Carver's Quest (16 page)

‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s dead.’

‘Dead? Good God, that’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’ Mr Moorhouse appeared genuinely distressed to hear of the death. ‘His heart, was it? Or an apoplexy, maybe? I
always think those dinners are just disasters waiting to strike. All those steaming plates of rich food. And all those fine wines. I never take more than a few mouthfuls myself.’

‘He was murdered, Mr Moorhouse.’

‘Murdered?’ If he had been upset by the news of Creech’s death, Mr Moorhouse was utterly aghast at the mention of murder.

‘I was unlucky enough to be the person who found him.’

‘My dear fellow! How absolutely awful!’ Mr Moorhouse was so cast down it seemed as if he might be about to shed tears of sympathy. ‘Murder’s a wretched business. I
remember the Courvoisier case. The valet who murdered his master. You must recall it yourself.’

‘It was before my time, Mr Moorhouse. I believe it was thirty years ago.’

‘Was it? Was it really? As long ago as that.
Eheu fugaces
, eh, as old Horace said. Anyway, murder’s a terrible thing.’ Mr Moor-house stared sadly into space.
‘And the punishment of it. I saw Courvoisier hang, you know. Outside Newgate. Thousands of people there, all howling for the man’s death. Shocking state of affairs. Quite spoiled my
opinion of my fellow man. Never been to another hanging since. Wouldn’t go to one now if you offered me a hundred pounds.’

‘There will be no more opportunity for you to go to one, Mr Moorhouse, even should you wish to do so. There are to be no more public hangings. The last to suffer that way was the Fenian
bomber two years past.’

‘Really?’ Mr Moorhouse’s ignorance of very nearly everything that had happened in the public world over the last ten years was remarkable. ‘Jolly good show, if you ask
me. Brings out the worst in people, a hanging.’

‘I was obliged to give evidence at the inquest into Creech’s death.’

‘Very disagreeable.’ Mr Moorhouse shook his head and made a grimace of sympathy. ‘Never did like courtrooms and those sorts of places. Everyone’s so deucedly rude in
them. Asking all kinds of impertinent questions.’

‘Of course, further details of Creech’s life emerged in the course of the inquest.’

Mr Moorhouse seemed to have lost interest in the case. He was gazing into the middle distance. Perhaps, Adam thought, he was remembering some occasion in his past when he had appeared in a
courtroom and faced impertinent questions. The old man had once confided in him that he had, many years earlier, made the mistake of affixing his name to a bill of exchange and lived to regret it
deeply. Perhaps the regret involved appearing before an unsympathetic judge in a case of financial default.

‘It seems Mr Creech knew several members of our club,’ the young man remarked after a moment.

‘Well, he’d have to know somebody here’ – Mr Moorhouse, returning to awareness of his present surroundings, spoke mildly but with the air of a man pointing out the
obvious – ‘in order to be invited to the Speke dinner.’

‘Well, he spoke of Baxendale to me. Said he’d arranged with him to be seated next to me. But I received the distinct impression that he had other friends in the Marco
Polo.’

Mr Moorhouse blew a small cumulus cloud of cigar smoke into the air and waved his hand idly through it. ‘Bound to be the case,’ he agreed. ‘Every chap you meet here always
seems to know lots of other chaps you’ve already met.’

‘Sir Willoughby Oughtred’s name cropped up at the inquest in connection with Creech’s.’ Adam decided that a white lie was forgivable in the circumstances. ‘And
those of two other MPs: Lewis Garland’s and James Abercrombie’s.’

Mr Moorhouse made no reply. He had clearly recovered from his passing shock at the news of Creech’s death. He smiled benignly at his companion but said nothing. Instead he took another
puff on his cigar.

‘You know Sir Willoughby, of course,’ Adam prompted. ‘You spoke of shooting on his moors just now.’

‘Oh, yes. Met him many years ago. Not long after Pam came into office for the last time. My brother introduced me to him.’ The old clubman settled even further into the depths of his
armchair. ‘Oughtred that is, not Palmerston. Never met
him
. Don’t think I’d have wanted to.’

‘I had no notion that you had a brother, Mr Moorhouse.’

‘He’s dead now.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Oh, no need to be.’ Mr Moorhouse waved his hand through the cigar smoke again. ‘He passed away in sixty-six. Poor Robin. Suffered frightfully with his nerves. He knew Sir
Willoughby because they were both in the House. He introduced us at a dinner at some house in Curzon Street. I used to go to those sorts of things all the time then.’ Mr Moorhouse spoke as if
he could scarcely credit the reckless follies of his earlier self. ‘Never go to them now. Never go anywhere now. I’d much rather just sit here and watch the world go by.’

