The Pleasure Merchant (4 page)

“Wrong?
Wrong?
” Mr. Mauntell went from angry to furious, and Tom took a step back, lest the man strike him. “I was up for Brooks’s, you
scum
, and you’ve gone and ruined me! I’ll pelt you myself with every rotten apple in London when they take you to the stocks, to say nothing of what I’ll do to whoever put you up to it. Mark my—”

“My apprentice has not even been formally accused, much less sentenced,” interjected Mr. Dray.

“Of what am I accused, formally or otherwise?” asked Tom.

“You know very well what!” Mr. Mauntell’s face had taken on the same plum shade of his coat.

“Mr. Mauntell,” said one of the officers, a warning in his tone.

The gentleman took a deep breath, and began more calmly. “Come clean now, and things will be much better for you,” he said. “I am sure someone put you up to it, for why would you wish to see my chances for Brooks’s ruined?”

“No one has put me up to anything!” Tom looked from Mr. Mauntell to Mr. Dray, but he saw nothing encouraging in his master’s expression. “Please—will you not tell me what I’m said to have done?”

“You sold me a trick wig!” Mr. Mauntell almost shouted it. “You
rigged
it!”

Though even more confused, Tom was also relieved—he was innocent of “rigging a wig,” which meant it all must be a mistake. “How would I do such a thing? And why?”

Mr. Mauntell uttered a horrible sound, something between a grunt and a scream. “Deliver me from liars and enemies!” he cried, and stormed out of the shop. One of the officers followed him, whereupon they began speaking animatedly in the street—much to the amusement of several dustmen, who began to jeer and point at the sight of a gentleman throwing a fit.

“Would you be so good as to explain?” prompted Mr. Dray, after a few moments. The remaining officer seemed fascinated by the scene outside.

“Right. Sorry,” he said. “Ah, so the gentleman says he was at a ball last Saturday night, playing at cards, and just as things were getting hot, a whole mess of cards—extra cards, you see—they… well, fell from his wig. Great ruddy thing, there were quite a lot of them in there, aces and court cards mostly.”

“In his wig?”

“Yes, as if he’d hidden them there. To cheat,” explained the officer, “
at cards.
”

So that was why Mr. Mauntell was so very upset. Even the accusation of cheating at cards would ruin a man’s reputation, and if said man was up for Brooks’s, where card-playing was
the
preferred pastime, he would almost certainly be considered unclubbable.

“He’s claiming he didn’t put them there,” said the officer. “Says they must have been planted by his enemies.”

“His enemies? Does he have them?” Tom had always thought Mr. Mauntell an affable enough fellow. Many men equal to his rank came into Dray’s like the floor wasn’t fit to touch their shoes, but Mr. Mauntell was always warm and friendly.

“Every rich man’s got enemies,” said the officer, drawing a disapproving frown from Mr. Dray. “So, boy, did you do it? Say it now if you did, it’ll be better for you.”

“I most certainly did not! I have no reason to injure Mr. Mauntell—and even if I did, I would never compromise my craft or my morals by doing such a thing.”

Mr. Dray seemed to relax, some of his former ease returning. “See there?” he said. “I told you the boy would not have done it.”

“Well, was there anything unusual about the wig?” The officer glanced out at the street, where Mr. Mauntell was still gesticulating and shouting. “Something strange in its construction? Or its delivery?”

“No, not at all.”

“Did anyone else work on the wig?”

“Tom alone was responsible for the commission.
I
certainly did not work on it.”

Mr. Dray’s tone surprised Tom, until he realized the man was taking care to distance himself from whatever was happening. Tom felt a sudden chill, though the room was warm enough, but before he could dwell on it, the door opened to allow Mr. Mauntell and his escort back inside. The gentleman was substantially more composed.

“Could anyone else have gotten at it?” asked the officer.

Tom shook his head. “The only other person who even
saw
it was a young man who came in a few days before the party, just to ask after a wig of his own… he followed me into the back room. But he never even got near the wig. I’d know—I was with him the entire time.”

“Who was this young man?” Mr. Mauntell was suddenly very interested. “Did he give his name?”

“Yes, sir. Callow Bewit.”

