Authors: Madeleine E. Robins

Petty Treason (29 page)

BOOK: Petty Treason

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Miss Tolerance took a breath, stiffened her resolve, and opened the box.

She removed the scarves and the cat-o’-nine-tails and the six tiny pearl-handled knives in their case one at a time, arranging them carefully on the desk. There was another whip at the bottom, a few cords, and a fold of black cloth which, when unfolded, proved to be a domino—an old-fashioned masquerade mask. When the box was empty Miss Tolerance picked it up and shook it, but nothing rattled, nor did anything drop out when she turned the box upside down.

She examined the handles of the scourge and the whip, looking for sign of an endpiece she could unscrew or flip back to reveal a hiding place. There was nothing. Gingerly she replaced the whip on the desk and looked up. Sophia was watching with a solemn expression.

“Sophia, when the chevalier—” Miss Tolerance faltered, less from squeamishness than from lack of the proper vocabulary. “When the chevalier used these objects with Madam, was it you who cared for her afterward?”

The abigail nodded. Her mouth was pinched.

“How often—”

For a moment it seemed Sophie would not answer. Miss Tolerance was about to explain how vital frankness was to Madame d’Aubigny’s case, but it appeared Sophie had arrived at that conclusion on her own.

“Not so much in the last while. When that—Mrs. Vose was with him, he didn’t much bother Madam. And sometimes, if Madam was sleeping, he’d give up after a time if he couldn’t wake her. That was one reason she took the sleeping draught. As for how often he and Mrs. Vose—you might ask
her.”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I cannot. She had her throat cut in an alley last night.”

Sophia shrugged. “Not a surprisin’ end for summat like her.”

“You did not like Mrs. Vose.”

“I didn’t not like her. ‘Tis as I said: when she was with him, Master didn’t hurt Madam. But she did like to make out like she
was summat more than a whore. Talkin’ like she was better than us as keeps our knees together and goes about our business!”

The abigail put her finger to her lips as if she had just recollected to whom she spoke. After a moment, “Don’t mean I’d wish her dead. Do they know who killed her, miss?”

Miss Tolerance shook hear head. “Someone went to a good deal of trouble to make it look as if a very great man had killed her in a passion, but I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t you, miss? Then who?”

“I don’t know. But as you say, such an end was not entirely surprising for such a woman as Mrs. Vose.” Miss Tolerance turned her attention to the box. “Have you any idea how this came to be in the privy, Sophia?”

Sophia’s round face flushed. She examined her knuckles as if an answer might have been written upon them. “I put it there, miss.”

“It was your idea to do so?” Miss Tolerance’s tone was carefully sympathetic.

“No, miss. Madam asked me to do it, that morning, after the constables left. Couldn’t bear the sight of the thing, she said, and with Master dead there was no reason to keep it.”

Looking at the objects arrayed before her on the desk, Miss Tolerance could not but sympathize with Anne d’-Aubigny’s impulsive act, however much she might deplore it as a stratagem. This also explained the widow’s shock when the box reappeared in her kitchen in the hands of the goldfinder. But was not Mr. Heddison, apprised of any of this, likely to attach some sinister significance? Decisively, Miss Tolerance swept up the scarves, bonds, and implements and dropped them into the box.

“I must examine the box at my leisure,” she said. “I will take it with me and keep it safe. I think Madam would probably like to have it out of the house.”

F
or half an hour more Miss Tolerance took advantage of the peculiar freedom which Anne d‘Aubigny’s absence permitted her in the house. She visited the widow’s bedchamber, in which a neatly arranged fire was laid, unlit, awaiting Madam’s return.
There was nothing of note to the room: bed, clothespress, writing table and a chair, a shelf which bore a few novels of an improving rather than a sensational nature. Miss Tolerance wandered from there up the stairs to the servants’ quarters, which were in no way remarkable. Finally, with Beak hovering in the doorway, distressed by her lack of respect for the deceased, she went over Etienne d’Aubigny’s bedchamber as she had five days earlier. Beak fairly quivered as he promised that no one had disturbed the chamber since her last visit.

