Maggie MacKeever (8 page)

“What an extraordinary affair.” The Baroness dumped the cat onto the floor and rose to her feet. “Divorce is shocking, to be sure; however, you need not let it trouble you. Some of the best people have been divorced, even members of my own family.” Despite his protest, she refilled his glass. “I’m sure Mignon will not hold it against you.”

“Dulcie!” gasped that damsel, who had paused to lean in a somewhat unladylike manner on the back of a settee.

“You misunderstand,” said Ivor. “I’m not acquainting you with my family history merely to pass the time.” Lady Bligh opened her mouth but he overrode her protest. “I had been accustomed to thinking my mother dead until I made Leda’s acquaintance, which was quite by accident. Even then, she didn’t tell me, but she has a co-worker who is not so scrupulous.” He smiled. “I’ll swear Willie knows every secret in the world.”

“That’s
the resemblance I couldn’t pinpoint!” Mignon felt the Viscount’s gaze and flushed. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

“Heaven grant me patience!” Dulcie turned on Ivor. “Enough confidences for one day, I beg. You are a noted pugilist, young man. In atonement for going against my wishes, you will demonstrate for me various of those noble methods of self-defense.”

The Viscount could find no good excuse not to do so. Thus it came about that when Mr. Crump was ushered into Baron Bligh’s Drawing Room, he witnessed the Baroness, green hair tumbling down her back, deliver to Viscount Jeffries a decided facer, which resulted in an ignoble bloodied nose.

“Bravo, Dulcie!” Mignon clapped her hands. Crump and Gibbon stared.

“Another visitor. How lovely!” Lady Bligh  led her victim to a chair and pressing her handkerchief to his face. “Gibbon, pray fetch some ice. You witness my latest interest, Crump. I vow I shall enter the ring. Why are you standing there staring, man? Do sit down!”

Stark mad in white muslin, decided Crump, and sank into a chair. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Baroness.”

“No?” Dulcie perched on the edge of the sofa. “Do you wish me to help you solve another little mystery? I shall be delighted, of course! What will you have me do?”

“No mystery.” Cautiously, Crump eyed the huge orange cat. “We have Leda Langtry in custody already, and she’ll hear the Condemned Sermon preached at Newgate.”

“Oh!” Dulcie gasped feebly, as Gibbon reentered the room. “I believe I feel a spasm coming on.”

Gibbon thrust the ice at Mignon, and then stalked across the room to tower over the Runner. “Bridle your tongue! Or I’ll tell Sir John myself that you’ve been plaguing the Baroness!”

“Oh, no, you won’t, laddie!” retorted Crump, who was after all no stranger to Lady Bligh’s queer flights. Enthralled, Mignon applied the ice to the back of Ivor’s neck with a force that made him wince. “Have you forgotten,” the Runner added, “Sir John’s pocket watch? If he so much as sets eyes on you again, Sir John is likely to clap
you
in gaol.”

“It might be worth it,” Gibbon retorted, “to toss you out the front door.”

“My butler,” explained the Baroness, to the room at large, “was once a Runner himself, but his natural proclivities toward petty theft ended what might have been a remarkable career. You may go, Gibbon. See that we are not disturbed.”

Crump wondered, apropos of disturbances, if he should mention that his arrival had startled an extremely homely female who was eavesdropping outside the Drawing Room door, but a baleful hiss from the orange cat sent the thought scurrying from his mind. He gazed about the room, overwhelming in its opulence, and his eye alit on the huge blue parrot. “Bloody landlubber,” remarked Bluebeard conversationally.

“Let me make you known to my companions, Crump,” murmured Dulcie, in somewhat stronger tones. “The somewhat battered gentleman is Viscount Jeffries, and his ministering angel is my niece, Miss Montague.” Flushing, Mignon snatched her hand from the Viscount’s neck. He caught it in his own before she could move away.

“Considering that it was your aunt,” he murmured around the bloody handkerchief, “who so maltreated me, don’t you think you might at least offer me your sympathy?” Mignon only scowled. “What an unfriendly girl you are,” he added quietly. “Do you dislike me so much? If so, I am sorry for it.”

Mignon looked at the firm fingers that grasped her wrist and experienced an odd feeling along her spine. A thrill of pure terror, she told herself; the Viscount was obviously a cold-hearted sensual blackguard. Nonetheless, such was Mignon’s nature that she could only reply honestly. “You are mistaken,” she said, raising her eyes. “I don’t dislike you.”

