chased by me.' He chuckled. 'I am sorry I missed the first part.'
I didn't bother to answer. I was cold and muddy and annoyed and my leg hurt like fury. Grenville, on the other hand, even in the rain, looked dry and elegant and ready to step into a drawing room.
We parted again at the crossroads, me to ride on to the Beauchamps, Grenville to continue to Lord Sommerville's.
I had to explain to Mrs. Beauchamp what had happened to the letters. She hugged the box to her chest as she listened, her brown eyes round.
'Whoever would want to steal Charlotte's letters?'
'He may not have known the letters were inside,' I said. 'He saw a pretty box and thought it would contain something valuable.'
I knew that was untrue. The box had been out of sight, in the saddlebag. The lad had deliberately looked for it.
'I am so sorry, Captain. Thank you for rescuing them.'
'I ought to have taken better care of them.'
'You cannot blame yourself.'
She wanted to be generous. She gave me some hot tea laced with port and let me dry out near her fire. She chatted to me of life in Hampstead and of Charlotte and their life together.
Her husband waylaid me as I made my departure. On the walk in front of the house, Beauchamp seized my arm and looked up into my face, his dark eyes glinting. 'Did the letters help?'
'That remains to be seen,' I said. 'You may be right that she is dead.'
'If you find her-' His voice caught. He cleared his throat. 'Please bring her home to us.'
'I will.'
Beauchamp did not offer to shake hands, nor did he bid me farewell. I turned back to my horse, let his footman boost me aboard, and rode back to the public house to await Grenville's return.
The drive back to London was quieter and wetter than the journey out had been. For the first part of it, I told Grenville what had been in Charlotte's letters, and he described his visit with Lord Sommerville. Grenville had managed to bring up the death of the kitchen maid. Lord Sommerville, as the local magistrate, and also distressed that one of his staff should come to such an end, had made an inquiry, but it had turned up nothing. The young man she customarily walked out with had been in London on the night in question, visiting his brother and nephews. According to servants' gossip, the maid Matilda, had apparently been cuckolding the young man with a new suitor, but Lord Sommerville did not know who the new suitor was. In the end, the death was put down to Matilda's having met a footpad in the woods.
After Grenville's recounting I dozed, still tired from my adventure. Grenville remained pensive and talked little. He mostly read newspapers, which each gave a lurid account of the murder of Josiah Horne. The Times speculated whether the brutal killing would reintroduce the question of creating a regular police force in England, such as they had in France.
Grenville gave me no explanation of why he'd disappeared from the inn the night before, and I did not ask him about it. His coachman left me at the top of Grimpen Lane, and I walked home. Again my neighbors streamed out to ogle Grenville's coach and fine horses. Mrs. Beltan handed me a stack of letters that had arrived for me in my absence. I bought one of her yeasty, buttery buns and retired upstairs to read my correspondence.
Among the constrained and polite invitations to social gatherings was a letter from Louisa Brandon, telling me that she was doing what she could for the Thorntons. She also mentioned that she would host a supper party on the weekend, making it plain that she wanted me to attend. I tucked the letter aside, my mind turning over what excuses I'd come up with for refusing her invitation.
Another letter, which I lingered over for a time, was from Mr. Denis himself, setting an appointment with me for two days hence at his house in Curzon Street. The tone of the letter conveyed that Horne's dying was only an inconvenience and should not stop a transaction of business. I wrote out a reply that I'd come.
The last of the post was a folded square of paper with my name on it in capitals. Unfolded, the note read: 'I arrested the butler. Magistrate made short work of him. Pomeroy.'
Chapter Twelve
I flung down the letter. I'd washed my hands of Horne's household and his death, but I did not think Bremer had killed his master. I'd left them to Pomeroy's mercy, and he had been his usual ruthless self.
After shaving and downing the bun, I walked to Bow Street and the magistrate's court. Inside the drab halls, the dregs of the night's arrests lay about waiting to appear before the magistrate. The smell of unwashed bodies and boredom smote me. For some reason, I scanned their ranks for Nance, but I didn't see her. Most game girls bribed the watch to look the other way, but occasionally, one chose to pick the wrong gentleman's pocket or got caught in a brawl.
The pale-faced bailiff accosted me and demanded my business. I sent him looking for Pomeroy. While I waited, a small man with wiry hair latched his fingers on to my cuff and began a barely intelligible, one-sided conversation, washing me in gin-soaked breath.
'Get on with you,' Pomeroy boomed. He cuffed the little man, who howled and ran back to the wall. 'Captain. Good news. I arrested the butler. He goes to trial in five days.'
There was no privacy to be had in that hall. I motioned Pomeroy away from the crowd, but still had to raise my voice to be heard. 'Why Bremer?'
'Stands to reason, doesn't it? He's the last one to see his master. He stabs him, cuts off his bollocks, sticks the knife back in the wound, leaves the room, and tells everyone the master asked not to be disturbed. You turn up later and won't go away, so he legs it upstairs and 'discovers' the body. Nothing mysterious about it.'
'But why should Bremer kill Horne?'
'Because by all accounts that cove Horne was a right bastard. Jury won't be sympathetic, though. Be wondering if their own manservants will get the idea to cut off their bollocks.'
I stood my ground. 'Horne paid very high wages. Surely Bremer would put up with a difficult master for that. Or give notice if he truly disliked the man.'
Pomeroy shrugged. 'No doubt he'll confess his motives at the trial.'
'And why mutilate Horne? Why not stop at simply killing him?'
'Damned if I know, Captain. I didn't ask him.'
'What did he tell the magistrate?' I asked.
'Not much. Kept babbling that he didn't do it. Magistrate asked him then who did? But he couldn't answer. Just gibbered.'
I shook my head. 'Think, Pomeroy. Whoever killed Horne had to best him. Horne was younger and stronger than Bremer. It couldn't have been easy to stab him.'
'Even the weak and frightened can do damage when they're riled enough.' Pomeroy gave me a patient look. 'Magistrate wanted a culprit. I gave him one.'
'Horne had another visitor that day. No one saw Horne after the visitor left, not even the butler.'
'Oh, yes? Who was that then?'
'Mr. James Denis.'
Pomeroy snorted. 'And it ain't likely I'm going to run 'round and arrest him, sir, is it? He's a toff that no one's going to touch, least of all the likes of me. What would he kill Horne for anyway?'
'Perhaps Horne owed him money, and Denis was angry that he hadn't been paid. Perhaps Horne slighted him. Perhaps Horne knew something that Mr. Denis didn't want put about.'
Pomeroy considered this. 'All those things could have happened. All the same, I'm not arresting the man. And you'd do best to let him alone, Captain. He's a one what likes his privacy. Pretend he never went to that house, and you know nothing about it.'
'I already have an appointment to speak to Mr. Denis.'
Pomeroy looked me up and down then spoke in a slow voice. 'You know, Captain, when we were on the line,
