Murder in St. Giles

  “Will you give your story to a magistrate?” I asked in a gentle voice. “Defending oneself is a different thing from murder.”

  Another tiny nod. “Aye. But please, Captain, don’t tell him. This would kill him.”

  I glanced into the lighted house where Shaddock slumped by the fire, already defeated. I ran my hand across my face.

  “Finch was an escaped convict,” I said. “And a violent man. If he hadn’t died, he’d have continued blackmailing and hurting others.”

  Never mind that he was fond of his daughter and loyal to his closest friend. His solicitude for them and Oro meant he was a complex person, not a good one.

  Mrs. Shaddock studied me, her expression fixed. “What you saying, Captain?”

  Throughout this investigation, I’d been driven by one thing—to make sure Brewster wasn’t executed for this crime. Now I was confronted with the decision of saving him by sending a woman who wanted only to defend her husband from a frightening villain to the magistrate in his place.

  We make our choices, and we have to live with the consequences.

  I’d made many choices in my life and paid the full price for them. Finch had as well.

  “Finch made a lot of enemies,” I said slowly. “I imagine any number of them were dismayed to see him return. Plus, he owed much money to the captain on whose ship he sailed home, and he was having difficulty rounding it up. Also, he knew the secrets of an aristocrat who can’t afford more scandal, an aristocrat who has killed before. There were many people in St. Giles that day. One of them must have thrust a knife into him. Someone quite skilled, I imagine, to hit him so precisely. The magistrates will find many culprits to question.”

  Mrs. Shaddock’s eyes were round. Whether Shaddock had taught her precisely where to strike, or it had been a lucky blow, I was not the one to say.

  Mrs. Shaddock swallowed. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Stay home with him, Mrs. Shaddock,” I finished. “Do not rush about London trying to defend him. He needs you here.”

  She nodded, her lips parted, her cap and hair wet with rain. “I will. I promise.”

  I saw relief in her eyes, but no lessoning of guilt. She’d hold that for the rest of her life. One does not lightly take the life of another, not even on the battlefield.

  I bade her good night, hefted the box of ill-gotten gains, and departed.

  Pomeroy could not have been more delighted with our gift of a box full of Bank of England notes that made his blue eyes widen until they were ringed with white.

  “Love a duck,” he breathed. “That’s what I call a fair day’s work.”

  “If you can lay your hands on one Mr. Leeds, the owner of this cache,” I said, “you’ll find the man who has been embezzling from the Bank of England.”

  “Will I now?” Pomeroy’s smile beamed. “And will I also find the murderer of Jack Finch?”

  “Mr. Leeds is not the culprit for that,” I said. “Though Finch was blackmailing him. Mr. Leeds is a thief who got in over his head. I believe you’ll find the killer by pursuing the henchmen of Captain Steadman or the Earl of Mercer.” Brewster did not murder him.” My last words were firm.

  Pomeroy gave me a steady look. “So you’ve told me.”

  “I know this,” I said. “I will give you my word of honor, Sergeant. , and you know what my honor is to me.”

  “I do,” Pomeroy said, watching me closely. “And I know you never give your word if you do not mean it.”

  “Precisely.”

  He studied me a few moments more before he pursed his lips and nodded. “Right you are, Captain. Mr. Brewster is an innocent man. Of this crime, anyway.”

  I realized it was possible Leeds had seen Mrs. Shaddock shove the knife into Finch. But I would make certain his words were worth nothing, a liar who’d long gotten away with stealing from his own employer. It was unlikely a magistrate would believe him if he tried to incriminate a woman who lived far from the place, in any case, and perhaps Leeds wouldn’t want to admit being anywhere near the dead Finch. Leeds didn’t know Mrs. Shaddock, and her description—a stout female with gray hair—could fit any number of women.

  “And if you can find a bookmaker named Mr. White,” I went on, “I am certain many of his victims will be happy to prosecute him for swindling. He was also involved in the pugilist matches Lord Mercer got up for his guests using convicts from the hulks.”

  “Oho, Captain. So many possible convictions you’re handing me tonight. I’ll collect my winnings and take me girl to the seaside.”