“We’ve had more important things to think of, miss,” he said dourly. Miss Tolerance restrained herself from pointing out that she was thinking of freeing Anne d’Aubigny from prison.

“Will you ask Jacks to call a hackney coach for me, Beak?” she asked instead. “My work is almost done here.”

Beak left. When he was out of sight Miss Tolerance knelt by the fireplace. The bit of white stuff she had found wedged in the grate on her last visit was still there. As she took out her pocketknife and began to prize at it, she worried that perhaps this was all that remained of the blackmail proofs she believed d’Aubigny to have had hidden. What then?

With a slip, the thing came loose from the grate. Miss Tolerance, hearing Beak returning down the hall, pocketed the white object and her knife and was respectfully closing the door when Beak came to tell her that her coach was waiting in the street.

Miss Tolerance took up her Gunnard coat and the chevalier’s carved box and rode back to Manchester Square with the box upon her lap. She had the coach leave her on Spanish Place at the side entrance to the garden, and entered Mrs. Brereton’s house through the kitchen door. She proceeded to her temporary lodgings in the yellow room unnoted by any but Cook. If someone had set fire to her cottage in order to destroy a box he thought was this one, she did not want to tempt a similar assault upon Mrs. Brereton’s house. With the box hidden and a good deal to think about, she went downstairs to ask a question of Marianne Touchwell.

“You know I will not tell you that,” Marianne replied. “Mrs. B’s most cardinal rule—”

“If it were not a matter of importance you know I would not ask it,” Miss Tolerance answered earnestly. “But the man’s alibi
begs corroboration. If he was here, I’m sure he would prefer to have you say so and remove him from the list of suspects.”

“And if he was not?” Marianne shook her head. “I do not stand upon ceremony, Sarah, nor follow rules to their letter unless I see a reason for it. And the reason for this,” she continued, without giving Miss Tolerance a chance to counter her argument, “is that Mrs. Brereton has sworn that any of us who discuss the who, when, or how of her clients will be thrown out on the street. I’ve no ambition to find another house and a less pleasant situation for myself. If you say Mr. Beauville would like us to provide his alibi, I do not doubt it’s true. Let him come and ask us in Mrs. B’s hearing.”

Miss Tolerance sighed. “Perhaps Lisette—”

“No.” The voice came from the doorway of the small salon in which they were sitting. Hearing it, Miss Tolerance was distracted from her query by surprise and pleasure. It was Mrs. Brereton herself. She and Marianne were at once upon their feet, welcoming the older woman into the room and settling her by the fire. A shawl was arranged across her shoulders, another over her knees, and so much solicitousness expressed by both women that at last it appeared to oppress Mrs. Brereton.

“Enough,” she said. “You were inquiring about one of our clients, Sarah?”

Miss Tolerance recalled the circumstances of her last conversation with her aunt, and the heated suspicion that lady had voiced then. “’Tis nothing of importance, Aunt. In my desire to see my own client cleared, I stepped over the line and asked Marianne for information which she quite properly would not give me.”

Mrs. Brereton nodded. “Good girl.” She acknowledged Marianne with a regal nod. “Now, you surely have something else to do? Go and do it.”

With a look to Miss Tolerance which was eloquent of dismay, concern, and a little amusement, Marianne rose, curtsied, and was gone.

“That was surely a little abrupt, Aunt.”

“I have said before, Sarah: since you have no interest in learning to manage this business, you have no reason to worry how I treat my employees.” As if to take the sting from her words, Mrs. Brereton raised an eyebrow mockingly.

“As you wish, Aunt Thea. But are you certain you are well enough to be downstairs?”

