Black Gold (25 page)

Burton broke in, apparently suspecting the Frenchmen were attempting to divert responsibility away from Fitzroy. “That
something
, the object of their quarrel, could also serve as Fitzroy's motive for murder. It's likely he and Lady Margaret were having an affair. Fitzroy feared Roach had proof and intended to use it, so he killed him.”

“Let's not rush to judgment,” cautioned Saint-Martin. “Other suspects had equally strong interest in whatever was stolen from Lady Margaret.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Burton waved a hand to end the discussion and rose to leave. “I intend to question everyone who knew Jack Roach would be in the tennis hall between eleven and midnight and would have a reason to kill him. If you can think of one we've not yet identified, let me know. At the moment, Fitzroy is my chief suspect.” At the door the Bow Street officer stopped and glanced back. “I need to know why Roach was blackmailing the captain and Lady Margaret.”

Chapter 21

A Strange Letter

Thursday, April 5

From supper in the servants' hall, Georges walked with Peter Hyde to his room in the house's detached west wing where the stable was located. The coachman had invited the Frenchman to enjoy a pipeful of Virginia tobacco. Sir Harry had given it to him after Wednesday's fight for helping to train Lord Jeff. Though Georges didn't care to smoke, he feigned enthusiasm and brought along a flask of French brandy to share.

Hyde lodged comfortably in spacious quarters above the stable's harnass room, from which seeped up the distinctive odor of oiled leather. The furnishings were of good quality: simple, solid, and sensible, like the man himself. They also reflected his privileged status among the servants, one of the master's favorites. On the whitewashed walls hung mementoes of an adventurous life. A cavalryman's sabre and pistols, a boxer's blue scarf and sparring mittens held pride of place.

The coachman waved Georges to a worn but comfortable upholstered chair by the hearth, stirred the glowing embers to a bright fire, and lowered himself into a similar chair opposite. Georges brought out his flask, poured for Hyde and himself, then set the flask on a small table between them.

“To your health,” they said, lifting their glasses together. The coachman drank a mouthful and smacked his lips with pleasure. Georges sipped uneasily from his glass, a twinge of guilt nagging his conscience. Drinking a brandy this fine, purchased with a baron's money, smacked of aristocratic self-indulgence. But it hadn't seemed right to drink it under the envious eyes of the other servants, and there wasn't enough for everyone.

The brandy was meant to dispose the coachman to talk freely. For some time Georges had wanted to meet privately with him, a knowledgeable, keen-sighted man, well-placed to observe the Combe Park household. He and Georges had become fast friends since that day on the Bristol road when together they had defended their coach and its passengers against a horde of bandits. Or, so it seemed to Hyde, who never tired of recounting the incident to anyone willing to listen.

After lighting their pipes, the two comrades exchanged small talk about the main house and its servants and reminisced about their military experiences. As young men they might have fought one another in the wars between their countries. But nostalgia banished any lingering trace of old hatreds or hardships.

At a lull in the conversation, Hyde peered over his shoulder conspiratorially, then caught Georges' eye. “So the captain dumped the Red Devil in the Avon, did he. Now that's a shame. The fish won't be fit to eat.”

“Who told you that?” Georges asked irritably. “We are trying to keep it secret until tomorrow at least.” He and Dick Burton hoped to search Roach's rooms early in the morning before news of his death led excisemen and other interested parties to interfere. Roach, if surprised by death, could have left behind a large collection of scandalous and otherwise incriminating material. Georges wanted to be the first to examine it.

Hyde made a soothing gesture. “The young groom, the one who saw the donkey cart on its way to the river. I overheard him telling his tale in the servants' hall. I said to him, now you've got it off your chest, I want you to stop. And I told the others to be quiet about it until the Bow Street man says it's all right.”

The sound of footsteps outside the door interrupted Hyde's account. He opened for Jeffery, who stood there politely until invited to enter. “May I speak to you, Mr. Charpentier?” He glanced at Hyde and added with a courteous bow, “Privately.”

“Of course,” Georges replied. He turned to Hyde. “I want to talk to you later.”

