Black Gold (29 page)

Tricky, Georges thought. Boots in the downstairs closet also matched. The prints left in the wet sod simply weren't clear enough for a closer identification.

At the mention of his room having been searched, Critchley's eyes flashed with anger, but only for a second. Otherwise he appeared unperturbed, silent, as if disdaining to defend himself. A cold fish, mused Georges to himself. He paused with his pen, waiting for the man to speak.

Then he stirred. “Your case is flimsy, Mr. Burton. The prints prove nothing of the sort. I wear boots cast off by Sir Harry. Lord Jeff wears them also. Our feet, if nothing else, are similar. Why don't you arrest them? No one should believe the testimony of William, a disgruntled school boy. I had no reason to kill Jack Roach.” Critchley crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face.

Burton left the fireplace and paced back and forth in the parlor, limping a little.

Georges' pen scratched intermittently, while he mulled over Critchley's remarks. The similarity among the boots intrigued him.

When the pen quieted, Burton sat down facing the tutor and spoke in a low, deliberate voice. “Mr. Critchley, you had a powerful motive to kill Jack Roach. In his papers I've found the London fence's record of the stolen silver you sold him. For months, Roach has been holding that crime over your head. You were his slave.” Burton paused to allow his words to sink in. “I believe you met Roach in the training room, quarreled with him about payment for a package you stole from Lady Margaret, and killed him. You fled in haste when Captain Fitzroy arrived unexpected.”

Critchley sat bolt upright. His lips parted in disbelief. A look of terror spread over his face. “I didn't kill him. Fitzroy must have done it. I gave Roach the package and left him alive. You're trying to trick me about the silver. Roach wouldn't have kept…”

Burton cut him off. “Roach's papers also witness to your assault on Miss Mary Campbell.” Burton reached over and pulled a bell rope. Alarmed, Critchley began to rise out of his chair, as if to flee. Georges moved quickly to his side and eased him down. A pair of bailiffs appeared at the door. “Gentlemen. You will escort Mr. Critchley to the city jail. Hold him there pending charges of theft being drawn up against him.”

***

“Georges, would you ask Sir Harry to come here. He's waiting in his study. And tell a servant to bring us something to drink. My throat's dry.” Burton shifted in his chair, seeking relief from his arthritic pain. His face also reflected an inner discomfort that Georges didn't expect to find in such an experienced officer.

Nerves? Georges asked himself, as he went on his errand. Why? Questioning Rogers should be merely routine. He might have seen or heard something helpful to the investigation. Still, Burton had reasons for concern. Sir Harry's relationship with Roach seemed murky, as did his intentions with regard to his wife, Lady Margaret. Rumor claimed that another woman had won his passionate heart. And his boots were at the scene! Was he wearing them? To put a man as powerful as Sir Harry under suspicion of murder might well make even a Bow Street officer dry in the mouth.

A short while later, carrying a tray of drinks, Georges returned with Sir Harry to the parlor. Burton greeted Rogers politely and they settled down in their chairs by the fire, Georges again off to one side, pen at the ready.

“A few routine questions, if I may, Sir Harry,” Burton began with a deferential smile. “Please tell me where you were between eleven and twelve o'clock on the night Jack Roach was killed.”

Rogers sipped from his glass, gazed at the ceiling, then explained he had met Roach in his study for about ten minutes. Shortly before eleven, Roach left for the tennis hall to consult someone. The house was too noisy. He needed to talk without being disturbed and promised to return in a half hour.

“I waited, working at my desk. When Roach didn't keep his promise, I searched for him at the party until shortly before midnight, then at the tennis hall. In vain.”

“Were you alone in the study while waiting for Roach?”

“Yes.”

“There's a private exit from your study to the outside, I believe.”

Rogers smiled easily and swirled the wine in his glass. “I could have slipped out to the tennis hall, possibly without having been seen.”

Burton shifted in his chair and stretched his stiff leg. “Sir Harry, you may have been the last person—save the murderer— to see Mr. Roach alive. I hope you won't mind if I inquire into your relationship with him.”

