Authors: Madeleine E. Robins
Petty Treason (21 page)
For a moment Miss Tolerance stood still in the midst of the merrymakers, as if inaction itself could differentiate her from the crowd. This subtlety—and the fact that Miss Tolerance wore a coat and bonnet and not the Hellenic draperies of some of the whores—was lost on one fellow, who came up behind her and snaked his arm about her waist, attempting to slide his hand into her coat and tweak her breast. Miss Tolerance reacted more quickly than thought: she had the man’s arm twisted behind his back before she recalled where she was and whose business she was depressing. The game abruptly stopped.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said at once, and released the man. “I’m afraid you startled me. I did not think—”
“Didn’t think?” Chloe, one of the whores in the crowd, pushed forward. “I should say not, Miss Sarah! My poor Mr. N, are you quite all right?” She fluttered around the man, who stood rubbing his arm. He had caught sight of her bruised face, and stared in fascination.
“I quite understand, miss—” He paused. “I ought not, that is; I mistook you—”
“Quite understandable,” Miss Tolerance said. “I did not hurt you?”
“Really, Miss Sarah!” Chloe put her arm about her patron’s shoulder and ran a caressing hand across his shoulder. “Don’t you fret, Mr. N. It’s quite—”
Marianne pushed through the crowd. “That’s all right, Chloe. He wasn’t to know that Miss Sarah isn’t one of us—” This to Mr. N, who was now watching Miss Tolerance with some interest. “And she was naturally startled, being … embraced in that fashion.
I’m sure there’s no hard feelings to either,” she finished briskly, and extracted Miss Tolerance from the crowd, pushing her brusquely down the hall.
I’m sure there’s no hard feelings to either,” she finished briskly, and extracted Miss Tolerance from the crowd, pushing her brusquely down the hall.
“I am sorry,” Miss Tolerance murmured. She was very aware that several of the gentlemen were still staring after her. “Should my aunt ever ask, you have now seen an excellent demonstration of why I do not yield to her pleas that I join the house.”
Marianne grinned. “I shall be sure to tell her. But in the morning; Frost says she’s sleeping now. Are you well? You look tired.” Her eyes shifted back and forth as she examined Miss Tolerance’s face.
“’Tis only the cold and the bruises, and an eventful day. A night’s sleep will put me right. Your party looks for you.” Miss Tolerance shrugged away from the concern in her friend’s voice and looked over her shoulder to the hall, where two gentlemen, one fair and one dark, were still watching them.
“My Mr. C and … well, I hope the other one hasn’t taken a fancy to you! No, Lisette’s come for him,” Marianne noted approvingly.
“Do not let me keep you. I’m for my own bed.” Miss Tolerance, oppressed by the emotions of the day, was as good as her word. She returned to her cottage, went up to bed, and even without recourse to that notably soporific text, Mainley’s
Art of the Small-Sword,
she was very soon deeply asleep.
Art of the Small-Sword,
she was very soon deeply asleep.
She waked in the dark, sitting upright in her bed without any notion of what had pulled her out of sleep. She listened intently and let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Was that footfall downstairs? Now there was a soft, billowing sound. Moonlight could not penetrate the clouds, but the light from Mrs. Brereton’s house across the way danced on the frame of the tiny window that overlooked the garden.
No. Not from Mrs. Brereton’s house. At the same moment that smoke began to curl under her door, Miss Tolerance realized that the orange light that danced on the window lit the upper sill only: it came from below. Miss Tolerance grabbed for what clothes she could find—a pair of breeches, a waistcoat—and pulled them on over her shift. She did not open the door of her room; with a fire belowstairs, she might die trying to escape by the stairs. She
opened the window next to her bed and looked down, seeing the orange glow of fire through the window below. There was a tree bough perhaps five feet from the window, but it would be a hard enough task to climb through; jumping to the tree and climbing down would be impossible. She resigned herself to the drop and, taking hold of the sill above, put first one foot, then the other, out the window. She began to lower herself down. It was a tight fit, particularly at the hip, and required some careful placement and replacement of her hands. After a few moments she hung from the lower sill, feet braced against the side of the house, looking down.
opened the window next to her bed and looked down, seeing the orange glow of fire through the window below. There was a tree bough perhaps five feet from the window, but it would be a hard enough task to climb through; jumping to the tree and climbing down would be impossible. She resigned herself to the drop and, taking hold of the sill above, put first one foot, then the other, out the window. She began to lower herself down. It was a tight fit, particularly at the hip, and required some careful placement and replacement of her hands. After a few moments she hung from the lower sill, feet braced against the side of the house, looking down.