Crump paid very little attention to the two of them, beyond noting that Viscount Jeffries was bang up to the mark in a cloth coat with clawhammer tails and tasseled hussar boots, and that Dulcie’s niece wore a pleated dotted lingerie dress with several frills. His not inconsiderable intellect was focused on Lady Bligh. “Sir John has sent me to ask you a few questions about Leda Langtry, Baroness.” This announcement had the effect of diverting the Viscount’s attention from Mignon, though he still retained possession of her hand. She wondered at herself, for she was less regretful than relieved.

“Leda Langtry?” repeated Dulcie vaguely. “Ah, yes, the
Apocalypse.
I recently did her a favor, I believe, though it is difficult to recall. Was it yesterday or the day before? Why I did it, I cannot say.”

“You arranged for her release from Newgate,” retorted Crump, his cautious gaze returning to the crouching cat. “There’s no use denying it, Lady Bligh.”

“Deny it?” echoed Dulcie, as she draped the elegant shawl over her head. “Of course I do not. I deny nothing, my dear Crump. There, does that make you happy?”

Crump stared unhappily at his hostess. With only her elegant nose in evidence, the Baroness looked like nothing more than an animated shroud. This set-back was all of a piece with the rest of his day; the Runner’s efforts to trace the chimney sweeps who had been at White’s Club had resulted in the discovery that these individuals, alas, had been legitimate sweeps after all, sent by the firm responsible for White’s noble chimneys. Crump, however, was tenacious, and he knew well the smell of a rat. He would eat his hat if those two sweeps didn’t bear watching.

He tried a different approach. “Leda Langtry has been committed to Newgate to await her trial for the murder of Lord Warwick. The evidence against her is overwhelming. If you have possession of any information that may help Mrs. Langtry, Baroness, I urge you to reveal it to me now.”

“Miss
Langtry,” murmured the Baroness, and sneezed so emphatically that the shawl fell further forward, completely covering her face. “And I don’t believe a word of it.”

Crump wiped his suddenly moist palms on his waistcoat. “There’s no question of her guilt. The murder weapon has been identified as hers, and Warwick’s valet admitted her to the apartments. Or maybe you want me to tell Sir John you’ve been uncooperative.”

“To threaten an old woman!” gasped the Baroness, and tumbled sideways in a heap, which unnerved Crump so greatly that he cast a nervous look at Mignon.

“We fear it is the onset of senility,” helpfully observed that damsel, who was, with a dampened cloth and a perverse pleasure, wiping the Viscount’s battered face. “I’m afraid that neither Lord Jeffries nor I can help you, both of us being all at sea.”

Crump doubted the truth of this, having had prior and unpleasant experience with Lady Bligh’s duplicitous relations, but a moan from the Baroness recalled his attention to her prone figure. “Murder!” she uttered. “Leda? Unthinkable! You might as well tell me the world is coming to an end.”

The Runner had an impulse to thwack the sofa’s inert burden with his baton, but the parrot chose that moment to swoop through the air. Crump ducked, and knocked his chin smartly against the chair’s wooden arm.

“I begin to think,” murmured Ivor to Mignon, “that your aunt is totally unprincipled.”

“That
is an opinion with which I can only agree.” Mignon did not meet his gaze, but leaned forward to drop the damp cloth over Casanova, who was engaged in battling the handsome tassels that swung from Ivor’s boots. The cat streaked across the room, up the side of Crump’s chair and over his bent back, before ridding himself of the cloth. Mignon could not help herself; she dissolved into giggles, which brought from her companion an answering and thoroughly enchanting smile.

“Devil take it!” spat the Runner, thoroughly unnerved. “We know your friend called here that same day, Baroness. I want to know what she spoke with you about.”

“Mignon!” moaned Lady Bligh, still prone. “Memory fails me. Kindly tell dear Mr. Crump what Leda had to say.”

“She said,” Mignon replied promptly, “that you were both frivolous and dissipated, that I would pay for dressing, and that the Regent is a popinjay.” The Viscount’s thoughtful gaze was fixed on her face.

“Did she mention Warwick, miss?” asked Crump.

“I believe she did. But it was Dulcie who said Warwick wished to see Leda transported or hanged.” Mignon was all helpful innocence. “Is that what you wished to know, Mr. Crump?”

