steps outside, gray skirt swirling to reveal shapely ankles and stout shoes.
I knew I ought to go after her, to escort her somewhere safely at least. A young woman walking alone, no matter how robust, in London, had much to fear. But somehow I sensed that any would-be assailant would get the worse end of the bargain in an encounter with her tonight.
No, I left her, I left Bremer sobbing in the servants' hall under the onslaught of Pomeroy's questioning, and I left that house.
Outside, fog rolled over me, thick and clammy, but I inhaled as if I stood in a fragrant spring night of Portugal. I leaned against the railings and let the rain beat on me, and was still there when Alice came, worry and relief on her work-worn face, to take Aimee home.
Grenville's carriage stood at the head of Grimpen Lane when I arrived home, coach lights throwing a sickly yellow swirl into the fog and rain. Despite the weather, my neighbors had turned out to ogle it and the fine horses that pulled it, but the sight did nothing to relieve my temper.
Grenville sat in the same worn wingchair Louisa had occupied the night before, with something crumbly and bready in his hands. He had stoked the fire high and the room hung with heat.
'Ah, Lacey,' he said as I entered. 'Your Mrs. Beltan does a fine crumpet. I'd have her supply my house entirely, but my chef would never speak to me again. Thinks he's a genius with pastry.' He peered at me. 'Good Lord, Lacey, what happened?'
I was soaked through, and my face must have been grim as an undertaker's. I moved to my bedroom and began peeling off my clothes.
I heard Grenville rise and follow me. 'Are you all right?'
'Ask Mrs. Beltan to bring me some hot water,' I said and slammed the door in his face.
Chapter Nine
I soaked in the steaming water for half an hour as the heat slowly leached into me. I heard Grenville and Mrs. Beltan in my front room, discussing me.
'He gets like this sometimes,' she confided. 'Won't speak to a soul. I've seen him take to his bed two days at a time, and not even look at me when I come to see if he's all right. Melancholia, they call it.'
'What do you do?'
'Nothing, sir. I make sure he's well and leave him be. He comes out of it on his own and goes on right as rain.'
I let them talk, although I could have told Mrs. Beltan that my mood did not stem from melancholia. I simply wanted to wash the evil of number 22, Hanover Square from my skin.
I knew evil existed in the world. I had seen men, fire in their eyes, thrust bayonets through other men they did not even know. I had seen scavengers swarm battlefields to take everything from the fallen, even the coats on their backs. I'd seen such a scavenger put a gun to the head of a soldier, who might have lived with a small amount of help, and pull the trigger, all so that the murderer might steal his boots. But never had I felt the clinging, clammy evil of Horne's household, the gruesome secrets that hid behind a mask of respectability. At least the evils of war had been committed in the open.
The gray shadows of my bedchamber chased each other over the carved posts of my bed as the day died and the water warmed me. The wooden flowers and leaves became eyes and mouths, open and round.
I rose from the bath, dried myself, and dressed. Grenville was alone again when I emerged.
'Horne is dead,' I said before he could speak. 'Someone murdered him.'
Grenville stared at me in open-mouthed astonishment. 'Good God. You didn't-Lacey, you didn't-kill him yourself, did you?'
'No. I only wanted to.'
I told him everything. We sat in the darkening room, the firelight's shadows on the curved beams rendering the room a cavern of hell. I hadn't wanted to talk about Horne's murder at all, but the words came out of me, forced out as though another entity moved my mouth.
'No wonder you looked like you'd been wrestling the devil,' Grenville said when I'd finished. 'Did Pomeroy make an arrest?'
'I don't know. I didn't ask him.'
'What about Aimee? Did she hear anything when she was inside the wardrobe?'
I sighed, suddenly tired. 'I didn't ask her. I wanted to leave her alone. I'm rather more interested in the fate of Jane Thornton than with Horne's murderer.'
Grenville touched his fingertips together. 'They might be connected. You say Denis visited that day?'
'According to the maid.'
'Odd, because he rarely visits anyone. One goes to him. Only with his permission.'
I shrugged, not caring very much.
'A puzzle,' Grenville said. 'What about the butler-Bremer? Perhaps he had grown disgusted with his master and decided to stick a knife into him.'
'I would swear his shock when we found the body was genuine. But any of them had time and opportunity to murder him. With only five of them to look after so large a house, each of them would have been alone for some stretch of time during the day. I didn't speak to the valet, because it was his day out.'
Grenville pursed his lips. 'Perhaps he returned, killed Horne, and left again.'
'I suppose he must have a key. I imagine Pomeroy has asked questions about him. He's usually thorough.'
Ploddingly, ruthlessly so. Pomeroy had hounded more than one poor soul to the gallows-guilty and innocent alike.
'What about the other maid? Grace?'
'I didn't speak to her either. The cook had sent her off.'
He started to say something more, then stopped and stared at me. 'I sense a lack of interest in you, Lacey. Or perhaps you believe Horne deserved what he got.'
'No one deserves what was done to him.'
'You say that out loud. But do you feel it in your heart?'
I did not answer.
Grenville tapped the arm of the chair. 'Well, I'll not press you. The reason I presumed to call on you today is because I received an answer to one of your advertisements.' He reached into his pocket and plucked out a letter.
I came alert. We had agreed that inquiries should be sent to the newspaper itself, but I had been too stunned by Horne's death and finding Aimee to stop for the letters tonight. 'Someone has found Jane Thornton?'
'I don't know. The letter is from a man called Beauchamp, who lives in Hampstead. He saw the notices and the advertisement, and wrote to say a young lady from his household had also disappeared in mysterious circumstances.'
I sat back. 'Which may have nothing to do with Jane.'
'Possibly not. But I would like to look into it. It seems a cousin of his wife's came to live with them a year ago. Her family is from Somerset. When her parents died, she had no living relatives but the Beauchamps, and she went to Hampstead to live with them. About two months ago, she left the house and never returned.'
'About the same time Jane Thornton disappeared.'
'Exactly. The two incidents may not be connected, but then again, they might. This young woman, Charlotte Morrison, is about ten years older than Jane.'
'Denis might have procured her as well.'
Grenville threw me a look. 'Might, Lacey. Might. We should gather facts. Are you well enough to go to Hampstead with me?'
I did not have the energy to light a candle, let alone be dragged to Hampstead. But Grenville was ready to run there himself and probably frighten the life out of the worried family. 'You don't have to go. I can call on them