It was beginning to look as if speaking to the old man would prove a fruitless exercise, but Adam decided to continue anyway.

‘No hint of scandal attaches itself to Oughtred’s name to the best of your knowledge?’

‘Scandal?’ Mr Moorhouse looked perplexed. ‘What kind of scandal?’

‘Financial, perhaps?’ Adam was unsure exactly how frank he could or should be with the elderly clubman. What would he consider enjoyable gossip and what unforgivable indiscretion? Mr
Moorhouse was shaking his head. ‘Or marital?’

‘Good Lord, no! Never heard anything of that kind. Oughtred would be the last person I would suspect of that sort of… aah, straying.’ Mr Moorhouse continued to shake his head
in vigorous repudiation of the suggestion that he might know anything that would sully the baronet’s reputation. Suddenly, he leaned forward in his chair. ‘Have you heard
anything?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Pity! Always enjoy a bit of tittle-tattle.’

The old man fell back once more into the comforting depths of his leather armchair. He said nothing more. His eyes closed and, after a few moments, Adam wondered if he had drifted off into a
light sleep. It seemed once more as if the idea of questioning Mr Moorhouse had not been an especially inspired one. Adam prepared to leave the smoking room. He had hauled himself to his feet,
escaping the clinging embrace of his own chair, and was just about to head for the door when Mr Moorhouse opened one eye and spoke again.

‘Plenty of tittle-tattle about that Garland fellow, of course.’

Adam promptly sat down once more.

‘Never have taken to him,’ Mr Moorhouse continued. ‘Bit too fond of the sound of his own voice, if you ask me. Of course, not much point entering the House if you don’t
like listening to yourself pontificating. But people like that fellow go a bit far.’

‘What have you heard of Lewis Garland, Mr Moorhouse?’

‘Oughtred introduced us earlier this year. Fellow was prosing on and on about the state India was in. Pretty dull stuff, if truth be told, but when I ventured to express an opinion of my
own, he was downright rude. Made it only too clear he thought I’d no notion at all what I was talking about.’ The old man rescued a cigar which he had allowed to extinguish itself in
one of the ashtrays and began fumbling in his pockets for his vesta. ‘Not that I had, to be honest. Never considered myself an expert on the great subcontinent, but any real gentleman would
have heard me out at the very least.’

‘What is the gossip about Garland, Mr Moorhouse?’ Adam pulled his own silver vesta box from his jacket and struck one of the matches.

‘Oh, that!’ The old man leaned forward towards the proffered light. He took a drag on his cigar and fell back in his chair. He blew out the smoke and then dipped his head forward
once more.

‘Women,’ he whispered, so close that Adam could feel the old man’s breath fluttering in his ear.

Mr Moorhouse collapsed back into his leather armchair with what could only be described as a smirk on his face.

‘Garland has a reputation as a ladies’ man, does he? I had heard something about a pied-à-terre in St John’s Wood.’

‘Ever come across Beattie here?’

‘The name is familiar, but I have not been introduced to him.’

‘Some sort of banker in the City. Terribly nice chap. Been a member of the club for years.’

‘And he knows Garland?’

‘Does business with him regularly. Something to do with a railway company. Garland’s on the board. Maybe Beattie is as well.’ Mr Moorhouse fluttered his fingers vaguely in the
air. It was clear that he had only the flimsiest notions of what went on in the City. ‘Anyway, he told me once about Garland’s friend in St John’s Wood. Not sure how he knew but
he seemed very certain of his facts.’

‘What did he tell you?’

Mr Moorhouse shuffled forwards in his chair. He looked to the left and to the right like a man preparing to cross a busy road and then leaned towards Adam.

‘She’s an actress.’ He spoke as if this were the most surprising of all professions that Garland’s lady friend might pursue. Adam, who had already heard of
Garland’s amatory arrangements from Jinkinson, was not surprised.

‘Not just any actress,’ Mr Moorhouse went on. ‘Lottie Lawrence.’

Adam had heard the name. Had she not been one of the actresses in Fechter’s company when he had charge at the Lyceum a few years earlier? Mr Moorhouse, who seemed by this point breathless
with excitement at the thought of Garland’s love life, immediately confirmed his memory.