It seemed as good a moment as any to start a cry of “Fire!”
There are few actions one can take in London which will evoke a more immediate response. After her second cry Miss Tolerance dropped to the ground; when she had regained her feet again people had already begun to run from the back of Mrs. Brereton’s. Keefe, at the forefront, had a bucket of water to hand. Behind him came various men in different states of dress or its lack.
Miss Tolerance looked in the window on the first floor of her cottage; the blaze was in the center of the room, directly under the spot where her bed stood. Before she could note more than that, she was jostled out of the way by Keefe, who dashed the first bucket of water through the door and turned to take the next one. Miss Tolerance took a place in the line and was very busy for a few minutes. She did not begin to feel the cold until the fire was put out, when she realized with dismay that she was all amuck from exertion and soot and soaked through with water. She could barely feel her bare feet in the icy water. Shivering, she turned to thank the men who had come to help her—including the man who had accosted her earlier, and was quite pleased to have played the hero as part of his evening’s pleasures. All of them, servant and client, demurred thanks. Marianne, who appeared in a prosaic dressing gown, invited all back into the house where hot water and hot drinks were waiting for them. It appeared that the crisis was over.
Miss Tolerance went into the cottage to examine the damage. The fire had been remarkably contained, burning, as she had noted, directly under her bed. That this was ten paces from the grate suggested that the fire was not the result of a flying ember. More to the
point, Miss Tolerance saw, were the remains of several charred pieces of furniture: a chair, the dish cupboard, her writing box, and several ledgers, piled in the middle of the room at the fire’s center. The fire had been set. Someone had apparently intended her death.
point, Miss Tolerance saw, were the remains of several charred pieces of furniture: a chair, the dish cupboard, her writing box, and several ledgers, piled in the middle of the room at the fire’s center. The fire had been set. Someone had apparently intended her death.
Miss Tolerance turned back to the house, conscious of a queasiness born of ebbing excitement and a new, deep sense of menace. She looked up at the face of Mrs. Brereton’s house, which appeared entirely as usual. Or almost as usual: in one of the upper windows a man stood, looking down at her. In the light from the windows below she could see that he was fully dressed and unsmirched by soot or smoke. He was the fair-haired man who had watched her speak with Marianne earlier; and as their eyes met, the man inclined his head in acknowledgment and smiled broadly.
M
iss Tolerance spent the night in Mrs. Brereton’s servants’ quarters; the better bedchambers were, by the nature of the house, at a premium. The room in which she slept was tiny but clean and quiet; Miss Tolerance locked the door and slept soundly. In the morning, bathed and in a morning gown borrowed from Marianne, she presented herself in Mrs. Brereton’s room.
iss Tolerance spent the night in Mrs. Brereton’s servants’ quarters; the better bedchambers were, by the nature of the house, at a premium. The room in which she slept was tiny but clean and quiet; Miss Tolerance locked the door and slept soundly. In the morning, bathed and in a morning gown borrowed from Marianne, she presented herself in Mrs. Brereton’s room.
“What
are
you wearing, girl?” Mrs. Brereton had so far recovered from her indisposition that she was seated at her table with her ledgers and writing box to hand, a tray of chocolate and toasted bread at her elbow. She still wore a heavily laced dressing gown and cap, and gave no sign that she meant to go downstairs that day.
are
you wearing, girl?” Mrs. Brereton had so far recovered from her indisposition that she was seated at her table with her ledgers and writing box to hand, a tray of chocolate and toasted bread at her elbow. She still wore a heavily laced dressing gown and cap, and gave no sign that she meant to go downstairs that day.
