Lady Breckenridge also sent me an invitation, in the form of a personal letter, to listen to a new poet, a shy young man who needed introduction to society. She would have a gathering at her house to ease him and his wife into the right circles. She would be pleased if I would attend, and she assured me I would enjoy his poetry. "It is exquisite," she had written, "rather like Lord Byron, so intelligent and rich, without the bitterness or the airiness of the frivolous Mr. Shelley."
I had begun to realize that Lady Breckenridge, for all her enjoyment of flirting with scandal, had fine taste and the ability to locate it in obscure places. She almost had a nose for it, like a hound who could find the choicest grouse lost in the reeds.
I responded, telling her I would be most pleased to accept.
I also received a packet from Rutledge. To his credit, Rutledge had paid me in full for the three weeks I'd been in his employ. My heart lifted slightly. I could certainly use the funds.
His letter, brief and gruff as usual, said he'd found another secretary, thank you very much. "The new fellow has said that he found everything in order. Despite your shortcomings, he tells me you were somewhat efficient. Rutledge."
I tossed Rutledge's letter aside, not surprised at his tone.
More significantly, I also received, later that day, a hand-delivered message from James Denis.
My pulse quickened as I broke the seal and opened it, and still more when I read the words.
"I found Jeanne Lanier and had her brought back to London. She is more than willing to speak to you and your magistrate. Please attend us this evening at six o'clock."
I folded the letter, grimly cheerful, and ordered a hackney to Curzon Street.
* * * * *
Chapter Nineteen
Jeanne Lanier looked fresh and neat when I greeted her in the front drawing room of Denis' house. Her dark hair was sleek, her dress clean, in no way betraying that she'd fled to Dover and been dragged all the way back by Denis' men. Her face, however, was lined with worry.
Like the rest of his house, Denis' drawing room was elegant, austere, and cold. Jeanne Lanier rose from a silk covered settee as I entered. She looked quite surprised, then relieved, to see me.
"Captain," she breathed.
I bowed to her. "Madam. Are you well?"
She nodded, though her eyes flickered nervously. "Quite well. Mr. Denis has been courteous."
"Indeed, Mr. Denis can be very courteous," I agreed.
The corners of her mouth trembled. "I do not quite understand why I have been brought here. Am I being arrested?"
"Not at all. I asked Mr. Denis to find you. I wagered that he could more quickly than the Runners, and I was right."
She looked confused. "You asked him?"
I gave her a nod. "You see, I believe Frederick Sutcliff murdered the groom Middleton, as well as the tutor, Simon Fletcher, and attempted to murder Lucius Grenville. But I have no evidence of this to present to the magistrate. Sutcliff's father is a rich and powerful man. If I have no proof, how difficult would it be for him to convince the magistrates that I am either a madman or persecuting Sutcliff for my own ends? However, you can provide me with just the evidence I need to bring about his conviction."
Her face had gone white during my speech. "I see."
I stepped closer to her. "If you help me, I can help you. I have a friend, Sir Montague Harris, who is a magistrate. He is here. If you tell him the truth, he has promised to believe that Sutcliff coerced you and concede that you are not at fault in this matter."
Jeanne sat down abruptly. Her pretty face was strained. "Captain Lacey, I am French, I am a woman, I am alone in the world. I am not a fool. A magistrate will have no sympathy for me."
"He will," I assured her. "He has promised this, as a favor to me."
She gaped. "Why? Why should you ask him to spare me?"
"Because," I responded, my voice hard, "Frederick Sutcliff stabbed Grenville and I want him arrested. And I believe that you helped him because you were dependent on him and had no choice."
Her gaze fell, her dark lashes brushing her cheeks. "I had a choice," she said softly. "I could have left him, or betrayed him."
"Then where would you have gone?"
She would not look at me. "I do not know. I do not know where I will go now. You have narrowed the choices for me."
"He is a murderer," I said.
She lifted her head, and I saw a hardness in her eyes that matched the hardness in Marianne's. Both women had to grasp for their survival; Jeanne Lanier simply did it with more grace. "If I will not speak, then I face possible arrest for helping him. But if I betray him, then I betray myself. What man will hurry to protect me if he knows I will not remain loyal?"
