A Mystery at Carlton House Page 23

  He laughed again, a loud, hearty sound, and sent me out the door.

  * * *

  My appointment to meet Grenville and Brewster was in one hour’s time—I knew I’d never ride to Curzon Street, state my request to Denis to warn off Dunmarron, and make it back before the meeting. I settled for walking to Grimpen Lane, letting myself in the door Brewster had somehow locked—he had no key, so Mrs. Beltan must have obliged—and sat down to write a letter.

  In the missive I outlined my disgust at Dunmarron and asked whether the fear of God could be put into him, or at least whether he might be persuaded to retire to his country house and leave Marianne and Grenville alone. I explained what he had done to Marianne and his threats to Grenville, and how he’d sent his ruffians to abduct Marianne after stalking her like prey.

  My anger grew as I wrote but at the end I laid down my pen and threaded my fingers through my hair, leaning my elbows on the desk.

  If I sent this missive to Denis, providing he did not simply ignore it, there was no telling what he might do. I was asking Denis to terrify a peer of the realm to satisfy my outrage and gain rough justice for Marianne. There was nothing to say Denis wouldn’t simply have the man killed. Denis might also keep this letter as a safeguard in case he or his thugs were caught, to show my hand in the matter. If Spendlove needed evidence of my collusion with Denis, it was in this letter.

  I sighed, crumpled the paper, poked up the fire Brewster must have built in my absence, and thrust the letter into the flames. I wish I could say I did this because my conscience would not let me bring about the death of or assault on another human being, but I more worried about the consequences to my family. I would simply speak to Denis directly.

  My next letter was much shorter, asking Denis leave to call on him. Then I began a third letter, addressed to Sir Gideon Derwent. In it I again outlined what had happened to Marianne and laid the crime at Dunmarron’s door.

  Sir Gideon was a reformer and a genuinely kindhearted gentleman who had the respect of the most powerful people in Britain. His disapprobation could greatly shame a man, duke or no, to the point of ruin, all without a single blow struck.

  I went downstairs to ask Mrs. Beltan to send out my post with hers, and by that time, Grenville had arrived, Brewster with him. The two descended at the end of Grimpen Lane, the road not wide enough to admit a coach, and made their way toward me, both speaking as soon as they reached me.

  “I couldn’t lay hands on him, guv,” Brewster said, but Grenville’s voice broke through his. “You found Marianne? Where is she? What happened?”

  Brewster interrupted Grenville firmly. “Sorry, guv. This won’t wait. I couldn’t find Billy, Captain, though I hunted high and low. But I have a message to ye from Poppy. She wants to see yer. Now, she says.”

  Chapter 21

  Grenville’s coachman drove us across the river to meet with Poppy. On the way, I told Grenville exactly what Marianne had told me about Dunmarron.

  “He will meet me,” Grenville said immediately. “Be my second, won’t you?”

  “Of course,” I answered without hesitation. “But I have put other irons in the fire as well, so perhaps Dunmarron will turn tail and flee.”

  Grenville scowled when I did not elaborate, and fell silent. If neither Sir Gideon nor Denis could help, however, I would not dissuade Grenville from calling out Dunmarron for what he’d done to Marianne. Grenville was a dead shot, so I did not worry about his survival. In my opinion, he had the right to fight for his honor and hers, even if the law technically disagreed.

  We did not return to the Ox’s Head to meet Poppy, somewhat to my relief. Brewster instead guided us through Southwark to a pawnbrokers, which held a desultory jumble of items from old keys to worn stools to brass boxes to old books. I glanced at the books out of habit—one never knew where one would find a treasure.

  No one was in the pawnbrokers, not even a proprietor, and Brewster led us through the shop to the back room, which was empty of all but a table and a few chairs.

  Poppy sat at the table and a large man, not unlike those employed by Denis, lounged by the window. She again was making notes, this time on a large sheaf of paper, and didn’t look up until she was finished scratching. I wondered whether she and Denis had met in person and if she’d learned the trick of making her visitor await her attention from him.

  At last, Poppy laid down her pen, turned the papers over so we could not see what was on them, and rested her elbows on the desk. She folded her hands, again in beaded black gloves, different ones this time.

