Black Gold (31 page)

“Look for a dark red bonnet,” Anne told Paul, as she began to edge into the crowd. “It's what she usually wears here.” They detected several such bonnets, but Anne narrowed the search down to one young woman in a matching red dress. Harriet stood alone in the south aisle, half-hidden by a thick pillar. Anne and Paul chose places at a short distance behind her.

During the service, Anne found herself paying more attention to her friend than to the reading from Holy Scripture, the chanting of psalms, and the sermon. Harriet gave no indication of her state of mind until the service ended. While the congregation filed out of the church, she remained in her place. After a few minutes, she stiffened, then suddenly sank down on a nearby bench, face buried in her hands, shoulders heaving.

Anne glanced at Paul. He nodded toward Harriet. She went to her friend's side and put an arm around her shoulders, but said nothing until the sobbing ceased and Harriet sat up.

“Shall we walk in Orange Grove?” Anne asked.

Harriet agreed quietly.

Paul withdrew, saying he would visit Mr. Burton at the York Inn. The two women left the church and walked toward the grove. The sun had reached its zenith in a clear blue sky. The temperature was mild. Hyacinths, daffodils and other spring flowers bloomed in profusion. Everyone who could walk, it seemed, had come out to enjoy the day, crowding Orange Grove and presumably all the other gardens and parks of the city.

“We could have gone to my apartment,” said Harriet. “But I'm afraid Harry might come at any time.”

“I know where we can be undisturbed.” Anne led Harriet into John Street to the rear entrance of Madame Gagnon's shop. She glanced left and right to ensure they had not been followed, then unlocked the door.

Harriet appeared surprised.

“The milliner is an acquaintance. We had a mutual interest in Jack Roach,” Anne offered. “She lent me a key to her shop.” In the back room, Anne brewed tea while Harriet filled a tray with shortbread she found in a cupboard. When they had sipped some tea, Anne asked her friend why Sir Harry felt free to call on her without notice.

“During the last few days he has sensed that I'm pulling away from him. That aggravates him and makes him push me all the harder.”

“Push you?” asked Anne. “How?”

Harriet hesitated, began biting on her lip. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Lately, he seizes every opportunity to touch me—decently, mind you. Though he never asks, I know he wants me in his bed. I've been holding him off. Last night at the concert, I reached the end of my rope. The way he stared at me on stage! As if I belonged to him, like Jeff! After the concert, in the vestibule…” She stammered for a moment with embarrassment. “But Georges must have told you what happened.”

“Some of it,” Anne admitted. “But I'd like to hear it from you.”

“I was shocked. Harry was eager to duel Captain Fitzroy right there in front of everybody.” She lowered her eyes, as if ashamed.

“Please go on,” Anne said gently.

Harriet looked up hesitantly. “Afterwards, when he had driven me home, he wanted to come to my apartment. I could see in his face what he wanted—he was panting! I said, no, I was too tired and upset. I couldn't bring myself to say outright, no, meaning never. He became jealous and suspicious. He claimed I wasn't paying him the attention I should after all he had done for me. ‘Have you been seeing another man?' he asked. ‘You had better not.' Then he shook his walking stick at me and left.”

She stared at Anne in despair, trembling, unable to speak.

“Take your time, Harriet,” said Anne, holding her hands. “You'll be all right.”

After a few minutes, still trembling, Harriet continued, “I'm afraid of Harry. I don't know what to do. I can't go on like this.”

Anne stroked her friend's hands. “There's hope. You have time to make plans. Even if Sir Harry gets the document he needs, he must still go through Parliament before he'll be free to marry again. That could take several months. In the meantime, keep him at a safe distance. Remind him that you come from a religious family. When the season ends in a few weeks, return with me to London. With your beauty, talent, and experience, you will easily find work to do.”

Harriet stood up to leave, a wan smile on her face. “You're a dear friend, Annie. I'll follow your advice.” The two women fell into an embrace, then Harriet stepped back, holding Anne's arms in a firm grip. She was silent for a moment, staring at Anne. Finally she spoke in a low, level voice. “If Harry were ever to learn that I'd actually leave him, I believe he would kill me.”

I fear that he would, Anne said to herself. Or, hire someone else to do it.

