The Glass House (22 page)

I ate bread and leafed through the newspaper,
and then I stopped, my blood freezing.

On the second page, in the middle of the
column was a notice that a member of the peerage, Lord Barbury, a
baron, had been found outside his house the night before, shot
through the head, a pistol clasped in his hand.

* * * * *

Chapter Fourteen

I hastened back to Mayfair, taking
Bartholomew with me. Lord Barbury's home was in Mount Street, in a
large house typical of the neighborhood. Pomeroy was there, along
with another Runner from the Queen's Square house, asking the
neighbors what they'd heard. Nothing, Pomeroy told me in
disgust.

Lord Barbury had been laid out on his bed,
pale and cold. A dark red hole marred the black locks of his hair
just behind his right ear. As I looked at him, my anger soared.

The fact that the pistol had been in his hand
might convince the Runners that it was suicide--over grief for his
dead mistress, they'd say--but I was not convinced.

His coachman, who had been the last to see
him alive, replied readily to Pomeroy's questions. Upon leaving
Grenville's, Lord Barbury had asked his coachman to set him down in
Berkeley Square, saying that he'd walk home from there. He'd wanted
to think, he'd said. Why he could not have thought in the carriage,
the coachman couldn't say, but that was not a coachman's business.
The man set his master down as requested and returned home. Later,
one of Barbury's footmen had heard a noise outside, opened the
door, and found Lord Barbury lying dead on the front doorstep.

The servants were shocked and grieved.
Barbury had been a good master and a kind man. I was in a boiling
fury. I had Bartholomew fetch another hackney, and I rode to Middle
Temple.

I ought to have consulted Sir Montague or
Thompson or even Pomeroy first, but I was tired of waiting for them
to uncover evidence through slow investigation. Whatever my
thoughts were, they were not clear; I only knew that I wanted to
find the killer and drag him to justice. In the affair of Hanover
Square, I'd sympathized with those wanting to murder the odious
Horne. In the regimental affair, I'd understood the motives behind
the deaths; but Peaches and Lord Barbury, though a misguided in
some respects, were hardly in the same standing.

I turned to the most obvious suspect, the
jealous husband.

Chapman's chambers lay in the Brick Court of
Middle Temple. The house and those around it bore the same formal
architecture of gray brick and white windows. The Middle Temple
coat of arms, the Agnus Dei, reposed over the door.

Mr. Chapman sent down first his clerk, then
his pupil, to try to put me off. Very busy, the clerk said. The
red-haired Mr. Gower made a face and said, "He's been closeted all
morning by himself, pouring over mucky books. Why, I do not know.
I'm only thankful he hasn't made me help him."

"It's important," I said, and Bartholomew
loomed behind me to put in, "There's been a murder."

Mr. Gower looked somewhat more interested.
"Really? And you want to prosecute? Mr. Chapman works through a
chap called Sandringham, in Fetter Lane. I'll give you his
direction."

"No, Mr. Gower," I said in a hard voice. "I
want to talk to Mr. Chapman about the murder of his wife's
lover."

Gower's freckles spread as he raised his
brows. "Good lord." He looked at Bartholomew as though asking the
large lad whether this were a joke, then he looked back at me.
"Well, well. Did Chapman do him in?"

"Maybe," I said.

"Good lord."

"May we go up?" I asked pointedly.

Gower blinked at me, then nodded. "Yes, yes,
follow me."

He led us up a flight of polished stairs, his
gait agitated. He rapped briefly at a door at the top of the
stairs, then pushed it open and fled before Chapman could say a
word.

Chapman looked up from behind a stack of
books, his graying hair awry. "I told you I did not want--"

He broke off when he saw me, his mouth
remaining open. I walked inside. Bartholomew stayed in the hall but
closed the door, shutting me in alone with Chapman.

"What do you want?" Chapman bristled. "I am a
busy man, sir. What did my clerk mean by admitting you?"

"I am afraid I rather insisted." I dragged a
chair from the wall and sat facing Chapman. The chair was hard, the
upholstery frayed. "Your wife's lover is dead."

He flushed. "I know that. What of it?"

"You have heard the news, then?"

"I do read newspapers."

"Yes, you make much of your living from the
sordid crime that is reported there. Where were you last
night?"

He stared, puzzled. "Last night? At home, of
course."

