A Mystery at Carlton House

  “Exactly. With the confusion, who is to say what on the market is real and what is a copy?” I swept my hand over the ledgers. “Higgs was keeping careful track of every piece in the collection, starting with Cosway’s notes and then making his own. Here, I found another inventory indicating which pieces in the collection might be fakes. There are whole pages about what might be questionable items.” I pulled a ledger to the top of the pile as I spoke and leafed through it. “Except this handwriting is not Higgs’s, or Cosway’s.”

  “No?” Grenville leaned forward to examine what I pointed at. “Whose then?”

  I did not answer directly. “These ledgers were hidden in a drawer with a false bottom. If Higgs had discovered that someone was slowly stealing the collection, he might want to keep it quiet until he was sure, yet keep track of what was coming and going—asking a trusted person to make the notes for him.”

  “Or Higgs was stealing it himself.” Grenville voiced the words I did not want to say. “But he didn’t seem the sort. Besides, Cosway told me Higgs did not work directly for the prince. The king employed him—Higgs worked most of his life at Windsor. He was sent to Carlton House to take over from Cosway and more or less keep an eye on the prince’s extravagance.”

  “Which he did quite well,” I said. “His books from a few years ago are impeccable, and he has not spent much money on the collection. But a man can be tempted. Higgs had his finger on every piece, and here he is, working for a presumably modest salary alone in the bowels of this house, surrounded by brilliant works of art worth a bloody fortune.”

  “You make me quite worry about my own collection,” Grenville said uneasily. “I have a man help me keep inventory of it. But why would Higgs do this, Lacey? He seemed most distressed about the thefts. And, someone killed him.”

  I sat back. “Before I came in here tonight, I thought he’d been killed because he’d realized that the prince’s artwork was slowly being replaced by copies. But if you examine the list in this ledger, made by someone not Higgs, these things have been missing or moving for the last eight months. Why, then, did Higgs wait so long to send for the Runners? I suspect that once the prince finally noticed something odd was happening, Higgs was forced to bring in the Runners—and you—at the Regent’s behest. He didn’t dare refuse.”

  “I suppose.” Grenville looked unhappy. “I hate to think it, though. I liked Higgs. He seemed a competent, capable man.”

  “So did I, and I hope I am wrong. But then I found this letter, tucked into the lining of one of the ledgers.”

  I reached for the paper I’d left on the desk and smoothed it out. The letter was to Higgs and dated October of last year.

  Mr. Higgs—I write to you in a hurry from my lodgings in Amsterdam and apologize for my brevity. But I have found here in a house the exact copy of a painting that hangs in the west antechamber in Carlton House. I was looking for the sculpture the Regent wanted, and I was directed to a collector, a wealthy merchant who has warehouses all over the world. The painting is on his wall.

  He claims it is authentic, so I thought to ask you whether the prince’s had been sold to him. I thought not, but I have been gone some weeks in my travels. Please advise me whether this is the case.

  I do not like to tell this gentleman his painting is a forgery when I am trying to flatter him into selling the sculpture, but I likewise cringe at the thought of telling His Highness that his is the forgery. I leave this matter in your hands and will await your instruction.

  My hasty regards,

  Sebastian Floyd

  Chapter 18

  “Mr. Floyd.” Grenville blinked at the page. “Good God.”

  “The very man sitting in Newgate waiting to go to trial,” I said.

  Grenville looked at me, his dark eyes distressed. “You will have to tell Spendlove. At once, before the poor fellow is hanged.”

  I folded the letter and thrust it into my pocket. “I intend to. Also to interview the man. I have to wonder why Spendlove has been reluctant to take me to see him.”

  “Because he knows Floyd is not guilty?”

  I wondered. Spendlove must know I’d discover the truth of Floyd’s innocence or guilt—he could not believe I’d suppress evidence that showed the man had done nothing.

  “No matter,” I said. “I will talk to Pomeroy and convince him to take me to Newgate.”

  Grenville huffed a laugh. “Be careful how you phrase that. And by convince, I assume you mean bully, as captain to sergeant.”

