The Sanctuary (A Spencer Novel) (19 page)

Chapter 35

Murder.

Anthony ushered the constable into the parlor, his heart pounding in his chest.

Philippe followed, closing the door behind them.

“Who?” Anthony managed past a tight throat.

“I’m afraid it’s one of your maids, my lord. A young woman by the name of Lucy.”

Anthony gripped the back of a chair and waited for the red haze to lift.

“What happened?” Philippe asked.

“Apparently, your maid walks to the village to visit her family on Wednesdays, her regular day off. She didn’t show so her brother went looking for her. He came across her body in the woods while on his way here to ask about her.” The constable took a deep breath. “Her hands were bound and she’d been beaten, raped, and strangled.”

“My God.” Anthony groaned, still clutching the chair for support.

“Was the body left untouched?” Philippe inquired.

“No, sir. Her brother carried her back to town. Couldn’t rightly leave her there.”

Philippe dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“There’s one more thing.” Constable Higgins fished around in his pocket. “She had this clutched in her hand.”

Anthony accepted the object and stared down at the button, his family crest emblazoned on the surface. “It’s from a footman’s uniform.” He marched to the door and swung it open. Hodges waited outside. “Summon all the footmen and have them line up in the entry hall. Now.”

“Right away, my lord.” Hodges spun on his heel. Within minutes, a row of anxious-looking men filled the foyer.

“Is this everyone?” Anthony asked.

“All but the two posted at the gatehouse, and the one at the bridge,” Hodges responded.

Anthony, Philippe, and Constable Higgins moved down the line, examining the livery of each man for a missing button. Word of Lucy’s murder had already spread throughout the mansion. Those gathered wore similar expressions of dismay, pain, and anger.

“Not one of them,” Constable Higgins pronounced.

“Hodges, have our horses brought around. Don Philippe and I will accompany Constable Higgins to the gatehouse and the bridge.” Anthony felt a hand on his arm and turned to face Clairece.

“I’ve just learned what happened. Would you like me to take a couple of footmen and go to Lucy’s family? Her mother is undoubtedly distraught, and could use some reassurance from us,” Clairece murmured.

Anthony covered her hand with his. “Take a carriage with two armed footmen on back and one up by the coachman.” He thought for a moment before adding, “Perhaps Mrs. Dobbins would accompany you. She may be of some help.”

“I’m certain she would. I’ll change and start for the village as soon as possible. I suppose someone can direct the driver?” Clairece glanced at Hodges.

“Yes, my lady. With your permission, two others have asked to ride post behind the Countess’ coach.”

Anthony looked to the men. “Thank you.” He took Clairece by the elbow and urged her toward the parlor. Once inside, he drew her into his arms. “I cannot say I like you’re going without me, but I’m thankful for your help.” He kissed her lips, warm and soft and so alive beneath his. “Please, take no chances.”

If the other three footmen’s uniforms contained all their buttons, and Anthony felt certain they would, it still left one unaccounted for; the livery taken from another of his people.

At the clang of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones outside, he stepped back from Clairece.

“Do what you must.” She squeezed his arm. “I will be well protected.”

Clairece walked with Anthony to the door, a warm presence at his side in an otherwise cold nightmare. After donning his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, he joined Philippe under the portico. With a last glance at his wife, he swung up on his horse and sent the large steed into a canter toward the gatehouse.

In a matter of minutes, all the buttons were accounted for. Anthony suspected they would find the same with the footman who stood guard at the bridge. The realization he might have led a killer into the area, lay heavily on his heart.

After inspecting the last sentry, they bid farewell to Constable Higgins and his men. Assured of their privacy, Anthony turned to Philippe. “I feel certain the button came from the stolen livery of my footman killed in London.”

“
Si
.”

Anthony glanced in the direction of the village where lights penetrated the heavy, winter darkness. “I’ve a sudden desire for a pint at The Fox and Hound. If anyone has knowledge regarding Lucy’s murder, it will be bandied about there. What say you?”