Rogers spread his hands, palms up, granting the dispensation. “I had engaged him to investigate certain matters of importance to me. To be sure, he had earned an unsavory reputation in the city, but he also had an uncanny ability to ferret out information.”

“His unsavory reputation,” Burton observed, “was earned in part by practicing extortion. Had you any reason to think he might turn his skill against you?”

Georges watched Rogers' face for signs of dissimulation. He desperately wanted to divorce Lady Margaret. But, adultery with another woman could ruin his chances. Roach might have tried to exploit Rogers' relationship with Miss Ware and triggered a violent reaction.

“Sorry,” Rogers said slowly, eyes wary. “I don't follow the drift of your question.”

Burton reached into the valise resting against the leg of his chair and pulled out a folder. “This contains a report Mr. Critchley sent to Jack Roach. I found it among his papers.” As he handed it over to Rogers, he added, “I regret having to distress you.”

As Rogers read through the folder, his naturally florid face turned deep red, his lips worked with fury. “Critchley! That ungrateful, lying bastard!” Rogers threw the folder on the table, sputtering with exasperation. “There's not one scintilla of truth in what he says!”

Burton nodded sympathetically.

Rogers rushed on. “Miss Ware is a beautiful, charming young woman, a talented dancer with a lovely voice. I'm advancing her career. We're friends. Nothing more. She'd be most distressed to read this.” He jabbed his finger at the offensive folder.

Burton leaned forward and retrieved it. “It occurred to me that Mr. Critchley might have imagined the lurid details.” He held up the folder, regarded it with distaste. “The point is, how would it be read
outside
this room? In the city? In Bristol or London? What would it do to Miss Ware's peace of mind and to her career in the theater?”

“Are you suggesting that Jack Roach might have tried to extract money from me under the threat of publishing this report?”

“Hardly a farfetched idea, if I may say so, considering his character.” Burton reached into his valise again and pulled out another folder. “Critchley's report on Lady Margaret,” he said, handing it to Rogers. “Roach had engaged him to spy on her relationship with Captain Fitzroy. He even installed a hidden optical device to survey her rooms. Critchley then stole an item, perhaps a document, that was likely to seriously compromise her.”

While Burton spoke, Rogers stiffened, his eyes darkened. “What are you getting at, sir?”

“Your marital affairs are none of my business, Sir Harry, except in so far as they give you a compelling motive for killing Jack Roach.” He pointed to the folder in Rogers' hands. “A fair reading of those pages would lead one to believe that you wish to divorce Lady Margaret. Roach could force you to pay almost any price to discover grounds for your bill of divorce to proceed successfully through Parliament. He was bargaining with you on those terms the night of his death. You would be less than human if you hadn't wished to kill him.”

“Your conjecture is barely plausible,” said Rogers, thrusting the folder back to Burton. “I may have had the opportunity and the motive to kill him, but you are a long way from proving that I did.” He rose from his chair, grim-faced. “If we are finished here, sir, I have business to take care of.”

“One more matter, Sir Harry. I have arrested Mr. Critchley. He's charged with felony theft of silver in London and under suspicion of the murder of Mary Campbell. Should be in the city jail by now.” Burton tucked the papers into his valise and told Georges to prepare a statement for Sir Harry to sign at his leisure.

Rogers appeared momentarily stunned, turned abruptly and strode to the door. As he went out into the hall, he looked back as if to say something, then shook his head and disappeared.

***

They were expecting Fitzroy in a few minutes. Still a serious suspect. While Burton limped to an open window for a breath of fresh air, Georges reviewed in his mind what the captain had already admitted. He had gone to the tennis hall at eleven-thirty Wednesday night, to meet a man he hated. He claimed to have found Roach dead on the floor of the training room, hid him in a closet until early morning, then carted his body off to the river. Georges's mind balked. Fitzroy could have found Roach alive and seized the opportunity to kill him.

Hearing steps in the hall, Burton returned to his chair. Georges assumed his post.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Burton.” Captain Fitzroy extended his hand, and the Bow Street officer shook it. The Irishman's expression was amiable, as if he expected this meeting to be routine, having already explained his movements. They sat facing each other. Fitzroy casually crossed his legs. “I really have little more to say.”

