Authors: Madeleine E. Robins

Petty Treason (32 page)

BOOK: Petty Treason

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With only a little concern for what the magistrate would make of Mrs. Strokum, Miss Tolerance escorted the whore into his offices and left to walk to the Duke of Kent and inquire after the barman there. She was in luck: the man himself was behind the makeshift bar, indifferently polishing a stack of tankards. The afternoon custom was not heavy; a serving boy was engaged in swatting the flies that buzzed around the stew pot on the hearth. The barman did not at first recognize her. Once she had persuaded him that she was the same “young gentleman” who had come sniffing around for information about John Boyse, her luck stalled. The barman—his name was Joseph Dake—had no interest in making even a brief appearance before the magistrate.

“I’ll lose my custom if they think I’d hare off to the authorities at every chance I get, to tattle on who’s been drinking here the night before,” he said flatly. “Not that I have any love for Boyse—good riddance to ’im, if they can keep hold of ’im, which I doubt.”

“They can keep hold of him if you can attest that he did not arrive here on that evening until after eight. He has as near given himself up as—”

“Then why do you need me?”

Miss Tolerance shook with impatience. “There is a woman—young, quite blameless—in prison on false evidence that Boyse provided. The magistrate won’t release her unless I can prove that Boyse could not have been at an unknown drinking house talking to an imaginary informant, because he was here, drinking with Betty Strokum.”

Mr. Dake regarded her stonily.

“I can ask Mr. Heddison to keep your name from the public record—I cannot assure that he will do, but I can try. And—” she put a hand to her reticule suggestively. “You will be rewarded for your time, and for telling the truth.”

At last Mr. Dake untied his apron and tossed it onto the bar.

“You, Jackie!” he called to the boy who had been swatting flies. “Take the bar. And mind you get good coin while I’m gone, or I’ll tan your hide for you!”

N
ear dusk Miss Tolerance arrived at Cold Bath Fields Prison with a warrant for Anne d’Aubigny’s release. She had sent a note to Mr. Colcannon and had expected to find him waiting there, but he had not arrived yet, and Miss Tolerance was too impatient to see her client released to wait. She was taken into the warden’s office; he was delighted to arrange for Madame d’Aubigny’s freedom—when Miss Tolerance recalled that her client had paid a week’s extortionate garnish for the amenities of bed and board she enjoyed, but was being released after only four days, she understood his enthusiasm. And there were the exit fees to be collected as well. The warden held the warrant up to the lamp and squinted at it for several minutes, assuring himself of its validity. At last he bowed to Miss Tolerance and called for someone to take her down to Madame d’Aubigny’s cell.

A warder, a fat, wheezing fellow, had been called away from his dinner and did not share the warden’s enthusiasm for Mrs. d’Aubigny’s release. He led Miss Tolerance through the odorous hallways, breathing heavily and muttering under his breath. When they reached the cell Miss Tolerance slipped some coins into the man’s hand, which somewhat improved his mood. With a flourish of keys he opened the door and let it swing wide. He grinned, bowed, and stepped back to let Miss Tolerance enter first.

The widow, sitting in near-dark, looked up anxiously as the door opened. It appeared to take her a moment to recognize her visitor. Then she rose to her feet and extended a hand in supplication.

“Miss Tolerance, have you any new word for me?”

“The best in the world, ma’am,” Miss Tolerance said. She smiled broadly. “You are released.”

“Now, missus, if you’ll just let me unlock your fetters?” The gaoler got laboriously to his knees. “That’s right, ankles first.
Good. Now them bracelets? Fine.“Wheezing a little more, he got back to his feet.”Shall I send a boy in to carry out your trunk? Thank you, ma’am.“He left at a brisk waddle, jiggling the coins Miss Tolerance had given him with one hand and his set of keys with the other.

Anne d’Aubigny looked around her uncomprehendingly.

“We should pack your things,” Miss Tolerance suggested gently. “I would not trust anyone here to do it.”

“Oh. No. Of course.” Madame d’Aubigny did not move. “Free? Where are they taking me?”

“I am taking you home. Back to Half Moon Street. The evidence against you is exploded, ma’am. Even Mr. Heddison’s suspicious nature could not stand against our witnesses.”

“Then they have found someone else? Someone who killed Etienne?”