“Bewit!” The name was a curse in Mr. Mauntell’s mouth. “I should have known! Tiercel Bewit would give
anything
to see me discredited—and rumor has it he’s also up for Brooks’s. He has a son, Callow. Young fellow, and said to be a bit of a fop, just like his father.” Tom would have laughed, under different circumstances—Mr. Mauntell spent a hundred pounds a year on clothes, if his tailor’s apprentice was to be believed. “Yes, Bewit’s at the heart of it… he
must
be. Why didn’t I see it before? You, boy! What happened,
exactly
, when he came by?”

“Nothing, sir.” Tom swallowed, aware his master was as acutely interested as Mr. Mauntell. “I mean… he came in, asking after a wig—for himself, I mean—but we were so booked up we couldn’t help him. Then I remembered I had some hair-pieces, and as he was going as a woman—”

“Ha!” snorted Mr. Mauntell derisively.

“—I sold him some extra locks… oh, and some wig-powder. He came into the back but didn’t so much as notice your wig. He certainly didn’t… comment on it… or touch it…”

Wait—
was
that true? Tom thought about it for a moment, but he possessed no memory of Callow even looking at the piece—only that he had wanted to pay, and then Tom had begun to feel all queer and dizzy. As queer and dizzy as he was currently feeling, all of a sudden… but the sensation passed so quickly, leaving behind only the slightest of headaches, that Tom assumed he must just be feeling the pressure from being scrutinized by a gentleman and his master.

“I’m sure of it, sir,” he said, confident once more. “He was in there but a moment, only long enough time for me to package up his purchases.” And flirt with his future bride—but Tom didn’t add that. There was no need to bring Hizzy’s name into this.

“Hmph. Well… I shall certainly go there and speak with him. And I’ll bring the boy with me.”

“I beg your pardon?” asked Mr. Dray.

“When confronted with the sight of him, if Mr. Bewit is to blame, he—or his son—will no doubt display some surprise or alarm, whether this boy was knowingly an accomplice or not.”

“True,” admitted the one of the officers. “Well, Mr. Dray, will you lend us your apprentice for a few hours?”

“I’ll come along, too, if you don’t mind.” Mr. Dray’s tone was grim. Tom felt another shiver of apprehension; he couldn’t tell if Mr. Dray was annoyed with him, or the situation. He didn’t want to go—all he wanted to do was go and have a bit of a lie-down until his head ceased to ache.

“Of course,” said the officer.

“But make it snappy,” said Mr. Mauntell. He had recovered his spirits, and was keen to be off.

“Just give me a moment,” said Mr. Dray. “I must ask my daughter to mind the shop while we’re gone.” And with that, he disappeared into the back room.

They stood in silence as footsteps thudded overhead. When Mr. Bewit returned, it was with Hizzy in tow. Her eyes went wide to see officers standing about Tom, but he gave her an encouraging smile as they took their leave.

Tom knew he’d done nothing wrong, but as they climbed into a coach and clattered over the ice-rimed cobblestones he could not help but worry. Mr. Dray, sober as a judge, said nothing to him during the entire drive. Tom didn’t press him; instead, he looked out at the streets beyond. It was a cold morning, and early, but even the pink-tinted morning sunlight could not make the shabby people who were out and about look any less miserable as they slipped in frozen shit and mud. Tom wished he was back in the wig shop, behind clean walls, where everything smelled nice. It was never lost on him, when he ventured outside, that but for Mr. Dray’s kindness he might have been one of those people, dressed all in rags and bits of wool, filth sloshing in worn-out shoes as they walked hither and yon on some dreadful errand.

The Bewits lived in a terraced home with a fine view of Bloomsbury Square—very posh, as was the footman who answered the door sporting an elaborate hunter-green livery, adorned with silver hawks. But, in spite of his formal elegance, he could not help but betray a moment of surprise at finding two Bow Street Runners, a gentleman, a tradesman, and an apprentice waiting for him on Mr. Bewit’s stoop.

“Good morning,” he said. “How may I be of service?”

“Where is your master? I must speak to him at once.” Mr. Mauntell elbowed his way to the front of the pack. “Tell him Robert Mauntell is here, and will brook no delays. I am here for justice, and shall have it!”

“Yes, sir,” said the flunky, with impressive composure. “Please, come in. You may wait in the parlor… Mr. Bewit is still breakfasting, but I will let him—”

“I’d as soon speak to him with his lying mouth full of bacon and eggs as empty of them,” cried Mr. Mauntell, pushing past the footman and into the hall. “Step aside—I know the way, I’ve suffered through more than one evening here.”

