy. You know him."

  "What if I do?"

  I closed the book and tucked it back into my pocket. "I noticed this entry when I read through it this morning. Strange that I have been looking for a wealthy gentleman who could have lured Black Bess and Mary Chester to Covent Garden. Yet you have never mentioned Mr. Stacy, a wealthy man of Mayfair who likes to talk to game girls and make appointments with them."

  Her gaze flicked from mine. "Maybe I did not want to get him into trouble?"

  "Why should Mr. Stacy get into trouble if he has nothing to do with
this?"

  Felicity shrugged. "I would not like to see him arrested, Captain. He is very rich." She sent me a suggestive smile that did not reach her eyes.

  "He might have kidnapped and killed Mary Chester, and the same fate might await Bess. Not to mention my daughter."

  She laughed, a sultry, seductive sound. Anyone watching us would believe Felicity busy seducing me. "Mr. Stacy wouldn't hurt a fly."

  "Mary Chester is dead."

  "Her hard luck."

  I raised my brows. "You do not care that Stacy, a man you let bed you, might have killed a woman, even accidentally?"

  "And I tell you, he could not have."

  "Why not?" I set my mouth in a hard line. "Explain it to me. Why should I not have Pomeroy arrest him for murdering the girl? He is the most likely person to have done the crime--both women went to meet a wealthy gentleman, and Stacy has admitted a passion for game girls. An obsession, more like, judging by his journal entries."

  "Maybe," Felicity said. "But I tell you, he's a gentle sort. Wouldn't hurt a fly, like I said."

  "But what if a girl refused him? Might he cut up rough? Force her?"

  To my surprise, Felicity laughed again. "You do not understand, Captain. Of course he would not. He never did the job with any of us. He couldn't."

  * * * * *

  Chapter Sixteen

  I blinked. "You mean that Stacy is impotent?"

  "That's exactly what I mean. His wick won't stand up long enough for anything. Poor man."

  "But he has a daughter."

  "He might have been able to do the deed when he was younger. But now, no. Happens to some."

  "Then why on earth does he take all these girls into his carriage?" I asked. "According to his coachman, they stay with him for an hour, while Payne drives through the streets, dead slow."

  Felicity gave me an amused look. "You are obviously a man with no fear in that regard. Mr. Stacy dandles them on his knee and talks to them. He touches them; they touch him. But there is never consummation."