‘Beautiful woman. Saw her myself at the Lyceum. In
The Lady
of Lyons
.’ There was a pause as Mr Moorhouse drew energetically on his cigar. ‘She played the
Lady,’ he added.

Adam took out his cigarette case, extracted a cigarette and lit it. He was half intrigued and half disappointed by his elderly friend’s revelations about the identity of Garland’s
lover. It was interesting to learn that she was well known in her own right. Perhaps her fame as an actress granted first Creech and then Jinkinson an extra advantage in their financial
negotiations with Garland. Perhaps, he thought suddenly, one or both of them had approached Lottie Lawrence herself in an effort to extort additional money from her. And yet he had discovered
little more than he already knew about the amorous MP. He had learned a name. That was all.

‘Is there anything more to tell, Mr Moorhouse?’

The old man appeared to have entered a pleasant reverie in which, perhaps, the images of the actresses he had seen on stage in a lifetime of theatre-going were drifting through his mind. He
started when Adam spoke.

‘What was that, old chap?’

‘Did your friend Beattie let slip any further revelations about Garland?’

‘None that I can recall.’ Mr Moorhouse had decided that he had smoked his cigar to its end and was looking around for the ashtray in which to deposit the butt. Adam passed him the
brass one from the small table by his side.

‘But you said “women”,’ he remarked. ‘You said that the gossip surrounding Garland concerned “women”. In the plural rather than the singular.’

‘Did I, old chap? Just my way of putting it, I suppose.’ Mr Moor-house was having difficulty dousing his smouldering cigar in the ashtray and his attention was concentrated on
performing this task. ‘Although, now I come to think of it, Beattie did say that Garland was a devil with his maidservants as well.’

The old clubman had finally succeeded in extinguishing the cigar and he turned to Adam with a look of triumph on his face and ash on his fingertips.

‘A devil?’

‘Always after them. Forcing his attentions on them.’ Mr Moor-house’s delight in his victory over the cigar stub disappeared and he shook his head sadly. ‘I do think
behaviour of that kind is exceedingly caddish. Poor girls! They’re not in a position to refuse his advances, are they? And the consequences can be so cruel. One fall from virtue and a
woman’s reputation is gone for ever.’

Mr Moorhouse had thoroughly depressed himself with thoughts of the moral dangers that threatened female servants. He sighed, as if at the wickedness of the world, and began to search his pockets
for another cigar.

L
e dimanche anglais
, eh, Quint! A phenomenon to make the heart sink and the soul quiver. What do you say to a Sunday excursion?’

Quint poured his breakfast tea into his saucer and raised it to his lips. He sucked in the liquid with a noisy slurp. His expression suggested that anything he might say to a Sunday excursion
would be short and unprintable. The two men were sitting in the kitchen at Doughty Street. Adam had broken his own fast and was now watching Quint eat and drink. Undeterred by his
manservant’s lack of enthusiasm, he continued to speak.

‘We know that our missing dandy has gone to ground somewhere. We know that part of an item abstracted from Bellamy’s Lodging House, Golden Lane was in said dandy’s office.
Ergo, we reasoned, Mr Jinkinson had been in Bellamy’s Lodging House in the past. The boy Simpkins confirmed our reasoning. So now the time has come to see if he has visited there again. The
hour has arrived for us to travel to Golden Lane.’

‘I ain’t doing anything on a Sunday,’ said Quint flatly. ‘Sunday’s a day for loafing and liquoring, not gallivanting around Golden Lane after some dozy old josser
who’s prob’ly fluttering after some judy in the streets.’

‘Oh, Quint, Quint. You disappoint me. Have you lost the spirit of adventure which carried us both through the mountains of Mace-don? What has become of all the daredevilry you showed in
the land of Alexander and Aristotle?’

‘I ain’t lost a thing.’

‘I think perhaps you have been corrupted by comfort, Quint. Two years in Mrs Gaffery’s luxurious lodgings, and you have become a positive sybarite. The stout-hearted hero of
yesteryear has departed for ever.’

‘Ain’t nothing departed, I tells you.’

‘To Golden Lane, then.’

‘Hold hard.’ Quint’s resolve to stay in Doughty Street was crumbling but he still had reservations. ‘Ten minutes around Golden Lane looking like that and you’d not
have the shirt left on your back.’

Adam glanced down at the immaculately tailored suit he was wearing. ‘Ah, I need to be dressed in something more discreet?’