“I agree.”

Slumped in a dark booth at the Fox and Hound, Mort lifted his tankard and contemplated the situation. His third pint, and neither the ale nor the plump barmaid could dispel his overwhelming sense of dread. He might not be the smartest bloke, but he was street canny and knew he’d been made to look the culprit.

He knew men who liked to beat a woman while tuppin’ ‘em, but he wasn’t one. His tastes were simple. He liked his women willing, curvy, and friendly, a bird who knew what it was about. He’d take a Fleet-Street-dove who gave him a good poke for the coins agreed upon, any day. All straight and honest-like.

The toff Mort worked for was a strange ‘un. Peculiar, he was, with what he did to the birds. Not much went on in Seven Dials and St. Giles Mort didn’t know about, and he knew plenty. He knew about the room above the chandler’s shop his master rented, where, for enough money, no one questioned the strange goings on. If a dead whore was found with her wrists bound, no one asked questions.

It didn’t take Mort long to recognize when the bugger was through with whatever dollymop he’d chosen, they usually came up a floater. But this latest one, a young girl from the Nob’s house, she weren’t no lightskirt and shouldn’t have been left in the woods like so much garbage. Still, Mort might’ve turned a blind eye, but for the button found in the maid’s hand.

Determined to burn the uniform he still kept, Mort had returned to his room to find the livery tossed on the floor, the buttons torn from their fastenings. There’d be more killings.

Mort mopped the last of the gravy from his bowl with the remaining bread, and popped the crust in his mouth, washing it down with another huge swallow of his ale. He pushed the empty tankard away. The barmaid sidled over to refill the beaker, bending to give him a right good look at her titties. He shook his head. The buxom blond shrugged and swung away, rounded hips swaying as she moved on to the bloke at the next table.

‘Twas only a matter of time until Harding figured it out, and the finger of guilt would point in Mort’s direction.

The bell jingled over the door and Mort glanced up. As if conjured from his musings, the Earl strolled in, a wicked looking Spaniard at his side. Mort’s luck was running from bad, to worse, to soon dead, a state he’d like to postpone.

Mort withdrew the remaining blunt from his pocket, and raised a brow. The barmaid snatched the money and stashed it between her heavy breasts. He rose slowly. With his head dipped low, he tugged the wench to his side and strolled out the back door.

Anthony leaned back against the wooden bench and signaled for the innkeeper. Philippe slid in across from him.

“Two pints.” Anthony laid a cluster of coins on the table and fingered a sovereign.

“Right you are, my lord.” The man grinned and rushed off to fill the order himself.

Philippe glanced at the gold. “Is it your wish to fight our way out of here, or do you hope someone will come forward with information?”

“Either will work, but information would be best.” Anthony picked up the coins and let them slide through his fingers. At the unmistakable clink of currency on the scarred wooden table, heads swiveled in their direction. He raised his voice above the din. “I’m seeking information regarding the murder of Lucy Doyle, and will pay handsomely for knowledge leading to the person responsible.”

After a few moments, a man with a patch over one eye separated from a group of men, and ambled to their table. “May we offer you a drink?” Anthony asked.

“Mayhap. All depends on wot yer wants fer it, now don’t it?”

“The drink is yours, in any case.” Anthony signaled the innkeeper. “I am Lord Harding, and my friend is
Don
Philippe Montenegro.”

“I knows who yer be, same as everyone else.” The man pulled a chair to the end of the table. “I goes by Jack, One-eyed Jack.” He gave a toothless smile and sat.

“Well, Jack, you must also know Lucy worked for me. I consider those who do so under my protection, and their safety my responsibility.”

“What happened to the gel ain’t right. Most figured she took up with some bloke, ‘til her brother found her. Bad doin’s, innit?”

