The Glass House (19 page)

As I'd noted at the funeral, Barbury had aged
since Grenville's soiree, his face thin and wan. He wore three
rings, large and loose on his bony fingers.

As I pretended to eat, I grew annoyed again
at Louisa for choosing this of all evenings to tell me to go to the
devil. Grenville's chef Anton was the finest cook in the land, but
I could barely taste his food.

I sat slightly removed from the luxury I'd
been invited to partake in, attempting to keep my mind on the
conversation. Grenville was talking to Barbury about
inconsequential things, and it was damned hard to concentrate. Why
could not Louisa have left the task for another day?

I sipped from the heavy, cut-crystal glass
and tried to pay attention. The table's centerpiece was a small,
black stone obelisk, its base covered with Egyptian picture
writing. I knew full well this had come straight from Egypt, not
from a shop on the Strand that specialized in Egyptian-style objets
d'art.

I idly traced the hieroglyphs as he and Lord
Barbury murmured about some scandal at White's. I wondered what the
writing said. French and English scholars were busily working to
translate it based on finds they had brought back from Napoleon's
somewhat disastrous campaign in Egypt. They had already discovered
that the little pictures were representations of sounds rather than
actual pictures, a writing like Greek or Chinese. I wondered if
those scholars, with their heads down in their texts, had even
noticed that the war was over.

I came out of my reverie to find the table
being cleared of the final course, a chilled sorbet that I'd barely
touched, and Grenville turning to our purpose.

He bade me report on what I had found at The
Glass House, and I roused myself enough to tell them of the attic
room and my conversations with Kensington. I had given Lord Barbury
his letters upon my arrival, plus the one that Peaches had begun to
him. He'd looked at them with great sadness.

When I finished, Barbury declared,
"Kensington is a brute. He always has been."

"He claimed that he brought about Mrs.
Chapman's start on the stage," I said. "Can we assume that he was
more than just her mentor?"

Barbury shook his head. "She never explained
about him fully. If you wish to ask me whether Kensington had ever
been Peaches' lover, I do not know. She never told me. I suppose he
must have been."

"How did he react when she married Chapman?"
I asked.

Barbury studied his port. "He tried to stop
her. God help me, so did I. I wanted to keep her to myself."

"You could have married her," I said.

Barbury looked up, flushed. "I know that. I
did not for many reasons, none of which seem important now. Yes, I
realize that if I had defied convention and married her, she would
be alive today."

He closed his mouth with a snap. I was angry
enough to be pleased he felt remorse. I had become irritated with
Lord Barbury when I'd stood in the room Peaches had inhabited. He'd
had a treasure and not realized it. He'd had a chance to have what
I'd thrown away, and he'd carelessly tossed it aside.

"At the risk of being indelicate," Grenville
said, "why did Mrs. Chapman continue to live with Kensington after
she met you? Is it not usual to find a ladybird a house of her
own?"

Barbury nodded, not looking offended. "I did
find her a house, but she told me she preferred living where she
did, at The Glass House. I cannot imagine why."

Because Peaches had not wanted to be caged, I
realized. Like Marianne, who would rather live in poverty in the
cheap rooms above a bakeshop than in a gilded cage provided by
Lucius Grenville. Peaches must have had a freedom to come and go at
The Glass House that she knew she'd not have with Lord Barbury. I
remembered thinking that the attic room had not felt like a prison;
Peaches had stayed there by choice, and she'd kept the key
herself.

The fact of the key made me wonder anew about
the relationship between Peaches and Mr. Kensington. Exactly who'd
had a hold over whom?

"I read the letter she wrote to you," I told
Lord Barbury. "Mrs. Chapman sounded excited about deceiving her
husband into thinking she would be in Sussex, but she did not
elaborate upon the deception. Did she tell you her plans?"

Barbury shook his head. "She sent me a
message on Sunday, asking me to come to The Glass House. When I
arrived, she told me that she'd tricked her husband into letting
her leave for a fortnight. I was pleased. She begged for us to
attend Inglethorpe's gathering the next day, but I said I could
not." He drew a sharp breath. "I'd already set an appointment to
meet Alvanley at White's to talk about a horse I wanted to buy from
him. And then I planned to attend Mr. Grenville's soiree. I told
her I'd meet her after that. I thought-- " Barbury broke off,
pressing his hand to his eyes. "I thought we'd have plenty of
time."