It was not. Crump gazed at the nearest window, hung with golden Norwich damask. If only he might retire to a peaceable country village, there to deal with nothing more vexing than smugglers and highwaymen. “I suppose you all wish to see Leda discharged and paid for her inconvenience and expense. Well, it won’t wash! She’s as guilty as bedamned, for all she may claim she has an alibi. There isn’t a juryman alive who’ll believe she was visiting with an old friend at the time of Warwick’s death.” He jumped quickly to his feet as the parrot murmured in his ear.

“An alibi.” The Baroness righted herself and threw back the shawl, revealing tousled green hair and a smug look. “Dear Crump, you are
so
informative.”

The Runner swore an awful oath, and strode toward the door. “You’re leaving us so soon?” the Baroness called after him.  “But you have not told us how we may assist you!” He turned on his heel and glared. Dulcie smiled. “For instance, I don’t believe you know that Warwick himself spent some time in the Fleet Prison, a not uncommon address for Prinny’s friends.”

If Crump could only have had his way, Lady Bligh would have joined that illustrious group behind bars, there to remain for a very long time. Apparently this uncharitable wish didn’t show on his face, for the Baroness moved to his side and took his arm in an extremely friendly manner. “I will see you out!” she said, and guided him toward the door.

Mignon reflected that her aunt had a positive genius for leaving her alone with eligible young men. She looked at the Viscount, who would undoubtedly be considered a fine catch for any miss. “It looks as if your mother has landed herself in a dreadful fix.”

“Doesn’t it?” agreed Ivor. “It also looks as if we may trust your aunt to get her out of it. But as far as the world is concerned, my ‘mother’ is dead, and Leda prefers that the matter be left there.”

“Oh?” Mignon not only loathed injustice in any form, she was grateful for an excuse to think the worst of this disturbing man. “She prefers to go about her business unhindered by wealth and luxury, I suppose? And so you leave your mother’s rescue to my aunt, so that you may remain untouched by scandal? It gives me no high opinion of you, Lord Jeffries.”

Ivor rose to his feet and looked down upon her from his not inconsiderable height. “How fortunate,” he remarked, with an amusement that made Mignon grind her teeth, “that your opinion is of so little concern to me, Miss Montague. But I will return the favor, since we are taking liberties.
I
consider it a pity that the girl who possesses the loveliest eyes I’ve ever seen possesses also the most cruel tongue.” Too stunned to even deliver a scathing retort, Mignon watched speechless as he swept her a mocking bow and walked calmly from the room.

Chapter 8

While Sir John sat long hours in judgment in the lower front room which served as the Bow Street court, persons accused of more serious crimes—treason, murder, felonies—underwent trial at the Old Bailey Session House. Eight sessions, presided over by the Lord Mayor, Recorder, and Judges, took place each year.

The Old Bailey stood in the heart of London, at the corner of Newgate Street. Outside the grim building were held public hangings, executions so popular with the citizenry that the windows overlooking the gallows were filled with family parties sipping tea and well-dressed dandies who amused themselves by squirting brandy and water into the throng below.

There were no executions scheduled today, but there was to be a late sitting in court. Already the clock of Old St. Sepulchre’s Church, across the street, had chimed the time, and the black-robed usher of Number One Court had recited his spiel, which concluded with a pious request to God to save the King and the King’s Justices. “From what, I wonder?” murmured Lady Bligh, as she watched the entrance of the Lord Mayor, clad in his richest robes of office and carrying his plumed cocked hat, along with an absurd little bouquet intended to battle the stench of unwashed humanity that filled the room. Following him across the herb-strewn floor were his sheriffs, his sword carrier and his macebearer.

Standing beside his employer under the balcony and close to the dock, Gibbon indulged himself with various dark mutterings. He did not approve of Lady Bligh’s ventures into the world of crime and criminals. Among so many people, a clever pickpocket might reap a veritable harvest, albeit from those with little left to steal. Despite his own general inclination toward light-fingeredness, Gibbon suffered no such compulsion, not in this place.

On a long bench in the front of the cramped and somber court sat the Justices, robed lawyers, and aldermen with their chains of office around their necks. The body of the room was thronged with a restless murmuring mob. On this, the last day of the sessions, all prisoners convicted on capital charges were herded together in the dock to receive the death sentence. Among those on the raised platform were two gentlemen found guilty of murdering a lavender merchant and burying his body in a gravel pit. Clinging to the rail was Tiger Tim, so called in consequence of his enormous strength, who could take in his teeth the waistband of a man of ordinary size and carry him about the room as a cat might a mouse. Tiger Tim could also, as he had demonstrated, commit quite efficient murder with his huge hands.