Hyde settled back with his pipe. “I'll keep the fire going and guard the brandy.”

“Brave lad!” Georges handed the coachman a folded newspaper. “Here, read the latest
Bath Chronicle
while I'm gone. You may find a horse you'd like.” Georges then followed Jeffery by a back way into the basement of the main house. He opened the door to a room little more than a closet with space for a bed, small table, and chair.

“What can I do for you, Jeff?” asked Georges with genuine concern. He sensed the footman came to him as a last resort.

The footman pulled a sealed letter from his coat. “This just arrived, addressed to Mr. William Rogers. Bad business, I think. Help me decide what to do with it.” He explained that a well-dressed stranger, Mr. John Twycross, had come to the house earlier, demanding to see young Rogers. The visitor's grim demeanor had alarmed Jeffery, who left him standing outside while he consulted Lady Margaret. She knew the man and refused to let him in. One of William's bad companions, she had said.

“Twycross came back a few minutes ago, this time with a letter,” said Jeffery. “I can't ask Lady Margaret—she's gone out for the evening. Would you read what's inside and help me decide what to do?” Jeffery smiled innocently. “I believe you know how to open it.”

Georges nodded gravely. The letter might shed light on Roach's death, since William was one of his spies in the house. “I may be able to help you.” He took the letter and studied its wax seal. Prying it open shouldn't be difficult. While working for Lieutenant-General Sartine, he had opened diplomatic correspondence of the most eminent statesmen of Europe, and had come to enjoy their gossip.

“Wait here, Jeff,” he said, tapping the letter. At first, he was inclined to open it in front of the footman but then changed his mind. Jeff should be able to say without lying that he had not seen the letter opened. “I'll bring this back to you in five minutes.”

The footman bowed slightly, his expression blank except for a sly look in his eyes.

***

At a table in his own room, Georges held his knife's thin sharp blade in the flame of a candle. When it was hot, he deftly slipped it under the seal and lifted it from the paper. He unfolded the letter and began to read:

Mr. Rogers:

It troubles us greatly to be obliged to send you this letter. We would have preferred to discuss our matters face to face, but you have studiously avoided us. Three months ago you asked us for a large sum of money in order, as you said, to enjoy the privileges of our establishment. You offered us a document, stating you were the nephew and ward of Sir Harry Rogers and requesting that you be extended the courtesies owed to a gentleman. Sir Harry's signature and seal authenticated the document. Privately, you claimed to be heir presumptive to Sir Harry's fortune, since Sir Harry, for reasons that are common knowledge, would soon set Master Charlie Rogers aside. On that basis, we the undersigned lent you two hundred pounds. You agreed to a repayment schedule of fifty pounds per month with interest of five per cent. Unfortunately, we have not received any of the scheduled payments. Furthermore, and more seriously, we now have reasons to believe the document is fraudulent and Sir Harry's signature is forged. You have until next Thursday to meet the payment schedule and to prove you are the heir you claim to be. Otherwise, we shall take the matter to Sir Harry and to the magistrates. This is the last warning. Indicate below that you have received this letter and return it to the bearer who will wait for it.

Mr. John Twycross & Mr. Richard Wetenall

Georges copied the letter's salient points and resealed it, then returned to Jeffery's room. The footman's guarded expression betrayed a hint of curiosity.

“As best I can determine, the letter doesn't directly concern Jack Roach. Bring it to William.” Georges handed the letter to Jeffery, who glanced at it and smiled. The seal appeared unchanged.

“William is in serious trouble,” Georges added, then explained the charges of deception against the young man.

“That doesn't surprise me,” Jeffery remarked. “The servants talk much about his gambling.”

“I noticed something else, Jeff, that you should know about.” Georges engaged the footman's eye. “William would like to replace little Charlie as Sir Harry's heir. That could pose a threat to the boy. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” he replied softly. “I shall be watchful.” He flourished the letter. “I shall take it to William now.”

A short while later, Jeffery returned with the letter.