  “Mr. Quimby ought to share in those winnings,” I said sternly.

  “Oh, aye,” Pomeroy answered. “Fair is fair. But Mr. Quimby is enjoying himself arresting Captain Steadman for returning transported criminals, and is talking to Sir Montague about a your Lord Mercer. You’ve made a few Runners quite happy, sir. Tell your lady wife to reward you well.”

  “I’m afraid no one knows where Mr. White is,” I said.

  “No matter,” Pomeroy answered, unconcerned. “I’ll put out a hue and cry. We’ll nab him.”

  He and I shared one more look. He no doubt knew why I’d brought this to him and not to Quimby. Mr. Quimby seemed a man with scruples. I could trust Pomeroy to close the case and bring no more suspicion on Brewster.

  “Good evening to you, Captain,” he said.

  Pomeroy had known me a very long time. “Good evening, Sergeant,” I answered.

  And that was that.

  Spendlove entered as I went out. He gazed at me with his cool blue eyes and I at him. I gave him a nod and tip of my hat, and departed.

  I thought it only fair to tell Brewster the truth. He insisted on accompanying me home—his task to keep me safe, he said. Catching villains was only a happenstance.

  In the hackney, alone, I told him. “I asked Pomeroy to leave you alone, and he will. But if the crime goes unsolved, you could still be fitted for it. Mr. Quimby will likely not cease.” I faced him squarely. “What do you want me to do?”

  Brewster regarded me in his stoic way. “Guv, I’m the first suspected in many a crime. Any who work for His Nibs is. He sees to it that we’re let be. ’Sides, Quimby is a fair bloke. He knows I didn’t do it. Now, if you’re asking if I should give up Shaddock’s wife, I say no. They’re getting on in age, and Finchie were a bad ’un, don’t know matter what. She saved her husband and many another from Finch’s terrorizing ways. If Captain Steadman and this earl get their comeuppance, Finchie will have his justice for Blackmore. And you’ve taken in the dog, and given Em a niece to look after.”

  A long speech for Brewster. He finished, closed his mouth, and peered out the window.

  “I set out to spare you,” I said. “Have I succeeded, or failed? This is the sort of question that will gnaw at me.”

  Brewster turned to me, eyes glittering. “Now, what you on about? You done more for me, guv, than any man alive ever has, except maybe His Nibs. Ye didn’t shove me off on a magistrate first thing and have done. Ye could have stayed in your soft house with your wife and daughter and left me dangling. But ye didn’t. You’re a good bloke, for all I say you’re hard. Which you are. Now, if you want me to get all teary for ye, you’ll be unlucky. That’s an end to it.”

  He turned firmly to the window after that. I sat back into the stiff cushions and made myself remain silent.

  We descended in South Audley street, rather awkwardly. But before he left me on my doorstep, Brewster turned to me, his expression serious. “Thank you, guv.”

  He paused as though he wanted to say more, then he gave a little salute, turned, and disappeared into the night.

  Bartholomew, who’d opened the door, stared aghast at the blood on my coat and waited impatiently for me to come inside.

  “Mr. Lacey is here, sir,” he said. “He’s in the drawing room, with her ladyship.”

  Marcus? What the devil?

  My wounds suddenly hurt less as coldness spread through me. I charged into the ground floor drawing room
to find Donata pacing in agitation.

  “Gabriel, thank heavens.” She gave me a startled once-over, but like Bartholomew was too distracted to ask questions. “Mr. Lacey has just come to tell me that Stanton has retreated from Lincolnshire. He raced straight to the Breckenridge house in Hampshire, and there he squats, like a toad, demanding I give him custody of Peter at once, or he’ll have me arrested for kidnapping.”

  Chapter 29

  Hagen had the coach ready to take us to Hampshire before I could inquire for it.

  Brewster, who’d not reached the end of the street before Bartholomew had passed him on the way to the mews, declared he’d come with us. He sent one of our stable lads down the road to Mr. Denis, letting him know what was happening.

  In a very short time, Donata, Marcus, and I, with Brewster riding with the coachman, were rumbling through London on the way to Hampshire. Gabriella and Anne had been sent to Lady Aline’s with Denis’s men to watch over them.