“Mr. Mauntell!” protested the footman, trailing after, the rest of them hot on the men’s heels. Privately, Tom felt that whatever else happened this day, it would prove worth it to see one gentleman storm into the house of another, shrieking like a fishwife and ignoring the entreaties of servants private and civil alike. Never in his life had he witnessed such a spectacle.

Mr. Dray, however, was not in the least amused by hurrying down corridors and through various rooms of the fine house. It was clear from Tom’s master’s expression that this—whatever
this
was—simply would not do. If word of the incident got out, it would likely tarnish Dray’s sterling reputation.

Barreling ahead of them, Mr. Mauntell savagely twisted a chryselephantine doorknob, throwing open the door and barging inside in one motion. Those in his wake all crowded in after to find a small household at table. They appeared, in a word, alarmed.

Seeing the ghost of young Callow in his more mature features, Tom assumed the man at the head of the table was Mr. Bewit. Then again, the fellow to his right might be the father, given the strong family resemblance. The only other person in the room, apart from the startled servants, was a beautiful but nervous-looking woman hovering on the edge of her chair. Pale though she wore no powder, and golden-haired, she would have looked just like an angel but for a rather prominent nose and her queer morning-dress, which looked more like a penitent’s sackcloth than the usual attire sported by a wealthy young wife.

Notably, there was no sign of Master Callow. There was not even a place laid for him, nor an empty dish implying he had breakfasted early.

“Bewit!” Mr. Mauntell seized Tom by his collars and thrust him forward, much to Tom’s mortification. “Look here! I have brought to you the leaf, but I know
you
are the root of this treachery!”

“I beg your pardon?” The gentleman at the head of the table rose with dignity. He was a handsome man of perhaps five and forty, dressed finely but not extravagantly. It being morning, he wore no wig; his glorious head of chestnut curls, the same rich shade and texture as Callow’s, were neatly tied back with an emerald ribbon. “Why have you invaded my house at this early hour, and with these men? I’ll have your names, the two of you,” he pointed at the two officers, “and report you for harassment to the Blind Beak of Bow Street himself, Mr. John Fielding. He and I are old friends; I can’t imagine he’ll be pleased to hear two of his finest assisted an unjustified home invasion.”

“Don’t be an ass,” snapped Mr. Mauntell. “John’s my friend, too. And as for
unjustified
—this boy has already given you up as the snake who has poisoned my ambitions with a jape unworthy of the lowest scoundrel. Do not deny it, Bewit! The lad has no reason to lie.”

“He must, for I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Please, cousin—do excuse us,” said the other gentleman, who was also possessed of those distinctive waving locks. His, however, draped greasily over his face in an artfully unkempt manner, and his clothes, while finely made, were wrinkled and unbrushed. “This dispute does not concern us, and Mrs. Dryden cannot bear all this shouting.” Indeed, the pale woman was trembling, and her appearance had shifted from the angelic to the ghostly.

“Of course, Mr. Dryden. I can handle a blowhard and a coward by myself—even if he puffs himself up with an entourage.”

The lady rose as Mr. Mauntell fumed, but he respectfully held his tongue as she toddled away on unsteady legs, supported by her husband’s arm. Mr. Bewit waited until she was out of sight before sitting back down.

“At last, we are alone and can speak frankly.” Reclining in the chair, he tented his fingers over his stomach. “Well, Robert? Out with it. You’ve been here so long already I’d be within my rights to collect rent from you.”

“I know you conspired with this boy to ruin my chances at Brooks’s,” announced Mr. Mauntell. “You secreted playing cards in my wig and did
something
which caused them to fall during a crucial hand, making me look a cheat. Why are you shaking your head? Do you deny it?”

“I do.”

“Then at least admit you asked your son to do it for you!”

“My son?” Mr. Bewit frowned. “What has Callow to do with this?”

“Tell him,” hissed Mr. Mauntell, staring right at Tom.

“I beg both your pardons,” said Tom, looking from one gentleman to the other, “but all I said was that the only other person who saw Mr. Mauntell’s wig before Lord Chandoss’s party was your son, Callow Bewit. He followed me into the back room when I was packing up some hairpieces for him, for his costume.” Tom’s slight headache was back, but he scarcely noticed it, so interested was he in the outcome of this meeting.