“Yes, it is.” Anthony fingered the gold and the man’s attention shifted to the coins. “She was seeing a man?”

“Been a toff sniffin’ ‘round her skirts, right fancy he were, too. Near as we all knowed, she weren’t havin’ none o’ him.”

“What did he look like?” Philippe asked quietly.

Jack shot a glance at the Spaniard and visibly swallowed. “Not so tall as you gents, rather ordinary, if ya know what I mean. Mostly stayed ta himself.” Jack rubbed the bristles on his chin.

Anthony set his finger on a sovereign and pushed it across the table toward Jack. “Mostly?”

Jack licked his lips. “Sat over in the corner, he did, talkin’ quiet-like ta some big blighter.”

“Did you see either of their faces?” Anthony asked, releasing the coin.

“Naw. Not smart ter mess in another bloke’s dealin’s, now innit? ‘Sides, he wore a hat pulled down on his face. Kept his head tucked low.”

Anthony slid another coin toward Jack. “Tell us about the other man.”

“Been in here a few times, he has. Don’t say much, just takes a meal and drinks his ale.”

Anthony released the coin. “Anything unusual about him?” He laid his finger on another sovereign.

Jack stared at the coin. “Had a scar on his cheek. Ain’t unheard of for the likes ‘o him.”

Anthony felt the muscles tighten in his own face. He waited, tapping the coin.

“Weren’t from around here. From London, east side’d be my guess.”

Anthony slid the gold disk toward Jack and released it. “Do you know where he stays?”

Jack’s expression turned guarded. He swilled his pint and thumped the empty tankard down on the marred table. His gaze flicked from Anthony to Philippe to the pile of gold left on the table. As if deciding against saying anything else, he started to rise.

Philippe shifted and the man jumped. “Why do I feel you might,
señor
?”

“Wot’s ter say I won’t end up with my throat cut if’n I tells?” Jack fingered his eye patch.

“All the more reason to help us find him,” Anthony added quietly.

Jack looked quickly around the room. “Check the lodgin’ over the cobbler’s shop. Ain’t sayin’ nuttin’ more.”

Anthony shoved two more sovereigns toward Jack. The old man swept up the gold pieces and rushed for the door, disappearing outside.

Anthony turned to Philippe. “Without a doubt, it’s the two men who followed us here. Which one is responsible for Lucy’s death, I couldn’t say, but something tells me it’s our elusive man behind the scenes.”

“And the button?”

Anthony frowned. “I suppose our scar-faced brute could have lured Lucy into the woods wearing the livery, especially if she thought he was sent to walk her back to the mansion. But if so, what part does the other man play in all this? Something doesn’t ring true.”

Philippe rose and placed his flat-brimmed hat on his head. “The lodging should not be hard to find.”

Anthony retrieved the remaining stack of sovereigns and dropped one on the table.

The innkeeper rushed over, nearly toppling another customer in his haste. “Anything else I can get you gentlemen?”

“The directions to the cobbler’s shop,” Anthony stated calmly.

The smile on the innkeeper’s face vanished. “Up the street and down an alley. There’s a sign over the door.”

“Thank you.” Anthony flipped a coin in the air. The other man’s hand shot out and the coin vanished.

Anthony and Philippe took the stairs two at a time, their boots making little sound on the wooden boards. Philippe nodded to Anthony and kicked the door open, pistol in hand. Anthony, likewise armed, followed.

A lamp burned on a table near a lone window, the tattered curtain fluttering in the breeze. Philippe slid his firearm into its holster and glanced around while Anthony moved farther into the box-like quarters.

A plate with congealing gravy and an empty mug littered the tabletop. An overturned chair lay a few feet away. A bed, its soiled sheets jerked from the lumpy mattress, rested against another wall. Drawers hung open in a small chest, dingy hose draped over an edge.

Philippe moved to the cast-iron stove in the corner and lifted the lid with a fork from the table. “We have our missing uniform, or what is left of it.”