Point of Honour (26 page)

The Bow Street agents came in with the bluff certainty of men who expect their office will inspire dread. They were dressed alike in rusty black with the red waistcoats common to all Runners; the two waistcoats were different shades of red, one a bright yellowish vermilion, the other a dark scarlet. The kerchiefs tied about their necks were alike in their grubbiness; they might once have been white, but would surely never be so again; and the soles of their boots were caked with mud which flaked off upon the new-swept floor. They gave their names as Penryn and Hook, and took positions, one to the left of the door and the other to the right, as if to forestall any attempts at escape.

“Good morning, gentlemen. May I offer you tea?” Miss Tolerance asked politely.

The Runners exchanged a look; this was clearly not the expected reaction to their presence. The third man, who stood in the doorway surveying the room, spoke for the three of them.

“It is kind of you to offer, Miss Tolerance, but I doubt we shall be here long enough to require it.” His voice was dry.

She had somehow expected, from his name and position, that Sir Walter Mandif would be bluff, red-cheeked, and beefy, with a booming voice and an impatient eye. The man who had entered behind the Runners was slightly built, not above medium height, with light hair brushed back from a high forehead in defiance of the current style, and a long nose which emphasized the length of his face. His demeanor was unexceptionable, his dress gentlemanly but not exquisite, and his gaze shrewd.

He bowed. Miss Tolerance curtsied and begged him and his companions to sit. These preliminaries observed, Sir Walter spread the tails of his coat and sat upon the settle. The Runners continued to stand, frowning down at her.

“You are inquiring into Mrs. Smith’s death, sirs? How may I be of help to you?” Miss Tolerance asked.

The shorter of the Runners stepped forward and took a notebook from his pocket. He flicked through the pages and read from words he had obviously written there himself. He had a strong West Country accent: hard esses and tormented vowels. “Zeems as you was the last person to see the deceased Mrs. Smith alive.”

Miss Tolerance responded serenely, “I cannot say that I was, Mr. Penryn. She was certainly alive when I left her one day, and as certainly dead when I returned the next. But the last person to see her alive is surely the person who killed her.”

From the settle, Sir Walter said, “I take it you disclaim that honor?”

“Utterly.” Miss Tolerance did not smile.

“But you did see the deceased two times in two days,” Penryn said. “You ain’t denying it.”

“Not in the least, sir.”

“And what call ’ad you to be going out to Leyton twice in two days?” the other Runner broke in. By the evidence of his voice, he was London born and bred, and unlikely upon principle to believe anything Miss Tolerance said.

She sipped at her tea and took that moment to order her thoughts. “On the first day, I visited Mrs. Smith on the suggestion of Mrs. Cockbun of that town, to whom I was referred by the tapster at the Queen’s Arms. I was in hopes she could assist me in an inquiry I was making. We spoke briefly and then I left. On my second visit, I had made the trip to retrieve something of mine I had left there by accident.”

“And the nature of that property?” Sir Walter regarded her blandly. He might have been discussing fishing, or the price of wax candles.

“A riding crop.” Responding to the magistrate’s expression of polite doubt, she added, “It was a gift from a dear friend, now deceased; I have it here if you would like to see it. I rode straight to Mrs. Smith’s, found her dead, and reported it immediately to the justice of the peace.”

Sir Walter referred to his notebook and nodded. “A Mr. James Gilkes. He tells me that you seemed uncommon interested in searching the deceased’s household.”

Miss Tolerance smiled with a blandness to match Sir Walter’s. “Does he say so, sir? Perhaps that was only in comparison with his own lack of interest in the matter. I hoped to find evidence. Mr. Gilkes appeared to be in hope of his dinner.”

For the first time in the interview, Sir Walter Mandif’s smile conveyed sympathy. “He struck me very much the same way, Miss Tolerance. Did you also detect a certain distaste for the victim, based upon his notion of what she had been?”

And for myself, based upon what he believed I was
, she thought, but said only, “I did indeed, sir.”

Sir Walter nodded but did not pursue the matter of Mr. Gilkes further. “You waited upon Mrs. Smith on Tuesday morning, and returned the next day at about the same hour?”

“A little earlier the next day, I believe.”

“And in the time between, what were you doing?”

