Maggie MacKeever (12 page)

The Chief Magistrate had through long experience learned the value of her ladyship’s promises. The Baroness was quite capable, if it suited her underhanded purposes, of setting him to chase his own tail. Yet even knowing that, he had chosen for this excursion a vehicle that allowed them maximum privacy.

“You are a rogue, Dulcie.” He flicked his whip. “It would save a great deal of time if you would merely tell me what you want.”

“As if I only seek you out when I wish favors!” Dulcie cast him a glance that was simultaneously provocative and piqued. “Have you so little opinion of yourself that you cannot believe I enjoy your company?”

Sir John was no little bit surprised to feel his cheeks redden. “It isn’t for the pleasure of my company that you have insisted that I escort you quietly to Shadwell. You may as well confess. I know perfectly well that you have some mischief in mind.”

The Baroness was charmingly rueful. “You are so determined to think my motives base?”

“If you think you may cajole me into releasing Leda, you are wasting both our time.”

Lady Bligh’s luscious lower lip protruded slightly. “I think you are determined to spoil my fun.”

It was definitely midsummer moon with Sir John; he thought the Baroness’s artful pout the most delicious he’d ever seen. “Minx!” he said. “Very well, I will listen to what you have to say. Mind, I promise nothing more.”

Dulcie abandoned her lounging attitude and sat briskly upright. “Oddly enough, I
don’t
wish anything of you, at least not today. And I certainly don’t wish Leda freed from Newgate. She is in quite enough trouble as it is.”

“She is also,” added Sir John dryly, “causing a considerable amount. At last report your Leda was simultaneously gathering information on child prostitution and planning prison reform.” Furthermore, due to the agitation of the Press, particularly the London
Apocalypse,
Sir John was being forced to deal with riots almost as widespread as those caused by the arrest of Sir Francis Burdett in 1810. “You haven’t told me why you’ve made Leda Langtry your concern.”

“Leda was once a friend of mine.” Dulcie made no further explanation, as if that little was sufficient. Perhaps, thought Sir John, for her it was. “I suppose,” she added, “Leda’s trial is set for the next session?”

“It is.” He was very much aware that Lady Bligh’s hand still rested on his arm.

The Baroness leaned even closer, her dark eyes fixed on his face. “I very much fear, John, that if that trial takes place, Leda will hang.”

Sir John looked resolutely straight ahead of him. “You are correct: it is very likely, considering the evidence against her, that Leda will hang.”

“And it matters not to you that she is innocent, for you will have your scapegoat, the public outcry will be stilled, and Prinny and Warwick’s rich relatives will be satisfied.” Dulcie’s hand slid down to his wrist. “Would you condemn a woman to death for murder without any real evidence that she was responsible?”

Sir John pulled his horses to a halt. “Go on.”

Lady Bligh raised her hand to trace the line of his jaw. “Insufficient attention has been paid to the fact that Leda’s pistol was stolen from her before Warwick’s death. The theft is corroborated by her employees.”

Sir John struggled valiantly for coherent thought. “She could have staged it herself.”

“You must ever doubt me,” lamented Dulcie. “If you check Leda’s activities on that afternoon, you will find she did not have time to return and burgle her own shop.”

A wise man would have moved further away from her on the seat. Would have climbed down from the carriage, indeed, and taken a brisk walk. Sir John instead wondered where the Baroness might touch him next. “Leda could easily have taken the weapon with her when she originally left the shop. Perhaps she arranged with someone else to so disrupt the premises that it looked as if a robbery had occurred. Crump harbors grave doubts regarding one of Leda’s employees.”

“Willie, no doubt. Don’t you see that the evidence against Leda is not at all conclusive? Even her motive is insufficient. One does not generally go about murdering all the people one dislikes, tempting as might be the thought! Warwick, with his fondness for political blackmail, must have had a great many enemies.”

“So you know even that.” Sir John tried, unsuccessfully, to frown. “I suppose that’s how you persuaded him to sign Leda’s release. You truly are a dangerous meddler, Dulcie. How did you find out?”

“Lady Warwick, of course.” Lady Bligh looked amused. “She has a positive mania for discussing her husband’s more unpleasant habits. It is almost the only pleasure left to her, poor thing.”

