safe.'
Mr. Gower snorted. 'You'd never think he was married. He never talks about his wife, never goes home. Just has me sifting through dull books all night. I hear she is a damned pretty woman. I'll not feel sorry for her, though, always being alone at home. It would be duller for her with him there.'
I found it interesting that Chapman seemed not to have told his pupil of his wife's death or of his journey to Bow Street to identify her. Doubtless Mr. Gower would be disheartened to learn he'd missed the only bit of excitement in Chapman's chambers all term.
'Do you dine with him?' I asked.
'Every day in the hall.' The lad gestured to the square brick edifice behind us. 'I sit with the students, of course. We debate a case most days. Thank God he doesn't choose them. He dines with the other barristers, but not the silks. Not that he don't want to.' Mr. Gower winked.
A silk, as I understood it, denoted a King's Counsel, a senior barrister-a most distinguished achievement.
'Did he dine Monday?' When young Gower looked a question, I added. 'I called, but he was not in his chambers. I wondered if I’d chosen a bad time.'
'Oh, yes, he was there. Dozing over his pudding as usual. Saving up his waking hours to plague me with his dull books. I say.' He brightened. 'Would you like to slip away for a tankard? It's early, he won't miss me for a while.'
I resisted the urge to join him. Gower's easy manner was infectious, but I could not keep up the charade over a tall tankard of ale, nor could Bartholomew. I declined and thanked him for his time. He shrugged and departed, walking away down the lane, back straight, arms swinging, whistling a tune.
I envied him. His young shoulders had borne no hardships; his only grief was nodding off over the pages of the tedious cases Chapman assigned him to read.
Bartholomew and I walked the opposite direction, down to the Temple Gardens. The peaceful setting of green and trees was soothing, even in the winter cold. Young men in black gowns walked hurriedly, heads down, gowns flapping, like crows scuttling along the green. Older barristers hobbled in their wakes. All moved purposefully to and from the Inns and other buildings, seeming to ignore the gardens laid out for their pleasure.
A set of stairs led from the gardens to the Thames. The steps to the water had existed since the time that these Inns had been the demesne of the Knights Templar; the stairs had led to barges when the Thames had been the most sensible route for traversing London.
'He couldn't have done her, then,' Bartholomew said as soon as we were alone on the stairs. 'If he were sitting at dinner, falling asleep, he couldn’t have done her.'
'Not necessarily.' The Temple Gardens were an idyllic place, with trees and green and the river below. It was here, if Thompson had been correct, that Peaches had met her death, or at least had been put into the river.
I walked halfway down the water steps and watched the gray river flowing obliviously past us. 'Middle Temple Hall opens onto the garden. Chapman could easily have come out, met his wife, and gone back. It was nearly dark, and almost everyone in the Temples were dining. No doubt others in the hall nod off as well, and the students spend the time debating and arguing, not watching their elders.'
'That's possible, sir.'
'Anything is possible,' I said, growing impatient. 'That is the trouble. What's more, it is probable. So is Lord Barbury bringing her here after she was killed to throw suspicion on her husband, who was dining conveniently nearby.' I blew out my breath. 'I very much want to speak to someone who saw Peaches alive that day. We know where she was to have gone, and where she should have gone, but not where she did go.'
''Tis puzzling, sir.' Bartholomew dropped his deferential nephew pose and folded his arms over his chest.
We prowled about looking for signs that Peaches had been killed here, although Thompson had told me the Bow Street foot patrol had searched the area, under Pomeroy's supervision. We found no stones with blood on them, nor had the murderer conveniently left behind a bloody handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it. Of course, anything incriminating could simply have been dropped into the silent Thames.
Rain began to patter down on us. It had poured rain on Monday, which likely had disguised any sign of violence. Bartholomew and I looked about until we were drenched then gave up and returned home.
Once in Grimpen Lane, I went to my bedchamber to change into dry clothes and told Bartholomew to do the same. When I emerged, my landlady, Mrs. Beltan, was knocking at my door.
'Your friend Mr. Grenville's been,' she said when I answered. Rain still pattered outside, and the hall was cold and clammy. Mrs. Beltan handed me a folded square of paper. 'Been and gone. And he's taken Miss Simmons away with him.'
Chapter Five
I stared. 'Taken her where?'
Mrs. Beltan’s plump mouth pursed in disapproval. 'I couldn't say, sir. But she had on her best bonnet and a bundle under her arm. He fair dragged her away. He looked that angry.'
Grenville had seemed fascinated by Marianne from the day he'd met her, an interest he'd never denied. He'd given her a good handful of money, though it seemed to disappear with nothing to show for it. I wondered what Marianne had said or done to anger him, and where on earth he'd taken her.
'I will speak to him,' I told Mrs. Beltan. 'If it's a question of the rent…'
'Rent’s been paid to the end of the quarter. Your Mr. Grenville gave me a large note for it.'
For that I could only wonder. I had known Grenville for a year or more now, but I could neither understand nor explain his actions.
The piece of paper he'd left instructed me to present myself at number 21, Curzon Street at four o'clock this afternoon. It was just going on twelve. I told the worried Mrs. Beltan I would look into the matter, fetched Bartholomew, and set off on my next errand.
I did not seriously think Marianne in any danger from Grenville, but I had no idea where he could have taken her. Certainly not to his own house; at least, I did not believe so. A few lads in Russel Street told me they'd seen Grenville's carriage but added nothing more helpful than it had turned toward Covent Garden and King Street.
I let it go. I doubted Grenville would appreciate me prying, and I was not quite certain who I was more worried for, Marianne or Grenville. However, I told Bartholomew to return to Grenville’s house in Mayfair and make sure all was well, then I took a hackney through the City to have a look at the infamous Glass House.
I rode in the rain through Fleet Street to Ludgate Hill, St. Paul's to Cheapside, Cornhill to Leadenhall Street. St. Charles Row proved to be just off Aldgate, east of Houndsditch. The street looked respectable, if rundown. These houses accommodated the lesser clerks and bankers of the City not far away, and none looked as though they would hold a fashionable hell.
Despite the chill, peddlers strolled up and down the street. Some carried boxes strapped about their necks from which they sold an assorted jumble of things, some toted baskets that held jeweled colors of fruit, some pushed carts that carried fragrant hot chestnuts. A knife grinder wandered about, calling his trade.
These peddlers, like most Londoners, dealt with the weather with a stoicism I admired. I had spent twenty years in warmer climes and had become unused to the chill of my homeland. In India, the hot ball of sun had blazed down upon us most of the time, and in Spain and Portugal, the summers had been roasting.
I’d toyed with the idea of retiring to Spain when the war ended, to live in a sunny room over a quiet plaza, but circumstance had brought me back to London to shiver in the rain. My agreement with Colonel Brandon had forced me to give up many of my dreams.
The door of number 12, St. Charles Row looked no different from the doors of numbers 11 and 13. Number 12 had been painted dark green, but scratches here and there revealed that the original paint had been black. The knocker was tarnished and less than clean. Indeed, number 12, St. Charles Row did not seem a particularly prosperous address.
