Carla Kelly (24 page)

“
No, I
have not,” said Matthew quietly. He turned to Platter. “Sir, have
you any jurisdiction to search those rooms?”

“
Certainly I have,” said the Runner. “And if Mr. Landlord here
has other ideas, why, he’ll soon be pissing in a bucket in
Newgate.”

“
Well
put, Timothy,” said Matthew. “I do so admire your way with a
phrase.”

Platter smiled
grimly and directed his attention at the landlord again. “Well?
What’s your pleasure, sir?”

The landlord
removed a ring of keys from his pocket and climbed the stairs. He
crammed the key in the lock and growled over his shoulder, “Me mam
is visiting me sister in Kent. And it’s a good thing for you!” he
concluded, shaking the keys at the Runner.

“
I’m
all atremble,” said Platter as he opened the door.

The room was as
neat as a pin, with furniture carefully arranged and smelling
faintly of roses. It was the room of an older woman, with one or
two portraits badly in need of cleaning, and cheap landscape
drawings here and there. The furniture was exactly as Matthew
remembered it, right down to the doilies on the chair backs, and
that lingering odor of roses. He felt the hairs rise on the back of
his neck.

Matthew walked
into the next room and stopped short in the doorway. It was the
same; everything was the same. He recognized the brasswork on the
bedstead that rose in a fanciful ogive in the center, with a
smaller ornamentation echoed in the foot. He closed the door behind
him over the protests of the landlord, preferring to be
alone.

The viscount
approached the bed and stood there staring down at it, almost
hearing again his friends gathered around it, clapping and cheering
him on, and then laughing. He shook off the fright that was
settling around him and came closer, raising the coverlet until he
exposed the mattress.

The bed rested on
ropes. It was as tidy as the rest of the room. Matthew wiped off
the sweat that had suddenly popped out on his hands and then picked
up the corner of the mattress and looked under it. Faint rust
stains speckled the edge of it. He raised the mattress higher and
then dropped it. The rust stains merged into a larger pool of rust
that covered the center of the mattress like a gigantic poppy.
Someone had scrubbed and scrubbed at it, and then carefully turned
the mattress over.

The room swam
before his eyes. Matthew leaned against the bed, then ran to the
window, slammed up the sash, and put his head out, gulping the
cooler air, until he felt less light-headed.

He heard the door
open, and he knew the Runner and the landlord were watching him,
but he was powerless to do anything except stay where he was,
taking deep breaths of air, and resting his arms on the ledge,
filled with a fear greater than he had ever known
before.

Finally he closed
the window. “There was murder done here eight years ago,” he said
quietly to the landlord. “A drab was raped and killed. And you know
nothing of this?”

The landlord’s
eyes never wavered from the viscount’s face. He shook his head and
smiled. “Laddie, I tell you, you’re foxed. Maybe you’re even crazy.
Better get your keeper to take you back where you came
from.”

“
There
were six gentlemen in this set of rooms,” continued Matthew
inexorably, “here to celebrate the coming wedding of one with a
last-night lay. And you remember nothing of this?” He looked
closely at the landlord. “Or were you paid to remember
nothing?”

The landlord
returned him stare for stare. “You’ll have to leave. This is a
respectable establishment. My mam has lived here fifteen years.
Anyone in the neighborhood can tell you that.” He laughed then, a
peculiar laugh that sent chills down Matthew’s arms. “And she never
had a party like the one you’re describing. That’s the kind of
parties ‘gentlemen’ have.” He spat the word out.

“
Perhaps it is,” said Matthew heavily. “We’re wasting our time
here, Timothy. Let us go.”

“
Yes,
let us go,” agreed the Runner. He took Matthew by the elbow and
propelled him from the room. They hurried down the stairs and out
into the sunlight. The landlord followed them downstairs and
watched them. He slammed the door finally, and they could hear his
laughter receding down the hall.

