The Glass House (4 page)

"Bow Street, bah. Trumped up watchmen who do
nothing without a large reward dangling over their heads."

"You could offer the reward," Grenville
suggested.

"Then they will simply scoop up anyone from
the street and push through a conviction."

I didn’t completely disagree with Barbury.
Pomeroy was diligent in seeking out his rewards, and he enjoyed
arresting people, whether they had anything to do with the crime in
question or not.

"Mr. Thompson of the Thames River patrol
struck me as being intelligent," I said. "He is interested in the
truth."

Lord Barbury waved away Mr. Thompson as well.
"You do it, Lacey."

"Pardon?"

Barbury looked at me with a mixture of grief
and rage. "I have heard that you run about finding lost girls and
discovering murderers. Twitting magistrates is an admirable
quality. Besides, at least you're a gentleman."

Lord Barbury had in no way convinced me that
he had not himself murdered the woman called Peaches. He might have
quarreled with her, he might have tried to end the affair and she
resisted, or she might have threatened him. His grief seemed
genuine, but I had met men before who could portray grief and be
perfectly sanguine a moment later. It would be easy enough,
however, to discover Barbury’s whereabouts between four and five
o'clock that afternoon, though that was not to say that a man of
his standing couldn’t hire others to do his dirty deeds.

Barbary was looking at the ring again. His
arrogance had crumpled, a man trying very hard to not believe the
worst.

I said, "I will see what I can do."

"Please do," Barbury glared at me. His grief
made him abrupt, but I sensed that even in the happiest of times,
he was a man of impatience and who brooked no fools. "I want to
find whoever hurt Peaches, and I want to watch him dance from the
gallows."

Whatever I thought about Barbury, I shared
his wish. No matter what Peaches had done in life, I vowed that the
man who had hurt that helpless and frail young woman would feel my
wrath.

*** *** ***

Grenville and I learned as much as we could
from Lord Barbury before he departed the house, sunk in grief. The
next morning, I visited Thompson to return the ring and tell him
the story.

Peaches, Lord Barbury had told us, was in
truth a lady called Mrs. Chapman. She had a husband, a barrister,
and significantly, his chambers were in Middle Temple. Born Amelia
Leary, Peaches had been an actress, moving from company to company
in search of better roles, rather like Marianne did. Her sweet
charm on the stage soon attracted Lord Barbury, and they’d become
lovers.

Then, about five years ago, Peaches had left
the theatre, married Mr. Chapman, and ceased to be Barbury’s lover.
Barbury had spoken of this in clipped, dry tones. Peaches, it
seemed, had had ambition. She must have realized fairly soon that
Barbury would never marry her, she being beneath his station, so
she'd turned her sights to another mark, the barrister called
Chapman.

I wondered why Chapman, a respectable
barrister, had taken a wife with Peaches' background. But perhaps
he'd been flattered by her attention, perhaps the pretty Peaches
had charmed him, perhaps Chapman hadn't known much about what went
on in the world of the theatre. In any case, they’d married, and
Peaches dropped from sight.

A year ago, Lord Barbury, still unmarried
himself, had met Peaches again by chance. They'd discovered that
their mutual attraction still was strong, and they'd begun another
affair. They'd enjoyed a sweet reunion, Barbury said, his grief
breaking his voice. They’d met regularly in two places--at the
gatherings of a man called Inglethorpe in Mayfair and at The Glass
House.

Thompson looked interested when I mentioned
The Glass House. We sat in his office at Wapping on the Thames, a
bare room with desk and chair and a stool for guests. I had come
alone, Grenville having had an appointment to view a famous private
collection of porcelain. He’d made the appointment weeks ago and
had been vastly disappointed that he couldn’t traipse the back
lanes of the East End with me this morning.

"The Glass House," Thompson said. "A name
that has no good attached to it. Whenever magistrates or reformers
try to close it, their intentions are blocked. Have you ever been
there, Captain?"