  I was tense and angry, Donata silent in her worry. Marcus left the two of us alone, so it was a quiet journey. None of us slept.

  It was fifty-five miles to the Breckenridge estate north of Winchester. Hagen changed the horses several times along the way, Donata paying to hire the best Hagen could find.

  We reached Branbury Castle, the centuries-old home of the viscounts Breckenridge, at eight the next morning, a fine spring day. The countryside should have been soothing, with flowers budding on the sides of the road, fields spreading under the open sky, sheep wandering the pastures, spring lambs behind them.

  We rode through the village nearest the manor, a cluster of cottages with thatched roofs around a green and a church with a stumpy spire set off on its own.

  Branbury Castle, which had ceased to be a castle long ago, was now a tall Palladian house of golden brick with a wide portico at its front entrance. The long windows on every side of the house were designed to give all rooms a view of the surrounding park and garden. I’d admired the place when we’d visited briefly last summer, musing that the architect had made the gardens a part of the inner decor.

  At the moment, all doors and windows were closed tightly, shutting out the spring air.

  Donata alighted from the coach, ready to storm inside. I was too slow to stop her, but Brewster put his bulk between her and the door.

  “Best not, your ladyship,” he said. “Let us go in first.”

  “He will not keep me out of my own house,” Donata snapped. “He is trespassing.”

  “He might be trespassing with a pistol,” Brewster said, not moving. “Easy to remove you as a threat if he shoots you through the heart.”

  Donata glared at him. Brewster’s intervention had allowed me to reach her, Marcus just behind of me.

  “Very well, I take your point,” Donata said sourly. “Perhaps one of you gentlemen should go ’round to the back to make sure the rat doesn’t run from his burrow.”

  She had ceased referring to Stanton as a person. He was a rat, a toad, a snake …

  “I’ll go,” Marcus said, and strode away.

  I stepped in front of Donata and started to lift the door knocker, but Donata stopped me.

  “Do not bother. They know we’re here, and the servants ought to open the door for me—ought to have done so when the carriage was approaching. I never bother with keys, and I’ll not knock as though I have to request admittance.”

  Brewster looked up at the many rows of windows. “Might stand here a while then.”

  “Then we do,” Donata said in a hard voice.

  It was perhaps two minutes. We heard the sound of bolts drawing back, and then the door creaked open and the castle’s stately majordomo peered out.

  Atherton had more haughtiness in him than any crown prince, definitely more than Britain’s own. His silver hair was cropped close, his suit as fine as anything Grenville would wear.

  “Your ladyship,” he said, bowing with a coolness that belied the situation. “Mr. St. John has arrived. He is in the dining room.”

  “Thank you, Atherton. If the chef is here and not visiting his father, perhaps he could scare up some breakfast? It has been a long journey.”

  “Of course, your ladyship.”

  Atherton waited until Donata and I had entered the large square hall, dominated by a wide staircase of polished walnut, before he withdrew to the backstairs.

  I tried to move ahead of Donata and prevent her from entering the dining room at all, and Brewster pushed past us both. He flung open the door and charged inside, sidestepping so that any frontal attack might be thwarted.

  Stanton waited on one side of the long table, but he did not hold a pistol. No weapons were in sight, though I did not trust him not to have one tucked into his coat.

  A second man was just rising from a chair, a sheaf of papers on the table before him. The dining table was a long affair of golden wood, its chairs of the delicate Hepplewhite style. The furnishings went well with the lofty ceiling and the wide French windows that let in the light to make the wood glow.

  The second man wore a serviceable suit of a blue tailcoat and dark trousers, his cravat simply tied. I had no idea who he was.

  “Good morning, Stanton,” Donata said in a ringing voice. “Please get out of my son’s house.”

  “Mrs. Lacey,” Stanton said, emphasizing the Mrs. The lack of Lady anything—Lady Breckenridge as her widowed name or Lady Donata, her courtesy title as the daughter of an earl—was his feeble attempt at discrediting her.

  “This is a bailiff,” Stanton went on, indicating the man in the blue coat. “He is here to deliver these writs that banish you from the house and to arrest you unless you reveal where Peter St. John, the rightful heir, has been hidden by you and your new husband.”

