A Disappearance in Drury Lane (9 page)

Her fear was still there, I saw, but she was adamant. I wondered if something had changed, and what she knew, but she closed against my questions.

What she couldn’t do, Felicity said, was stay in a toff’s house, where again, the staff expected her to work. She’d found her own way most of her life, and she would again. She thanked me for looking after her, and she went.

I watched her walk down the street, her head up as she met the stares of Mayfair servants who were about on errands at this early hour. I realized that trying to keep Felicity was like trying to cage a tropical bird who’d only known wildness. She was still afraid, but she had an even greater horror of shutting herself away from the world.

I would simply have to find Mr. Perry and make sure he never carried out his threats on Felicity. I was certain, at least, that Felicity would stay well out of his way.

Donata had made it clear she’d keep her usual hours of rising sometime after noon, and Gabriella and her aunt and uncle were still resting after their late arrival. Therefore, after breakfasting alone, I returned to my rooms in Grimpen Lane, intending to finish the-clear out interrupted by Marianne and my subsequent adventures, and to begin my search in earnest for Mrs. Collins.

I took a hackney to my destination, keeping a close eye out for any other ruffians wanting to break more of my ribs. I would not be caught so easily again.

The dingy street and smoke-stained houses of Grimpen Lane were a far cry from the wider avenues and mansions of Mayfair, but at the same time comfortingly familiar. One can grow used to anything.

It was early and cold, but the upstairs curtains in the house opposite mine were open their usual distance apart. Mrs. Carfax was the soul of frugality, saving on candles by having her companion, Miss Winston, open the curtains the moment she could discern dawn.

I nodded up at Mrs. Carfax’s window, in case she or Miss Winston watched, took out my key, and opened the door that led to the dark stair alongside the still-shut bakeshop.

A burly man stepped out of the shadows beside the shop so suddenly I had to bite back a shout. I recognized one of Denis’s men, sent, as always, to keep an eye on me.

“Bloody hell,” I said when I recovered.

He remained impassive to my temper. “Bloke is up there waiting for you, sir.”

Not many months ago, this man, a former pugilist, as were most of Denis’s lackeys, had helped tear apart my old manor house in Norfolk. He’d made a very interesting discovery behind the kitchen fireplace and believed my response to that discovery shortsighted, tending toward the mad. His name, if I remembered aright, was Brewster.

“What bloke?” I asked. “Perry?”

“Naw. Wouldn’t have let
him
go up, would I? I’d have hauled him back to Curzon Street. This cove picks the lock and walks in, sweet as you please.”

“Picked the lock? Why didn’t you stop him?”

“Wasn’t about to, was I? He’s a Runner.”

“Pomeroy?” I’d take Pomeroy to task if so. The Bow Street magistrate’s house was not many steps from Grimpen Lane. If my former sergeant had wanted to speak to me, he could have left a note at the door or in the bakeshop, or sent word to Lady Breckenridge’s.

Brewster gave me another deprecating look. “Would have said Pomeroy if I’d meant him. No, some other Runner. New blood. Never seen him before.”

Curiosity worked through my irritation. Why the devil should a Runner break into my rooms? If he searched for something there, he’d be disappointed. I hadn’t much to find.

Nothing for it but to see what he wanted. I opened the door, still unlocked, and made my way up the stairs.

This staircase was steep, a more arduous climb than the stairs in Donata’s house. I’d left the borrowed walking stick behind in Oxfordshire, planning today to obtain a new one, and now, with my still-aching ribs and throbbing knee, I had to hang on to both rails to drag myself up the stairs. The faded shepherds and shepherdesses on the walls smiled at me in greeting.

The door to my rooms was ajar. I walked in to find a large man with long red side-whiskers sitting in the wingchair in front of my cold fireplace. He was reading a notebook he’d taken out of one of the still-open crates, a notebook filled with my writing.

I’d begun, after my return from Norfolk, to chronicle the adventures I’d lived through in the last two years. Grenville’s idea. He told me that such events would be fascinating reading for others—my children, at the very least, might want to read about what their aging father had got up to.

I was not the most articulate of writers, and I was not best pleased to find a complete stranger sitting in my rooms, reading my words.

