Point of Honour (40 page)

Sir Walter Mandif had given their names—Miss Tolerance had, for the evening, reclaimed the name Brereton—and the footman bowed them in with a raised eyebrow but no hesitation. Lady Julia Geddes, receiving guests at Versellion’s side, smiled vaguely at these people she did not recognize, but asked no questions. Versellion had heard her name announced; any surprise he felt at her arrival was well in hand by the time she and Sir Walter reached the earl to make their bows.

“My lord, may I present Sir Walter Mandif, the magistrate of whom I have spoken?” Miss Tolerance put as much meaning as she decently could into her words. Versellion bowed and thanked Sir Walter for bringing Miss … he hesitated, then brought out the name Brereton instead of Tolerance.

“To what do I owe this charming surprise?” he murmured.

“I was warned that there might b—”

Miss Tolerance’s warning was cut short as Lady Julia demanded Versellion’s attention. “Edward, see who is come!” Miss Tolerance and Sir Walter moved away.

She had planned to watch Versellion herself; she proposed that Sir Walter make a round through the public rooms to see if Folle was anywhere among them. When Sir Walter pointed out that he did not know what Folle looked like and was thus useless for the purpose, Miss Tolerance sighed, took his place, and began to wander seeming casually through the refreshments room, the card room, and the other chambers where an enterprising murderer might be waiting. The competing needs for thoroughness and speed warred in her, complicated by the need to play the part of a woman wandering aimlessly through a party seeking acquaintance.

At the end of an hour, having persuaded herself that Folle had not yet arrived, Miss Tolerance returned to the ballroom, which by now was crowded and stickily hot. Sir Walter lounged against one wall watching the dancers, among whom the Earl of Versellion numbered.

“No sign of Folle, I take it.”

She shook her head agian.

“Would you like to dance?”

Miss Tolerance shook her head again. “You’re very kind to ask, sir, but I doubt I remember how. My last dancing lesson was rather more than ten years ago. Safer to remain a wallflower.”

“Not at your first ball!”

She smiled. “If they are all as hot as this one, ’tis likely to be my last, as well.”

He laughed at that, and for a little time they chatted as they watched, in an attitude so very casual that an observer might have deduced that they were lovers seeking to disguise the fact. Miss Tolerance was enough entertained that she did not at first notice when Sir Henry Folle entered the room. The footman’s voice pronouncing his name brought her to full alert.

Seeing him, Miss Tolerance was immediately convinced of the justice of Lord Balobridge’s concern. Folle, tonight, appeared both intense and precariously balanced; his eyes burned as he looked around the room. Indeed, he appeared so agitated to her that she wondered that Lady Julia could greet him with a placid smile and a kiss on the cheek.

“That is Folle,” she murmured to Sir Walter.

“Then at last we know where we are: your man is here, Versellion has not yet been assassinated. How are we to proceed now? Follow Folle about? Wait until he produces a pistol or takes a sword down from the wall, or—” Sir Walter did not finish the thought. The footman was announcing the Prince of Wales and his party.

The musicians ceased their playing. The dancers stopped, all eyes turned to the doorway. A tall, fat man with several orders pinned to his coat appeared in the doorway and there was a burst of applause, which he waved away amiably. The Prince made his way across the room to Lady Julia through a line of curtseys; by the time Wales had reached his hostess, Versellion had joined them. In watching the Prince, Miss Tolerance had briefly lost sight of Folle. Now she saw him, edging toward the Prince and Versellion through the crowd.

Miss Tolerance began to move, too, calculating at what point she would intersect Folle’s path, and how fast she would have to go. They were only a dozen paces from Folle’s target when she caught his arm. He turned to her blankly, as if he didn’t recognize her. By now the crowd had resumed their conversations and the musicians their playing; there was nothing remarkable to see about Miss Tolerance and Folle—except for his expression when he recognized her.

“Take your hands off me, you bitch,” he said, deep in his throat. “You will not stop me.”

Miss Tolerance, just as cold, tightened her grip. “Someone must stop you, Sir Henry, before you do something stupid.” She relaxed her features and moderated her tone to a slight whine.
Give him something to believe,
she thought.
Greed or betrayal. Better yet, both.
She would play the part Folle expected of her.

“You want to hurt your cousin? Fine. I’m none too fond of him myself right now. But rather than the violence you plainly intend, I can give you a weapon far more elegant.”