  “I know who he is,” Donata said tartly with a glance at the man. “Breckenridge used Mr. Pimlott all the time.”

  Pimlott, a small but solidly built gentleman with a square face and supercilious air, did not look worried.

  “Can you produce his lordship, my lady?” Pimlott asked her. Behind him, Brewster began to quietly unlock the French windows. Pimlott glanced at him, but turned to Donata for her answer. Stanton ignored Brewster completely.

  “Of course I can,” Donata said haughtily. “But not for Stanton.”

  “Mr. St. John has made a case for the adoption of young Lord Breckenridge,” Pimlott went on. “And a case for you and your husband absconding with his young lordship and endangering him.”

  Donata began, “As though I’d harm my own son—”

  Her words cut off as I charged around the table and caught handfuls of the front of Stanton’s coat. I was exhausted, worried, and angry, had been beaten by a young, energetic, and very good pugilist, and stabbed by him to boot, and I was in no mood to listen to Stanton bleat.

  “I told you what would happen if you dared threaten my wife again,” I said in a voice full of ice.

  Stanton’s eyes gleamed even as I shook him. “Yes, you would challenge me. But dueling is illegal. A hanging offense if you kill me.”

  “You will hardly be in the position to be concerned. You tried to kill Robert St. John by damaging his cabriolet, didn’t you? Attempted murder will not go down well with the magistrates.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Stanton said loudly, though the corners of his mouth whitened. “You have no proof of that, Lacey, whereas I have proof that Peter has been abducted.”

  “I will have proof,” I snarled, but I knew I had none. Though Brewster had inquired at Robert St. John’s stables, no one had seen anyone tamper with Robert’s vehicle.

  “I advise you to let him go, Captain,” Pimlott said calmly.

  “You little worm,” Donata said to Pimlott. “You throw in your lot with whomever you believe will win. When I am finished with you, you will have to flee to Canada before anyone will employ you again.”

  One of the French doors opened, and Marcus stepped quietly inside. Stanton caught sight of him in the mir
ror over the sideboard and stared, eyes bulging. I made them bulge a bit more by jerking him up onto his toes.

  “I see how you deceived me,” Stanton spluttered. “Good Lord, it’s a doppelgänger.”

  “He is my cousin,” I said. Who had once tried to kill me, but I did not mention that. Cousins were dangerous things.

  “Someone is coming,” Marcus said quietly.

  A moment later a black coach rolled to a stop, not at the front door, but beside the dining-room windows. A liveried groom leapt down and opened the coach’s plain but polished door.

  Out stepped Lucius Grenville, and behind him, James Denis.

  Stanton looked confused as he hung in my grasp. The bailiff watched without expression as Brewster opened the door so that first Grenville, and then Denis could step inside.

  Several brutish-looking men, who’d ridden on the outside of the coach, followed Denis. They arranged themselves before the windows, one moving to the open dining-room door.

  “Good morning, Grenville,” Donata said, as though she were receiving expected callers. “Mr. Denis. Atherton is rounding up some breakfast for us. Will you partake?”

  “Would love to, my lady,” Grenville said. “It is a tiring ride, even in the best of conveyances.”

  Denis said nothing. He studied the tableau before him and made a motion to me with his gloved hand.

  I released Stanton, but I didn’t do it gently. I simply opened my fingers and let him fall. He stumbled and clutched a chair, coughing.

  “I am surprised to see you both,” Donata went on. “Quite a long way from London to look us up.”

  Denis frowned at her continued pretense. “Mr. St. John,” he said in his cool voice, “it may interest you to know that you are being sought by the Runners for arrest. Robert St. John has accused you of attempting to kill him.”

  Stanton put his fingers to his twisted cravat and tried to laugh. “You ought to have arrived five minutes earlier, sir, whoever you are. I have told the bailiff that there is no evidence to bring against me.”

  Denis regarded him calmly. “There is evidence. The man who cut the linchpin on Mr. St. John’s cabriolet at your request has confessed. He is wanted for numerous crimes, and has been given the option of transportation rather than hanging if he will testify against you. Which he will do.”