I allowed myself a smile. "Gentlemen, madam, can be amazingly obtuse."
I remembered sitting in the shabby parlor in Hungerford while she conversed with me. In that hour, she had made me feel as though I were the only person in the world who interested her, the only person with whom she wished to be. She had a gift for making any man she faced believe that. I was willing to wager that she could make a man believe that however much she'd betrayed Sutcliff, she'd never betray him.
She met my gaze but did not return the smile. "Well, Captain, I will see your magistrate. I do not love Frederick Sutcliff, and what he has done is abhorrent to me. I will speak."
"Thank you," I answered with sincerity. "I will see to it that you do not regret it."
She smiled at me then. I was struck again by her gift, and I found myself wishing that I could personally ensure that she never regretted anything in life again.
Instead of saying anything so foolish, I bowed to her, then left the room to summon Sir Montague.
*** *** ***
Sir Montague Harris seemed to be enjoying the novelty of an invitation to the house of James Denis.
He limped into the drawing room and seated his bulk in the chair a footman brought forward for him. The footman arranged a footstool for his gouty leg, then poured out a glass of port to place at his elbow. The footman poured port for me as well, and offered Jeanne a glass of lemonade, which she declined.
The same footman also assisted Matthias and Bartholomew in settling Grenville. I'd known Grenville would be furious if I did not let him attend the interview with Jeanne Lanier, and so I'd sent for him. I also believed that he deserved to hear the truth. Sutcliff would have killed him if he'd been able.
Grenville sat back in his chair, I supposed calling upon his sangfroid to hide the fact that he was in pain. Dark patches like bruises stained the skin under his eyes.
Denis himself arrived last. He nodded coolly to me, took the port his footman handed him, and sat in a straight-backed, armless chair, the least comfortable-looking seat in the room.
"Mr. Denis," Sir Montague beamed. "I compliment you on your lovely home."
Denis gave him a nod, irony glinting in his eyes. Sir Montague turned his gaze to the paintings and other objects of artwork in the room, clearly speculating on whether they had been procured by not-so-legal means. Denis ignored him.
He sent a cold nod in the direction of Jeanne Lanier, who watched him, apprehensive. "Captain, please ask your questions."
I moved uncomfortably. I had hoped that Sir Montague would interview Jeanne Lanier, but the magistrate merely drank port, a smile on his face, and motioned for me to carry on.
"You told me," I began, addressing her, "that Frederick Sutcliff came to you the night of Middleton's death at a little after ten o'clock. I do not believe that is true. What time did he actually arrive?"
Jeanne plucked once at her skirt, then she raised her head and looked at me with clear eyes. "He arrived at a little before midnight. I let him in through my bedroom window. He climbed the tree outside."
I remembered the thick tree growing near that window; Jeanne had waved at me through its branches one afternoon.
She went on. "He was laughing and shaking, nearly half-crazed. He had blood on his hands
and quite a lot on his coat. Blood was splattered over his face."
"What did he say to you?" I asked.
"He said, 'I've done it. Now the money need be shared only two ways.'"
Sir Montague nodded thoughtfully. Denis remained cold and still.
"What did he do then?" I prompted.
"He removed his clothes and washed himself. He asked me to hide the clothes for him. He kept a second suit in my room. I do not know whether he'd put it there for this purpose or simply to have it on hand."
"Did he tell you he'd killed Middleton?"
"Not then." Jeanne flushed. "He was in quite a buoyant mood, laughing and talking feverishly. He did not quiet until very early morning, and then he rose and left me. But the next day when I saw him, he was calmly triumphant. 'None know who killed the groom,' he told me. 'And none will know. The magistrate is a fool.' Since that day, he often boasted to me how cleverly he'd done it."
"He was not ashamed at all, then?" I asked softly.
"No, Captain. He was proud."
Denis gazed at her, his face unmoving, but I saw the anger in his eyes.