“I am not only well enough, I should have gone mad with boredom if I stayed in my room one moment longer. I have no objection to giving Marianne a little responsibility—she did not do badly while I was indisposed, overall. But this is my house, Sarah. Never forget that. It requires my touch.”

“I do not forget it, Aunt. I am delighted to see you downstairs.” What pleased her more was that she saw none of the wildness which had characterized her aunt’s expression in their last meeting. Other than the continued weakness on her left side, expressed in a slight limp, Mrs. Brereton appeared very much her usual self.

“I am pleased myself. Now, Sarah, you were asking about one of our guests.”

Miss Tolerance nodded. “You need not tell me that I should not have asked. I will not—”

“What did you want to know?”

“If a Mr. Henri Beauville was a visitor here on the evening of the eighth of November, Aunt. But I—”

Mrs. Brereton shook her head. “Hush, girl, and let me speak. I have had some time for reflection in the last week, as you may imagine, and it seems to me that you … are right. I have been overly rigid in the past, and had I not placed more importance in my rules of confidentiality than in your discretion, poor Matt might yet be alive. Perhaps. In any case, I am prepared to amend my rule. You may not go to the girls or the servants for information, but you may come to me. If you can persuade me that it is in my interest to share what I know with you, trusting in your discretion, then I shall do so. Is this agreeable?”

Had King George suddenly appeared sitting opposite her, in full possession of his faculties and professing the infallibility of the Roman Pope, Miss Tolerance could not have been more surprised. And, after a moment, touched as well. She took her aunt’s hand.

“It is altogether agreeable, Aunt Thea. I shall do my best to honor your trust in me.”

For a moment Mrs. Brereton appeared moved. Then she drew
her hand from Miss Tolerance’s. “There is no need to become tragic about the matter, Sarah. Now what is it you need to know about Mr. Beauville?”

“He told me he was occupied in a brothel that night, which gives him an alibi for—a crime I am investigating.” In the face of her aunt’s new generosity Miss Tolerance felt uncomfortable in her own reserve.

“I see.” Mrs. Brereton thought. “If you will go upstairs to my room, in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe you will find several books, bound in black cloth, without stamping. If you will bring me the topmost?”

Miss Tolerance went at once to fetch the book. When she had returned and given it to her aunt, she resumed her seat.

“Sarah, you will promise me your most solemn oath on your honor—which I know you hold very dear—that you will never look into this or any other of my books without my expressed permission.” Mrs. Brereton regarded her niece with great seriousness. Miss Tolerance was as serious as she gave the promised “On my honor.” Mrs. Brereton opened the book and leafed through. Miss Tolerance had thought she was inventing a pretty fiction for Mrs. Lasher when she spoke of her aunt’s ledgers, but it seemed she had unwittingly spoken the truth. Mrs. Brereton peered at the pages, running one finger down the first column.

“November eighth. He was—yes, he was here. With Lisette. He arrived at half past ten and stayed until shortly after midnight. Which was as well, as Lisette had a regular caller who came soon after. Beauville came without appointment—well, he has not been such a regular as to know how we like to do things here.”

Miss Tolerance thanked her aunt seriously.

Mrs. Brereton closed the ledger with a snap. “I have one other request to make of you, my dear. In the event that something should happen to me—I am no longer a girl, and this stupid influenza seems to have frightened even Sir George Hammond into a state of rare concern!—will you promise me to destroy these books?

Miss Tolerance nodded.

“Well, then. I trust this gives you the help you needed?”

In fact, like so many things in this case, this new information
came as both a blessing and a curse. When Mrs. Brereton’s information was combined with Henri Beauville’s own statement, it was clear that he had no alibi for the time of Etienne d‘Aubigny’s murder. However, if she was to keep her aunt’s house out of the matter, Miss Tolerance could not use the information to free Anne d’Aubigny.

Sixteen

D
oes
this help you?” Mrs. Brereton asked.

