The Glass House (16 page)

"Indeed." Sir Montague gave me another nod
and smile. "You have done well over this. We will close The Glass
House yet."

I felt pleased he thought so, but I wished I
shared his optimism. James Denis was powerful and did not
relinquish things easily.

Sir Montague and I took leave of each other
then, he promising to keep me informed of what he did regarding The
Glass House. He tipped his hat and strolled away, his walking stick
tapping the pavement in a cheerful staccato.

I turned away, thinking to make for a hackney
stand and home, and found my path blocked by the large bulk of
Bartholomew.

"Hullo, sir. Mr. Grenville says, will you
please join him for a meal at home. He wants you to hear my news."
Bartholomew winked. "And I have a lot of it, sir."

* * * * *

Chapter Ten

Indeed, Bartholomew looked almost ready to
burst. But he manfully held it in and helped me inside Grenville's
carriage, slamming the door and leaving me alone with
Grenville.

The carriage, warm and smelling of heated
coal, rolled away even before I'd seated myself. Grenville gave me
the barest nod then looked out of the window, pretending interest
in the black landaus, hackneys, and carriages scraping by us.

He was displeased with me, and I had a good
idea why. I merely said, "Thank you for the invitation to dine. I
look forward to hearing what Bartholomew has to say."

Grenville finally turned from the window and
looked me up and down, brows together. "For God's sake, Lacey, why
did you give me that bank draft?"

I knew he'd become high-handed about the
three hundred guineas, and I was not about to let him.

"To replace what you gave Kensington at The
Glass House." I said. "Do not dare to try to return it to me."

"You know I cannot accept it. I paid that
money to assist with the investigation. And if it helped take that
little girl out of The Glass House, it was worth it."

"Perhaps," I said. "But I have no wish to be
in debt to you. I've paid the debt, and that is the end of the
matter."

Grenville glared at me. "You are bloody
stubborn and too damned proud, Lacey."

"I know that. Plenty have been happy to tell
me so."

We regarded each other steadily, he in his
impeccably tailored suit not a week old, me in my worn clothing
topped with a frock coat that had been his gift to me last
September. I appreciated all Grenville had done for me, but I'd
come to know that he rather liked to own people, and he used his
forceful generosity to do so.

"I don't want to quarrel over this, Lacey,"
Grenville said.

"Than accept the money and have done."

He stared at me for another angry moment then
stiffly changed the subject, but I knew he'd open the argument
again when he could.

"Mrs. Chapman's funeral is today," he said.
"Barbury sent me word."

"The coroner has released her body, then," I
said. "I would like to attend. It will be interesting to see who
appears."

Grenville said he'd come with me, and we fell
into strained silence. Fortunately, the drive to Grosvenor Street
was short.

Matthias let us out before Grenville's house
and Bartholomew ushered us inside. Not long after that, I sat in
Grenville's dining room eating the fine repast his chef, Anton, had
created for us. Grenville spoke lightly on neutral topics--Anton
took offense if we discussed anything that pulled too much
attention from his cooking.

When we'd finished, Grenville bade
Bartholomew and Matthias sit with us and share their findings. The
two big lads cleared the table, served us port, and sat down to
slurp glasses of bitter and rest their elbows on the table in a
comfortable manner that was in no way impudent.

Bartholomew pulled a paper out of his pocket,
words on it written in careful capitals, and handed it to
Grenville.

"Mr. Inglethorpe's cook is a relation of my
aunt's husband," he said. "She's quite chatty--the cook, I mean. So
was Mr. Inglethorpe's footman. I also talked to some of the slaveys
of the men who were at Inglethorpe's Wednesday afternoon. I wrote
it all down, so I wouldn't forget."

"Excellently done," Grenville said, smoothing
the paper on the table. "Let us begin with Robert Yardley. Who said
today he remembered the walking stick but not whether anyone took
it. Most helpful of him."

Bartholomew took a drink of ale. "Mr. Yardley
is a bachelor, sir. Lives in Brook Street. Has only one footman,
who is a country oaf in satin."

"Would Yardley be likely to stab Inglethorpe
through the heart with a sword?" I asked.