I put one hand on the doorjamb to steady myself. “Who the devil are you?”

The man unfolded himself from my chair, cradling the journal in his hands. He was nearly as tall as I was, and he filled out his suit in the same way as did the pugilist Brewster downstairs. The suit was cheap—black wool, shiny with wear at cuffs and elbows, but neatly mended. His waistcoat was dull gray with a watch fob hanging across it.

The Runner had a square face with heavy red brows, light blue eyes, and thick, reddish-brown hair he’d tried to tame with pomade. His eyes held arrogance but also amusement, as though he enjoyed laughing at the slowness of others.

“Interesting reading,” he said, holding up the book. “Quite clever how you worked out who truly did a murder during the chaos after a battle on the Peninsula. Reaching back into the past with no witnesses to solve a crime. Remarkable.”

“That is a private journal,” I said, my lips stiff. “And you did not answer my question.”

“Left out in plain sight in the top of this crate.” The Runner closed the book and returned it to the pile of the others. “I wasn’t to know, was I?”

“A crate behind my locked flat door, not to mention the locked door at the bottom of the stairs. Forgive me if I thought my things safe. Now then sir, who
are
you?”

The man came to me, extending his hand. “Spendlove. Timothy Spendlove. I am new to the Bow Street house, but I’ve been patrolling from the Queen’s Square house for some time. I’ve been needling Pomeroy to introduce me to you, but you know Pomeroy. If he doesn’t want to do a thing, he’s immovable as a mountain.”

I didn’t much want to shake the hand of a man who’d broken into my rooms without shame, but I did anyway. A man’s handshake can tell much about him. Spendlove’s was firm, the flesh of his palm hard, but he didn’t try to squeeze or use undue pressure.

“Why did you want an introduction?” I asked, when we released the grip. “To discuss what is in my journals?”

“No, indeed. Though they are interesting.” Spendlove patted the leather cover of the top one. “I am not here to discuss your past, Captain, but your present. In particular, why you are interested in the whereabouts of the actress Mrs. Abigail Collins and why Mr. John Perry is interested in
you
. And why, after your abduction by Mr. Perry, you ran at once to Mr. James Denis.”

I closed my mouth over my retorts. I did not at all like that Spendlove knew everything that had happened to me in the last week, and where I’d been. He didn’t mention Felicity, but if he knew about Mrs. Collins, Perry, and Denis, he’d know about her too.

Spendlove smiled at my reaction. “I should be clear. I am most interested in your connection with Mr. Denis. The others are superfluous. I’d like to know all about Denis, every single detail. I have made it my life’s work, you see, to have James Denis arrested, tried, and hanged for his many, many crimes. Therefore, I will value anything you can tell me. Some of your activities involving him have been a bit, shall we say, questionable, and it’s best that you relate everything I want to know. Do you understand me, Captain Lacey?”

Chapter Seven

My leg throbbed, and I had to sit down. The only open space was the upright wooden chair next to my table, so I made my painful way to it and sank to its unyielding surface.

I understood Mr. Spendlove quite well. Since I’d met Denis I’d tried to keep myself from being caught up in his world and its consequences, but here I was.

“What makes you think I can help you?” I asked. “I’ve been trying to stop Mr. Denis for two years.”

“Have you now?” Spendlove looked down his large nose at me. “And yet, I’ve observed you assisting him to shut down one of his rivals, kill a few men, and sell on pieces of stolen artwork. Stopping him? I’d say you were assisting him.”

“No.” I clenched my jaw. “Denis uses people, like me, whether they wish to be used or not. He turns any event to his benefit. If you’ve been watching him, you will know this.”

“I do know it. I also know he has magistrates looking the other way at his crimes—he doesn’t pay
them
, you understand, they pay Mr. Denis to leave them be and hand them a criminal or two from time to time. But never mind about that. I came here today to give you a friendly warning.”

I regarded him in irritation and did not respond. Spendlove’s thin smile widened.