Chapter 26

Approaching Storm

Sunday, April 8

After leaving Anne and Harriet at the Abbey Church a little past noon, Saint-Martin stopped in the church yard and shielded his eyes from the sun. A riot of sounds, colors, and gestures assaulted his senses. A brass band clashed and clanged its way through the yard. A troop of Italian acrobats in gaudy checkered tights cartwheeled, built human pyramids, and juggled before a rapt audience of children. Vendors hawked their wares. Several young dandies preened themselves, ogling pretty young women in muslin dresses, their faces guarded from the sun's rays by wide-brimmed, brightly beribboned hats.

Soon the square, energetic figure of the colonel's adjutant snaked through the crowd. The colonel hailed him. “Learn anything this morning, Georges?”

“A few interesting bits.” The adjutant patted his stomach. “I've followed Captain Fitzroy around Bath for hours. Now I'm hungry. Could we talk over lunch?”

Saint-Martin agreed, leaving the choice of an eating place to Georges. He led the way to the Shakespeare, a coach inn at the city market. “Good seafood, decent wine,” he said as they took seats in a quiet corner of the large public room. “And we can speak safely.”

A sturdy, pink-cheeked barmaid came to their table, smiled coyly at Georges, and took their order. She returned in a few minutes with a steaming platter of mussels, country bread and cheese, and a carafe of dry white wine from the Loire valley. As she moved on to another table out of earshot, Georges leaned forward, glancing over his shoulder. “That's Flora. I've paid her to eavesdrop on Fitzroy. He usually meets his two British officer friends here for drink, cards, jokes about women.”

Georges forked a mussel, dipped it in the juice, then in butter, and slurped it with obvious relish. After half a glass of wine, he resumed his story. “This morning was different. Just coffee and serious talk. They were cautious when Flora came around. Still, she heard Fitzroy tell the officers that Burton had canceled his passage to New York and had him under constant watch.”

Saint-Martin grew impatient. “We know that much already!”

“There's more,” Georges continued apologetically. “Flora said the three men lowered their voices. Laying plans. She could pick up only scattered words until at the end Fitzroy spoke loudly enough for her to hear: ‘Tuesday morning, then!'”

“Not much to go on,” remarked Saint-Martin, pushing his plate to one side. He was less fond of steamed mussels than his adjutant. “Sounds like desperation, either flight or fight.” He leaned back, chin in hand. “Flight's no longer a good option for Fitzroy. He's not one to live like a hunted animal. He needs to strut about in public like a peacock. Besides, he and Lady Margaret seem bound together, even though he abuses her. Miss Cartier and I watched them during the concert last night. Not exactly love-birds. But they touched, smiled and nodded to one another, even swayed together with the music. And you saw him defend her afterwards.”

“And don't forget her money!” added Georges, breaking off a piece of bread. He dipped it in the mussel juice and stuffed it into his mouth.

The colonel gently swirled the wine in his glass, smiling indulgently at his adjutant's table manners. “Georges, if you were Fitzroy, what would you do at this point?”

The adjutant saluted Saint-Martin with his glass and emptied it. “I'd go for her money. After all, I'm a gambler. Lady Margaret and Charlie will inherit Rogers' fortune. I'd make sure her marriage lasted until she became a widow. Then I'd become her legal guardian or husband.”

Saint-Martin leaned forward, arms resting on the table, hands clasped. “Hasten Sir Harry's death, would you?”

“I couldn't do it myself. I'm closely watched and my motive would be obvious. But, my friends could arrange it for a share in the inheritance. Wouldn't be difficult. Sir Harry often rides to Bristol without a guard. He left a note in the stable for a cabriolet on Tuesday. He'll drive it himself.”

“They would attack him, Tuesday morning!” exclaimed the colonel in a hushed voice. “Suppose they are successful, how would Fitzroy deal with Critchley and the stolen package?”

Georges replied for Fitzroy. “With Sir Harry dead and me in control of his business and Lady Margaret's wealth, the stolen item would matter less. The marriage would be over and who would care much about the love letters, if that's what's in the package. I'd let Critchley hang.”

“And the British officers would do Fitzroy's bidding?” Saint-Martin was unconvinced.