  “Yes, gentlemen?” she asked.

  Brewster cleared his throat. “You asked to see us, love.”

  Poppy furrowed her brow, and then pretended to look enlightened. “So I did.” Her gaze moved past Brewster and me to Grenville who stood a pace behind my right shoulder. A smile spread across her face. “Now, you’re a handsome gent. Step up and let me have a look at you.”

  Grenville raised his brows and did not move. Brewster coughed. “This here’s Mr. Grenville, Poppy. He’s not one for taking orders.”

  “I know who he is.” Poppy ran a slow gaze from the top of Grenville’s head to the tips of his boots. “I must say you’d brighten up any lass’s day. I have a cartoon of you, you know, Mr. Grenville. Done a few years ago, a very nice drawing of your legs all the way down to your ankles.” She craned over the table to take in the legs in question.

  Grenville flushed a berry red. “Good Lord.”

  Poppy chuckled, the warmest sound I’d heard from her. “You can’t blame a woman for admiring you, love. If you don’t want me ogling, you should shave off your hair, rub your face in mud, and wear sackcloth.” She cocked her head. “Might not work even then, though. Now then, gents, Tommy tells me you’re looking for Billy.”

  “We are indeed,” I said before Brewster could reply. “I am growing worried about him.”

  “He’s tough, is old Billy. I haven’t heard a word from him for days, so I can’t help you with that.” Poppy finished another once-over of Grenville and leaned toward us, her eyes growing cool. “But you came to me before, asking about a certain house, and things that had gone missing from it.”

  I gave her a nod. “And we believe Billy might have been making copies of these things.”

  Poppy’s face did not change. “I heard word of an auction at the end of the week. Two days hence. If any of the items are to turn up, I wager they’ll turn up there.”

  Grenville started. “An auction? Not at a reputable establishment, surely.”

  “’Course not.” Poppy’s gaze pinned him again, she making no secret that she liked looking at him. “It’s private, only for those who know of it. But no one would stop you from going, Mr. Grenville. The world knows your passion for art.” She emphasized the word passion, and Grenville’s face went redder.

  “Where is it?” I asked impatiently.

  “Surrey.” Poppy turned unblinking eyes to me. “A house near Epsom. Grand place but no one lives there. Built by a nabob who went to die at his sister’s in Berkshire years ago but hasn’t quite managed to yet. He hires it out to those who want it, and this Saturday, whoever hired it is having an auction. You might want to run out and have a look.”

  Interesting. Poppy gave the information in a neutral tone but her expression indicated she knew bloody well the stolen items would be there.

  “Why tell us?” I asked. If Poppy was in on the thefts, why help us find the loot? Or perhaps the thief was a rival, she happy to expose him.

  Poppy contrived to look amazed. “Well, I ain’t telling ya for free, am I? That information will cost you ten quid. Which you will pay me now.”

  “Ten!” Grenville exclaimed. “That’s a princely sum.”

  “Well, it’s a princely take, ain’t it? Don’t think about turning around and rushing out of here without paying. I am not alone, and I have plenty what will bring you back to me.” Her face creased with a smile that was rather gruesome to see. “Although,
if you want to stay with me, Mr. Grenville, and make it up to me, I’d take that.”

  “Ah.” Grenville slid his hand into his coat and pulled out his purse. He opened it and glanced inside then shrugged and set the entire thing in front of Poppy. “No offense to you, dear lady, but we are in a great hurry. Ten pounds will have to do.”

  “Pity.” Poppy made no move to take the money. “Good luck to you, gents. Now, I’m in a bit of a rush, so off you go.”

  I didn’t move. “You seem to be very well informed, madam.”

  Poppy flicked eyes to me that were hard and cold. “Nothing happens in London, that I don’t hear about it. I decided that interesting bit would be worth ten quid to you, so I sent Tommy to bring you back. You run off to Surrey and find your treasures. They’ll be there.”

  “You are also confident,” I said. “How do you know we won’t bring Bow Street to the auction with us?”

