The Glass House (31 page)

"Indeed. The Berkshire countryside is quite
lovely," he said. "It will be pleasant for you to leave the city
for a time."

I did not bother to answer. I drank more
brandy, trying to wash the smoke out of my throat.

Denis often made me angry, and once before
he'd had his men beat me in order to teach me a lesson. He wanted
me to believe that he was much too powerful for my anger to reach.
He saw everything, knew everything, did whatever he wished. I'd
told him once that I would stop him, and so he tried everything he
could to draw me into his net. He was right; I trifled with
dangerous people.

"What of Kensington?" I asked him.

"Mr. Kensington has been delivered to your
magistrate friend," Denis answered. "He was a fool; he ought to
simply to have run."

"I am surprised you let him live," I
said.

Denis shrugged. "I rid myself of him once;
now your magistrate will do the deed for me."

And it did not hurt James Denis to
occasionally do a favor for a magistrate.

Denis finished speaking after that and gazed
out of the window at the rain-swept night. Lady Breckenridge raised
her brows at me, but was wise enough to say nothing.

We returned first to Mayfair and South Audley
Street, where Lady Breckenridge was assisted from the carriage by a
very worried Barnstable and two hovering, crying maids. They got
her into the house in short order and slammed the elegant door.
Then Denis, very courteously, took me home.

*** *** ***

At eleven o'clock the next morning, a hackney
drew up in Middle Temple Lane. I, Sir Montague Harris, and Mr.
Thompson of the Thames River patrol emerged from it. We traversed
the lane, walking past gray buildings, barristers in robes, and
pupils with thick books hurrying after their masters, or striding
alone, freely.

We made our way from the Middle to the Inner
Temple and looked up Sir William Pankhurst and his pupil, Mr.
Gower.

Mr. Gower, as always, seemed happy to see me.
He had smudges under his eyes and ink stains on his fingers,
evidence that his new mentor liked him to work. I asked if he could
stroll with us to the Temple Gardens. My plan, I said, was to have
him stand where he'd stood smoking the cheroot on the night of
Peaches' death. Perhaps he's seen something he didn't remember
seeing.

Because Sir William was out conferring with
colleagues in King's Bench Walk, Gower agreed readily enough.

Our way was slow, in deference to Sir
Montague's labored stride and my still-aching knee. Bartholomew had
arrived at my rooms this morning quite upset that he'd missed my
adventures, and had made up for it by fixing me a scalding bath,
massaging my leg, bringing me beefsteak for breakfast, and
generally fussing like a nanny until I'd ordered him to stop.

Sir Montague and Thompson had come for me
after I'd eaten and dressed, and Thompson had informed me of his
results in querying Lady Jane's coachman.

The Thames was as gray and faceless today as
it had been one week ago, when I'd first seen Peaches. Clouds were
rolling in, blotting out the blue sky of Sunday, enclosing the city
in another gray haze. We stopped at the top of the Temple stairs
and watched the river roil below.

"A coachman this morning told Mr. Thompson
that he brought Mrs. Chapman to Middle Temple last Monday
afternoon," I said. "Let her off in Middle Temple Lane. Which was
mostly deserted, I imagine, with everyone at dinner."

Gower nodded. "Would have been, yes."

"It was an excellent hour," I said, "in which
to meet her."

The lanky youth simply looked at me.

"That's the truth," Thompson agreed. "It was
just dark. Everyone would be eating or diligently finishing his
work. Or smoking cheroots," he added, with a grin at Gower.

"What did you see?" I asked him.

Gower stared across the river into the mists
slowly consuming the buildings on the far bank. His brows drew
together, then he shook his head, his face open.

"Nothing. I'm sorry, gentlemen. I smoked,
grew cold, and bolted back inside."

"Hmm," I said.

Gower shrugged again. His long arms stuck out
of his robe to reveal the coat sleeves that Grenville had
noticed.

"I find it interesting," I said. "You told us
that you'd come to Middle Temple to apprentice because, you said,
someone in your family needed to make money. Yet, Mr. Grenville
identified your suit as being made by a fine tailor in Bond Street.
He was much impressed. Very few men can afford a suit that would
impress Lucius Grenville."

