The Glass House (6 page)

I’d suspected he'd get to that. Sir Montague
could not enter the realm of the aristocrat, but Lucius Grenville
could. And Lucius Grenville could take me with him, as he'd already
offered to.

I supposed Sir Montague expected me to
protest. Grenville was ready to let me use my connection with him
to enter, but I was not certain how happy he would be when he
learned that I wanted to not only to investigate Peaches' murder
but to spy on Grenville's own cronies.

However, Sir Montague did not know how much I
would welcome any opportunity to thwart James Denis. I despised the
man, and would happily get in the way of anything he did.

I gave Sir Montague a quiet nod. "Of course.
What would you like me to do?"

*** *** ***

"Have you ever thought of going into law,
Bartholomew?" I asked the next morning. Bartholomew, towering six
feet and more with golden blond hair and a youthful face for his
nineteen years, stopped in the act of refilling my cup.

"Can't say I ever did, sir. I mean to be a
valet." He poured the thick, black coffee, its steam bathing my
nose in heady aroma. "Or a Runner. A chap needs learning to go to
law."

"He apprentices," I said, lifting my cup. The
coffee burned my tongue, but I swallowed it down. "He apprentices
to a barrister and learns the art of prosecuting in court."

If I had stayed at Cambridge and finished
instead of following Colonel Brandon off to the Thirty-Fifth Light
Dragoons, I likely would have found my way to one of the Temples or
Lincoln's or Gray's Inn to learn to practice at the bar. My father
had been pressing me that direction, not to mention to marry a
young lady for her fortune. Twenty years old and arrogant, I had
told my father to go to the devil.

He’d shouted at me for days, and I had
shouted back. Grown man though I was, he’d still been fond of
beating me across the backside with his stout cane whenever he
could reach me. I’d felt the brunt of that cane most of my life.
I’d witnessed many a flogging in my Army life, but no soldier had
ever beaten another with the vicious thoroughness of my father.

"I need an excuse to go poking about the
Middle Temple," I said. "You could put on a suit and pretend you
are looking to apprentice to a barrister. You are about the right
age."

Bartholomew grinned. "Any of that lot will
peg me for a slavey right off, I open my mouth."

"Then keep it closed." I chewed through
another hunk of Mrs. Beltan's cheapest bread and downed the coffee.
"Stay behind me and look shy. I'll be your uncle or some such,
happy to be getting you off my hands."

His smile widened. "I'm your man, sir."

Bartholomew was as fascinated as Grenville by
the fact that I investigated things. His last adventure with me had
resulted in him receiving two bullets in his arm and leg, but that
fact had not dimmed his interest. Bartholomew had recovered with
the exuberance of youth and didn’t even sport a limp.

Unlike myself. I had received a nasty knee
injury courtesy of French soldiers on the Peninsula and had to lean
on a walking stick. The stick sported a sharp sword within it,
which had come in handy more than once since my return to London
and civilian life.

When Bartholomew was ready, we departed. As I
closed my door, I was surprised by the sight of Marianne Simmons
coming up the steps. She wore yellow straw bonnet tied with a green
ribbon that made her girlish face more fetching than ever. Marianne
scowled when she saw me, golden brows drawn over eyes of cornflower
blue.

"Where the devil have you been?" I asked,
startled into rudeness. She'd been away longer than usual, and
Peaches' death had worried me.

Marianne’s scowl deepened. "None of your
business, Lacey." She paused halfway to her floor to glower down at
me. "None of
his
either."

She did not mean Bartholomew, who hovered
behind me. She meant Grenville, who'd taken an interest in Marianne
and twice given her money, asking for nothing in return.

I did not pursue it. Marianne was
correct--what she got up to when she was far from here was none of
my business. I shut my door but did not lock it. "There's half a
loaf of bread on my table. Take it if you want it."

She gave me a freezing look. "I do not need
your leavings."

I shrugged but still did not lock the door. I
followed Bartholomew down the stairs, hearing Marianne ascend to
her own rooms behind us. I had no doubt that when I returned the
bread would be gone.