I had not. I'd heard of The Glass House, a
name spoken by many an upper-class gentlemen as a place to go for
vices more exotic than those offered in the hells of St. James's.
Grenville had never suggested taking me--never spoke of it,
actually, from which I surmised he disdained it. Grenville’s tacit
disapproval did not stop wealthy gentlemen going in droves,
however, from what I’d heard. But I had neither the wealth,
connections, or the interest to seek out The Glass House on my
own.

"Nasty goings on there," Thompson said. "I
believe a man must be deep in pocket and long in pedigree to even
cross the threshold."

That left me on the doorstep. A barrister who
lived on what people paid him to prosecute cases likely would be
left on the doorstep as well.

"I will have to send for Mr. Chapman and tell
him the disagreeable news," Thompson said, sighing. "And he’ll have
to identify the body. Not a happy errand."

"Do you mind if I am present when you
question him?" I didn’t necessarily relish watching a man look upon
the dead body of his wife, but Chapman had the most motive for
killing her. Peaches had been cuckolding him, and Chapman’s
chambers were near to the Temple Stairs. Chapman might well have
discovered his wife's affair with Lord Barbury, met his wife in the
Temple Gardens, quarreled with her, and killed her.

I could not rule out Barbury, either, despite
his impassioned plea to me to find Peaches' killer. He was an
impatient man, as I'd observed. He could very well have been angry
and jealous, and he was a large man, easily able to kill such a
delicate young woman as Peaches.

Both men had strong connections to her; it
was likely that she had been killed either by one of them or
because of one of them.

"You’re welcome, if you like," Thompson said.
"Sir Montague Harris told me things about you. He's astute as they
make them, for a magistrate, and I've learned to trust him." He
slanted me a look that said he'd be interested to see what I did,
if not explicitly sharing Sir Montague's trust in me.

Sir Montague Harris, magistrate from the
Whitechapel house, had attended an inquest last summer at which I'd
been called to give evidence. I’d been impressed with the man's
common sense and pointed questions, even if the magistrate in
charge had found him irritating.

I left Thompson, who told me he would send
word when he fetched Chapman, and made my way back to Covent
Garden.

*** *** ***

Grenville and I met at the Rearing Pony to
confer. I'd thought Grenville would prefer a more elegant meeting
place, even our usual coffeehouse in Pall Mall, but he professed
himself happy to settle in here. He explained, with an air of
irritation, that here at least he would not be required by every
passerby to render his opinion on a cravat, the cut of a coat, or
the latest
on-dit,
as he had done all morning while viewing
the porcelain.

I sensed that Grenville was growing weary of
his role as most popular man in London. He betrayed a restlessness
that had begun after our adventures last summer, and I wondered
when he'd announce that he was returning to his world travels.

When he finally went, I would miss him.
Despite our differences in wealth and opinions, we had become
friends. Perhaps we were friends because of our differences;
Grenville knew I would never toady to him, and he accepted me as I
was--one of the few people in my life ever to do so.

As I repeated the conversation I'd had with
Thompson, the barmaid, Anne Tolliver, slid another tankard in front
of me and gave me a warm smile. I returned the smile with a nod.
"It would be helpful if we could piece together what Mrs. Chapman
did yesterday," I said as Mrs. Tolliver walked away. "Where she
went, who she met."

I stopped. Grenville was staring at me, a
half-amused, half-exasperated look on his face. "How do you do it,
Lacey?"

"How do I do what?"

"Good Lord, you do not even know."

I studied Anne Tolliver’s retreating back,
her hips swaying as she walked. "If you refer to Mrs. Tolliver, she
has a smile and a wink for every gentleman in the room."

Grenville studied me, his eyes sharp, then he
laughed. "Not
every
gentleman. But never mind. We were
speaking of Mrs. Chapman. We can quiz her servants, of course.
Discover what she intended to do that day, whether she meant to
meet friends, or Barbury, or perhaps even another lover."

"Lord Barbury mentioned a Mr.
Inglethorpe."

Grenville looked uncomfortable. "Yes, Simon
Inglethorpe. He lives in Curzon Street."

The name meant nothing to me. "Who is
he?"

"No one of particular importance. A gentleman
of much money and leisure time. He enjoys social gatherings."

I shrugged. "So might many a man."