“Their brutality in the American War is notorious—a pair of thugs in red coats. They've not improved their character since then. They'll do whatever Fitzroy wants if he pays them enough.” Georges tore off another piece of bread, cut a piece of cheese, poured more wine for Saint-Martin and himself.

The colonel stared into his glass, twirling the stem. Finally, he glanced at Georges. “I think we must protect Sir Harry, our best hope for capturing Fitzroy and shipping him back to France. If the rogue acquires Harry's widow and her wealth, he'll become nearly untouchable.” He saluted Georges with his glass, who responded in like manner, and they finished their drinks. “Keep a closer watch on those two redcoats,” Saint-Martin said. “We won't tell Harry yet. The danger to him is still guesswork.”

Georges frowned. “Are we going to let him get hold of the stolen package, divorce Lady Margaret, and take Charlie away from her? Miss Cartier believes he needs his mother, weak though she is. Sir Harry hates the boy and will abuse him, perhaps disinherit him if he gets a son of his own.”

The colonel rose from his chair, leaned over the table, and stared at Georges. “Remember why we're here. To capture Fitzroy. That's how we judge everything else. I don't see how we can recover the package or stop Sir Harry from ending his marriage.” He uttered his words through thin, tight lips. “Don't forget Sylvie de Chanteclerc.”

***

From a clerk at the York Inn, Saint-Martin learned that Mr. Burton had left after breakfast. He was expected back soon. The colonel glanced at his watch. Almost three o'clock. He decided to wait. He found a chair in the parlor to the left of the main entrance. Burton would have to pass by him to get to his room.

In the meantime, Saint-Martin observed his fellow human beings, a useful exercise for a policeman. Perhaps because of the fine weather, he felt kindly disposed toward them today. A stout, ruddy-faced, well-dressed Englishman and his wife peered into the parlor, exchanged smiles with him, then walked on into the public room. Their good-natured candor was what he'd come to expect from people of their class. Even from Dick Burton, though he had a police officer's wary curiosity. Saint-Martin recalled in contrast the sly, sardonic expressions so common among the French.

The next person to glance into the parlor was Burton himself, who also smiled when he noticed the French colonel. The two men shook hands and went upstairs. By the time they reached Burton's door, he was breathing heavily and limping. “It's been a long day,” he said, mustering a cheerful expression. “I'm looking forward to giving this leg a rest.”

At ease in a comfortable chair, Burton explained he had spent the day with several of Roach's victims, returning scandalous documents that had been used for blackmail. “People of quality, they were, and most grateful.” Irony crept into his voice.

Saint-Martin suspected that Burton, like other Bow Street officers, must have received financial rewards for his kindness for he had to pay a clerk, probably several informants, and his own travel expenses.

After learning that Sir Harry had visited Critchley in jail, Burton had interrogated the prisoner again. “He wasn't forthcoming. Repeated his claim that he had left Roach alive and insisted it was Fitzroy who killed him.”

Saint-Martin looked askance. “It's not likely Sir Harry went to the jail to offer solace.”

Burton smiled. “According to Critchley, Sir Harry promised him a character reference if he were put on trial for Roach's death and would try to persuade his former employer to drop his accusations about the stolen silver.”

“Would that save Critchley from hanging?”

“No. His former employer is unforgiving.” Burton fell silent, lines of sadness at his mouth, as if he had seen too much human misery during his many years on Bow Street.

“Did you learn any more about the stolen package?” the colonel asked.

“Critchley still claims he doesn't know where it is. Nor does William Rogers. Critchley has surely hidden it—and is using it to bargain with Sir Harry.”

“That's likely,” Saint-Martin agreed. “Are you going to charge Critchley for the murder of Roach?”

“Yes, I shall.”

“Why Critchley rather than Fitzroy or one of the other suspects?”

“A fair question,” replied Burton easily. “The black footman's alibi is supported by the cook and the coachman. I couldn't shake their story. In my view, Sir Harry and his nephew William lacked sufficient motive. Fitzroy remained a serious suspect until I questioned Lady Margaret. I was persuaded that her testimony corroborated his.” Burton hesitated briefly before going on, as if less sure of himself. “I'm also inclined to believe Fitzroy wouldn't have killed Roach in her presence.”