Bartholomew and I set off along the Strand
through Temple Bar to Fleet Street, then walked south, down Middle
Temple Lane, which bisected the Middle and Inner Temples. The
environs of the two Temples overlapped somewhat, with buildings
belonging to Middle Temple straying into the areas of the Inner
Temple.

I led Bartholomew past the courts and
chambers and toward the hall and gardens.

Bartholomew wore the plain suit in which he
visited his mother, and he slowed his exuberant stride for my
slower one. His suit was cheap, though not shabby, but it did not
matter. The middle-class men and young gentlemen who apprenticed
here did not always come from families of wealth.

Pupils fluttered about the lanes and gardens
like students anywhere--some with the frightened but determined
looks of young men resolute to prove they were good at something;
some with the superior looks of those who already knew they were
good; some with the devil-may-care looks of young men who lived for
larks, studies getting done when they got done. At Cambridge, I,
unfortunately, had been a member of the latter group.

Bartholomew stayed quiet as instructed, and I
behaved like an uncle anxious to rid myself of a lad I was at wit's
end what to do with. The pupils spoke to us readily enough. They
eyed Bartholomew with either awe at his size or with a spark of
mischief as they debated how to make fun of him.

We received much jovial advice on which
barristers to avoid, but no one mentioned Chapman. I had to inquire
about him directly and was directed to a tall, lanky young man who
was taking a turn about the gardens.

Mr. Gower was about twenty summers, very
tall, very thin, and with a crop of bright red hair. He had
freckles all over his face and throat and the bony wrists that
protruded from the ends of his gown. He had a serious expression,
but when I asked him about Chapman, he rolled his light blue
eyes.

"Dull," he said.

I raised my brows. "Dull?"

"Deadly. I was his pupil all Michaelmas term
and now I've Hilary term to get through. I'm almost dead from
yawning."

"Sounds the perfect man for the lad, here." I
jerked my thumb at Bartholomew.

Mr. Gower gave me a look that said he didn't
think much of my senses. "Not what I'd wish on my nephew. Chapman
passes up the most interesting cases and sticks with what's safe
and only needs two words to the judge to get a conviction. No
style, no verve. But alas, one has to put up with it if one wants
to become a barrister.
Someone
in my family must make a
living."

"Mr. Chapman is married, I believe," I said.
"Perhaps that makes him wish to choose cases that are safe."

Mr. Gower snorted. "You'd never think he was
married. He never talks about his wife, never goes home. Just has
me sifting through dull books all night. I hear she is a damned
pretty woman. I'll not feel sorry for her, though, always being
alone at home. It would be duller for her with him there."

I found it interesting that Chapman seemed
not to have told his pupil of his wife's death or of his journey to
Bow Street to identify her. Doubtless Mr. Gower would be
disheartened to learn he'd missed the only bit of excitement in
Chapman's chambers all term.

"Do you dine with him?" I asked.

"Every day in the hall." The lad gestured to
the square brick edifice behind us. "I sit with the students, of
course. We debate a case most days. Thank God
he
doesn't
choose them. He dines with the other barristers, but not the silks.
Not that he don't want to." Mr. Gower winked.

A silk, as I understood it, denoted a King's
Counsel, a senior barrister--a most distinguished achievement.

"Did he dine Monday?" When young Gower looked
a question, I added. "I called, but he was not in his chambers. I
wondered if I’d chosen a bad time."

"Oh, yes, he was there. Dozing over his
pudding as usual. Saving up his waking hours to plague me with his
dull books. I say." He brightened. "Would you like to slip away for
a tankard? It's early, he won't miss me for a while."

I resisted the urge to join him. Gower's easy
manner was infectious, but I could not keep up the charade over a
tall tankard of ale, nor could Bartholomew. I declined and thanked
him for his time. He shrugged and departed, walking away down the
lane, back straight, arms swinging, whistling a tune.

I envied him. His young shoulders had borne
no hardships; his only grief was nodding off over the pages of the
tedious cases Chapman assigned him to read.

Bartholomew and I walked the opposite
direction, down to the Temple Gardens. The peaceful setting of
green and trees was soothing, even in the winter cold. Young men in
black gowns walked hurriedly, heads down, gowns flapping, like
crows scuttling along the green. Older barristers hobbled in their
wakes. All moved purposefully to and from the Inns and other
buildings, seeming to ignore the gardens laid out for their
pleasure.