Sir John reluctantly dragged his eyes away from hers. “You want me to connive at delaying Leda’s trial.”

“I would not have phrased it so crudely, but yes.” Dulcie’s husky voice was laden with regret. “Dear, dear John. If there was world enough and time—but, since there is not, I suggest we proceed to Shadwell.”

The Chief Magistrate took up the reins, aware that by his failure to immediately deny her request he had entered into a tacit conspiracy with the Baroness. He wondered if she was truly convinced of her friend’s innocence, and if Dulcie would act differently if she were certain of Leda’s guilt.

“Justice is a very curious thing,” she murmured, and Sir John wasn’t surprised that she had so accurately followed his thoughts. “Wasn’t it Warwick who used to boast that Britain was the only country in Europe without a citywide police force? He attributed it to the people’s love of freedom. At the time of the Wapping murders, Warwick went so far as to say he’d rather see a half-dozen throats cut each year than be subjected to the gross indignities of an organized peacekeeping force. You yourself had little reason to love Warwick, John.”

“No,” he replied brusquely. “But you can hardly accuse
me
of murdering the man.”

“I accuse you of nothing.” The Baroness wilted on the seat like a weary bluebell.

Had he wounded her feelings? Surely not. “Warwick thought he knew who was behind the robberies,” said Sir John, nonetheless. “He spoke to me about them the very day he died.”

“Ah!” Lady Bligh brightened. “Did he mention who he thought the guilty party to be?”

Sir John regarded his traveling companion with resignation. “He did not.”

“Turn left here.” Dulcie pointed down a narrow lane, and then clutched the seat as the curricle jolted over deep ruts. “It sounds very much as if Warwick suspected someone of an elevated social standing or he would not have been so circumspect. Perhaps Prinny is our culprit. The whole world knows how desperately he needs funds.”

“Dulcie!” Sir John almost dropped the reins. “Surely you don’t think—”

“No. I only wanted to get a rise out of you.” The Baroness loosened her grip on the seat to clutch at her bonnet, which had slid to one side. “You know, of course, that Barrymore called on Warwick the evening of his death and thus was present when the valet found the body. Have you thought to ask what prompted his presence there?”

Sir John had his hands full with his steeds, which had taken exception to the atrocious condition of the lane, and he was furthermore distracted by his body’s reaction to the word ‘rise’. He therefore failed to note the guileless expression that would have left ardor deflated and suspicion aroused. “Barrymore is a frequent visitor at your house,” he said. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Barrymore,” replied the Baroness, “is a most estimable young man. He nourishes a most proper passion for my niece—
too
proper, I suspect, to inspire an answering emotion in Mignon.” She pointed. “There is our destination, John.”

The Chief Magistrate had only time to stop his carriage in front of the small, thatched, derelict-looking cottage before Dulcie spoke again. “You have been remiss in another matter. I won’t chide you for it, for I know you have much on your mind, but it is lapses like these which bring down odium upon Bow Street.” The Chief Magistrate waited patiently while she set herself to rights. “Warwick had a large number of banknotes in his possession when he died.”

“We found none.” Sir John helped her down from the curricle. “But it was fairly obvious that there had been a robbery.”

“Was it?” Lady Bligh shot him a sideways glance. “Did your men find any banknotes in Leda’s shop?”

Sir John was forced to admit that they had not. “What’s your point, Dulcie?” He looked at the mean little cottage. “And what the devil is this place?”

“The point, dear John, is that those banknotes were forgeries.” Briskly, Dulcie set off across the patch of dirt that served as the cottage yard. Bemused, the Chief Magistrate followed her. Lady Bligh rapped energetically on the door.

“Do you think,” inquired Sir John, “that I might be told where we are and why we’re here? At your convenience, of course! I wouldn’t want to distract you from whatever unimaginable thoughts are running through your scheming little head.”

No response came to her loud summons, and Dulcie turned away from the door. She was frowning. “I have an extremely unpleasant hunch.”

The Chief Magistrate had a premonition of his own, that Lady Bligh was going to land him once again in the devil of a fix. He watched as she walked slowly through a neglected garden to the well that stood in one comer. When she stopped dead in her tracks, he moved quickly to her side.