“It does.” Miss Tolerance was already trying to devise a strategem to convince Mr. Heddison of Boyse’s perjury, all the while keeping both Mrs. Brereton and Mrs. Strokum out of the matter. It would take the work of four women—herself, Mrs. Brereton and Mrs. Strokum, and Anne d’Aubigny—to undo the mischief of one man; of course three of those women were of equivocal status and would very likely be assumed by the law, in the person of Mr. Heddison, to have lost their wits and honor along with their virtue. And the fourth woman could be set aside as having too much self-interest in the case to tell the truth. It would be better, she thought, if she could provide some masculine evidence for her tale.

Mrs. Brereton talked on unattended to, until a name caught Miss Tolerance’s attention.

“I beg your pardon, Aunt?”

“I said the most enthusiastic teller of the tale appears to be that poisonous woman you showed some interest in last week.”

“I was woolgathering, Aunt. Forgive me. Who? What tale?”

“Camille Touvois, whom you once styled my competitor. Did
you hear nothing of what I said? A woman has been found murdered in an alley, and it is being loudly asserted by La Touvois that it was Prince Ernest who killed her. I know that Cumberland is not much loved, and his politics are exactly opposed to my own, but this seems to me the—”

Miss Tolerance sat up, her attention fully upon her aunt. “But how did you hear all of this, ma’am? Mrs. Vose was only found dead in the small hours of this morning. I’m surprised Madame Touvois should know of it, let alone be circulating rumors.”

“And I thought I would be bringing news to you.” Mrs. Brereton tilted her chin up, piqued. “As to how I learned of it, I cannot say.”

By which Miss Tolerance understood that Mrs. Brereton had acquired this
on dit
from a patron who had visited that day. With the suggestion of Royal involvement, and Camille Touvois’s endorsement, rumors concerning Josette Vose’s untimely end would be certain to have penetrated every layer of London society by day’s end.

“So Madame Touvois is telling the world that Cumberland is a murderer? Whatever can her motives be?”

“Perhaps she believes it. Or perhaps she is just trying her power as an opinion-maker. I take it you do not believe the rumor?”

“I know that Mrs. Vose is dead. For the rest—” Miss Tolerance explained her understanding of the circumstances in which Mrs. Vose had been found. “Cumberland is said to be arrogant, but surely even he must balk at murdering his mistress and leaving her for anyone to find, with incriminating notes upon her person. To do so would move one from the realm of arrogance to that of stupidity.”

“Perhaps one of his aides—”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Would hang out a shingle inscribed with his master’s name and direction? Not with the regency question on everyone’s lips and Cumberland’s War Support Bill yet to be voted upon. There are so many better ways Mrs. Vose’s body might have been disposed of; the Thames is a very forgiving receptacle.”

“So it is. You think that someone wants Cumberland implicated? But what business is the matter to La Touvois? Perhaps if she was one of his castoffs—but she is not in his style at all. And
he is too well known a Tory, and she too vocally liberal. The duke will be a very different man than I think him if he can brook contradiction from a woman.”

“And yet His Royal Highness met Mrs. Vose under Madame Touvois’ roof. She told me he came because he wished to understand the liberal mind, but I must say it looked as if he had come to choose a woman. It appeared to me that Madame Touvois had made sure a good number of women of pliant virtue were available to him.”

“So Cumberland and Touvois were acquainted. And she procured a woman for him. She does not sound like an embittered lover; more a woman of business. That is not in itself a reason to accuse the man of murder; we who procure do not, in general, like to see our clients kill our employees or die themselves. It casts a pall upon business.”

“I don’t doubt it does,” Miss Tolerance agreed.

“I should think, by that reasoning, that La Touvois believes Cumberland is the culprit, whatever your opinion in the matter.”

“It is more her desire to spread her accusation about town that troubles me. I should have thought Madame Touvois far too canny to risk the enmity of a man with as much power as Cumberland.”

“Perhaps grief for a friend?” Mrs. Brereton suggested.