Georges took it to his room again and opened it. William had written, “
I shall satisfy you by Thursday
,” and signed his name. Georges resealed it and returned to Jeffery's room.

“How did he look when he read it?” Georges asked as he handed the letter over to Jeff.

“He pretended it wasn't important, but his hand shook as he handed it to me. I'll give it back to Mr. Twycross now.”

***

Georges found Peter Hyde still in his chair by the fire, noticeably mellowed by the brandy. The
Bath Chronicle
lay spread open on his lap. The room stank of tobacco, affronting Georges' nostrils and watering his eyes. Like a stoic, he took his place opposite Hyde and poured himself a brandy.

“So, Georges, what has caused such concern to our champion, Lord Jeff, that he would search you out?”

The coachman was prying, Georges thought. But there was mutual benefit in sharing confidences, so he told him what he had learned.

Hyde frowned. “Sir Harry will be very angry about the forged signature. William's not his ward, and he's not willing to pay his gambling debts.”

“How can the young man gamble away two hundred pounds so quickly?” Georges asked.

“Much of it went to Critchley. I'm sure he's behind the scheme. He has no credit, so he had to get money through William. They gamble together at Twycross's place. Critchley probably wrote the letter, signed Sir Harry's name, and used his seal. If anything went wrong, William would be blamed.”

“Is there any truth at all in William's claim to be Sir Harry's heir-presumptive?”

The coachman grimaced. “For the time being, his heir is still little Charlie. And…” Hyde lowered his voice. “William doesn't stand a beggar's chance. I've overheard Sir Harry say he'd like to leave his fortune to a son of his own. Can't hardly blame him. Little Charlie's a fine boy, but he's not Sir Harry's.” The coachman paused, cleared his throat. “Or, so they say.”

Georges played innocent. “I guess that means Sir Harry wants to divorce Lady Margaret, disinherit Charlie, and marry again. Does he have a woman in mind?”

“Why Miss Ware of course! He can't take his eyes off her pretty face. Mind you, she's proper when I see them together. Friendly like, but not romantic. I'm not the one to ask how this will turn out. I know horses much better than women.”

“Better than gamblers?” Georges asked, grinning. “Tell me about Mr. John Twycross and Mr. Richard Wetenall.”

“Partners in a large fancy gambling house on Alfred Street near the Upper Assembly Rooms. There's much talk in the city about prominent hidden partners in the business. Some folks, including the mayor, call it a den of iniquity. Others praise its fine food and beautiful women, its high-stakes games of chance. Country gentlemen lose huge sums at its faro table. That's an open secret. The mayor of Bath is about to charge the two men in his court. He'll fine them one or two thousand pounds, only a small fraction of the profits they've made.”

“Crooked characters!” Georges exclaimed. “Worthy successors to Jack Roach. Perhaps they will take over his extortion practice where he left off.”

“And meet the same end,” observed Peter, knocking the ash out of his pipe.

***

On the way back to his own room, Georges found Colonel Saint-Martin at his table, writing in his diary. He pulled up a chair and told him about Twycross' letter. “It gives William a motive for killing someone,” Georges argued. “He desperately needs money. And he has the nasty character, as well as the physical strength to do it.”

“But why would he want to kill Roach?” the colonel asked.

Georges rose and began to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Let's suppose William thought Roach had the stolen package. He might conclude, if he got his hands on it, he could sell it to someone in the city or give it to Twycross in return for canceling his debt. So, he sneaked into the tennis hall between Critchley's and Fitzroy's visits, caught Roach unawares and killed him. Then, too late, William discovered Roach didn't have the package after all.”

The colonel nodded. “A plausible scenario. William could be the person I saw at the entrance to the tennis hall before Fitzroy arrived. We can add the young man to our list of suspects.”

“Critchley must have the package,” Georges added. “If William had it, he would have no reason to avoid Twycross.” He shook his head as he got up to leave. “There's still too many dark corners in this case. I'm hoping to throw some light on them tomorrow at Roach's house.”