“Not yet. I don’t think his investigation has gone that far.” Miss Tolerance had begun to gather up the widow’s personal items from around the room and pack them into the trunk. “I suspect Mr. Beauville, and have made Mr. Heddison a present of some suspicious information regarding that gentleman. But my first aim has been to secure your release. Now I shall have time to dig more deeply into the fellow’s life.”

“But—Josette can surely tell you—Mrs. Vose, that is—”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. The widow, of course, would not have heard this news. “I am very sorry. I know you had some regard for her. Mrs. Vose is dead.”

Madam d’Aubigny sank back on the chair by the window.

“I am sorry,” Miss Tolerance said again. “But—here is the boy for your box.” Miss Tolerance cast a quick eye around the cell for any stray belonging, but nothing remained. She paid the boy to take the box to the prison gate and guard it until she could find a hackney carriage to take them back to Half Moon Street. Then, her sympathy mingled with impatience, she drew Anne d’Aubigny to her feet and helped her into her coat, arranging the fur collar around her chin. The widow allowed herself to be led like a child through the halls and down to the prison gate, where they found William Colcannon and the warden himself, who had come out to
shake her hand and congratulate her on her release. The warden’s cheer had doubtless been increased by the fact that Colcannon had paid the exit fees while waiting for his sister.

“I shan’t ask you to come and visit us again,” he said cheerfully. “There’s many that do, but I don’t suppose one like you will! Well, Godspeed, madam!”

Eighteen

T
he ride back to Half Moon Street was a mixed triumph. Miss Tolerance, full of pardonable pleasure at her victory, had imagined her companions would join in her enjoyment. Mr. Colcannon did; he was almost puppyishly delighted by his sister’s release. But Anne d’Aubigny was as subdued as one who has sustained a final, finishing blow. Perhaps, Miss Tolerance thought, her look of sad bewilderment was owing to the shock of sudden release following hard upon the stress of incarceration and, before that, of her husband’s ugly death. The cramped quarters of the carriage prevented Miss Tolerance from taking Mr. Colcannon aside to suggest he temper his joy until his sister had more stomach for it. He, finding his expressions of pleasure met with silence, gradually slipped into sullen quiet.

The carriage had reached Picadilly when the widow spoke. “Do you think it was Josette?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did
Josette
kill my husband?”

“I do not think so,” Miss Tolerance said. “You did not use to think so either. Has something changed?”

The widow shrugged. “She is dead. That would be an end to it. I should so much like there to be an end to all of this.”

“I understand.” Miss Tolerance reached out to pat Mrs. d’Aubigny’s slight hand. “But a false solution is really no solution at all. I think I must look a little closer at Mr. Beauville—”

“But he was Etienne’s friend! And Josette, she endured all of Etienne’s—” her glance flicked to her brother, who was looking out the window sulkily. “His habits. Perhaps she could not tolerate any more. She called upon him only a day or so before he died, you know. Perhaps—”

“Mrs. Vose was paid to endure, as you put it. When your husband no longer could pay her, she ceased to visit. But that is a curious thing …”

“What is?” In her widow’s black Mrs. d’Aubigny, slumped into the seat opposite Miss Tolerance, was almost invisible.

“Mrs. Vose admitted calling in Half Moon Street the night of the murder, but denied making a visit on the day before.”

“But she would deny it if she had murdered him, would she not?”

“A visit at a time unconnected to the death? I can think of no reason for it. This visitor: are you certain it was Mrs. Vose, ma’am?”

Madame d’Aubigny shook her head. “I heard someone below, and Sophia told me Mrs. Vose had called for my husband.”

“So you did not see her yourself?”

“No.” Her face lit with inspiration for a brief moment. “I know it was her, for she was wearing a cloak of mine I’d given her, brown wool banded with black sable.”

“I see.” Miss Tolerance felt a moment of annoyance; each time she thought she had the end of the question in sight, some new obstacle loomed up. Mrs. Vose’s call upon the chevalier might have nothing to do with anything—except that the woman had denied it.

“I am so tired, I cannot bear much more of this,” Anne d’Aubigny said tearfully.

Mr. Colcannon, called out of his sulks by his sister’s obvious distress, turned to comfort her, clucking as comfortingly as a nursery maid. Miss Tolerance turned away to look out the window.