  “If I must. Pomeroy has little liking for Spendlove. He will not mind if Spendlove has no suspect to put in the dock.”

  “Mr. Floyd is innocent of murdering Mr. Higgs, at least,” Grenville said. “Who did that, I wonder?” He glanced about as though worried the person would spring in and have a go at us.

  “If Higgs had nothing to do with the thefts but had found out who did, and decided to confront the thief himself, that might explain his death. Or, if he truly was in on the thefts, perhaps he had a falling out with another thief, or perhaps he was having a crisis of conscience.” I sighed and closed the ledgers. “I will know more when I speak to Mr. Floyd. I believe I’ll take these with me.”

  I stacked the ledger that contained speculation that certain pieces were copies on top of the one with lists of the missing or moved objects. Higgs had not bothered to show us the list of objects believed to be copies, nor had he mentioned Floyd’s letter. That sang of his guilt, or at least his complicity, quite loudly.

  Grenville gave me a hesitant look. “Would you mind interviewing Mr. Floyd alone? I want to spend the rest of the night and on into tomorrow looking for Marianne. I want to assure myself the dear girl is all right, no matter whether she wants to come home with me or not. I thought she might return to her old rooms in Covent Garden, but she is not there. I’ve sent a letter to Berkshire, in case she fled there, though I don’t believe she’d wish to lead Dunmarron to David.”

  I shook my head, recalling the snippet of conversation I’d overheard between Rafe Godwin and his cronies in the library. “I have an idea of where she is. I might be wrong, but it’s worth a look.”

  Grenville blinked at me. “Good Lord, Lacey. Where?”

  I told him. Grenville looked surprised, then thoughtful. “It is possible. I shall go there, then.”

  He made ready to spring up on the moment but I lifted my hand. “I believe I should go,” I said. “Even if she’s not there, I may gain a better idea of where she’s hiding.”

  Grenville sank down again. “You mean I should not be seen rushing about London chasing my escaped ladybird? I hardly care about such things at the moment—I only want to make sure she is well.”

  “No, I mean because she might be afraid Dunmarron will find her again, if he follows you. Let me speak to her and see that she is safe.”

  “If she is safe,” Grenville said unhappily. “What is Dunmarron playing at?”

  “I’m not certain.” On our way here tonight, I’d told Grenville about my encounter with Dunmarron at Brooks’s, with Donata filling in the more interesting details. “He seemed very annoyed Marianne had foiled him but showed no intent of pursuing her. But I don’t know the duke well, so he might have been feigning his dismissal of the game.”

  “I doubt it,” Grenville said. “Dunmarron is not a subtle man. There’s a reason we call him the Duke of Dunces.”

  “I believe he has more intelligence than you credit him. Cunning, rather, if he is as dull as you say.”

  “Possibly.” Grenville moved restlessly in the chair. “Why on earth should he try to take his revenge on me now for relieving him of a dancer when we were just down from university? I hardly stole her—she’d had enough of him, and I offered an escape.”

  “Biding his time?” I suggested. “Awaiting an opportunity to humiliate you? It is well known that you are more fond of Marianne than your other mistresses.”

  “More fond …” Grenville turned a look of astonishment on me. “Is that your
assessment?”

  “The world’s assessment,” I said gently. I had long ago recognized in Grenville the symptoms of a man helpless.

  “Do not mock me, Lacey. You know I’ve fallen in love with the wretched woman. Cupid’s arrow strikes where it will.”

  “It struck me,” I admitted. “I decided not to resist.”

  “Not to resist?” Grenville’s eyes flashed amusement. “My dear friend, Donata would not let you resist.” He heaved a sigh. “As the Bard says, The course of true love never did run smooth.”

  “He had the right of it,” I answered with conviction.

  * * *

  I need not have worried about Donata. When I went upstairs, she was surrounded by admirers, ladies and gentlemen both, guarded by the dragon of Lady Aline Carrington, who’d known her from babyhood.