Chapter 22

Discoveries

Friday, April 6

On the broad sidewalk of North Parade, Georges Charpentier could see only servants and tradesmen moving about. The rich folk who would display themselves here later in the day were either at the public baths or still in bed.

The bells of the Abbey Church struck seven. A carriage approached. Georges checked his watch and murmured, “Right on time.” He was waiting for Dick Burton.

Yesterday, when Burton had proposed to search Roach's rooms for hidden papers, Colonel Saint-Martin had offered his adjutant's services, claiming that Charpentier could ferret even the most reluctant rats from their holes. Burton had gladly accepted the offer and said he would arm himself with authority from the mayor of Bath. He would also engage men to search the river for Roach's body.

“Look's like they got here before us,” the Frenchman remarked dryly as he walked up to Burton's carriage. “News of Roach's disappearance traveled fast.”

Burton stepped out on to the pavement and glanced at a coach standing in the street, marked with fading royal insignia. “Excise officers?”

Georges shook his hand. “Three of them pulled up to the house just as I arrived a few minutes ago. Pounded on the door, like they meant to knock it down. Charged in, pushed the landlady aside.”

Burton frowned. “They're a law unto themselves. We'll drive around the corner into Duke Street and wait until they leave. Won't be long. They can't find a thing without these.” He waved a bundle of papers he had been carrying under his arm. “Architectural plans,” he said with a sly grin. “John Wood drew them for the construction of the building in the 1740s.”

As Burton had predicted, the excise officers came out of the house twenty minutes later, empty handed and irritated, and drove away in their coach.

Georges and his companion returned and knocked on the door. The landlady opened for them, pale, trembling. Burton flashed the warrant to search, but she hardly took note of it. She stood aside speechless as they climbed the stairs to Roach's apartment. The door was ajar. Inside was chaos. The officers had overturned furniture, spilled ink, scattered papers and quills about, ransacked the cabinet, slashed the straw mattress.

“They might think of the architectural plans later and find out I've got them.” Burton laid the sheets on a table. “They could trace me here. Let's get our work done before they come back.”

Georges studied Roach's rooms, then the rooms above and below and to each side, measuring the walls, floors and ceilings, all the while consulting the architect's plans. Finally, he pulled the bed out of its alcove and examined the wainscoting. It seemed to fit snugly to the wall. To the left of the alcove was a water closet; to the right, a storeroom. More measuring, then a low whistle. “There's a large empty space behind this section at the foot of the bed.” He stepped back to study the alcove, muttering to himself, “Could Roach have found a way to use it?”

The excise men had torn down the curtains that closed off the alcove from the rest of the room. But the stout rod still remained in place. Georges reached up and tried to turn it. It seemed firmly fixed into a pair of cylinders pegged to the walls on the left and right. He examined the cylinders closely. A thin iron pin ran through each cylinder from top to bottom piercing the rod and holding it in place.

Georges removed the pins and began to turn the rod clockwise. Nothing happened. Then, counterclockwise. There was a faint sound of gears working, latches withdrawing. Georges stepped back as the wainscoting dropped to the alcove floor. In the opening stood two large boxes.

“Incredible!” exclaimed Burton, peering over Georges' shoulder. The Frenchman moved to the side to allow his companion to finger through the contents of the boxes. “Roach's treasure-trove of scandal and perfidy,” he said, lifting one of the boxes out of the opening. “Take the other one, Georges. We'll haul them to the carriage.”

“I'm sure Colonel Saint-Martin would be interested in what we've discovered,” Georges remarked, convinced that Fitzroy would figure prominently in Roach's collection.

Burton hesitated hardly a second. “Of course. Tell your colonel to come to the York Inn. He and I must go through these things together.” In ten minutes' time, they put the wainscoting and the pins back in place, moved the boxes into Burton's carriage, and drove away.

***

Saint-Martin hastened eagerly to Burton's room. Georges had told him of Roach's papers, then left to join in the search for his body. Burton received the colonel with a wide smile. “There may be some pearls here,” he said, pointing to the two boxes on the table. “I thought it best we share them. By the way, thanks for Georges Charpentier. He's a gem.”