  Poppy regarded me steadily. “That’s your affair. I am only passing on what I’ve heard. Do not ask me who stole the bloody things in the first place, because I do not know.”

  She looked frustrated enough that I believed her. I held the rest of my comments in check, aided by the scowl Brewster was sending me, bowed, and thanked her.

  As we left the room, I heard the clink of coins as Poppy drew her riches to her. She had read us well, and reaped her reward.

  * * *

  On our way out, I glanced at the books in the pawnbrokers again, and spied a battered pocket copy of Plutarch’s Lives. I left a shilling on top of the pile of books, took the small tome, and departed with Brewster, who was frowning with impatience.

  Before we set off for the nearest bridge, I asked if Jackson, Grenville’s coachman, wouldn’t mind taking us to Southwark and the marché ouvert. Once we arrived, I wandered the aisles until I spied the woman with wiry hair from whom I’d bought the statue of Theseus and Antiope.

  “Evening, gents,” she said as we paused in the cold, darkening air. She obviously remembered me but gave me no greeting. “See anything else you fancy?”

  I cast my eyes along the jumble on her table but saw very little of value—broken watches, tarnished silver chains, cheap necklaces, books half gone. “I wondered where you obtained the statue I bought.”

  I posed the question mildly, but the woman’s eyes widened in alarm. Brewster stepped beside the stall to block her only way out, and Grenville took a stance square in front of it, in case the vendor decided to leap over her table and flee.

  “You’re in no trouble,” I said quickly. “I am only curious. Whatever you tell us will remain our secret.”

  “There was nothing wrong in it,” the woman babbled, jamming her hands in worn gloves together. “They do this sort of thing all the time.”

  “What sort of thing?” Grenville asked in a kinder voice. He reached into a pocket and produced a silver crown—I suppose he kept several purses about his person. He dropped the crown on the flat surface of one of the broken books.

  The woman shrugged and snatched up the coin. “Gentry cove sold I to me, saying he didn’t want much for it. Thought I’d flog it. Why not?”

  “What gentry cove?” Grenville asked. “Did you know him?”

  The woman shook her head. “Naw, what do I have to do wiv them? He comes to me, says he has this statue he wants to sell, would I give him a coin for it? I do, and sells it to you a day or two later.” She nodded at me. “Gents do that sometimes. Grow tired of a thing and want rid of it. No questions. Or it belongs to their wives and they’ve quarreled with her. Eh?” She grinned at me, showing broken teeth.

  “I suppose it happens,” Grenville said. “Can you describe this gent?”

  Another shrug. “They’re all the same to me, ain’t they? Looked like you.” She waved a hand at Grenville, fingertips sticking out of holes in her gloves red with cold. “Muffled up to the ears with linen and collar, chest stuck out like a pigeon. You look better than most.” Another wave at Grenville. “Gent like that shouldn’t stay long ’round here.” She gave Grenville a pointed look.

  “Thank you,” Grenville said. He handed over another half crown. “We are much obliged. Had you seen him before?”

  “Never,” the woman said. “And I never did again. Now then, madam, some nice joolry over here. Won’t cost ya much, love.” She turned to a middle-aged woman with a basket who’d paused to examine some of the chains. We weren’t purchasing, and so the woman was finished with us.

  “She describes half the dandies in London,” Grenville said in a pained voice as we made our way out of the market.

  “But a gentleman,” I said, my heart beating faster. “Not a servant or a laborer or a tough. I have to wonder where this gentleman obtained the statue.”

  Brewster shrugged. “Could have bought it from the thief or the forger. Realized it was a fake, tossed it to the market stall to have a few coins back and be done.”

  Grenville said, “I’d think a gentleman who’d paid hundreds of pounds, if not thousands, for that statue would be incensed when he found it was a copy. I think he’d find the man who sold it to him and try to bash his head in.” Grenville halted, his walking stick hitting the pavement, and he gaped at us. “Good Lord, you don’t think this gentleman killed Mr. Higgs, do you? And Higgs sold him the copy?”