Miss Tolerance thought back. “I stopped first at the Queen’s Arms to send some wine and food to Mrs. Smith and Mrs. Cockbun, to thank them for their help. I returned to this house, did some shopping in Bond Street in the afternoon, had a brief interview with a client that evening, and went to bed. It was not until the next morning I realized where my crop was, and then I returned to Leyton.”

“There are people who saw you during this time?”

“There is a woman in my aunt’s employ with whom I went shopping; I am sure she will tell you we spent the afternoon together. I cannot give you the name of my client, sir, but there are servants here who can tell you that I had a visitor.”

Mandif nodded. “That will do for now. One last thing, Miss Tolerance. May I inquire about your business with the late Mrs. Smith?”

“In a general way I can tell you I was hoping she would help me to locate another person, a retired woman like herself.”

“You cannot tell me more specifically?”

Miss Tolerance shook her head and did her best to indicate her heartfelt regret. “It was upon a matter of business, and I undertake to preserve the confidentiality of all the inquiries I make, sir. To tell you more about my business with Mrs. Smith would be to risk breaking my word.”

Sir Walter closed his notebook and regarded Miss Tolerance squarely. “Yours is an unusual occupation, ma‘am. ’Tis not often one hears a woman refusing to tell a secret.”

“’Tis not often a woman’s livelihood depends upon her ability to keep counsel, sir,” Miss Tolerance said.

Hook and Penryn conferred in whispers by the door, but did not share their conclusions with the magistrate. Without turning, Sir Walter asked Penryn if he had taken down the witness’s statement in the entire, and when the Runner said that he had, Sir Walter rose to his feet.

“This matter is not yet closed, ma’am. You should hold yourself available for further questioning, should the need arise.”

At the same time that she was assuring Sir Walter Mandif that she would happily do so, Miss Tolerance marveled at the brevity of the interview and its relative civility. “You may always find me here, or through my club, Tarsio’s. Sir Walter, is a murder in Leyton not outside of Bow Street’s jurisdiction?”

“We were retained to look into it by a neighbor of Mrs. Smith who dislikes the notion of robbery and murder upon his doorstep. I cannot say that I blame him.”

“And did this neighbor direct you to me?”

“Indirectly, Miss Tolerance. You spoke to the captain’s wife, who directed you to Mr. Gilkes. It was Mr. Gilkes who gave us your name.”

“Not the Viscount Balobridge?” she asked.

“Balobridge?” Sir Walter seemed genuinely surprised. “The politician? No, why would he? I have not the honor of Lord Balobridge’s acquaintance.”

Now it was Miss Tolerance’s turn to smile blandly. “I am delighted to hear it, sir. The viscount had asked me for information which I could not provide to him, and he threatened to lay information with Bow Street about my involvement in the matter of Mrs. Smith’s death.”

“And how the devil did he know of it? Well, permit me to put your mind at ease upon this point, Miss Tolerance. Bow Street is not in the custom of fulfilling threats, even for such notable peers as Lord Balobridge.” Sir Walter bowed again and left, with the Runners falling into step behind him, a quite military parade through Mrs. Brereton’s quiet garden.

T
he morning mail brought a letter from Versellion which enclosed the note she had given to Mrs. Virtue to guarantee the purchase of the fan. Across it the words
Obligazion Redemed
had been written in small black capitals, and the initials F.V. Miss Tolerance was shocked to realize that in the turmoil of the last several days, she had completely forgotten the marker; being reminded of the obligation by its redemption was pleasant indeed. Also in Versellion’s letter were banknotes—“against the expenses of further inquiry.” Miss Tolerance at once sat down with her counts-book, wrote the sum in, and struck off a number of expenditures against it. That done, she sent a note to the stables to arrange for the hire of a horse, changed her clothes, and set off for Greenwich and Mrs. Deborah Cook, once Deborah

Cunning, to authenticate the Italian fan for good and all.

As Miss Tolerance had expected, Mrs. Cook was not only at home, but delighted to see her. Her round face beamed as she sent the maid for tea and cakes. They waited, talking of unexceptional things. When the tea had been brought and poured out and partly consumed, Miss Tolerance took the fan from her pocket and presented it to Mrs. Cook. The older woman opened the fan and smoothed its silk with tender fingers before she looked up, her eyes bright with sentimental tears, to announce that it was indeed the fan she had been given by Versellion’s father five-and-twenty years before.