They sat down immediately and emptied a box on the table. It contained personal things: financial records, bank notes worth several thousand pounds, journals, letters to friends, and a large collection of exquisite unsigned sketches of Bath scenes, portraits of men and women, as well as several erotic pieces signed J.Roach.

The colonel leafed through a journal. “This is a side of Roach I wouldn't have imagined. His handwriting is hasty, as one would expect, but vigorous and graceful. He had a gentleman's taste and a sharp eye for what's interesting.”

“A pity he turned out so badly,” conceded Burton, pushing the personal papers aside and emptying the other box. “But we must now consider his criminal side.” The two men set to work sorting the contents into separate piles according to subject.

When they had surveyed whatever related to scandal in Bath, Burton laid a hand on the pile and looked up at Saint-Martin. “I believe I should return these to Roach's victims.”

“It's the fair thing to do,” the colonel agreed. Bath scandal concerned him only where it might implicate Madame Gagnon or compromise her usefulness. He was relieved to see that Roach had not mentioned her.

Detached yet curious, Saint-Martin looked on while Burton skimmed through Roach's correspondence with excise officers and other pieces related to smuggling. When he had finished, he handed Saint-Martin a packet. “Instructions from excise officers to Roach and his reports to them. Dirty business. He sent several smugglers to the gallows.” A few minutes later, Burton gave the colonel a smaller packet. “Here are notes to and from smugglers.” He added with a wry face, “To keep their trust, Roach sometimes warned them away from excisemen's traps.”

The packets told Saint-Martin a fascinating story of Roach's treachery to both sides in the war between excisemen and smugglers. “A skillful juggler, I must say, though it's possible one or the other party did him in.” He shuffled the packets back together into a pile and patted it down. “These are of no use to me. You might want to hold them, until we're sure who
did
kill Roach.” The size and danger of the illicit trade, not only in tea but also in French brandy and lace, amazed Saint-Martin. Smugglers and excisemen clashed daily in bloody battles off the Channel coast of England.

Into a third pile had gone whatever appeared to concern Combe Park. Saint-Martin was fingering through a journal when the name “Campbell” leaped out at him. He read an entry dated March 16, the day she died.

Critchley, the cretin! Stole some spoons. The Campbell girl discovered him. He pushed her down a stairway and broke her neck. Or, so William claimed. Lucky no one else was there. I warned Critchley of dire consequences if he were ever again to do anything so stupid. He could have ruined my scheme at Combe Park.

Saint-Martin stared at the page with cold fury. Roach hadn't cared that the girl was killed, only that Critchley had foolishly risked his position in Sir Harry's household. The colonel handed the journal to his companion without comment.

“What's this?” Burton exclaimed, staring at the page. His eyes widened as he read it, his lips shaped its words. He said softly, “So, Miss Campbell's death may not have been an accident. Why would William implicate Critchley in a capital crime?” He set the journal to one side. “I'll need it tomorrow when I interrogate them.”

The two men resumed their search of Roach's papers until Burton sat up straight, holding a document. “This alone is worth a trip to Bath!” He showed it to the colonel. It was a signed receipt from the jeweler in London to whom Critchley had sold his stolen silver more than a year ago. According to an attached note to himself, Roach had threatened to denounce both Critchley and the jeweler, forcing the former to surrender to him the money from the sale and the latter to give him the silver. Roach had hidden it in his London apartment.

While Saint-Martin was still reading the note, Burton got up from his chair. With a grimace he stretched, then limped back and forth across the floor. “Damned leg. It's stiff. Need to move it.” Stopping behind the younger man, Burton reached over his shoulder and pointed to the receipt. “That's Roach's lever on Critchley. I've suspected it all along! Now I've proof! The case is as good as closed and the silver recovered!”

“Congratulations!” said Saint-Martin, genuinely pleased for his companion. The silver was valued at six hundred pounds. Burton should receive a third as his commission, sufficient to live comfortably for a year or two. Fair enough. He had doggedly pursued the case long after others would have given up.