"Lately, he has taken to the new sort of gas
that leaves one feeling euphoric. He invites ladies and gentlemen
to partake of it in his upstairs rooms. Interesting that Lord
Barbury decided to take Peaches there."

"Might she have gone there the day of her
death?"

"That is possible. Let us hope so. If she'd
had some of Inglethorpe's magic gas, she might not have felt the
blow that took her life."

I did not understand how that could be, but I
didn’t comment. "She might have made some acquaintance there, who
could help us discover her movements yesterday."

"It is worth a try," Grenville agreed.

Inglethorpe in truth might have nothing to do
with Peaches death, but I wanted to leave no stone unturned.
Peaches might have made a friend at Inglethorpe's gatherings,
someone who possibly could tell us where she'd been the day she'd
died and what she'd done. Also, she might have gone to this
Inglethorpe's home and met someone there, gone away with them, and
died by their hand, for reasons unknown. Perhaps Inglethorpe
himself had killed her.

"Shall we speak to Mr. Inglethorpe then?" I
asked, lifting my glass of ale.

Grenville nodded. "He had gatherings on
Monday and Wednesday afternoons. I will write and ask him to admit
you to the gathering tomorrow."

My glass paused halfway to my lips. "Will you
not be attending with me?" That seemed unlike Grenville, who was
usually adamant to be in the thick of things. "Another appointment
with porcelain?"

Grenville flushed. "I keep my distance from
Inglethorpe."

"May I ask why?"

"Oh, certainly you may ask." Grenville
stopped, looked contrite. "I beg your pardon, Lacey. If you must
know, Inglethorpe propositioned me once. A few years ago. It was a
bit embarrassing."

"I see." Such things had happened to
Grenville before, much to his dismay. Wealthy and elegant Grenville
was not only the object of women's aspirations but of a few
gentlemen's as well. "Is Inglethorpe an unnatural, then?" I
asked.

"I honestly do not believe he cares which way
the wind blows," Grenville said. "Inglethorpe enjoys sensual
pleasure of any kind. He claims he does not hold my refusal against
me, but even so, I avoid him." Grenville gave me a sharp look.
"That goes no further than you, please, Lacey."

"I would never repeat your conversation to
another," I said stiffly.

He sighed. "I beg your pardon. I know. I have
been put off by this poor woman's murder."

So had I. "Have you been able to discover, at
all, if Lord Barbury was at his club yesterday afternoon, as he
claims?" I asked.

"He was. At White's. I've met a few fellows
who claimed he was there, though I'll poke about a bit more and
make certain. Though I do not like to think of Barbury as a
murderer. He is grief-stricken. It’s heartbreaking to see him."

"He might not have done the deed himself but
hired someone to kill her," I pointed out, "while making certain he
was visible at his club."

"You are a cheerful chap, Lacey." Grenville
turned his ale glass, watching the liquid inside. "I like Barbury,
you see. He is not fatuous or toadying. He says what he thinks, and
I find that refreshing."

Grenville had genuine liking for few people.
I hoped for his sake that Barbury did not turn out to be a
murderer, but I could not dismiss him simply because Grenville
approved of him.

He sipped his ale. "It is a bother that we
don't know whether Peaches was killed in the Temple Gardens or her
body brought there afterward. At least in the Hanover Square
affair, we knew where the man was killed and more or less why." He
made an expression of distaste, recalling that gruesome death.
"This is different. This is the work of a brute."

I agreed.

I had not told Grenville or Thompson of the
other reason I wanted to look into the mystery of Peaches' death.
General anger that someone could commit such a crime was part of
it, but the other was that, when I had looked upon the childlike
face of Mrs. Chapman, gray and dead in the light of the torches,
she had greatly put me in mind of my estranged wife, Carlotta
Lacey.

Of course, the dead girl could not have been
Carlotta. Peaches had been in her late twenties at most, and
Carlotta would now be nearing forty. Carlotta lived in
France--precisely where and with whom only one man in England knew,
and he was the one man I would never ask.

The girl could also not be, thank God, my
daughter, Gabriella. The child Carlotta had taken away from me when
she'd fled so long ago would be about sixteen now, and Peaches had
definitely been older.