A set of stairs led from the gardens to the
Thames. The steps to the water had existed since the time that
these Inns had been the demesne of the Knights Templar; the stairs
had led to barges when the Thames had been the most sensible route
for traversing London.

"He couldn't have done her, then,"
Bartholomew said as soon as we were alone on the stairs. "If he
were sitting at dinner, falling asleep, he couldn’t have done
her."

"Not necessarily." The Temple Gardens were an
idyllic place, with trees and green and the river below. It was
here, if Thompson had been correct, that Peaches had met her death,
or at least had been put into the river.

I walked halfway down the water steps and
watched the gray river flowing obliviously past us. "Middle Temple
Hall opens onto the garden. Chapman could easily have come out, met
his wife, and gone back. It was nearly dark, and almost everyone in
the Temples were dining. No doubt others in the hall nod off as
well, and the students spend the time debating and arguing, not
watching their elders."

"That's possible, sir."

"Anything is possible," I said, growing
impatient. "That is the trouble. What's more, it is probable. So is
Lord Barbury bringing her here after she was killed to throw
suspicion on her husband, who was dining conveniently nearby." I
blew out my breath. "I very much want to speak to someone who saw
Peaches alive that day. We know where she was to have gone, and
where she should have gone, but not where she did go."

"'Tis puzzling, sir." Bartholomew dropped his
deferential nephew pose and folded his arms over his chest.

We prowled about looking for signs that
Peaches had been killed here, although Thompson had told me the Bow
Street foot patrol had searched the area, under Pomeroy's
supervision. We found no stones with blood on them, nor had the
murderer conveniently left behind a bloody handkerchief with his
initials embroidered on it. Of course, anything incriminating could
simply have been dropped into the silent Thames.

Rain began to patter down on us. It had
poured rain on Monday, which likely had disguised any sign of
violence. Bartholomew and I looked about until we were drenched
then gave up and returned home.

Once in Grimpen Lane, I went to my bedchamber
to change into dry clothes and told Bartholomew to do the same.
When I emerged, my landlady, Mrs. Beltan, was knocking at my
door.

"Your friend Mr. Grenville's been," she said
when I answered. Rain still pattered outside, and the hall was cold
and clammy. Mrs. Beltan handed me a folded square of paper. "Been
and gone. And he's taken Miss Simmons away with him."

* * * * *

Chapter Five

I stared. "Taken her where?"

Mrs. Beltan’s plump mouth pursed in
disapproval. "I couldn't say, sir. But she had on her best bonnet
and a bundle under her arm. He fair dragged her away. He looked
that angry."

Grenville had seemed fascinated by Marianne
from the day he'd met her, an interest he'd never denied. He'd
given her a good handful of money, though it seemed to disappear
with nothing to show for it. I wondered what Marianne had said or
done to anger him, and where on earth he'd taken her.

"I will speak to him," I told Mrs. Beltan.
"If it's a question of the rent . . ."

"Rent’s been paid to the end of the quarter.
Your Mr. Grenville gave me a large note for it."

For that I could only wonder. I had known
Grenville for a year or more now, but I could neither understand
nor explain his actions.

The piece of paper he'd left instructed me to
present myself at number 21, Curzon Street at four o'clock this
afternoon. It was just going on twelve. I told the worried Mrs.
Beltan I would look into the matter, fetched Bartholomew, and set
off on my next errand.

*** *** ***

I did not seriously think Marianne in any
danger from Grenville, but I had no idea where he could have taken
her. Certainly not to his own house; at least, I did not believe
so. A few lads in Russel Street told me they'd seen Grenville's
carriage but added nothing more helpful than it had turned toward
Covent Garden and King Street.

I let it go. I doubted Grenville would
appreciate me prying, and I was not quite certain who I was more
worried for, Marianne or Grenville. However, I told Bartholomew to
return to Grenville’s house in Mayfair and make sure all was well,
then I took a hackney through the City to have a look at the
infamous Glass House.