“
There
were bloodstains all over that mattress. Someone had turned it so
they wouldn’t show. God, Platter, is there no one who remembers
anything? No one who will help me?”

“
And I
suppose the old lady will swear up and down and cry and carry on,
and no judge will doubt her,” said Platter. “I’ve seen it in too
many trials. The one who pays the most wins.” He put his hand on
Matthew’s shoulder. “And I think Rotherford must have paid a lot.
How curious this is, to hush up a murder and yet use it to keep you
forever in his debt.”

The front door
opened again. Matthew looked back expectantly. The landlord stood
there with a bundle in his hands. “Ashman!” he shouted. “Ashman,
come out!”

A small door
opened by the ashcans and a little man ran out onto the walkway
until he could see the landlord. He held his arms up and the
landlord threw down the bundle and then slammed the door
again.

The ashman
staggered under the weight of the bundle and Matthew moved to
steady him. The man looked at him, nodded his thanks, and then
looked again. Instead of putting the garbage in the cans, he
carried it in through the small door, looking over his shoulder one
more time at Matthew.

Matthew shook his
head. “Well, now what do we do?”

“
I’m
not entirely sure, my lord,” replied Platter with more uncertainty
in his voice than Matthew had ever heard before. “I need to think
about this.” He sighed. “And I need to go to Bow Street and check
some records. Make a report. Dammit, but this is a difficult
thing!”

“
I
think I can well imagine,” said the viscount dryly. “I can’t charge
Rotherford with murder. I do not know all the circumstances. For
all I know, I killed the girl. And if I make the slightest move to
object to Rotherford’s claim on my nephew, he will shout long and
loud, and the landlord will have a miraculous recovery of his
memory, and he will slip my neck through a noose.”

The Runner took
up the story. “And then in a year or so, when your nephew meets a
mysterious end, there will be no one alive to even suspect.
Rotherford will become one of the richest men in England, and there
will be such a trail of dead bodies behind him that any respectable
person would wonder how such a man sleeps nights.”

“
But
people like that always sleep like babies,” Matthew finished
bitterly.

The Runner
stopped walking. “We need someone who can tell us what happened.
And, my lord, it appears there is no one.”

Matthew nodded
and pulled out his watch. “Mr. Platter, if you trust me, I would
like to go to Hyde Park. It is almost time for the strut, and I
have not seen it in years. Have no fear that I will elude you. All
I want now is to get back to Byford and protect my nephew as long
as I can. But I want to think. When you have finished at Bow
Street, come for me.”

“
Very
well, my lord,” said Platter. “I am sorry about this.”

“
So am
I. You can’t imagine.”

The men parted
company at Piccadilly and Matthew walked to Hyde Park. He paid
little attention to his surroundings, but hurried along, his long
strides eating up the blocks until he came to Rotten Row. The
horses, curricles, and high-perch phaetons were assembled there as
he remembered them. Ladies and gentlemen were assembled there too,
some walking back and forth, some riding around and around, seeing
and being seen. It was the highlight of the day for many a young
miss in her first Season or a lieutenant back from the wars. There
would be balls and routs and drums and assemblies, and the opera,
and dinners where people only toyed with their food and lived for
the next
on-dit.

All of a sudden
it was the silliest society he had ever heard of. He longed to be
back in Byford with Omega and her fidgets and scolds. Or, failing
that, he yearned to retrace his steps to the Runner’s house, where
Maeve would butter him some bread and let him hold her baby or
dandle Davey on his knee. Nothing else really mattered. He was
shattered and filled with hope at the same time. After eight years
of hiding, he wanted so much for himself and those he loved, even
as he knew things were coming to an end.

He was desperate
to get back to Byford, but there he remained, watching the men and
women riding by and flirting, until the Runner came for
him.

The Runner had
both horses. Matthew took the reins the man handed him. “Where to
now, sir? Bow Street for me, and then Newgate?”