  I did not like to tear Donata away when she was enjoying herself, and Grenville was immediately pulled into conversation, so I walked about looking for the items Mr. Floyd had listed as suspected copies. Damned good copies as far as I could see, as I studied them. I wondered who the forger was, and wondered if Denis knew. Talent like this would draw his notice.

  At three in the morning, I fell asleep in the large round room on the first floor, a beautiful chamber of precise proportions. A crowd had gathered here as well, but my chair faced the window, and I allowed myself to doze off.

  Grenville found and woke me, and we adjourned to Donata’s carriage. He was going on, he said, to another do, accompanying Lady Aline in her coach. I saw in Grenville’s eyes that he longed to rush out and discover if Marianne was where I believed her to be, but he was trusting my judgment in the situation.

  He said good night to us and departed. Donata had also been invited to the next entertainment, but she’d made her excuses and chosen to return home with me.

  Once our carriage started, Donata drooped against my shoulder, the Egyptian diadem in her hair scratching my cheek. “Heavens,” she said. “When I was at my father’s house this winter, I thought I’d die of ennui, but at the moment, Pembroke Court seems a quiet and peaceful retreat.”

  I reached to her lap and clasped the hand she’d laid on it. “I thought you were having a fine time playing merry hell with the prince’s friends.”

  “Yes, but I enjoyed such things much more when I was younger. Then, I was defying Breckenridge. I feel no need to defy you.”

  “That is a mercy.” I caressed her gloved hand. “We never finished our quarrel,” I reminded her in a low voice.

  “No?” She turned her head to look up at me, her shawl, which she’d resumed, rustling. “I thought we had. Which quarrel do you mean?”

  I lifted her hand and pressed it to my lips. “Do we have so many we must differentiate them? The one this afternoon. I grew distracted at the end. What I wanted to say in conclusion was that I am happy with Anne, and Gabriella, and Peter, and do not need a horde of male children worshiping at my feet to feel whole. From the way my own father and I went at it, and from the bullying the lads did at school—not to mention in the army—I conclude male children are horrible creatures and not worth the trouble. Peter excepted, of course.”

  I’d had time now and a calmer mind to compose the speech. Donata’s eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  “Gentlemen can be fairly horrible, can they not?” she said. “That lot tonight would try a saint’s patience.”

  “Ladies are much more to my taste.” I pressed another kiss to her hand. “I want to assure you, my wife, that you can tell me anything, especially when it is of this importance. I have no wish to put you aside, no wish to blame you for something that is not at all your fault. I am not Breckenridge. I know it is difficult for you to grant me your trust, but I ask it.”

  Donata drew a long breath. “I ought to have given it to you. But I was ashamed and afraid, and I hoped—I so hoped—the surgeon was wrong.” Her voice became faint. “But he is not, is he?”

  “I do not think so.” I gentled my tone. “I am sorry.”

  “As am I, Gabriel. I was a coward.”

  “Never a coward, my love,” I said. “You are as brave as a lion.”

  Donata turned her face up to me and touched my cheek, and we ceased speaking for a long and interesting moment.

  * * *

  The next morning I forwent my early ride to take a hackney to Bow Street.

  Brewster appeared as soon as I walked out of the South Audley Street house. He accompanied me across the city, but he elected to wait in my old rooms in Grimpen Lane while I went around the corner to the Bow Street magistrate’s house.

  “Not going in there,” Brewster said firmly as he descended from the hackney at the top of the cul-de-sac that was Grimpen Lane. “Not Newgate neither. ’Tis bad luck.”

  “I understand.” I gave him a nod.

  A wise decision—I could imagine the patrollers or Runners deciding to hold Brewster at the magistrate’s house in case they could pin an unsolved theft on him.

  Brewster gave me a warning look from where he stood on the ground, his hand on the carriage door. The coach rolled a bit, the horses and driver impatient. “You don’t need to be going to Newgate neither, guv. Mr. Spendlove is too anxious to see you there. He’ll have the turnkey lock you in and not let you out.”

  “I will have to risk it,” I said.

  Brewster growled something, slammed the door, and waved the coach on.

  A short way up Russell Street, the hackney turned to Bow Street and let me off before numbers 3 and 4, the magistrate’s house for this area.