"What happened was this," I said for Sir Montague's and Denis' benefit. "Sutcliff runs after Middleton the night of the murder. He might have seen Sebastian leaving the school as well, and had the idea to push the blame for the crime onto the Romany. He probably paid Thomas Adams to pretend to overhear a quarrel between Sebastian and Middleton."
Grenville broke in. "Middleton must not have seen Sutcliff as a threat, if he agreed to go with him to the place where you found the knife."
"No," I said. "It was foolish of him, but he'd been a man feared for his strength for so long, he likely did not think a nineteen-year-old boy could best him. Or perhaps he'd had the thought to thrash Sutcliff himself. But Sutcliff takes him by surprise and cuts his throat. Sutcliff drops the knife in the dark and bundles Middleton in the rowboat he's secured there for the purpose. It is late and dark; the bargemen would have moored for the night or gone to find a pint in the nearest tavern. Sutcliff dumps Middleton's body into the lock, hides or abandons the boat somewhere down the canal, and races to Hungerford to meet with his mistress."
"A moment," Grenville said. "If Sutcliff did not arrive until twelve, what about the landlady, who claimed she heard the bed frame squeaking and all that, well before midnight?"
"It was Marianne who'd told me that," I said. Grenville flushed, although he did not look very surprised. "But, she could not swear she heard both of them. How difficult would it be for Jeanne to shake the bed and make the expected noises? One does not like to listen to such things; one is embarrassed and tries to ignore it. You were alone in that bed," I said to Jeanne, "until Sutcliff arrived near to midnight."
"Yes," she said simply.
"Did he ask you to destroy his clothes?" I went on. "Either by burning them or tossing them over the railing of a ship heading for France?"
"He did not specify. He only told me to get rid of them."
"And did you?"
She pressed her lips together a moment, then answered. "No. They are still hidden under a board in the Hungerford house."
Sir Montague Harris took a long gulp of port. "Ah, excellent. You are a clever young woman."
Jeanne shook her head and sent Sir Montague her winsome half-smile. "Not clever. I could not decide how to destroy them without calling attention to myself. Cloth burning in a fireplace smells foul, and I did not want to risk being arrested in Dover carrying a man's suit with blood on it."
"Most excellent," Sir Montague repeated. "I will dispatch a Runner to find them. Do you believe, Captain, that your former sergeant Pomeroy would be interested in such a commission?" His eyes twinkled.
"I believe it would interest him greatly," I answered. Pomeroy, a tall, solid, bluff man, once my sergeant and now one of the famed Bow Street Runners, liked nothing better than an obvious piece of evidence. He would arrest Sutcliff with glee.
Denis' face was as hard as marble. I could feel his anger at Sutcliff, and I reasoned that Sutcliff would be lucky to be arrested by Pomeroy. Pomeroy would make sure that Sutcliff was punished by the full force of the law, but Denis' retribution would be far more frightening. I remembered the coachman who had displeased Denis in the affair of Hanover Square. He'd dispatched that man without turning a hair, and he had not been as angry then as he was now.
Grenville fingered the stem of his glass. As though understanding the tension in the room, he went on with his questions. "What I do not understand is why? Sutcliff and the others were making a nice little fortune on their canal scheme. Why kill Middleton and Fletcher and end all that?"
"Because," I said, "Middleton was preparing to report everything to James Denis."
"Indeed," Denis answered, the word tight.
Grenville nodded. "I believe I see."
"Denis' servant told us that Middleton was growing weary of living in the country," I said. "He was a city man, for all his love of horses. And working for Rutledge is trying, as I came to know. Perhaps Middleton wanted out, perhaps he was ready to tell Denis about it, perhaps preparing to turn over the scheme to him."
"And so Sutcliff killed Middleton," Grenville said slowly.
"And Fletcher knew he did," I went on. "He must have known, perhaps threatened to reveal all. So, Sutcliff was forced to kill Fletcher, as well."
"Poor man," Grenville said feelingly.