“What weapon? What are you talking about?” Folle asked.

Miss Tolerance pulled Folle about so his back was to Wales and Versellion. “I know the secret of the fan,” she told him. “And it will bring him down. But I will not tell you here, where Versellion can see. He will know I gave it to you if he sees us speaking. There is a row of withdrawing rooms along the conservatory hall; I will be in one of them in a few minutes’ time. Bring your pocketbook.”

She permitted him no time to argue; if he was going to take her bait and permit her to lure him from his quarry, she must be as mysterious as possible. She returned to Sir Walter, explained what she was attempting, and asked that he keep Folle under his eye until the man had joined her in the withdrawing room.

“And then?”

“Pray for me. I have not the slightest idea what I shall tell him.” Miss Tolerance smiled. “If your dignity will admit of listening at doors, you can hear what I do—perhaps Folle will say something useful.”

On the ground floor, a hallway ran between the salons and led to a conservatory which, in its turn, led to the gardens. Nearest the conservatory there were several small rooms suited to close conference, each no more than a dozen feet square, furnished with a divan, a pair of gilded chairs, a side table, and a branch or two of candles. The first of these was occupied, by the sound of it, by a man and woman engaged in a quarrel. The door to the second appeared to be locked; no sounds issued from it. The third room was unoccupied; Miss Tolerance entered, seated herself, and waited an anxious few minutes until the door opened again. It was Folle, and Lord Balobridge was directly behind him.

“You see, there she is. Now, what have you to tell me? If I find this is all a trick—”

“Why would I trick you? Your cousin owes me my fee and some other considerations as well, and shows no sign of paying. A woman in my position must tend to herself first.” Miss Tolerance pushed the note of hurt and anger back into her voice. “If you can guarantee my fee—”

“Anything you like,” Folle snapped. “Was there correspondence in the fan? Was it treason?”

“Treason? No, there was nothing about treason in that fan—whyever should you think so?” She went to the door and locked it. “There. Now we shan’t be interrupted. May I inquire how you came to learn of the fan in the first place?”

Lord Balobridge spoke: “I should think you knew that already, Miss Tolerance. Trux told me about your hiring, and about the fan.”

She nodded. “And, of course, you knew only what Trux told you. Well, as it turns out, it was never a fan we sought. It was a woman.”

Folle was pacing the short length of the room, hands clenched behind his back as though he feared them capable of independent action. “A woman?” He set his teeth together and looked toward the door.

“Before you return to assassinate your cousin, sir, will you permit me to explain?”

Perhaps it was the bald statement of his intention that stopped him; Folle turned back, rocked on his heels, and nodded. Miss Tolerance began her recitation, hoping to God that Sir Walter Mandif was where she had told him to be.

“I began as you did, believing what we sought was a fan. I started, upon information, in Leyton, where I spoke with two women, hoping for assistance in finding Deborah Cunning, to whom the fan was given thirty years ago. By diligent investigation—I really am quite good at my work, Sir Henry—I was able to discover Mrs. Cunning‘s—now Mrs. Cook’s—address, and spoke with her, only to find that she did not have the fan, that she had sold it years before to Mr. Humphrey Blackbottle, of whose establishments you have spoken to me several times.” Miss Tolerance smiled. “I did, at last, procure the fan—at which point the men sent by Lord Balobridge to assassinate Versellion” —she nodded politely at Balobridge—“drove him, and me, out of the city for a time. Try as we might, we could not discover anything about the fan which explained its importance, and I began to wonder if we had, indeed, the correct fan.

“By this time, of course, I was also much concerned by the death of Mrs. Smith, in Leyton, and of Matt Etan, late of my aunt’s establishment, and my friend. I wondered for a time why you killed Mrs. Smith and not Mrs. Cockbun, Sir Henry.” She did not pause to enjoy Folle’s wild-eyed start. “But then I realized that Mrs. Cockbun would have told you anything for the pleasure of your company, where Mrs. Smith was likely to be less forthcoming. Did you bully her, Sir Henry? I don’t think she would have helped a bully. Raised your temper, didn’t she?”

Folle’s face was red, his lips tightly closed. He looked away from her.