“Perhaps,” Miss Tolerance said. She did not much believe it. And what, if anything, did these questions have to do with the death of Etienne d’Aubigny? “Perhaps I had best go and make some inquiries.”

Mrs. Brereton nodded. “Do, then. If you learn anything of interest I should be delighted to know what it is. If you can trust me with it, of course,” she added pleasantly.

Miss Tolerance bent to kiss her aunt’s scented cheek. “Do not stay downstairs for too long, Aunt. It would not do to tax your strength.”

T
he fall of snow was thickening, and the night was dark; Miss Tolerance thought briefly of her breeches, boots and Gunnard coat—and her smallsword as well. She could hardly forget that she had been the object of two attempts in less than a week. But
she could not reasonably be expected to gain entry to a drawing room in breeches and top boots, regardless of their warmth or defensive value. Miss Tolerance put a pistol in her reticule, bundled herself well while Cole summoned a hackney coach for her and at last asked the driver to set her down in Audley Street.

If Camille Touvois wished to appear as a woman grieved by the violent death of a friend, or her household as one in mourning, she had not considered the matter very thoroughly. Miss Tolerance found a small party in progress when she called upon Madame Touvois. The maid who took her coat appeared to find Miss Tolerance’s appearance, unescorted and uninvited, to be a little shocking. For a moment it seemed she might refuse to escort this intruder into her mistress’s sight, but Miss Tolerance overawed the girl with her best impersonation of bland assurance.

“Miss Tolerance, ma’am,” the girl announced, and fled.

Madame Touvois was seated on a low-backed sofa, talking animatedly to an audience of men—no other woman had ventured out on so unpleasant a night—who stood around her in attitudes ranging from appreciative to adoring. She smiled equally upon all of them, speaking quickly and laughing often, clearly enjoying her power to captivate. The effect upon her of Miss Tolerance’s name—and Miss Tolerance’s self, as well, it must be assumed—was subtle. Miss Tolerance was certain that her hostess was vexed by the introduction of a rival into her circle, but Madame Touvois did not frown; she rose and extended her hand as if Miss Tolerance were an awaited guest.

“My dear Miss Tolerance! How pleasant of you to call upon us.”

Miss Tolerance took the hand offered her. “Thank you for making me so welcome, madame. I trust I do not interrupt?”

Her hostess gave an exaggeratedly Gallic shrug. “What is there to interrupt? A few friends taking a cup of wine and discussing the news of the day. It is very cozy here by the fire. But what has brought you out on so inclement a night?”

“I came to condole with you upon the death of your friend, Mrs. Vose.”

Miss Tolerance had not expected to see Madame Touvois flinch at the name; her estimate of the Frenchwoman’s sangfroid was too high. Indeed, she did not flinch, but cast down her eyes in an impersonation
of sorrow. “It is very kind of you, mademoiselle. It was a great shock to us all.”

“Will you go into full mourning, or will black gloves do?” Miss Tolerance’s tone was dry as dust.

Camille Touvois pursed her lips. “I have never much liked the dress of mourning, nor do I expect she would have wished us to depress ourselves with it. Ah, I was very fond of Josette.”

Miss Tolerance was sure that, had she been able, Madame Touvois would have produced one or two tears: just enough to be effective ornaments, not so many that her powder would have been compromised.

One of the men who stood behind the sofa coughed softly. They, more than Madame Touvois, appeared troubled by Miss Tolerance’s sudden arrival. Madame smiled equally upon her admirers but did not introduce Miss Tolerance to them, or they to her.

“Where are my manners? Mademoiselle, will you not take a glass of wine with us?”

She gestured, and a glass of Madeira was produced for Miss Tolerance. Turning her back on the gentleman, Madame Touvois linked her arm through Miss Tolerance’s own and began a leisurely circuit of the room. It took them out of earshot of the men, Miss Tolerance noted. Did La Touvois have something to say which she did not want them to hear?

