The Glass House (2 page)

"Someone could have taken them," Pomeroy
said.

I touched the woman's throat. "There is no
sign of bruising or force on her neck, nor on her arms. I do not
believe she was wearing any jewels before she fell in. She was not
robbed."

Thompson leaned down with me. "No," he said.
"But she was murdered."

He turned the woman's head to one side. I
recoiled, my hand tightening on my walking stick.

The entire back of the woman's head and been
caved in, rendering her skull and hair a black and bloody mess.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

I looked down at the wound, an ugly gouge on
the woman's otherwise pretty head. She'd not been much past five
and twenty. A life snuffed out too soon.

"Do you know who did this?" I asked, my voice
hard.

"That we don't, Captain," Thompson said. He
looked at me sideways, his own eyes quiet, but in them I saw a
spark of anger that matched my own. "Found the body, nothing else.
She can't have been floating there long." He looked up at the
waterman. "Maybe only thrown in this afternoon?"

The waterman nodded. He must have seen his
share of bloaters, and Thompson must have too. They'd know just by
looking at the body how long she'd been in the water.

"How much had she drifted, do you think?" I
asked. "Do you know where she went in?"

"She didn't go far," the waterman said in his
reedy voice. "I found her fetched up under th' bridge."

He pointed. Blackfriar's Bridge lay just
upstream of us. I was night-blinded by the lanterns, but looked
that way as though I could see the arches of the dark bridge.

"She'd been wedged there a few hours, I'd
say."

Thompson got to his feet, swung his arms, his
coat swinging with him. "And she's only a few hours dead. That
means she could have been pitched in near the Middle or Inner
Temple. From the Temple Stairs, perhaps? About half-past four this
afternoon? What are the gentlemen of the King's Bench getting up
to, I wonder?"

I saw in his eyes that he only half-joked.
Why a pupil or barrister of the Temples would kill a young woman
and toss her into the Thames I could not fathom, but someone there
might have done so. Thompson thought so too.

It would not be Thompson's task to
investigate this crime. His jurisdiction lay on the river, and on
the wharves and docks where thieves might break into the loaded
merchantmen. Pomeroy and his foot patrollers would be the men
combing the Temple gardens to find someone who might have witnessed
the crime. But I saw a gleam of professional curiosity in
Thompson's eyes.

The same curiosity sparked in me, mixed with
deep pity for the young woman. I too wanted to discover who had
done this to so harmless a creature, perhaps spend a few minutes
alone with the man when we found him.

As I made to rise, the woman's torn glove
moved under my fingers, and I felt something cool and metal. A ring
had been hidden by the gloves, protected from the water. It was
loose, even on her bloated finger, and slipped easily into my
hand.

Thompson looked my way in curiosity as I
rose, and I brushed off the mud and balanced the ring on my palm.
Pomeroy crowded close, his heavy breath on my shoulder.

The ring was a thick circlet of silver
bedecked with a strip of diamonds. Even muddy, it glinted in the
lantern light, smooth and whole and costly. It was the sort of ring
a gentleman of fashion would purchase for himself and perhaps
bestow on his paramour as a keepsake.

"A gift from her lover?" Thompson asked,
echoing my thoughts.

"Must have been," Pomeroy said. "Think he did
her in?"

"No way of knowing." Thompson picked up the
ring, held it close to his eyes.

Pomeroy went on. "The lady and her lover
quarrel, he hits her or knocks her down. She falls, strikes her
head, dies. He panics when he sees he's killed her, drags her down
the steps at the Temple Gardens, drops her into the river."

"Possibly," I said. "But if that were the
case, why would the paramour not remove his ring and take it home
with him?"

"He didn't know she had it on. She's wearing
gloves."

Thompson turned the bright circlet in his
fingers. "If the man were her lover, he'd have known she'd wear it,
and look under the glove."

"Or, she was with a second lover," Pomeroy
speculated. "A gent jealous of the gent what gave her the ring.
They quarrel about the first gent, he kills her--accidentally or on
purpose--but doesn't know she's wearing the ring."

"Could be," Thompson said.