M
iss Tolerance only stayed a few minutes in Half Moon Street. Mrs. d’Aubigny, greeted with subdued acclaim by her staff, was bustled off to her salon with Mr. Colcannon following after. Miss Tolerance stopped Sophia Thissen for a brief word; the maid confirmed that she had told her mistress that Mrs. Vose had called upon the master—because she had recognized Madam’s cloak, and because Jacks had said so. When she had given this information Sophia bustled off to minister to her mistress; Miss Tolerance suspected there would be a struggle for dominance between Sophia and Mr. Colcannon, and would have laid her money on Sophia.

When she turned to leave it was Jacks himself who stood ready to open the door.

“Mr. Jacks, I understand that a woman called upon your late master a few days before his death?”

The footman stood with a gloved hand upon the door latch. “A woman? Yes, miss, I recollect it.”

“And you are certain it was Mrs. Vose?”

Jacks frowned. “Certain, miss? How should I be certain? That was the name she give me.”

“I could give the name Queen Charlotte at your door, Jacks, and you would not believe it.” Miss Tolerance smiled to take the sting from her words.

“No, miss, of course not. Mrs. Vose had a veil wrapped round her bonnet, so I didn’t see her face, but I recognized the cloak—”

“The cloak. I see.” Miss Tolerance had begun to hate this inoffensive piece of clothing.

“To tell the truth, miss—” Jacks looked over Miss Tolerance’s shoulder as if to see if Beak were in earshot. “I didn’t inquire too deep when Master had female visitors. But how shouldn’t it be that Mrs. Vose? That was the name she give, and master didn’t scold me for giving the wrong name. ’E would have done, you know. He never kept back ringing a peal over your head.”

Miss Tolerance nodded. “Did you mention this visitor to Mr. Heddison and his constables?”

Jacks shook his head. “I didn’t think to, miss. Nor ’e didn’t ask.”

Miss Tolerance thanked him and descended into the evening street.

I
n Manchester Square Miss Tolerance begged a cup of soup from the kitchen before she retired to her room. A lavish supper was generally laid out in one of the parlors later in the evening, but she had no particular desire to mix with Mrs. Brereton’s customers. After dining with cordial informality in the kitchen, watching Cook put the final touches on an elaborate tower of French pastries, Miss Tolerance took the back stairway upstairs, balancing the inevitable teapot, a taper, and a tray of little cakes, and settled in to darn stockings. She found this homely activity remarkably useful for focusing the mind.

After the stockings, Miss Tolerance took up her other mending, and was occupied for nearly an hour. As she repaired a tear in the lining of her Gunnard coat, tucking the raw edge under and whipping a row of tiny stitches to finish the edge, an idea began to stir in her. Finished, she hung up the coat, put away her workbag, and took down from the wardrobe the box she had removed from the d’Aubigny house. The box’s contents still gave her a frisson of distaste, and she thought perhaps she had not looked as closely at it on her first inspection as she might have done. Now she sat on the bed next to the box on her knees, took her candle in one hand and examined the exterior of the box closely, running her fingers along its carved surface, seeking anything like a catch or secret drawer. A quarter hour of diligent inspection produced nothing.

Miss Tolerance poured herself another cup of tea, then opened the box. The contents she removed one by one, with close inspection. With each handling the flail and bonds and other paraphernalia grew more repugnant—perhaps, she reflected, because with each handling she imagined a little more about their use. With the contents in a pile beside her, she pressed against the inside and outside of the box’s floor, but there seemed no room for a drawer or false bottom. The red silk lining was worn and spotted, as she had previously noted. She tested the join between lining
and wood along the top with one fingernail, but found no separation.

However, the fabric on one side wall rustled when she pressed it. Had it done so the last time she looked at it? Why had she not looked further? Because the fabric was old, because she had been looking for a
device,
something crafted as a hiding place. Miss Tolerance pressed again; it seemed there was something between the lining and the box’s wall, but the upper edge was firmly glued in place and showed no sign of recent tampering. The bottom edge disappeared into the join with the padded lining on the bottom. Carefully Miss Tolerance probed at the velvet, running her fingernail along the bottom edge of the inside wall. The fabric wrinkled slightly. She pried more urgently and a loose thread appeared. With a little more pressure several threads—the edge of the velvet—pulled out from the corner where they had been tucked. Excited, Miss Tolerance made herself work carefully: the space was only a few inches long and very narrow; in order to find and extract the paper which was hidden underneath she had to go slowly.