“Marianne loaned me the dress, ma’am—we differ somewhat in the matter of breadth and height.” In fact she had had to sash the dress twice, and it displayed considerably more ankle than was fashionable. “I have not yet had a chance to inspect my own clothes. You may have heard I had a little excitement in my cottage last night.”
“Of course I heard. Of all people, Sarah, I would not have expected you to be careless with fire.” Mrs. Brereton poured chocolate
into her cup; Miss Tolerance noted that she did it with particular care and one-handed. Her left hand rested in her lap.
into her cup; Miss Tolerance noted that she did it with particular care and one-handed. Her left hand rested in her lap.
“I was not careless, Aunt. I made no fire last night; the only candle I had was by my bed and I extinguisned it before I slept. The fire was set.” Miss Tolerance offered this information without heat. Mrs. Brereton pursed her lips thoughtfully, then sent Frost to fetch another cup for Miss Sarah.
“I don’t drink chocolate, Aunt,” Miss Tolerance pointed out.
“Don’t be stupid, girl. I don’t want Frost to hear this. The fire was
set
?”
set
?”
“There can be no doubt. Half my parlor furniture had been shifted to the middle of the room, and the fire was lit there. I think it was meant to kill me.”
Mrs. Brereton stared at her niece. “My God.”
“Indeed.”
“Someone climbed the wall, do you think? Some enemy you have made in doing your work?”
“I have not inspected the garden for any sign of an intruder, and unfortunately, after the crush in the garden last night to put the fire out, I doubt that any tracks I might have found will be legible this morning. Still, I shall look. I might have better luck trying to determine who would want me dead.”
“Who would not” The question seemed to have been asked without irony, in the spirit of inquiry. Mrs. Brereton sipped at her chocolate and gazed at her nonplussed niece.
“Good Lord, Aunt; while I may have a few enemies, I suspect most of those would prefer to see me horsewhipped than burnt.”
“In your profession—” Mrs. Brereton began. She stopped and said thoughtfully, “I suppose the two with the greatest cause to wish you dead would be Versellion and his cousin.”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Versellion is on his way to Australia, if he is not there already. Henry Folle was hanged a fortnight after his trial. I think we can acquit them both. As for the rest—I cannot think of anyone else who would so dislike me as to desire my death.”
“Well, who then?” Mrs. Brereton put her chocolate cup down and looked at her niece. Gradually her eyes widened and she sucked air through her teeth. “You think it was someone here.”
“What?”
“It is perfectly clear to me. You mean to lay some new crime at my door. All right, then. Whom do you suspect? What is your evidence?” Hectic color mottled Mrs. Brereton’s cheeks; her eyes were wide and angry. Miss Tolerance felt a pang of concern, remembering how recently her aunt had risen from her sickbed.
“My dear Aunt Thea, I have laid nothing at your door. I said that I did not know I had made so deep-dyed an enemy as would set my house on fire. Please calm yourself; this kind of vehemence cannot be good—”
“You will go to your tame magistrate and involve him, and have my patrons taken up and ruin my business, is that it?”
“That is not it at all, ma’am. Good God! Where did this idea come from?
Mrs. Brereton regarded her niece suspiciously. “If you haven’t thought it yet, you’ll come to it sooner or later.”
A rattle from the dressing room suggested that Frost had returned from her errand but was waiting tactfully for a moment less fraught in which to enter.
“Aunt, I promise you I had no thought of it at all. The fire was set by someone, but as to whom, I cannot say at all. Certainly I have nothing I could lay before a magistrate, and even Sir Walter Mandif—I collect it is he you mean by my tame magistrate, although I don’t care for that label any more than he would—would require a good deal more proof than I can offer at this moment. I hope you know I would do my best to keep your house untroubled by the matter.”
“Of a certainty you would. My clientele—” Mrs. Brereton took up the pot again and poured chocolate into her near-full cup so awkwardly that the lid of the pot dropped into the cup, breaking it and spraying chocolate over the papers and her dressing gown. “See what you have done!” She half rose from her chair, dabbing at her stained lace.