“I feared that I would find you prostrate over Mrs. Vose’s death,” Miss Tolerance said at last.

“Prostrate?” Camille Touvois sniffed. “My dear Mademoiselle, I was very fond of Josette, but extravagant grief is so … extravagant. I find it as unconsoling as wearing black gloves. Did you think to find me swooning?”

“You do not strike me as the swooning sort, madame. But I did fear that you might feel some complicity in her death. It concerned me greatly.”

Madame Touvous stopped and turned to Miss Tolerance. However mild her expression, her gaze was acute. “How could
I
be complicit in Josette’s death?”

“It was in your household that she first encountered His Highness, the Duke of Cumberland, was it not?”

“So? What do you suggest?”

“Nothing, ma’am. Not the least thing in the world. Only that I had heard that you believe Cumberland was the murderer.” Miss Tolerance touched her lips to her wine glass. The Madeira was syrupy and overly sweet. “I wondered at the time how it was that Cumberland was a guest of yours. It seemed very unlikely. Surely he was not ever a connection of yours, madame?”

“You ask if Cumberland was my lover? I am still French enough to call a card by its face name, mademoiselle. No, he was not. I believe I told you, on that other occasion, that he came to see what the opposition had to offer.”

“Offer in what way, madame?”

“Offer in every way, mademoiselle. Of course, I am always delighted when my guests form pleasant attachments.”

“Or unpleasant. Which would seem to be the case, if Cumberland murdered Mrs. Vose.”

“Can there be any doubt?” Madame Touvois’ dark eyes were disingenuously wide and serious. “The poor thing, found with her finery rent, her throat cut, and a note from His Highness in her hand!”

“Damning. Perhaps a little too damning.” Miss Tolerance put her glass down. The woman did not care whether Miss Tolerance believed her; she was aiming for a far broader audience, and clearly did not consider that Miss Tolerance could do anything to affect that audience’s belief. “The matter has not yet appeared in the newspapers, and yet you seem to know all the details. I wonder how that happens?”

“My visitors, of course. Some are kind enough to tell me the latest news.”

“Of course. And you were so fond of Mrs. Vose.”

“Why should I not be? We got on well together, Josette and I.” Madame Touvois smiled.

“And it prospered her,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “It is a considerable jump, to go from being the mistress of a civil servant like d’Aubigny to a prince of the blood. You achieved quite a coup there, madame.”

“The coup was entirely Josette’s, Miss Tolerance. And look what a sad pass it has brought her to. But it might have been any woman. It might have been you, my dear.”

“I don’t believe so, ma’am,” Miss Tolerance said coolly.

“Oh, but of course.
You
brought your noble lover down, did you not?” Madame Touvois smiled sweetly. “But if you had not been so foresighted, he might have brought you down instead.”

Miss Tolerance regarded Camille Touvois without comment for the several moments it took to bring her emotions into check. The two cases were very far from being the same, she reminded herself.

“Are you suggesting that the Duke of Cumberland feared that Mrs. Vose would bring him down? Or—” Inspiration struck. “Or was it you he feared could do such a thing?”

With no perceptible change in her face, Madame Touvois’ smile hardened from sugar to flint. “I? How could I do such a thing?”

“’Tis an interesting question,” Miss Tolerance murmured.

Her hostess had herself in hand again. “I shall not cry if this brings Cumberland down,” she said. “How should I? Poor Josette died at his hand. But even were he guiltless, my sympathies are well known: I wear Whig colors. The thought of so deep-dyed a Tory as Cumberland controlling the destiny of this great nation is … repugnant.”

“I do not care for the prince’s politics either, but I would not wish a friend dead simply to keep him from the regency.”

“You think someone arranged for Josette’s death in order to compromise Cumberland?”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “’Tis too much. Why bother to bring down a candidate for the regency whom neither party is likely to support?”

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