  I found Pomeroy easily upon entering by the bellow of his voice. Milton Pomeroy had been a sergeant under my command on the Peninsula—fearless, hard on his men, and adamant about bringing those men through battle alive.

  He had blond hair that this past year had begun to darken, wide blue eyes, and a muscular body now showing a bit of fat in the belly. Pomeroy liked his meat and drink.

  “You want to go to Newgate?” The question boomed through the lower hall where the unfortunate were waiting to stand before the magistrate. Pomeroy’s eyes twinkled. “I can accommodate you there, Captain.”

  “I’d hoped to keep it quiet,” I said, pained.

  “Not to worry. Spendlove ain’t here. Was out all night chasing down thieves and had to take to his bed in exhaustion once he brought them in. Let me finish a task or two, and we’ll go.”

  I did not have to wait long. Pomeroy let me sit in his room upstairs where I paged through the Hue and Cry, looking at the notices for criminals wanted far and wide.

  One entry caught my eye: Stolen. Three small paintings of ladies, ovals on ivory with gold frames, taken from a market stall in Southwark last Thursday week.

  I thought of the market where I’d found my statue and wondered if these paintings mentioned were the missing ones from Carlton House—or forgeries of them. And if so, why should someone steal them from the market stall? Or did this have nothing to do with the prince’s collection?

  Pomeroy came to fetch me while I was pondering and waved at me to follow him. When we were out on the street, Pomeroy striding for a hackney, I asked, “Where does the information come from for the Hue and Cry?”

  Pomeroy turned to look at me in puzzlement, saw that I was lagging, and slowed his pace. “All over. We take reports from patrollers, and the magistrate turns in a list. Then it’s sent to whoever collects the lot and it’s printed. Why do you ask? Want to find someone?”

  “Not at the moment. Does it do any good? The newspaper?”

  Pomeroy shrugged. “Sometimes. Informs chief constables all over the country about who we’re looking for so they can bang them up and let us come for them. Or stolen goods. Or missing persons, gone for whatever reason.”

  “If there were Runners and patrollers in every city, people might get found faster, wouldn’t they?”

  Pomeroy snorted. “There’s nothing wrong with things as they are. Reformers will have us living with police everywhere, a man afraid to go o
ut of his house in case he’ll be arrested for the smallest thing. Not what we need in England.”

  Reform of the existing establishment or creating a new system of policing came up in every Parliamentary session. So far, the idea had been met with resistance. Most men did not want a regular police force, such as they had in France and other Continental regimes, treating every citizen as a potential criminal, they said, curtailing liberty.

  Pomeroy was correct that the Runner system was effective—a small body of men to investigate crimes and travel outside of London to retrieve a suspect—aided by patrollers who could chase a villain or help those in need. I doubted there would ever be much change. Overarching police reform bills had been killed again and again, and I imagined they always would be.

  A hackney took us along Drury Lane up to Holborn. From there we dropped down Holborn Hill, which segued into Skinner Street and Snow Hill, and stopped near the corner of the Old Bailey and Newgate Street. Here Newgate prison stood.

  I never liked coming here. Prisoners were executed in the yard on Mondays, so that Sunday they could repent and pray for their souls. Those stuck here awaiting their trials could watch the sinner be led out to the scaffold, hear the final words of the condemned, and the creak of the gears and the rope as he dropped to his doom.

  Thankfully, it was not a Monday and the scaffold was empty. Even so, its reminder chilled me as we walked inside, Pomeroy cheerfully greeting all and sundry.

  The turnkey, a sullen man I remembered from when I’d visited my regimental colonel after his arrest, trundled up a flight of stairs, bidding us to follow. His keys clanked as he let us into one of the more commodious private cells. The chairs in it were old but upholstered, the bed thick with covers, and a fire blazed in the hearth. The desk was heaped with books and papers, and an inkwell and pen tray lay neatly among them. Not the best surroundings, but a man would not freeze here in the February cold.

  The gentleman inside, seated at the desk and writing on a sheet of paper, looked up, then came abruptly to his feet, his face creasing in dismay.