Bartholomew rubbed his nose. "Wouldn’t think
so, sir. Not much wherewithal, I'd say. According to his footman,
he likes a soft chair and a footstool, and his cup and saucer
handed to him even when it's on the table right next to him. Mr.
Yardley was at home yesterday afternoon, so his footman says, at
the time in question."

"Unless the footman is lying for him,"
Grenville said. "Now, what about Mr. Archibald Price-Davies--who
saw nothing, knows nothing? Another helpful gentleman."

"Friend of Mr. Yardley," Bartholomew said
promptly. "Likes horses, don't talk of much else." He chuckled.
"Got Mr. Grenville into a corner one afternoon and plagued him
about nearly every horse in London, wanting his opinion and
such."

Grenville grimaced. "I remember."

"So, a nuisance full of his own opinion," I
said. "But a murderer?"

"Could not say, sir. Maybe if he and Mr.
Inglethorpe disagreed about a horse."

"An unlikely motive for murder," I said.
"Although any of them could have exchanged heated words with the
man and killed him in a fit of rage."

"Mr. Price-Davies was at Tattersall's,
yesterday, all day," Matthias said. "If you can believe his
groom."

"Very convenient," Grenville said. "Next is
Lord Clarence Dudley. I know him but only in a vague way. Different
schools."

"Marquess of Ackerley's youngest brother,"
Bartholomew said. "Would not do anything to mar his manicure, I
would say. And I hear he is an unnatural."

Grenville and I exchanged a glance. So had
Inglethorpe been. Grenville said, "At the inquest, Dudley claimed
to have been at home in bed until three."

"Certainly he was," Bartholomew answered, and
chuckled. "His valet says with the next gent on your list."

Grenville raised his brows, consulted the
paper. "Arthur Dunstan. Truly?"

"Mr. Dunstan goes about everywhere with this
Lord Clarence Dudley. If you see what I mean, sir."

"No wonder they both mumbled a bit about
where they'd been," Grenville said.

"Last gent I asked about is Mr. Carleton
Pauling, MP," Bartholomew said.

"I know him a bit better than the others,"
Grenville said. "But I haven't the remotest idea whether he would
kill Inglethorpe or why."

"He is a radical, sir, at least that's what
everyone says," Bartholomew said. "I suppose a radical could be a
murderer. Except he was in Parliament that afternoon. Plenty of
people saw him there."

"Yes, so he said at the inquest," Grenville
said.

A drop of ink had puddled on the
C
of
Mr. Carleton Pauling. "So, they each have alibis," I said,
"confirmed by their servants. Unless one of them is lying and has
convinced their servants to lie for them."

"So where does that leave us?" Bartholomew
asked after another slurp of ale.

"Nowhere," I said. "At least not yet.
Bartholomew, you have done very well. Thank you. Could you and
Matthias prevail again upon these gentlemen's slaveys and discover
for certain whether any of the gentlemen or their servants picked
up my walking stick? And whether any were acquainted with Mrs.
Chapman?"

Bartholomew nodded. Matthias looked eager
too, ready to render me assistance. To them, this was
adventure.

There was not much more to discuss. Grenville
sent Bartholomew and Matthias off, and he and I made our way to
Peaches' funeral.

*** *** ***

The sky had clouded over by the time we
reached the burial ground of a church near Cavendish Square, but at
least it did not rain. The vicar, who looked uninterested in the
whole proceeding, waited while the mourners approached the
grave.

There were not many. Mr. Chapman stood
stiffly near the vicar, rigid and displeased at missing his
appointments. A thin woman stood next to him, looking enough like
him that I guessed she was Chapman's sister. A prim-looking
gentleman waited next to her, likely the sister's husband.

I spied Lord Barbury, wearing unrelieved
black, his hat pulled down to hide his eyes, standing near the
railings that separated the churchyard from the street. A little
way from him, in the shadow of a tree, I saw, to my surprise, Mr.
Kensington. He gave me a belligerent stare.

Grenville and I stood not too near the grave,
so we would not intrude on the family, but close enough to pay our
respects. The vicar, conceding that no one else would appear,
opened the Prayer Book and began.