Grenville tactfully sipped port, and I
studied the hieroglyphs again.

Once Barbary had recovered himself a bit, I
asked him, "Did Mrs. Chapman speak of planning to meet anyone else
for any reason that day? At The Glass House, or elsewhere?"

Barbury shook his head again, his eyes moist.
"No. She chattered on as usual but of nothing significant. She did
not mention anyone else."

I traced a hieroglyph that looked like a
horned snake. "She wanted to go to Inglethorpe's, you say. Do you
know why? Did she mention someone she wanted to speak to
there?"

"No. I tell you, she said nothing. She
enjoyed Inglethorpe's laughing gas, that is all."

"Did she ever speak much to, or about, the
other gentlemen who went there?" I named the five who had attended
Inglethorpe's gathering the same day I had. "Or Lady
Breckenridge?"

"Never. We kept ourselves to ourselves,
Captain. Peaches found Lady Breckenridge rude and a bit stuck up.
But she liked Inglethorpe. She talked to Inglethorpe, and she
talked to me, and that was all."

"You made an arrangement to meet at The Glass
House after the soiree," I said, thinking it through. "Mrs. Chapman
went to Inglethorpe's by herself then returned to The Glass House,
alone, by all accounts, at sometime after four o'clock that day.
She was heard arguing with Kensington--or at least he was shouting
at her--then she departed by the back door, never to be seen
again."

"Lacey," Grenville said quietly. Barbury's
throat worked as he studied his port.

"I beg your pardon," I said to Barbury. "I am
only trying to decide what happened."

Lord Barbury looked up at me, a spark of
anger in his eyes. "I know you must believe I killed her, Lacey.
That I met her in my carriage near The Glass House and took her to
the Temple Gardens to murder her. But I swear to you I did not. I
would never have hurt her, gentlemen, never. I loved her dearly.
She was my life."

He bowed his head again. I wanted to question
him further, but Grenville caught my eye and shook his head, and I
fell silent.

In my mood tonight, I squarely blamed Lord
Barbury for Peaches' death, whether or not he had struck the fatal
blow. He had treated her carelessly, and she had suffered for it. I
knew, watching him, pale and wretched, that Barbury realized that
truth as well.

*** *** ***

After Lord Barbury departed half an hour
later, Grenville blew out his breath.

"Poor devil," he said. "I am certain he did
not do it, Lacey. Alvanley and several others put him at White's
between three and six o'clock that day. He certainly was nowhere
near The Glass House or Middle Temple."

"I agree that he was at White's," I answered.
"But powerful men can hire others to do work that would soil their
hands. Remember Mr. Horne of Hanover Square."

He grimaced. "Yes, he was sordid enough. I
suppose your Thompson or Pomeroy are trying to discover whether
Barbury or Chapman hired a man to kill her."

"Thompson is thoughtful and thorough. If
there is such a connection, I imagine he will find it, eventually."
I drank some port and pushed the glass aside. "There is one more
person I would like to speak to, who might have known Peaches. An
independent witness, if you like."

Grenville looked puzzled "I can think of no
one. Whom do you mean?"

"Marianne Simmons," I said.

Color suffused his face. "I see."

"Is she still in your house in Clarges
Street? Or has she legged it?"

Grenville's flush deepened. "Oh, she is still
there. At least, as far as I know." He rotated his glass, catching
candlelight in the tawny liquid.

"Marianne has been on the stage ten years at
least," I said. "She is bound to have known Peaches at one time or
other. She might be able to tell me something about Peaches'
past--who she knew, what her connections were. Something we might
have overlooked."

"Yes, I understand," Grenville said, his
voice strained. "Very well, let us visit her. We will go on the
moment if you like."

I did like, and so we finished off our port
and left the dining room.

*** *** ***

I ought to have known, of course, that Lucius
Grenville could not simply shrug a greatcoat over his evening
clothes and dash out to his carriage. The suit he wore was meant
for dining indoors, and he had to redress to go out into the
rain.