Miss Tolerance suppressed the impulse to respond in kind. “Let me help you, Aunt.”
“You’ve done enough!” Mrs. Brereton snapped. “Frost! Damn that woman, where is she?”
On cue Frost appeared in the doorway, murmured soothing remonstrance, and began to clear away the mess.
“Aunt, please be calm. This excitation—”
“‘Tis all your doing, Sarah. Had I known when I took you in what sort of trouble you would bring upon my house …” Mrs. Brereton sat back in her chair, panting.
Miss Tolerance regarded her aunt with distress. She felt as one might in a dream, as if she had stumbled into a conversation scripted beforehand, without any idea what her proper part was to be. For several minutes she said nothing, only watching as Frost took away the tray and returned with a fresh dressing gown for her mistress. In the same time Mrs. Brereton’s breathing slowed, and Miss Tolerance decided she might safely speak again.
“Dearest Aunt Thea, I have never wished to bring trouble into your house. As to who set the fire, I cannot possibly say; I have not even been out to the cottage this morning. Let me ring for more chocolate—”
“Stop fussing!” Mrs. Brereton ordered, but her color was more nearly normal. “Frost will get me more chocolate, won’t you, Frost?”
The maid nodded, straightened her mistress’s collar, and gave Miss Tolerance a look of proprietary triumph:
See who is indispensable in this household
? Then she swept serenely from the room again.
See who is indispensable in this household
? Then she swept serenely from the room again.
“I shall go, then,” Miss Tolerance suggested.
“Go? From the house?” Mrs. Brereton looked shocked. “I don’t want that, Sarah!”
“No, ma’am, nor do I. I only mean to go across and look at the damage to the cottage and see what repairs will be necessary.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Brereton’s relief was manifest. “Well, then, I suppose you ought to do so. And for the love of heaven, take someone with you to carry out your clothes and clean them. The sooner you’re out of Marianne’s castoffs, the better. What room were you put in?”
It was as though the entire argument had not happened. Mrs. Brereton was now looking at her niece with some of her usual fondness.
“I slept upstairs in the servants’ quarters, ma’am—I did not wish to put one of the staff out of a room—”
“That was very thoughtful of you, my dear, but I think we can put you in the little yellow room at the end of the hall for a night or two, until your house is put to rights.” Mrs. Brereton turned her face for her niece’s kiss. “Run find out where Frost is with my chocolate, there’s a good girl.”
Miss Tolerance did as she was bid.
C
ole accompanied Miss Tolerance across the garden to inspect the cottage. The foul smell of charring was everywhere, but the fire had not done great damage. There were water and ice everywhere on the kitchen floor; the table, cabinet, writing box and chairs which had been at the center of the fire were of course beyond repairing, but the room itself seemed sound. The floor beneath the fire was charred and would need to be replaced, and the whole room would require a quantity of whitewash. Miss Tolerance regarded the black mark of fire on the ceiling with a frisson of horror; how easily she might have burnt to death! It certainly appeared, from the placement of the fire just under her bed, that that had been someone’s objective. But why?
ole accompanied Miss Tolerance across the garden to inspect the cottage. The foul smell of charring was everywhere, but the fire had not done great damage. There were water and ice everywhere on the kitchen floor; the table, cabinet, writing box and chairs which had been at the center of the fire were of course beyond repairing, but the room itself seemed sound. The floor beneath the fire was charred and would need to be replaced, and the whole room would require a quantity of whitewash. Miss Tolerance regarded the black mark of fire on the ceiling with a frisson of horror; how easily she might have burnt to death! It certainly appeared, from the placement of the fire just under her bed, that that had been someone’s objective. But why?
Miss Tolerance forced herself away from the sight of the charred ceiling and went upstairs to her room. She pushed her bed from its accustomed place and examined the floor beneath it. Two of the boards were discolored and seemed to her to sag when she trod on them. She would need to have a joiner in to look at the floor—or rather, the ceiling below. And more whitewash, she thought. The mark of smoke, and the gritty stench of fire, was in everything. She opened the wardrobe, gathered up all her clothes save for a suit of men’s clothing, her boots, and her Gunnard greatcoat, and gave them all to Cole to give to the laundress. With sufficient water and soap, she hoped, they could be salvaged.