Miss Tolerance thanked the woman, slipped the fan back into her pocket, and asked casually if there had ever been any secret history attaching to the fan. Mrs. Cook denied it, although her romantic soul clearly longed to be able to answer in the affirmative.

At last Miss Tolerance took out her pocketbook and extracted several of Versellion’s banknotes from it.

“But my dear—” Mrs. Cook’s pretty, broad face flushed, and the frills on her head rustled as she shook her head. “This is
twenty pounds
. I cannot accept such a sum for the very little assistance I have given you.”

Miss Tolerance smiled. “And I cannot give less,” she replied. “It was my client’s expressed desire.” She told the lie without hesitation. “To compensate you for any pain these recollections might cause you. But you must promise me that you will not spend it all on cakes and novels.”

Mrs. Cook shook her head, briefly speechless. She offered again to share the largesse with Miss Tolerance, who refused with thanks. Shortly afterward, Miss Tolerance made her adieus and left.

She rode back to London, meditating upon the fan in her pocket. What was it about that gaudy, pretty thing that could cause two deaths and such turmoil? It was an expensive toy, to be sure: silk, gold, and diamonds. But she had found no secret other than that odd Italian note, and that was certainly of a more recent vintage than Versellion’s family mystery. Miss Tolerance realized now that she had been hoping that Mrs. Cook would deny that this was her fan—then at least they would have known that the mystery was still soluble, that the real fan, if found, would yield up the secrets for which Mrs. Smith and Matt Etan had died.

The fan in her pocket bounced gently against her thigh with each step her horse took. Was the secret only a fever dream of Lady Versellion’s? Had Mrs. Smith and Matt died to secure that secret or to keep it hidden? Had she and Versellion, in three days of scrutiny, missed some clue in the fan itself, some code or secret writing? That smacked entirely too much of the overblown romances Mrs. Cook favored, and Miss Tolerance could not bring herself to believe it. Had a secret been removed from the fan by one of its owners—Humphrey Blackbottle or the redoubtable Mrs. Virtue? Had that secret been exchanged for the extraordinary letter on Italian horticulture that she and Versellion had found hidden in the hollow stick?

Miss Tolerance looked up and realized that she had not yet crossed the Thames. She was within easy distance of the apartments where she had once met Humphrey Blackbottle. With a frown of distaste for the neighborhood, the house, and the gentleman himself, Miss Tolerance turned her horse toward Blackbottle’s rooms and Clink Street.

Thirteen

D
aylight made no improvement to the environs of Clink Street. The streets which by moonlight had been pitch-dark and empty were, in the light of day, still shadowy, but packed with people and their works. If the bills that plastered every wall were any indication, the citizens of Southwark were martyrs to dangerous ills of every sort, for which cures were urgently advertised. Local amusement was not limited to drink and venery; Miss Tolerance sidestepped an argument between the owners of two cocks set to peck each other’s eyes out later for the gratification of the crowd. The scent of food from the cook shops mingled unpleasantly with the smells of offal and ripening garbage. The door to Blackbottle’s Clink Street establishment stood open, presumably to let in any breeze. Miss Tolerance could not but wonder what effect the smells admitted thereby had upon custom.

When she entered the house, she found little evidence that anyone but herself minded the stench. A few girls sat in the parlor, fanning themselves wanly. The doorkeeper—a different person from the fellow who had attempted to rob her on her last visit—sat just inside the door, balanced so far back on the legs of his chair that Miss Tolerance expected to see him fly backward, arms pinwheeling, at any moment. When he saw her, he immediately straightened up, glowering.

“We don’t serve
your
sort,” he said.

Miss Tolerance smiled politely. “What sort is that?” she asked.

His eyebrows drew together and he frowned more fiercely. “She-mollies. Bully girls.” Where the other doorkeepers at Blackbottle’s establishments had by moonlight seen no harm in Miss Tolerance’s man’s dress, this fellow clearly thought it an abomination of the deepest stripe. “The girls here are
good
girls,” he growled.

“I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear it, sir,” Miss Tolerance said. “You set my mind greatly at ease. If Mr. Blackbottle is available, I have some business with him.”