With a look of
surprise on his face, Platter shook his head vigorously. “Not a
chance, my lord. I still don’t have sufficient evidence either
way.”

“
You
are being kind,” replied Matthew as he swung into the saddle.
“Don’t deny that you have arrested others on less
evidence.”

“
I
don’t deny it,” admitted Platter frankly. “You seem to forget,
however, that I have only your word for the fact that a crime has
even been committed. No one else has ever come forward. This is a
singular case.”

They rode in
thoughtful silence, broken by only one remark from Platter. “I have
forwarded Miss Chartley’s trunk, valise, and box of books to
Byford, sir.”

“
She’ll be glad to see them. And was her money returned
also?”

“
Certainly, my lord. She’s quite free to leave.”

Dinner was a
continuation of last night’s stew, and it was no less welcome to
Matthew. Maeve proudly set her bowl before him and he ate, thinking
of his own table.
Maeve would never believe me if I told her how
much we waste in a single day
, he thought as he carefully wiped
out the inside of the bowl with a piece of bread as large as his
plate.

He watched Maeve
as she sat on the floor with Davey by her and the baby on her lap.
How is it that I have reached the age of thirty-four and never been
aware of these people before? England is full of them, and they
might as well be invisible, for all that I have seen
them.

He could not
sleep that night. He lay on the floor staring at the ceiling,
thinking of the landlord, wishing he could remember more of the
events of that night.

Finally Matthew
sat up. “Timothy, are you awake?” he whispered.

The mattress
rustled. “Aye, sir.”

“
I’m
going back to Quallen Lane. There must be something I have
overlooked. At any rate, I cannot sleep.”

“
Mind
you are careful, my lord. You may have noticed that this is not a
savory neighborhood.”

He reclaimed his
horse with no trouble and saddled it himself, keeping his back to
the wall, watching the men who watched him. He had few illusions
about the fact that he was far from his fighting trim, and only
hoped that his height and general bearing would keep them from
getting any untoward ideas.

The streets were
still populated, but it was a quieter crowd. Many slept in
doorways, others wove down the streets in various stages of
disrepair from grog and Blue Ruin. The drabs unlucky enough not to
find a bed for the night were still on the street. They eyed him
with some hope and then shrieked at him when he rode on past,
casting certain aspersions on his manhood that only made him
chuckle.
Oh, if you jades only knew
, he thought as he
navigated the streets and kept open the eye in the back of his
head.

The horse he left
in the stable again. The square of St. James was empty, except for
a few peep-of-day boys. He avoided them, walking in the shadows of
the great buildings. They looked to be students mostly, lads
finishing the long holiday. He knew that they liked to shout out
challenges and break the heads of those less worthy, so he made
sure he was not seen.

Quallen Lane was
empty and silent, the very model of propriety. Matthew looked up at
the windows on the second floor. Doubts again assailed him. How
could he have hoped to find the place again, and, even finding it,
how could he be so naive as to think that anyone would help
him?

Quietly he
mounted the stairs and sat down halfway up them. The air was
suddenly cool on his face as a little breeze picked up bits of
trash and sent them sailing around the foot of the
stairs.

A door opened. He
sat, alert and silent, as the ashman tiptoed out of his room from
somewhere under the steps and collected the paper.
I have seen
all this before
, he thought;
I have felt that rush of cold
air, and it was right here on these stairs
. He stirred and
wished he could remember more.

The ashman
glanced up, stepped back in surprise, and dropped his papers. To
Matthew’s surprise, he sank to his knees as if overcome. Matthew
hurried down the steps. “See here, man,” he whispered, “are you
well?”

The ashman drew
in a deep breath, and clutched at Matthew’s arm, feeling up and
down from wrist to shoulder, and then managing a weak chuckle.
“You’re not a haunt, laddie,” he said at last. “Oh, my boy, if you
had been a late-night devil, old Thomas Grissam wouldna be here
now. And that’s a fact!”