Thompson did not sound interested in nebulous
lovers. He was interested in the ring, a concrete link to a man,
whoever he might be--husband, lover, father. No middle-class man
had purchased that ring; it had a patina to it, was possibly part
of a family collection. Jewelers served families for decades. If
Thompson could identify who'd made the ring, he'd be closer to
finding the man who owned it.

The boatman gazed silently at the ring,
looking a bit irritated that he hadn't found it before he'd
reported the body to Thompson.

Thompson closed his hand around it. "We could
put out a notice about the ring, but that would likely only bring
us a flood of people who want to take home a pretty gewgaw. The
killer will probably be wise enough to let the ring go. Or we could
inquire at jewelers."

He looked at Pomeroy, whose face fell. I knew
he was hating the thought of walking up and down London calling on
every jeweler from the river to Islington. Pomeroy preferred
chasing known thieves and tackling them instead of slow,
painstaking investigation.

Pomeroy shot a look at me and brightened.
"The captain here knows many of the posh and upper classes. Maybe
he could ask about who it belonged to."

Thompson eyed me with less enthusiasm. He
didn't know me and had no reason to trust me, though it was not
unusual for a civilian to assist in crime solving. The magistrates'
offices had nowhere near the resources they needed to patrol the
London metropolis, although the City of London itself had its own
police. A citizen was expected to give chase and make an arrest
when necessary as well as to bring perpetrators to court and
prosecute them.

Thompson would use me as a resource if he
could, though I would get no monetary compensation. Runners
received rewards if criminals were convicted, but a gentleman like
myself did not get paid as a thief taker. If I helped with an
arrest and prosecution, it would be Thompson or Pomeroy who would
reap the reward.

Thompson drew his forefinger and thumb down
the sides of his mouth. "Do you think you could find out quickly,
Captain? Every moment could take the murderer a step closer to the
Continent."

"If he decides to run," Pomeroy said.

"I know a man who could possibly help," I
said. "This is a prominent man's ring, and he knows prominent
gentlemen's jewelers."

I could imagine Grenville's long nose
quivering with interest when I presented the ring. Little exciting
had happened since we'd concluded the regimental affair in the
summer, and he had told me point blank last time we'd met that I
needed to find him some new amusement.

Thompson nodded and dropped the ring into my
hand. "Ask your questions, Captain. Tell me the answers
tomorrow."

I liked that the man spoke quickly and
decisively; he was deferential but not fawning. I gave him my word
that I would keep him apprised of my success or lack of it, and he
acknowledged it with the barest nod.

I had not mistaken the look in Thompson’s
eyes. He, like me, did not like puzzles to remain unsolved. And he,
like me, wanted to find the person who had killed the pretty young
woman on the shore. I could not imagine what harm a small woman
like her could have caused anyone, and I was angry at whoever had
hurt her.

I looked at her again, lying still, gray, her
lips slack, her fair hair limp. I slipped the ring into my pocket,
took my leave of the men, and returned to the world above.

*** *** ***

I reached Grosvenor Street in Mayfair at ten
o'clock. The thoroughfare was packed with carriages, as I had
expected it to be. No one who was anyone refused an invitation to
one of Lucius Grenville's soirees, even on a cold January
night.

I descended my very unfashionable hackney at
the end of the line of carriages, paid over my shillings, and
walked the rest of the way to Grenville's house.

The façade of Grenville's home was
unostentatious, even plain. The simplicity of the outside, however,
hid a magnificent interior, made even more magnificent tonight.

Grenville's fortune was vast, his taste
impeccable. Chandeliers glittered above a wide marble staircase
that lifted to a landing arched like a Roman piazza. Hothouse
flowers graced every niche of the staircase and expansive hall,
their reds and blues and oranges vibrant against the white marble
walls. The scent of the flowers mixed with that of the
people--perfume, soap, pomade, fabric, perspiration.

I'd had the privilege of being shown over
this house from top to bottom, of entering the rooms into which
Grenville invited very few. Those private rooms revealed glimpses
of the real man--intellectual, curious, fascinated by the world;
tonight, the public rooms showed only the lavishness that people
expected from him.