Hmm, thought Saint-Martin, recalling Sylvie's battered face. Fitzroy's respect for women was erratic at best.

Sensing the colonel's skepticism, Burton quickly added, “I don't mean that honor would have restrained Fitzroy. He simply wouldn't have wanted Lady Margaret to witness him killing Roach. If she were interrogated, he couldn't depend on her testimony and he couldn't afford to get rid of her.”

“Sounds reasonable,” granted Saint-Martin, concealing his true feeling. In fact, Burton's reasoning failed to convince him. Critchley was a convenient scapegoat, already charged and virtually convicted of a capital theft. Roach's true killer was still unknown. Fortunately, Fitzroy remained available for abduction and the rigors of French justice. Could that possibly be Burton's intent?

“A magistrate will charge Critchley on Wednesday morning,” Burton went on to say. “He'll be held for trial in Taunton castle, several months hence, during the royal judges' next quarter sessions. On Thursday, I'll return to London and search Roach's apartment for the stolen silver.”

“Have you finished investigating the tennis hall?” Saint-Martin asked. “Sir Harry and I would like to play a game soon.”

“I envy your good health,” Burton replied. “No need to keep the tennis hall closed. Georges has sketched the scene for me.” He suddenly caught Saint-Martin's eye. “Will
you
accomplish what you've set out to do here?”

The colonel wasn't sure how he should answer the question. Its ironic tone, the skeptical curl of Burton's lips meant he knew why Saint-Martin was in Bath. Nonetheless, it seemed wise to maintain the fiction of a vacation trip. “Yes, I believe I may. God willing.” Depending also, he thought, on how helpful Sir Harry proved to be.

***

The clock in the servants' hall struck four o'clock. Jeffery sat down at the table with Mr. Cope the steward, the housekeeper, Peter the coachman, and a maid. To his surprise, William Rogers joined them a few minutes late. Their Easter meal of roasted lamb, potatoes, and green peas lay steaming before them. They had this time for themselves. Upstairs, the dining room table had been set. In the kitchen, the cook and her helpers were preparing the evening meal for the family. The night footman had already eaten and was minding the main entrance.

Jeffery had come to the servants' table with a mixture of apprehension and satisfaction. He was supposed to eat at a small table apart from the others. Yesterday afternoon, without warning, Sir Harry had barred him from wearing Combe Park livery or serving the family and had consigned him to menial tasks in the basement or the stable. When Lady Margaret heard of it later, she had objected, but Sir Harry ignored her.

This evening, he was not at home and would not return until late. Lady Margaret ordered Jeffery back into livery and assigned him to serve the family meal. He believed she had done this to spite Sir Harry, but he also suspected other motives. There was a certain gleam in her eye whenever she looked at him.

The weakness of his arm wouldn't matter upstairs. A maid would help him. She was seated now at his left, solicitous of his injury, holding the platter while he served himself with his right hand. The servants were usually sympathetic, obeying Sir Harry's orders as leniently as possible. But they had to be mindful of his spies.

From across the table, William glared at Jeffery, then turned abruptly to the steward. “What's this black slave doing here? My uncle ordered him to sit by himself.” William pointed to the small table in the corner.

Mr. Cope stammered helplessly, “We thought….”

Peter Hyde broke in, “Since Lady Margaret put Lord Jeff back into livery and ordered him to serve upstairs tonight, we thought he should eat with us. We've important matters to discuss.” He glanced around the table at his companions and snickered. “Like his great fight last Wednesday.”

Jeffery felt pleased but suppressed a smile. The coachman was his best friend among the servants. A bluff man, he could risk speaking up because Sir Harry was fond of him.

The coachman reared back in his chair and looked down his battered nose at William. “And to what do we owe the honor of
your
presence among us? Master Charlie's going to eat upstairs.” The steward stirred uneasily, pursed his lips, and shot the coachman a warning. The others looked down at their food.

William started, as if slapped in the face, then glared at Hyde. But the coachman held a level gaze, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

Red-faced with wrath, William sputtered nonsense, as if he had lost control of his tongue. Finally, he burst out, “The little devil hates me, poisons his mother against me.” William's eyes narrowed to mere slits, his jaw tightened. “But I'll get even with him someday. Soon.”