I accompanied him upstairs, and he summoned
his valet, Gautier, who began to dress him with exquisite care. As
I watched Gautier help Grenville into a new frock coat, Bartholomew
came looking for me. He handed me a folded and sealed letter.

"Fellow delivered this for you."

The paper was heavy, expensive, and had no
writing on the outside. "Why was it brought it here?" I asked in
surprise.

"Don't know, sir. The fellow scarpered before
I could find out."

Grenville watched me in his cheval mirror,
his arms stuck straight out while Gautier brushed off the coat. The
mirror had one rectangular pane of glass that moved up and down
with counterweights, depending on which part of himself Grenville
wanted to view.

I broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Something that had been inside it fluttered to the floor. I leaned
down and picked up what had fallen, then stared at it, my fingers
growing numb.

I dragged my gaze back to the letter. Only
one line was scratched across the page.

"Damn," I said fiercely as I read it. I
crumpled both papers in my fists. "Damn it all to hell."

Grenville, Bartholomew, and Gautier stared at
me in surprise.

The paper that had fallen was my note of hand
with the moneylender. It had been paid, all three hundred guineas
of the debt cleared.

On the other sheet had been written in
careful script: "With the compliments of Mr. James Denis."

*** *** ***

Grenville tried to stop me racing away to
confront Denis on the moment, but I would not be swayed.

"Lacey," he said hurrying down the stairs
after me. "You cannot burst into Denis' house and wave your fist
under his nose."

I did not care. James Denis had been playing
a game with me for nearly a year now, devising tricks to draw me
more and more under his obligation.

He wanted to own me, he'd said, because he
saw me as a threat to him. Denis had located Louisa when she'd gone
missing, learned the whereabouts of my estranged wife, given me
information that had helped me solve not one but two murders, and
now had paid my creditors.

Grenville at least persuaded me to let him
accompany me, along with Bartholomew and Matthias. We rode in
silence to number 45, Curzon Street, and I descended before Denis'
tall, elegant house.

I thought that Denis' minions would stop me
at the door, but I was admitted at once. Grenville and his footmen,
on the other hand, were told to wait. Grenville began to argue,
while Bartholomew and Matthias bulked menacingly behind him.

I left them to it and strode up the stairs
after Denis' footman, who stood taller than Bartholomew and had a
face like a pitted slab of granite.

The footman did not take me to the study in
which I usually spoke to James Denis. He led me instead to a small,
empty sitting room coldly furnished with blue and gold French
chairs. The window was covered with heavy blue draperies that gave
the room a somber air and cut out all noise from outside.

The footman informed me he'd tell Denis I'd
arrived. He smiled, showing me that his canine teeth had been filed
to points. He looked like a coachman turned pugilist, which was no
doubt exactly what he was. He left me alone.

Although a small fire burned on the hearth,
the room was chill. No paintings adorned the walls, which were
covered in ivory silk fabric marked with fleur-de-lis. It was an
elegant room in which no expense had been spared, but the effect
was cold and unwelcoming.

James Denis kept me waiting for the better
part of an hour. I had no idea what had become of Grenville. He
might have been thrown onto the pavement, for all I knew. The
window in the little room faced a bare and dark garden to the rear
of the house, so I did not even have the privilege of looking to
see if Grenville's coach still waited for me.

At long last, the large minion opened the
door and told me to follow him. He led me, not to Denis' study, but
to, of all places, the dining room.

No meal had been laid here. The long Sheraton
table was bare, and an unlit chandelier hung ponderously from the
high ceiling. A few sconces twinkled between the long, green-draped
windows, but again, the room gave the impression that a visitor was
not to become too comfortable.

I wondered what Denis' private rooms were
like. Did he retain the cold elegance of the rest of the house or
had he made them warm and personal?

James Denis was seated at the end of the
table with the firelight behind him. He was a youngish man, perhaps
thirty, with dark hair and dark blue eyes. His face was not
unattractive, though it was thin. He always dressed in well-cut
clothing that was not too ostentatious, rather like Grenville, who
kept a subdued wardrobe of obvious expense.