accompanied us out into the soft rain.
'My wife is understandably upset,' Beauchamp said. 'But we feared the worst. No doubt we will rejoice that Charlotte is well when the surprise wears off. It was kind of you to journey all this way to tell us.'
'I had another errand in the area,' I said. I took a parcel from my coat. 'And I wanted to give you this.'
Beauchamp frowned at the parcel, but he took it, bemused.
Grenville's footman helped me into the carriage, and Grenville sprang up behind me, the door slamming as the carriage rolled away. Beauchamp remained in front of the house, staring at the brown paper, rain pattering on his bare head.
Grenville contained himself until we'd gone half a mile. 'I've kept my peace long enough, Lacey. What the devil did you give him?'
The road curved, bending through the flat land behind the Beauchamps' house. 'Ask your coachman to stop.'
'Would it be futile to demand to know why?'
'I will tell you in a moment.'
Grenville look was aggrieved, but he rapped on the carriage roof and gave the order to stop.
We waited. The damp air rose, fresh and green-smelling, the earth rich and virgin, awaiting the first spring planting. A muddy path led to a stile, and over this to the meadow behind the Beauchamps' home.
The horses, bored, snorted and moved in the traces, rocking the carriage slightly. The light rain grew heavier.
A rider appeared at the bottom of the meadow, on a small horse, trotting fast. Both horse and rider were rotund, the master rivaling his mount for squat body and stout belly.
Grenville lowered his window. 'It's Beauchamp.'
At the stile, Beauchamp dismounted. He did not tie his horse, but it seemed content to lower its head and crop grass. Beauchamp climbed the stile and scrambled down the other side, his face streaming perspiration and rain.
He approached the coach. I opened the door and climbed to the ground to meet him.
He thrust the parcel at me. 'What is your game, Lacey? What is this?'
'Lord Sommerville's housekeeper gave it to me,' I said. 'It's the remains of the gown a servant girl wore the night she was killed, sometime at the end of February. A man bashed in her head and tried to bury her in the woods. Were you not at the inquest? The entire village turned up, I've been told.'
Beauchamp glared at me, flushed and angry. 'My wife and I stayed away. It was a sordid affair.'
I opened the paper and smoothed the blue worsted strips. 'Likely it was her best dress. She must have been excited, knowing she was going to meet a lover. Not the solid, hardworking young man who'd hoped to marry her, but an older man, well off and respected, who would give her presents. Maybe jewelry and gowns finer than this.'
Grenville climbed down from the carriage and his coachman watched from above. Beauchamp looked from me to Grenville. 'What do you want of me?'
I ignored him. 'Perhaps, as the mistress of a wealthy gentleman, the kitchen maid began to give herself airs. Perhaps she threatened to tell her young man about her lover, or your wife.'
Beauchamp took on a hunted look. 'She was a silly girl, a maid, for heaven's sake. What did she expect me to do? Put aside my dear wife for her? You gentlemen understand.'
'Your cousin, Charlotte, knew who killed her,' I said.
Beauchamp began to stammer. 'Matilda wasn't murdered. It was an accident. She fell and hit her head.'
'Or perhaps Charlotte did not know; I cannot say. But your attentions must have frightened Charlotte. So much so that she fled you, in a manner that makes it impossible for you to pursue her and bring her back.'
Beauchamp gave me a pleading look. 'We took Charlotte in, we gave her a home. How could she have done this? We were her family.'
His bleating was pathetic, but I hardened my heart. 'I imagine your wife's pretty young cousin was a great temptation for you. An intelligent and beautiful girl would be much more satisfying than a silly maid. And close at hand, under your own roof. You'd need no secret trysts in hedgerows. Did you seduce Charlotte? Or threaten her if she did not comply?'
Beauchamp sucked in his breath. 'How do you know this? Charlotte must have told you.'
'Your wife gave me her letters. You sent a boy after me to steal and destroy them. You feared that Charlotte might have written some hint, left some clue of what you had done to her.'
Beauchamp clasped his hands against his ample belly. 'You must not tell my wife. She is a gentle creature. It will break her heart. Please, I beg of you.'
I went on ruthlessly. 'What happened in the woods that night? Did you tell Matilda you'd found better? Perhaps Matilda did not want to leave so quietly. Perhaps she threatened to make a fuss. And you grew alarmed, and struck out.'
Tears trickled down his cheeks. 'No, it truly was an accident, I swear it. Matilda wanted me to run away with her. She started to screech and cry. I tried to make her stop. She started to run away, but she stumbled and fell. I heard her head crack on a rock. I tried to help her, but her head was covered with blood, and she had stopped breathing. I could not take her home; could not explain.'
I thrust the parcel back into his hands. 'Explain it to Lord Sommerville. He is a reasonable man.'
Beauchamp wiped his eyes. 'Will I ever see Charlotte again?'
'I rather doubt it. Tell your wife the truth, all of it. She will understand why Charlotte isn't coming back.'
I turned away from him. Grenville, his face white, waited while I climbed back into the carriage.
'Please, gentlemen.'
Grenville ascended behind me, and his footman, shocked and trying to hide it, shut the door. I looked out of the window at Beauchamp, weeping beneath me.
'Go home,' I said.
Grenville rapped on the roof of the carriage, and the coachman drove on.
'Are you going to tell Sommerville?' Grenville eyed me sternly. 'If you don't, I will.'
I leaned back against the sumptuous cushions, suddenly exhausted and wanting to be done with it. 'I'll write Sommerville tonight and post it in the morning. I want to give Beauchamp time to confess. If he has an ounce of honor, he will take the blame and leave his wife out of it.'
'If he has any honor at all, he will already be dead,' Grenville said.
I wondered if the man with the rabbity eyes would have the courage to put a pistol to his own head and save his wife the pain of his trial and the public knowledge of his betrayal. 'I wish I knew if he had. It is up to him now.'
As we made our way back to London, my tiredness lifted somewhat, and I told Grenville about my second visit to Denis and what I'd decided about his involvement in Jane Thornton's abduction. I did not much want to talk about it, but I'd learned my lesson. If I hadn't written Grenville that rude and angry letter, and if he hadn't been magnanimous enough to forgive my idiotic pride and come looking for me, I'd probably be resting at the bottom of the Thames, Black Nancy with me.
Grenville was eager to interview Jemmy with me, but I told him I needed to run another errand, one I'd rather do alone. He did not ask me what, but he regarded me sharply as I descended the carriage.
What I had to face next pained me beyond thought. I left home shortly after dark and traveled to the house near St. Paul's Churchyard. As before, I was shown to an upstairs parlor, and Josette Martin met me there.
She came forward and took my hand, lamplight shining on the thick braids of her nearly black hair.
'Captain Lacey. I am pleased to see you again. Will you sit?'
I remained standing, holding her hand. 'When do you leave for France?'
She looked at me in surprise. 'A week today. Why?'
'Can you leave tomorrow? Will Aimee be well enough to travel?'
'Tomorrow? I am not certain.'
'Even if she isn't, I advise you to take Aimee and start for France immediately.'
'Why, Captain? I do not understand.'