"You have witnesses to place you there?"

"Witnesses?" He rose. "See here, Captain
Lacey. What are you on about?"

"Do you?" I asked.

"My housekeeper made me supper. I ate it and
retired."

"What time was this supper?"

"Eleven o'clock. I am certain of that,
because I arrived home at half-past ten."

"Why so late? Were you out?"

"No, I was here. I have much practice, much
work to do. Not that my good-for-nothing pupil helps me. He whined
that he wanted to waste time at his club with his friends, so I
told him to go."

"At what time?"

"Why are you obsessed with the hours of the
day, Captain?"

"Tell me, please."

Chapman came around the desk, but I remained
seated. "Leave at once, sir. I do not have time for this
foolishness. I have a difficult case for which I must prepare."

"Involving murder?" I asked. "Perhaps you are
researching how a man might get out of hanging for a crime of
passion? How to prove it was not premeditated?"

His flush deepened. "Just what are you
suggesting?"

"Did you leave these chambers last night,
meet Lord Barbury, and shoot him dead?"

His brow clouded. "Lord who?"

"Barbury. You saw him yesterday at your
wife's funeral."

"Did I?" He looked confused.

"The tall man with the dark hair. That was
Lord Barbury. Your wife's lover."

Chapman stared at me a moment longer then his
face drained of all color. He crossed back to his desk and sat, his
eyes fixed in frozen horror.

"
He
was her lover?"

"Yes. The Thames River policeman told the
court all about him at Mrs. Chapman's inquest. He wasn't there
himself."

But Chapman had left the room, I now
remembered, before Thompson had revealed Lord Barbury's name. Lord
Barbury had managed to keep his name out of any newspaper reports
of Peaches' death and inquest, probably by giving healthy bribes to
the right people.

I could swear that Chapman's astonishment now
was genuine. Not only astonishment, shock. He had known that his
wife had taken a lover but had not realized that the name of the
man was Lord Barbury. I wondered just who he'd thought the lover
was.

Then it struck me. "Oh, my God," I said. "You
thought it was Simon Inglethorpe."

Chapman looked at me, his face blotched red,
his lips white.

"You must have heard she had been going to
his house in Curzon Street," I said. "You so concluded that
Inglethorpe was her lover."

Chapman's breathing was ragged. "It was an
accident. The man ran at me, and the sword went right through
him."

I let him sit there while I envisioned the
incident. I imagined Mr. Chapman approaching number 21, Curzon
Street, filled with indignation, ready to dress down Inglethorpe
for his improper relations with his wife. Chapman might have
thought to threaten Inglethorpe with a lawsuit or perhaps he'd
merely wanted to vent his feelings. Inglethorpe might have laughed
at him, provoked Chapman to anger. And my swordstick was to hand .
. .

I paused. How Inglethorpe had suddenly
produced my swordstick, I still could not fathom, nor did I yet
understand why he'd removed half his clothing.

"Tell me what happened," I said.

"No, I should say nothing." Chapman's hands
shook.

I rose and opened the door. Bartholomew was
sitting on a wooden chair, resting his muscled shoulders against
the wall. I knew he'd heard every word. "Run to Bow Street," I told
him. "Fetch Pomeroy if he is back from Lord Barbury's. Tell someone
to send word to Sir Montague Harris in Whitechapel. Tell them both
it is urgent that they come here."

Bartholomew nodded once, sprang to his feet,
and dashed off.

I stayed with Chapman, who sat listlessly,
forgetting about his books and everything else around him. Gower
came to offer coffee, looking puzzled and very interested.

Pomeroy arrived in a remarkably short time,
followed soon after by Sir Montague Harris and Thompson.

Chapman, looking defeated, told his story.
Yes, he had learned from one of his maids that Mrs. Chapman was in
the habit of going to a certain house in Curzon Street, owned by a
wealthy gentleman called Inglethorpe, for regular visits. Mrs.
Chapman would never allow the maid to follow her in, and in fact
she would dismiss the maid at the door, saying she would return
home alone later.

After Peaches' death, Chapman had wanted to
see for himself who was this wealthy gentleman of Curzon Street.
When he'd reached the house, he found the door wide open and
Inglethorpe in the reception room, shirtless, for heaven's sake,
and looking annoyed.