Before she opened the paper Miss Tolerance reminded herself that the box was old, and that what she had found might well be a love letter from another generation.

There were two papers, flimsy and creased but unyellowed. Miss Tolerance unfolded the first of them and laid it flat; she put the box to one side and surveyed her find with mounting excitement. The note was written in French.

B—

You are right. Public opinion will not suffice to control Pr. E. He is not much loved, but there is a difference between lack of love and his utter discredit. Tell S that if he cannot provide some way to embarrass his master, he will force me to move against his family in Corsica—that should provide ample motivation. If S can give us nothing useful, we may have to take the more drastic course. R wishes it done soon, before more support for W can be rallied. A day or two will decide it.

What was she to make of that? Who were B and C? Pr. E? S and R? She took up the second sheet. It was written in a different hand, and in English. This was dated the twentieth of October, only a fortnight before d’Aubigny’s death.

CVT—

I have hit upon another plan to deal with Pr. E as you would like, but I shall have to rely upon you to bring him to the point. You may tell him you have several women who might be suitable to his taste, if only you can get him here. If he complains of the company, tell him to stop his nose and come anyway. I believe I can persuade I to break with hers—he has been entirely uncooperative in providing information, so is small loss to us—and she would be the very thing for our purpose. When she has Pr. E in her toils we can manage the affair to your pleasure.

It was signed B.

Miss Tolerance stared at the letter for a few minutes, then laid the two pieces of paper out before her. Here was high treason, spread across her counterpane. Certainly it would have made excellent leverage for blackmail. And quite certainly it was an excellent motive for murder.

The hour was late, but Miss Tolerance took up pen and paper, wrote a short note to Mr. Heddison, and folded the two papers into it. This packet she entrusted to Cole for immediate dispatch to the Great Marlborough Street Public Office. Then she dressed and asked Keefe to call a carriage to take her to Audley Street.

The windows of Camille Touvois’ rooms were lit to a dull glow in the dark of the quiet street. Miss Tolerance paid the carriage driver and stepped up to the door. She could not be certain what she would find upstairs—although from the quality of the light above it appeared that Madame Touvois was not entertaining tonight. Miss Tolerance had dressed for a confrontation, in breeches, boots and coat, with her sword in its hanger on her left hip. She entered the building and climbed up to La Touvois’ rooms on the second floor. No one answered her knock. Miss Tolerance knocked again and listened for the approach of a servant.
After a moment she realized that there was no sound at all; not of maid or footman coming to the door, not of voices in conversation. She pushed on the door. It was unlocked and unlatched, and swung halfway open. Miss Tolerance, considerably piqued, entered, on her guard.

The rooms were empty. As she had noted from the street, candles were lit in each room; they were not more than an hour burnt down. Miss Tolerance advanced through the first and second rooms and came at last to Madame Touvois’ bedchamber. There was no one there. Most of the furnishings were in place—tables and chairs, rugs dotting the polished floors—but the personal belongings were gone. The wardrobe doors hung open with nothing inside. Across the back of a chair a brown cloak was draped; there was no other sign of an occupant.

Madame Touvois had run, and very recently, but left the rooms with candles burning, to give the impression that she was still in residence. Silently damning her luck, Miss Tolerance continued to prowl through the rooms, looking for a clue to where the woman might have gone. Her servants might know, but by the time Miss Tolerance found them, Camille Touvois was likely to have disappeared beyond recovery.

From one of the outer rooms there was a noise. Miss Tolerance turned, hand on the hilt of her sword, as a masculine voice called out.

“Camille! Devil take it, where are you?”

Miss Tolerance stepped into the front room, hand still on her sword hilt, and bowed ironically to Henri Beauville.

“A very good question, sir. I don’t suppose you know the answer?”

In the silence of the moment, several emotions appeared to pass over Beauville’s face: surprise, apprehension, and, at last, amusement. His blue coat was spotted with rain; his sugarloaf hat he carried in the crook of his arm. He spoke to her, but his gaze went from one side to the other.

“It appears, mademoiselle, that she has left us both.”

“Indeed it does, sir. May I ask what brings you here?”

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