Miss Tolerance opened her reticule and took out a piece of wax and a twist of paper. “Did you note the candles in Mrs. Smith’s parlor, Sir Henry? They had dried flowers pressed into them. Like the bowls of dried flowers Mrs. Smith kept about, I suspect they were meant to mask the smell of the river behind the house. And of course, wax takes a fine impression.” She held her palm flat so that Folle and Balobridge could both see the bits of wax, one of which clearly bore enough of the lion crowned with flames—the Folle crest—to be recognizable. “I suppose Mrs. Smith sent you about your business and you struck at her the way you twice made to strike at me—and when you tried to strike me in the street, Sir Henry, you dropped some of the dried flowers from Mrs. Smith’s parlor—I suppose they got into your pocket or cuff. You really ought not to carry that stick if you cannot control your temper.”

She closed her fingers around the pieces of wax before Folle could snatch them away, but Folle seemed incapable of movement.

“As you do not appear to have visited Mrs. Cook, I presume you could not find her. That must have maddened you. And when you encountered poor Matt, who was only my messenger to Versellion, you beat h—”

“That was Hart began it! Hart struck first, to loosen your friend’s tongue, but the filthy mongrel wouldn’t speak. We would not even have pulled him aside, but we thought that it was you! And then we took the note from him—it was useless! Hart swore the sodomite must know more and hit him again. Then that little piece of filth turned to me, ran at me, threw himself at me begging for help! Tried to work his—his wiles on me,” Folle spat. His hand closed convulsively on nothing; Miss Tolerance privily thanked God he was not carrying his walking stick that evening.

“He asked for your help, so you beat him to death, sir?” Miss Tolerance kept her voice cool, but it shook a little nonetheless. “What I do not understand is how you knew to find him—or that I had given him a message to deliver.”

A look passed between Balobridge and Folle. “I was told you’d gone out with a note to my cousin.”

“Who told you?”

Folle looked at Balobridge. Balobridge studied the backs of his hands. In the silence, Miss Tolerance was aware of music from the ballroom: a waltz.

“Well, let me finish. I only found the last piece of the puzzle this morning: the identity of the Fan.”

Balobridge spoke. “I don’t suppose you would care to unravel the mystery for us, Miss Tolerance? What is there about this woman to threaten Versellion?”

“I have my suspicions, my lord. Unfortunately, I cannot ask the lady herself. She was an abbess at one of Mr. Humphrey Blackbottle’s establishments, as Sir Henry knows, and she was beaten to death two nights ago.”

Balobridge turned to regard Folle with horror, as if this final death had tipped the scales against him.

Folle laughed. “You traipse around London for a fortnight and all you can come up with is a dead whore?”

Miss Tolerance reminded Sir Henry that she had not been traipsing around London for his benefit. “And for my client’s benefit, I suppose it works out very well. If the woman knew any secrets, she can no longer divulge them. If you had not killed her, sir, you might have persuaded her to sell her secret to you.”

Folle stopped his pacing.

Balobridge rapped his cane on the floor. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“Sir Henry knows, sir. The old woman you heard him raving about earlier today was the madam in a Cheapside brothel, brought from Italy to be the mistress of the current earl’s father. The Italian Fan. I have excellent reason to believe that Sir Henry visited her two nights ago and beat her to death with that cane he wields so freely.”

Sir Henry Folle took a step forward; the immobility of a moment before had clearly passed off in a new cloud of rage and panic.

“You bitch! You cannot accuse me of that—whoever this Cheapside whore is, I never set eyes upon her. Two nights ago—you know where I was. You damned quean, if Versellion thinks he can hang me upon this evidence—” He sprang at her.

Miss Tolerance took up one of the gilded chairs in both hands and held Folle off with it. The chair was remarkably heavy for such a spindly looking thing, she thought irritably. She was not certain how long she could continue to hold Folle off. “Get help!” she spat at Balobridge, but the old man sat stock-still, as if he were dazed or mesmerized by the brawl breaking out before him.

Folle had grabbed one leg of the chair and attempted to pull it out of Miss Tolerance’s hands, while sweeping his other fist at her viciously, just out of range to make his blows land. Again he pulled, and Miss Tolerance let the chair go, sending him reeling backward, still upon his feet. She saw her way past Folle to the door; if she could reach it, Sir Walter Mandif or a passing footman or—anyone—might come to her aid. Miss Tolerance took two steps to her left, another back around the end of the sofa, and then her heel caught in the trailing elegance of her skirt and she fell heavily to her knees.