“This is the home of Mary Elphinstone.” The Baroness was frowning at the footprints that surrounded the well. “The woman whom Leda was visiting when Warwick was murdered. I had hoped she would provide Leda an alibi.”

Sir John cared neither for Dulcie’s somber tone nor her use of the past tense. Almost reluctantly, he moved forward to peer into the well. What he saw there prompted him to step back hastily.

“Mary?” inquired Lady Bligh, her face pale.

“I fear she’ll assist no one now.” Sir John was overwhelmed by a sudden, absurd protectiveness. Gently, he grasped Dulcie’s shoulders and turned her away.

Chapter 12

Crump gazed around the small, bare Bow Street office, and then seated himself at the Chief Magistrate’s desk. It was a severe breach of etiquette, but Sir John was presiding over a hearing in the Bow Street courtroom, and was unlikely to find out.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Crump to his less-than-enthusiastic visitor, “about what you told me concerning the robbery.”

“Oh?” inquired Mr. Throckmorton, somewhat testily. Never had he thought that
he
would be summoned to Bow Street. “What about it?”

“Describe to me again that dangerous-looking character you saw lurking about the club.”

Mr. Throckmorton grimaced, not at the question but at the pervasive smell of horse dung and soot that came through the open window. “As nasty a villain as
you
might hope to see. Brown-haired, he was, and shabby. And he wore a monocle.”

“Ah!” Crump leaned back in Sir John’s chair and hooked his thumbs in his quilted pique waistcoat. “You didn’t mention that eyeglass before, guv’nor.”

Mr. Throckmorton glowered at his interrogator. “I daresay in the agitation of the moment it slipped my mind. What progress is Bow Street making? Raggett is growing most anxious for the return of his silver plate.”

“You may tell Raggett that matters are proceeding smoothly.” Crump brought out his pipe. “Very smoothly indeed. In fact, we are in momentary expectation of making an arrest.”

“Oh? Can you tell me who?”

Crump winked in a comradely manner. “Afraid not, guv’nor. But I believe I can show you something in just a few moments that will assure you that Bow Street is on its toes.” Mr. Throckmorton looked skeptical, but said no more.

In truth, Crump reflected as he lit his pipe, this case was not progressing as well as he might wish. It was easy enough to see how Lady Coate’s faro bank had been stolen; her servants were shockingly negligent in locking up the house and to open the old-fashioned safe was little more than child’s play. The robbery of Messrs. Rundle and Brydges presented little more of a challenge. It was common enough for a well-dressed thief to enter such a shop, examine small articles such as gold seals and brooches, and then, while looking the shopkeeper in the eye, conceal several items in the wide sleeves of his coat. The only difference was that these current robbers were operating on an unusually large scale.

The burglary at White’s Club was somewhat more difficult to understand. Further speech with the Negro page, however, had almost compensated Crump for his severe disappointment regarding the chimney sweeps. That enterprising young scamp, as Crump had suspected, had two very sharp eyes in his head. Under closer questioning he had admitted seeing a gentleman loitering near the plate closet the evening before the theft was discovered. The page had thought little enough about it at the time, gentlemen in their cups being prone to wandering here and there, nor could he offer a clear description of the man. All the same, it was a step forward. Crump thought he might speak to the sweeps again. Innocent they might be, though the Runner harbored doubts, but it was possible they could have unknowingly seen something important.

The door to the office swung open, and a third man was ushered into the room. The arrival of this individual sparked a startling reaction from Mr. Throckmorton: he leaped to his feet with an agility that belied his girth and sent his old wooden chair crashing to the floor.

“That’s him!” Throckmorton pointed a chubby finger. “That’s the man I saw!”

“Egad!” said Willie, starting as if he’d been stung. Crump propped his feet up on Sir John’s desk and puffed on his pipe.

“Don’t bother to deny it!” Throckmorton advanced across the room. “You were skulking about White’s!”

“Not
skulking!” protested Willie. “I do not skulk, dear man. I lurk, ears cocked for any interesting tidbits that might be incorporated in tomorrow’s news. It has always been the way of the journalist, ever since the very beginning when rich and influential men who had to be away from court employed writers to send them the latest news.” He struck a martyred pose. “Just as it has always been the lot of the journalist to suffer persecution, ever since the Star Chamber in the reign of Charles I. It is a hard life, gentlemen.”