“A warning that I’ll stop at nothing to get Denis,” he said. “If
you
have to be hanged into the bargain, so be it. I don’t much care how many magistrate friends you have, or if Sir Montague Harris or Thompson of the River Police praise your wit and ability. I won’t let anything stop me, especially not a retired captain with too much time on his hands. So, stay out of my way. Leave off the inquiries about Mrs. Collins too, there’s a good chap. We at Bow Street know all about her fleeing London after she received her mysterious package. Obviously such inquiries will be dangerous to you—already have been, haven’t they? Bow Street can’t be expected to dig you out of a scrape because you could not keep your nose away from what did not concern you.”

“Let me worry about that.” I made myself stand up again, though my leg had stiffened as I sat in the cold, and straightening it hurt. “I am uneasy about Mrs. Collins. There’s nothing to stop me from inquiring after a friend.”

“You’d never heard of the woman until a few days ago, except as an actress you watch with your viscountess and that idle Mayfair dandy.” Spendlove tapped the top of my journal. “In here, I can see what you think about the slowness of Pomeroy and the rest of the patrollers and Runners. I agree with you somewhat about Pomeroy’s wits, but he’s the man to have by your side when a villain is trying to get away, believe me.” He gave me a cold look, though his little smile never faded. “You are not the law, Captain Lacey. Leave it to those whose job it is.”

“Every citizen in England is obliged to assist the Watch and the magistrates,” I pointed out.

“
Assist
, not interfere. I’ll find Mrs. Collins, don’t you worry.
And
bring down Mr. Denis. Choose your battle, sir. And have a care which you choose. I’ll bring you down with Denis if I have to. Don’t matter to me that you just married into the upper crust. They answer to the law as does everyone else.” Spendlove moved past me while I stood still, aching and not a little angered by his arrogance. “Good day, Captain. Heed my warnings, and we’ll remain friends.”

So saying, he grabbed a low-crowned hat from the shelf next to the door, gave me a nod, clapped on the hat, and walked down the stairs, whistling.

I remained in the middle of the room, unmoving, while I heard him go out the door to the street. More whistling sounded outside, a greeting of
Good day, madam,
to someone passing, then his clumping footsteps faded into the distance.

I stood still until a dart of pain shot through my leg again, and I had to sit back down on the hard chair.

Eventually anger overtook my pain and surprise. Spendlove had come here today to needle me and alarm me—picking the locks and entering my rooms had been calculated to demonstrate how much I should fear him. But Spendlove did not understand how difficult I was to intimidate.

Also, if Bow Street had been as diligent as Spendlove claimed about looking into Mrs. Collins’ whereabouts, Marianne wouldn’t have worried enough to ask me to search for her. Mrs. Wolff and Coleman likewise wouldn’t be so troubled.

No, this was Spendlove’s need to elbow his way into a new magistrate’s house and take power for himself. I should dismiss him. Pomeroy at times grumbled that I got in his way, and didn’t mind taking me to task over it, but I’d never let his bluster bother me.

However, as I climbed to my feet again and straightened my journals in the crate, Spendlove’s words sank in and would not become dislodged. I was not frightened of him, but I knew he’d become a new ripple in the serenity I’d hoped I’d finally brought into my life.

*** *** ***

By the time I’d finished filling my crates and sent word to the company I’d hired to take the things to Donata’s house, the morning had advanced, and the bakeshop was open. Two sturdy men arrived to carry the crates down the stairs and to a wagon waiting in Russel Street. They took everything, leaving behind only the furniture that had been in the flat when I’d arrived. The bits and pieces of furniture Grenville had given me or I’d purchased over the years had gone to South Audley Street before I’d left for the wedding.

I looked around the empty flat after the men made their final haul, strange feelings assailing me. So this was the end. The last of my memories of Grimpen Lane.

I’d lain in much pain in the bedchamber’s huge tester bed, recovering from both my war injury and my melancholia. There too, I’d curled around Donata and realized how much I loved her. In the sitting room, I’d argued with Marianne, discussed cases with Grenville, faced Denis and other men who’d tried to do me harm, lived through terror about my daughter’s safety, and experienced impossible joy when she’d been found. These rooms had been both a haven and a hell, and I was startled how much I was loathe to leave them.

I had a thought. I went downstairs after I’d closed and locked the doors and sought Mrs. Beltan below. Her bakeshop was doing brisk business, as it did every morning, with plenty of housewives, maids, and errand boys queuing at her door for the day’s freshly baked bread.