He went through the lines in a hurried
monotone, with the attitude of a man who wanted to get out of the
cold as quickly as possible. Chapman stared at the ground, his
mouth shaping the responses, while his sister and husband spoke
them loudly and clearly. "Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have
mercy upon us."

The vicar concluded the service, said the
blessing, shook Mr. Chapman's hand, and disappeared into the
church. The sextant silently began the task of filling in the
grave.

We approached Chapman, who looked in no way
pleased to see us. "My condolences, sir," I said.

"I have nothing more to say to Bow Street,"
he snapped.

He eyed me in an unfriendly manner, but I saw
a bleak light in his eyes behind his habitual stiffness. Despite
the self-righteous looks his sister and her husband wore, Chapman
might actually mourn his wife.

"I did not come representing Bow Street," I
said. "But to say that I am truly sorry for your loss. Mrs. Chapman
was too young for such a fate."

Chapman scowled and did not answer.

Chapman's sister glanced at the sextant, who
was plying his shovel to the rich, black earth. "Blood will out, I
always said." She sniffed. "And it did."

Not the most tactful thing, I thought, to
tell a man who had just buried his wife.

"A gentleman named Simon Inglethorpe died
yesterday," I said to Chapman. "In Mayfair. You might have read of
it."

"I have better things to do than read the
newspapers."

"He was an acquaintance of your wife," I
said. "Did you know him?"

Chapman bathed me in a freezing glare. "She
apparently had many acquaintances."

"I have an idea that the same man who killed
Inglethorpe also killed Mrs. Chapman."

"That is the magistrate's business."

Chapman started to walk away, but I stepped
in front of him. "Your wife was murdered, sir. I would think you'd
be interested in discovering the culprit."

He looked at me in dislike. "Of course I wish
to discover the culprit. But I have been a barrister for many
years. I know that murderers are foolish people who do foolish
things to give themselves away. The Bow Street patrollers will find
him soon, and then I will prosecute." He gave me and Grenville a
cold bow. "Good day to you, sirs."

He took his sister's arm and stalked away.
The sister's husband, silent but radiating disapproval,
followed.

We watched as Chapman passed first Lord
Barbury then Kensington. He made no sign that he recognized either
of them.

Kensington had remained under his tree,
staring toward the grave, as though lost in thought. Grenville and
I held a low discussion then I made my way to Kensington, and
Grenville approached Lord Barbury.

Kensington watched me as I walked to him,
leaning on the walking stick. His eyes flickered when I stopped in
front of him, but he stood his ground.

"You lied to me," I said.

"Do not be indignant with me, Captain. You
were the one breaking the windows and the furniture in my house.
You have crossed a person who does not like to be crossed. It will
be costly to have the window replaced."

"I do not give a pig's ear about your window.
I asked you to show me Peaches' chamber, and you took me to the
wrong room."

He gave me a self-satisfied look.
"Correction, Captain. You asked me to show you where she and Lord
Barbury met. And I did."

"I want to see the other chamber, the one in
the attics."

"You cannot, I'm afraid. It is locked, and
only she had the key."

My hand tightened on my borrowed walking
stick. "I do not quite believe you haven't found means to enter the
room. Let us visit The Glass House and try, shall we?"

Kensington looked slightly alarmed but
remained stubborn. "You cannot force me to do anything, and you
know it."

"I can always summon a magistrate. Sir
Montague Harris has wanted to look at The Glass House for a long
time."

"You should have a care, Captain. You do not
know your danger."

"I have some idea of it," I said dryly. I'd
had run-ins with James Denis before. "What did you and Mrs. Chapman
argue about the day she died?"

He looked startled. "Argued? Who said
that?"

"You shouted at her, and Peaches laughed.
What was the row about?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I did shout something
at her. Amelia could be quite a bitch, if you must know."

"She is lying dead not twenty feet from
here," I said. "Keep your remarks respectful."

"That does not change what she was, Captain.
I knew her when she was eighteen years old and first in awe of
London. I know everything there is to know about her, never mind
her husband or her lordship lover."