Gower shrugged, looking pleased. "I had a
windfall. Had a flutter on the races and made a packet. Spent it
all on fine living."

I watched him, and so did Thompson. Sir
Montague kept staring at the water.

"You would make a fine barrister, Mr. Gower,"
I said. "You have a smooth answer for every question. What if I ask
you one point blank--did you meet Mrs. Chapman here last Monday
afternoon? And ask her for money?"

Gower met my gaze easily, his blue eyes warm
and friendly. "Why do you ask, Captain?"

"Because I believe you did. And I believe
that you killed her."

Gower at last lost his smile. The freckles
stood out on his face in dark patches. "Why should I? I barely knew
the woman."

"Because Mrs. Chapman kept her share of the
profits from The Glass House in her attic room, a sum that ought to
have been substantial. Yet, when a man broke in after her death and
stole her money box, he found it disappointingly empty. He assumed
that she'd spent it all, but I do not think so. While I found a few
trinkets and fripperies in her rooms, there were no jewels or
anything very expensive--nothing a middle-class woman living on a
barrister's income could not buy for herself, or have given to her
as a gift. Mrs. Chapman wore no jewelry when she died, only a
keepsake ring belonging to her lover. But The Glass House was one
of the most popular houses in town--the wealthiest of gentlemen
went there. She must have made quite a lot of money from it. So I
wonder, where has all that money gone?"

"Perhaps this bloke that broke into her room
stole it," Gower said. "Killed her too."

I touched the collar of Gower's fine coat. "I
think, instead, that some of it went to a Bond Street tailor."

"What did you blackmail her for?" Thompson
asked.

Gower looked back and forth between us. "You
have no evidence that I did."

"Life with Chapman was dull, you told us," I
said. "I imagine the tedium in his rooms made you look for ways in
which to entertain yourself. I am not certain how you discovered
Mrs. Chapman's secrets, but you did. Did you threaten to tell her
husband that she had a lover, or to tell him about The Glass House?
Either would suffice. Chapman could have her arrested for adultery,
or if he did not want that humiliation, he could at least restrict
her movements and make certain she never saw Lord Barbury again. He
also could have demanded the money she made from The Glass House,
taken it from her, forced her to end what had become a lucrative
business. In short, Chapman could make her life with him even more
miserable than it already was."

Gower didn't look worried. "What was between
Chapman and his wife has nothing to do with me."

"Perhaps not at first. How
did
you
find out about Mrs. Chapman's life, by the bye? From your
university friends who might have known Lord Barbury? From research
into such dull subjects as trusts for Chapman? Or, was it another
reason? She was a pretty young woman. Perhaps you fancied her, and
she snubbed you."

"She had a lover, didn't she?" Gower said,
belligerent. "Yes, Mrs. Chapman was pretty, so I followed her
about. I saw her with her lover one night, her dressed like a
high-flyer, his arm around her waist, them billing and cooing.
Wasn't that interesting? I thought. Poor old Chapman."

"So you blackmailed her," I said.

"Not right away. I followed her for nigh on a
sixmonth, until I knew every single one of Mrs. Chapman's dirty
little secrets."

"Blackmailers always come to bad ends,"
Thompson remarked. "The law frowns on it, you know."

"Why did you kill her?" I asked. "If she was
keeping you in fine suits?"

Gower looked stricken. "I didn't. She only
gave me money a few times. It's not like I bled her dry."

"She came here to see you last Monday
evening, just after dark," I said. "You met her in the
Gardens--here--and she gave you another payment. Perhaps you
quarreled, perhaps she threatened to tell Lord Barbury, perhaps she
told you she'd already informed him of everything. Perhaps you
panicked and killed her to keep her quiet."

Gower shook his head. "You're wrong. I never
killed her. She was angry with me, right enough. She told me it was
for the last time."

"What did you do then? Did you strike her? Or
perhaps you asked her for more than money, and killed her when she
refused you?"

"She slapped me." Gower's eyes sparkled in
outrage. "Acted like she was better than me, her an actress and a
tart. So I slapped her back. Then Mrs. Chapman flew at me, ready to
claw my eyes out. It was raining hard. She slipped and fell and
came crashing down on the steps. She gasped once, and then she just
lay there."