Inglethorpe had not even had the decency to
pick up his coat and put it on. He'd demanded to know what Chapman
wanted, very high and mighty. Chapman had accused him of being Mrs.
Chapman's lover, and Inglethorpe had laughed at him.

He'd not denied that Peaches had come there
regularly; she always had a marvelous time, Inglethorpe said.

A sword from a walking stick had been lying
on a chair next to the door. Chapman had picked it up, uncertain
why, he said. He did not really remember, but suddenly, the sword
was in his hand. He'd looked down the blade at Inglethorpe, angrier
than he had ever been. Inglethorpe, alarmed, had lunged for him.
Chapman had held the sword steady, and the blade had pierced
Inglethorpe's chest.

Inglethorpe had dropped to the floor. Chapman
had let go of the sword and fled.

Chapman's voice was hollow when he finished.
Thompson and Sir Montague exchanged glances. Pomeroy said, "A nice
story. Now then, sir, what about your wife?"

Chapman looked puzzled. "What do you
mean?"

"Your wife, who was cuckolding you with a
Mayfair gent. Did you kill her first, vowing you would kill her
lover as well?"

"No, no. I did nothing to Amelia. I told you,
I never saw her after the time she left my house to begin her
journey to Sussex."

"Well, the jury will decide whether that's
true," Pomeroy said cheerfully. "Who knows? Perhaps the gent what
prosecutes you will be one of your acquaintance from Middle
Temple." He chuckled.

Chapman went white. The man who had aspired
to take silk would now have a King's Counsel staring at him across
the courtroom at the Old Bailey, questioning his stammered
explanation of how Inglethorpe had run into the swordstick.

I rather believed Chapman had stabbed
Inglethorpe in fury then had come up with the story of Inglethorpe
skewering himself, while sitting in this room "researching" his
case. The sword had been thrust all the way through Inglethorpe's
chest and into the carpet. I could imagine Chapman stabbing,
Inglethorpe crumpling, dying, Chapman keeping the sword hard in him
until he'd pinned Inglethorpe to the floor.

As Pomeroy had said, the jury would decide
what was true.

Before Pomeroy dragged Chapman off, I said to
him, "What is the name of your wife's man of business? I wish to
speak with him."

Chapman stared at me in bewilderment. "My
wife did not have a man of business. All of our affairs were
handled by mine."

"Oh, but she did," Sir Montague Harris broke
in, a smile on his broad face. "He sent the coroner a letter on
hearing of her death, asking for the death certificate."

Chapman continued to look surprised.

I was surprised as well. "So the man of
business does exist?" I asked.

"Indeed," Sir Montague said. "I think I ought
to pay him a visit. Care to join me, Captain?"

*** *** ***

"This is most irregular," the thin man on the
other side of the table said to us. He had sandy, almost colorless
hair, narrow dark eyes, and pale skin stretched tightly over his
bones. He kept a tiny room in a court off Chancery Lane, not far
from the Temples, had a clerk as thin as he was, and an office of
painful neatness.

His name was Ichabod Harper, and he'd been
Peaches' man of business for six years, ever since she'd inherited
property in a trust.

"Murder is most irregular," Sir Montague
replied.

"Indeed," Mr. Harper said.

Sir Montague beamed at him. "Now then, tell
us, sir, what was this property, how did Mrs. Chapman come to
inherit it, and to whom does it pass on occasion of her death?"

Mr. Harper cleared his throat, a dry sound.
"To answer that, sir, I must go back some years. Mrs. Chapman's
parents were a rather low form of actors--strolling players, I
believe they are called. Mrs. Chapman's grandmother had married one
of these players, running away and disgracing her family, who then
disowned her. The grandmother's sister--Mrs. Chapman's great
aunt--took it upon herself to see that her foolish sister's
offspring would not be completely destitute. Mrs. Chapman's parents
died of a fever eight years ago, leaving Mrs. Chapman--then Miss
Amelia Leary--alone. The great aunt offered to have her grandniece
live with her, but Mrs. Chapman ignored the invitation and
continued to live on her own with the strolling players."

He looked disapproving, but I understood
Peaches' reasoning. A young girl, full of life, would rather stay
with the people and the freedom she'd known her entire life than
return to be a poor relation to family connections who did not
approve of her.