  “No,” I said slowly. A soft rain was beginning to fall, and people shoved past us, hurrying to be out of it. “I do believe Higgs was aiding those who were stealing the artwork in getting it out of Carlton House and the copies back in. I don’t believe the second statue was meant to be put on a market stall for me—or anyone else—to find. That was a mistake. One, I think, that led to Higgs’s death.”

  Grenville watched me, his curiosity alight. “Do you know who did it then?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. But I believe I can piece together what happened.” I sighed, pulled my greatcoat closer against the rain, and walked on. “We need to find Billy. Quickly, I fear. And make ready for a journey to Epsom on Saturday.”

  * * *

  Try as Brewster might, he could find no sign of Billy Boxall. I had confessed to Poppy I was worried about him, and my worry escalated as the week went on. I feared that when we finally found him, he’d be dead.

  I discussed my theories with Donata and Grenville. I conjectured that the thieves who’d robbed Carlton House passed Billy the originals, which he would copy. The thieves would then retrieve the copy from Billy and return it to the house, leaving it in a different place so the things would be thought of as mislaid instead of stolen, as I’d concluded before.

  The thieves took only one piece at a time, because Billy would need days to produce a skilled copy. Higgs aided the process by knowing which items were safe to take and how to keep the house’s servants from speculating about the piece’s absence.

  Perhaps Billy had decided he might as well make more than one copy of the Theseus statue and had given both copies to the thieves, saying one was for replacing in Carlton House and one was the original. Likely the thieves couldn’t tell the difference. Then Billy had turned around and tried to sell the original himself.

  The thieves must have found out that the statue Billy claimed was the real one was a copy, and they’d rid themselves of it in a haphazard way before two wealthy buyers both believed they had the original and started to make a stink. Perhaps they’d then gone after Billy, and Billy was either hiding from them, or they’d found him, and Billy was dead, as I feared.

  Or, perhaps the gentleman who’d bought the copy from the thieves, believing it the original, had tossed it to the market in a fit of temper when he’d discovered it was fake. That gentleman couldn’t go to the bailiffs or a magistrate, because he would have knowingly tried to purchase stolen goods. A nice scheme, if true.

  Billy would know, and he had to be found.

  Meanwhile, I would go to Surrey on Poppy’s hint and see what I could discover. Grenville would accompany me, and Donata, upon hearing the tale, insisted she go as well.
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  I hardly wanted Donata near a secret auction of stolen items in an empty house, but I also knew that if I left her behind, nothing would stop her from following. If she went with me, at least I could keep an eye on her.

  I remained home for the few days before the auction, going about my usual routine—riding in the morning and again with Peter in the afternoons, visiting with Anne, reading to Peter when he went to bed, taking meals with Donata when she was at home.

  I scoured my post for a reply from Denis to my request to meet with him, but none came. I resolved to finish the business in Surrey and then go to him unannounced.

  Marianne remained safely with Freddy, and Grenville commenced his own routine, which involved being seen as much as possible out at night, dressed in his finest, Mrs. Froehm or Donata at his side. He’d promised me he’d avoid Dunmarron for now, until I spoke to Denis about him. I worried what Dunmarron would do to Grenville if they met—he’d set up Marianne’s abduction well. What was to say he would not plan something equally villainous for Grenville? Dunmarron remained reclusive, however, Grenville and Donata reported, not appearing at any gathering or the theatre, reportedly burying himself in his chambers at his club.

  Though Denis had not written, Sir Gideon Derwent had, expressing his distress at Dunmarron’s treatment of Marianne. He promised to have a word with those who would condemn his behavior. Perhaps that was why Dunmarron had retreated.

  The one sour note in the blissfully uneventful days before the auction was Spendlove tramping in while I was finishing my breakfast one morning, announcing with a snarl that Mr. Floyd had been released.

  “Bloody solicitors got the magistrate to reconsider his decision to go to trial. No evidence, they said.” Spendlove threw his gloves, which he’d been clenching in his hand, onto the table. “There’s no evidence, because you, Captain Lacey, haven’t brought me any.”

  “Because there is none to find,” I said coolly. I put aside my plate and rose, signaling Bartholomew, who’d followed Spendlove in, to withdraw. Bartholomew did not look happy, but he went.