I joined the throng entering the house,
bowing politely to a matron and daughter and allowing them to enter
before me. Both the women glittered from head to foot with
diamonds.

The hall was loud with people talking,
laughing, calling to friends they had not seen since the hunting
season in autumn. Over this din soared the voice of a popular
Italian tenor.

The purpose of a soiree was not only to enjoy
drink, food, music, and the company, it was also to press one's way
upstairs to greet the host. Grenville stood on the landing above,
surrounded by a swarm of people eager for a few minutes
conversation with him. He bowed and talked and shook hands, the
gracious host. Gentlemen lingered to look over his clothes; ladies
young and old smiled and flirted.

Tonight, Grenville wore a fine suit of black
in the very latest stare of fashion. His black pantaloons encased
tightly muscled legs, and his dancing pumps shone. A diamond
stickpin rested like a chip of ice in his carefully tied cravat,
and his hair glistened mahogany dark under the chandeliers.

Grenville was not a handsome man, having a
long nose, slightly pointed chin, and eyes that glittered like a
ferret's; however, these defects did not bother the ladies of
London, who viewed him with the same fervor as a gentleman might
view an elusive fox.

But Grenville had never married nor showed an
inclination to do so. Instead, he squired about well-known
actresses, opera singers, and lady violinists with every evidence
of enjoyment.

Quizzing glasses came out as I made my slow
way up the stairs, gentlemen and dandies scanning me and my
regimentals. The
ton
had grown used to me but still wondered
about me, though my situation was not unusual for the time. My
family name was old and respected, but my father had run through
what was left of the fortune, leaving me nothing.

Many a long-standing family had lost money
during the war or the years following it; gentlemen with fine
education and family connections were forced to become tutors or
secretaries in order to earn a living. They made little more than I
did on my half-pay, although their employers no doubt gave them
better accommodations than I could afford.

That Grenville had befriended me made polite
society talk. Usually their rudeness annoyed me, but tonight I
could not help wondering whether a gentleman here had given the
young woman on the riverbank the ring, or had murdered her.

When I reached Grenville, his face lit with
genuine pleasure. He gripped my hand. "Lacey, there you are. I
feared you would not come. The weather is foul."

I made a slight bow. "Not at all. I was
honored by the invitation."

It was what I was expected to say, what those
around us wanted to hear.

Grenville, however, knew better than to take
my words at face value. He leaned toward me, said in a low voice,
"I need to speak to you, my friend. You can rest up in my sitting
room if you prefer it to the crush. I'll join you when I can."

I grew curious, but I knew he’d explain no
further in the press of guests. I nodded, and withdrew,
relinquishing his attention to the next guest.

As I turned away, I spied Bartholomew and his
brother Matthias, both clad in livery, dashing up and down the
stairs with glasses of champagne. I motioned Bartholomew to me.

"Evening, sir," he said, as I lifted a glass
from his tray. He cast a critical eye over my regimentals, which
he'd studiously brushed this morning. His look turned disapproving,
so I was certain I’d allowed a speck of mud to land somewhere on my
journey to the house. But he said nothing and hurried away
again.

I took the champagne and climbed the next
flight of stairs to a quieter landing and Grenville's private
rooms. I was grateful to his invitation to rest away from the
crowds, because after seeing the poor girl on the bank of the
Thames, I was in no mood for polite conversation and false smiles.
I had a few true friends among the
ton
; one of them was Lady
Aline Carrington, a spinster of loud opinions and independent
thought, but I could not expect her to give all her attention to
me. The Brandons had also been invited, but they were not
attending, Louisa had informed me in a letter, because Colonel
Brandon did not much approve of Grenville.

The news disappointed me, because Louisa had
been elusive of late, and I had hoped to speak with her. A few
months ago, Louisa had helped me through a bad bout of melancholia.
Her presence in my front room had been a bright beacon as I lay
unmoving in my bed. When I showed signs of recovering, she left me
to the care of my landlady and departed. In early December, she and
her husband had gone north to visit one of Brandon's cronies in a
hunting box. Since their return to town, I had not seen much of
either of them, and I was not certain why.