She changed into her masculine clothes, hoping that exposure to fresh air would take the worst of the smell from them, and returned downstairs to look again at the furniture which had been piled up and set afire. One rail-backed chair, seemingly whole, crumbled when she tried to pull it away. The remains of two of her work ledgers sat under the chair, and Miss Tolerance spent several minutes trying to divine their significance: one was a set of her
household expenses from several years earlier, and the other contained notes from her first cases in ’07. She could not ignore Mrs. Brereton’s suggestion that the arson had been accomplished by someone attached to a former case, but nor did she believe the fire had been set to destroy the ledgers. Why not simply carry them away instead? It seemed to her that her death, or at least the destruction of her house, was what had been intended. The ledgers were not clues, but tinder.
household expenses from several years earlier, and the other contained notes from her first cases in ’07. She could not ignore Mrs. Brereton’s suggestion that the arson had been accomplished by someone attached to a former case, but nor did she believe the fire had been set to destroy the ledgers. Why not simply carry them away instead? It seemed to her that her death, or at least the destruction of her house, was what had been intended. The ledgers were not clues, but tinder.
Her fears regarding the footprints in the garden proved correct; the half-frozen mud looked as though an army had passed across it in the night. Examinations of the gate in the garden wall proved that it was locked; nor did the ivy which covered the wall appear bruised, as it would have done had someone climbed in or out of the garden. She must consider that her arsonist had come from the house or had a key to the gate—a highly disturbing notion.
Miss Tolerance quit the garden and found Marianne in one of the parlors, knitting placidly. She returned the borrowed gown with thanks.
“Is it bad out there?” Marianne tipped her head in the direction of the cottage.
“It might have been a very great deal worse,” Miss Tolerance said. “I shall need a joiner, and some whitewash. And I shall have to see what I can find in the used-furniture warehouses, once the repairs are made. But the structure is sound.”
“That’s luck,” Marianne said. “And how are
you
?”
you
?”
Miss Tolerance smiled. “Alive, for which I am most grateful. Particularly after having seen the damage and imagining what might have happened had I not waked up.”
“What did wake you?”
“There were sounds. Footsteps downstairs just as the blaze was set off,” Miss Tolerance said flatly.
“Good God! Do you know whose?”
She shook her head. “I must find out, mustn’t I?” she said lightly. “One question I do have: there was a gentleman in the group last night, one of the dancers?” Marianne nodded. “Of middle height, fair-haired, blue coat, neckcloth a bit askew. He was standing with the fellow who was waiting for you, watching
us talk. Later—I don’t know who he went up with, but they were in a room in the back on the second floor—”
us talk. Later—I don’t know who he went up with, but they were in a room in the back on the second floor—”
“Oh, yes. Mr. Beauville. He don’t come often—his custom is better suited to the whipperies. Bit of a bully-boy, and fancies himself a bit, as you may have noticed. What does—Sarah? What?”
Miss Tolerance had begun to laugh.
“All over London I was prepared to go to find the man, and here he is on my doorstep! What a convenience! I have been longing to ask him some questions about an inquiry. It’s such a convenience it makes me wonder: did he come seeking me?”
“If he did, he made a very expensive job of it. Played in our revels a bit, as you saw, spent the night with Lisette, drank deep, didn’t blink when Keefe gave him the reckoning. I don’t like to disappoint you, Sarah, but it certainly appeared that his aim was pleasure, not—”
“Not me.” Miss Tolerance finished. “He didn’t ask anyone about me? Lisette or one of the others? I find it hard to trust a coincidence that is so … coincidental. Did most of your patrons last night come into the garden to help with the fire?”
Marianne nodded. “Fire’s a serious business. There was likely a few that didn’t—in the throes, belike, or too old or feeble. But most of them. Didn’t you see?”
“I did. And was most grateful to all of them. But I did note that Mr. Beauville was not among them. Was he seen inside before the alarm was raised?”
“You never think he lit the fire!” Marianne raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What reason would he have to do it?”
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