He stared down at the steps, looked
bewildered, as though he still saw her body crumpled in the
rain.

"Why the devil didn't you run for help?" I
demanded, holding onto my temper with effort.

"She was dead already. Besides, if I’d gone
for help, I'd have had to explain what I was doing out on the
Temple Stairs with Chapman's wife. I didn't want Chapman to sack
me, dull as he is. I must become a barrister; I told you, my family
needs the money. But no one had seen. So I rolled her off into the
Thames. The rain took care of the blood. Simple as that."

I walked down a few stairs, then turned and
looked back. The dome of St. Paul's cathedral, ghostly in the rain
and mists, rose above the high houses of the Temples behind the
quivering Gower.

"She died here," I said. "While you stood and
watched. Then you took the money and bought yourself a new
suit."

"What would you have done?" Gower asked. "I
didn't kill her. It was an accident."

I moved back up the stairs, anger suffusing
my every move. "You did kill her. You brought her here because of
your greed and your meanness. Peaches would not have been here to
die, if not for you."

"She was the one cuckolding her husband and
running a bawdy house," Gower said.

I made for him. Gower backed away in some
alarm, and Thompson stepped between us. "Now, Captain," he said,
eyes quiet. "Let us not have another body in the Thames."

The jovial admonition made Gower look still
more worried, but it stopped me. "Accident or no, you are
responsible," I said.

Sir Montague at last turned from watching the
river, as though he'd done no more in the last twenty minutes than
enjoy the view. "On the other hand, Lord Barbury's death was no
accident," he said in his cheerful tones. "Unless you accidentally
put a gun to his head and shot him?"

Gower went dead white.

"I am a magistrate, Mr. Gower," Sir Montague
went on. "Why don't you tell me what happened?"

Gower looked at him for a long while, then at
Thompson, who stood quietly beside him, then at me. "You must have
proof to arrest me," he said. "Or a witness. You cannot prosecute
on Captain Lacey's speculations. You must have evidence. I know the
law."

Sir Montague chuckled. "That you do. But so
do I, Mr. Gower. And I have a witness."

Gower stared. "I don't believe you."

"There is a Bow Street Runner called Mr.
Pomeroy," Sir Montague said. "He much enjoys his duties. He pounded
Mount Street up and down for two days, questioning everyone he
could get his hands on. And he found a witness, a footman, who was
awake very late that night. A footman who looked out the window in
time to see you walk past Lord Barbury then turn around and shoot
him in the head. You dragged his lordship to his own front doorstep
then ran off fast as you could. You put the pistol in his hand to
make it seem as though he'd shot himself."

"I do not believe you," Gower said again,
though his bravado was flagging. "If this footman had seen someone
shoot Lord Barbury, he would have run at once for the watch."

"But this particular footman, though he'd
been a respectable servant for fifteen years, once had been
transported for the crime of theft. A transported man returning to
England usually means his death. He'd come back to take care of his
family, reformed his ways, and took honest employment. Didn't much
want the magistrates to recognize him, so he kept quiet, until our
diligent Mr. Pomeroy got the story out of him. I've promised to
help him, if he stands up as a witness."

"A convicted thief?" Gower asked
incredulously. "One who escaped his punishment? What sort of a
witness is that?"

"Oh, I agree that the jury might take his
character against him when they listen to his evidence. But he saw
you. And it is on that evidence that I am arresting you, Mr. Gower,
for the murder of Lord Barbury. A peer of the realm, no less." He
clucked his tongue. "What the devil were you thinking?"

Predictably, Gower tried to run. Thompson
caught him at once. The Thames policeman might be thin, but he was
wiry and strong. He and Sir Montague walked Mr. Gower back between
them to the hackney, and I remained behind to stare at the river
while they took him to Bow Street.

* * * * *

Chapter Twenty

Mr. Gower had believed Peaches had told Lord
Barbury all about Gower's blackmailing. That is what Sir Montague
told me later, and I related all to Grenville the next afternoon
over ale and beef in a tavern in Pall Mall. Gower knew that if his
schemes came out, Sir Montague said, the lad would lose his
position as Chapman's pupil, and no other barrister would take him
on. He'd never become a barrister, a silk, a high court judge.