“Since we spoke on Thursday, Captain, new facts have come to light which I should discuss with you.”

Fitzroy raised an eyebrow of mild curiosity. “Yes?”

“Mr. William Rogers claims Mr. Critchley went to the tennis hall, Wednesday evening, to sell a certain package to Mr. Roach. Critchley admits going there but claims he left Roach alive. He suggests that, when you arrived shortly afterwards, you killed Roach. It appears that someone is lying.”

Fitzroy bristled. “It should be clear, sir, who is the liar.”

Burton remained silent, inviting the captain to explain.

“Critchley's a sneak, a man without honor, who spied on a noble lady, broke into her room, and stole her secret papers to sell to Jack Roach. What man of good sense would believe the self-serving testimony of a Critchley!”

Burton pressed on. “Critchley also claims that he gave Jack Roach those secret papers.” He paused, leaned forward. “Did you search Roach's body?”

“Yes.” Fitzroy hesitated fractionally. “But I didn't find them.”

“The truth will out,” observed the officer in a flat, low voice. “As for Critchley, he's on his way to the city jail to face various charges unrelated to Roach's death.”

Fitzroy started with surprise, then seemed to turn inward, as if studying the changing face of the battlefield and devising new strategies. His objective: that package!

“Oh,” Burton went on, “I've also taken the liberty to contact the captain of the
Hampton
at the Bristol docks and cancel your passage to New York. I want you to remain in Bath for the time being.”

A flash of alarm crossed Fitzroy's face.

***

At midafternoon, Anne and Paul rode back to Combe Park from the south after racing their horses in the countryside. Anne's black mare chafed at the bit, yearning for the comfort of its stall. Paul's big chestnut hunter, a more docile beast, took the return in stride. They had lunched at a charming wayside inn, its walls ivy-covered, its roof thatched. The sun had broken through the clouds for much of their ride, and a soft spring breeze now caressed their faces. Anne felt happier than at any time since arriving in Bath.

Then the main house came into view, its great mass beginning to darken under a large gray cloud. Anne felt apprehensive, suddenly reminded of the conflicts raging within its walls.

Paul gazed at her with concern, sensing the change in her mood.

As they crossed the courtyard, Sir Harry galloped past them, his face flushed, a wild look in his eyes. “What's that all about?” asked Anne, startled.

“Georges must know.” Paul pointed to his adjutant, just now leaving the stable. When he recognized them, he broke into a run.

“Critchley's in jail,” exclaimed Georges, panting from the exertion. At the stable door, a groom appeared and took the reins of the horses. Anne and Paul followed Georges into the grooms' small social hall. It smelled of horse and leather but the tile floor was clean, the walls whitewashed. Georges stepped into an adjacent pantry, then returned with cider, bread, and cheese. He sat his companions at the room's plain wooden table. “You've not dined in a stable before, have you, sir?”

The colonel tasted the cider. It was cool and refreshing. “Until now, I wasn't aware of what I'd missed.”

Georges waved his hands grandiloquently over the table. “Courtesy of Baron Breteuil. He has paid for dressing up this room and for the food. But among the grooms and stableboys, I give you the credit.” He bowed to the colonel. “That's why you and Miss Cartier will always ride the best horses in the stable, and I'll be the first to know what's going on here.”

At the table their conversation turned to Burton's strategy. Puzzled, Anne asked Georges, “Why has he imprisoned Critchley just now?”

“It's simple,” Georges replied. “Burton wants to keep Critchley alive until the Roach case is finished. He may be needed as a witness. He surely knows more than he admits. And, Burton's a Bow Street officer after all. He'll earn a fat commission if Critchley is convicted of the theft of the silver and it's recovered from Roach's hiding place.” Georges added darkly, “Judging from the look on Rogers' face, Critchley is much safer in jail than at Combe Park.”

“What's become of the mysterious stolen package?” asked Paul.

His adjutant shrugged his shoulders. “Burton has searched Critchley's room thoroughly—even lifted floorboards and removed wooden panels from the walls. Found nothing. The package is hidden elsewhere—if it still exists.”