"Fletcher must have been excellent at drawing people into the swindle. Who could resist hardworking, friendly Fletcher? If Fletcher had thought I had money, he likely would have tried to persuade me to invest. If he had not been distressed by Middleton's murder by the time you appeared, I imagine he would have begun persuading you, as well. I liked poor Fletcher, but he certainly fleeced quite a few people."
Grenville frowned. "But why on earth did Sutcliff burn Fletcher's books? To frighten him? It seems to have made Fletcher terribly angry instead. Remember how he thrashed Sutcliff that day?"
Sir Montague leaned forward, listening avidly. Jeanne listened, but she kept her eyes on the carpet, her posture neutral, as though she had no interest in the rest of the story.
"Sutcliff burned the books because he knew that Fletcher kept the contracts hidden in them. He went to Fletcher's rooms, stole the books, set them alight, and chucked them into the quad. Rutledge assumed it was just another prank--Sutcliff knew he would. But Sutcliff's motive was twofold, to destroy the incriminating papers, and to warn Fletcher to keep quiet about Middleton."
"But he missed a book."
"Yes, the one Fletcher kept hidden in his robe. Sutcliff must have been looking for that on the night he killed Fletcher. Perhaps Fletcher surprised him, or perhaps they quarreled, or perhaps he'd intercepted my note to you telling you to ask Fletcher about canals and knew the game was up. Sutcliff told Jeanne to get ready to depart with the money for France, then he returned to the school and went to Fletcher. After he killed Fletcher, he looked for the book, could not find it, knew the household would be stirring soon, and fled back to the Head Master's house. But he ran into you in the quad returning from Hungerford. Panicked, he stabbed you as he ran past you and into the house."
Grenville scowled. "The little bugger. He ruined my suit."
"Hang your suit," I said evenly. "You are lucky you aren't dead. Sutcliff is a murderer, and I do not intend to let him get away with it."
"Nor do I," Denis said coolly.
"He'll be arrested," Sir Montague said. "We'll pin it to him, a murderer and a blackmailer, too. Madame Lanier, you may have to give evidence in court, but if we find the blood-covered suit, it will help a great deal."
"I will show you where it is," Jeanne said, raising her head. "But Captain Lacey told me-- "
"I know what the good captain told you," Sir Montague said. "Yes, madam, if you help us, I will help you. I have given my word."
He clicked his glass to the table and heaved himself to his feet. "Thank you, Mr. Denis, for your hospitality. I will send for
Pomeroy, and we will depart for Berkshire. Madame, if you will remain here until I return from Bow Street?"
Sir Montague, for all his bulk, could move swiftly and decisively. I also believed that he wanted his hands on Sutcliff and the evidence in case Denis, in his anger, decided to act on his own.
Denis, too, rose and bowed coldly. "I will provide your transportation, Sir Montague. Captain, will you remain behind? I wish to speak with you."
As if responding to a cue, his servants came forward, removed the port glasses, and opened the doors. Our gathering was at an end.
Sir Montague stumped out of the room, a smile on his face. The servants helped Grenville from his chair. He moved slowly to the door, his form upright, his face white with pain. Matthias and Bartholomew hovered near him, but he walked out of the room without assistance.
Only Jeanne Lanier remained, fixed on the settee. Denis said nothing to her. I wanted to linger and thank her, but Denis ushered me out and closed the doors before I could so much as say good-bye.
*** *** ***
Once upstairs in his study, Denis seated himself behind his desk and motioned for me to sit down. A refreshment of brandy was offered, and I declined it.
"I wanted to speak to you privately," he said without preliminary, "to thank you for clearing up this matter for me."
He might have been speaking of my having thwarted a minor piece of gossip at a garden party. I inclined my head. "I wanted Sutcliff found out."
"I imagined," he said, "that you would discover the murderer's identity and a manner in which to gather the proof sooner than the magistrates, and you did not fail me. I am pleased at the outcome."
"Grenville nearly died," I said, tight-lipped. "I want Sutcliff to pay for that."
"He will. Captain, you can understand my anger about Middleton, because it matches yours about Grenville. Sutcliff had no right to do what he did."