Saint-Martin returned the receipt and the note to Burton and reached once more into the Combe Park pile. Several reports to and from Roach piqued his interest. Critchley had discovered the steward pilfering from the pantry but had reported it to Roach rather than to Sir Harry. This confirmed the colonel's impression that, in contrast to Rogers' slaving business, his domestic staff was poorly supervised—for the most part, left to Lady Margaret. Roach could ply his trade easily among the servants.

Roach had instructed Critchley on the use of the optical device which Sir Harry had manufactured in order to spy on Lady Margaret. Critchley had described her bursting into the room the night of the Fancy Ball and running to the table to assure herself the secret drawer had not been disturbed. After bribing Lady Margaret's maid to gain entrance to the room, he had stolen the compromising item from the drawer. Roach had scrawled “Well done!” on Critchley's report and had added, “Will get it soon from C.”

The name Harriet Ware, Anne's friend, came up unexpectedly. Critchley's report mentioned small presents Sir Harry bought for her and other signs of their affection. In a lurid passage Critchley described them making love in Rogers' study. Stunned, Saint-Martin asked himself, was Critchley describing what he had seen, or was he embellishing an incident in order to titillate Roach? In the margin Roach had placed a large question mark.

The Red Devil wasn't easily fooled, thought Saint-Martin. He reflected again on the lurid passage. Suppose Roach could expose an adultery between Rogers and Harriet? If it were flagrant, it could jeopardize his attempt to divorce Lady Margaret. He might pay handsomely to avoid exposure. Or…he might kill Roach to silence him.

Saint-Martin put it to Burton as a question.

“I doubt it,” Burton replied. “Roach would feel he needed much more than Critchley's word to blackmail a man as powerful and dangerous as Rogers.”

Burton sat down and browsed through the Combe Park pile again. Suddenly, he started, frowned. “Colonel, you should look at these.” He pushed several pages across the table to Saint-Martin.

They began with Critchley's report on Jeffery's visits to Sarah Smith and to the Quaker David Woodhouse. Saint-Martin wasn't surprised. Anne had already informed him. But Critchley went on to claim that Anne had met Jeffery surreptitiously in Combe Park's attic for an orgy of passionate love-making. Critchley's obscene images tore through Saint-Martin's mind. He slapped the pages with the back of his hand. A tissue of lies! He stared numbly at the report for a long moment, then looked up. Burton was gazing at him.

“A curious monster, that Critchley! It's good he isn't here. You'd strangle him.”

“Indeed!” growled Saint-Martin, and jammed the sheets into his valise.

***

As the colonel was about to walk out of the York Inn, Georges rushed up to him, breathless. At midmorning in the fish market, he had heard the news of a body, just discovered in the river. A fisherman had found it fully clothed a few hundred yards below the Bath Bridge and had carted it to the hospital on Upper Borough Wall. Georges had hastened to view the body and had identified it as Roach.

Saint-Martin left Georges at the door and immediately fetched Burton from his room. The three men hurried to the hospital. By the time they arrived, a doctor had already made a preliminary examination of the body. He showed them into the room where it lay stretched out on a table.

A day in the river had torn his red coat and tangled his hair. His face had a waxy sheen; the skin was soft, bloated, and yielding. Saint-Martin searched the face for its crafty malignant gaze, its haughty lift of eyebrows and sneering curl of lips. They had gone with Roach's evil spirit. Into Hell's fiery pit? The thought jolted the colonel. He couldn't remember ever having believed in Hell, with or without the fire. Yet, there it was, an idea lodged in the deep, dark recesses of his mind. Hell seemed a fitting place for Roach. Perhaps it
was
real.

Drawing the three men closer to the examination table, the doctor pointed to a wide shallow indentation at the right temple. “Caused by a powerful blow from a smooth round object,” said the doctor. Death had been instantaneous. Roach's expression was blank, uncomprehending, as if he never knew what had hit him. He had certainly been dead before entering the river.

Georges pointed to the wound. “Since he was apparently taken by surprise, he must have been hit from behind by a right-handed assailant or by an object thrown from the side.”