adventure.
There was not much more to discuss. Grenville sent Bartholomew and Matthias off, and he and I made our way to Peaches' funeral.
The sky had clouded over by the time we reached the burial ground of a church near Cavendish Square, but at least it did not rain. The vicar, who looked uninterested in the whole proceeding, waited while the mourners approached the grave.
There were not many. Mr. Chapman stood stiffly near the vicar, rigid and displeased at missing his appointments. A thin woman stood next to him, looking enough like him that I guessed she was Chapman's sister. A prim-looking gentleman waited next to her, likely the sister's husband.
I spied Lord Barbury, wearing unrelieved black, his hat pulled down to hide his eyes, standing near the railings that separated the churchyard from the street. A little way from him, in the shadow of a tree, I saw, to my surprise, Mr. Kensington. He gave me a belligerent stare.
Grenville and I stood not too near the grave, so we would not intrude on the family, but close enough to pay our respects. The vicar, conceding that no one else would appear, opened the Prayer Book and began.
He went through the lines in a hurried monotone, with the attitude of a man who wanted to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. Chapman stared at the ground, his mouth shaping the responses, while his sister and husband spoke them loudly and clearly. 'Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us.'
The vicar concluded the service, said the blessing, shook Mr. Chapman's hand, and disappeared into the church. The sextant silently began the task of filling in the grave.
We approached Chapman, who looked in no way pleased to see us. 'My condolences, sir,' I said.
'I have nothing more to say to Bow Street,' he snapped.
He eyed me in an unfriendly manner, but I saw a bleak light in his eyes behind his habitual stiffness. Despite the self-righteous looks his sister and her husband wore, Chapman might actually mourn his wife.
'I did not come representing Bow Street,' I said. 'But to say that I am truly sorry for your loss. Mrs. Chapman was too young for such a fate.'
Chapman scowled and did not answer.
Chapman's sister glanced at the sextant, who was plying his shovel to the rich, black earth. 'Blood will out, I always said.' She sniffed. 'And it did.'
Not the most tactful thing, I thought, to tell a man who had just buried his wife.
'A gentleman named Simon Inglethorpe died yesterday,' I said to Chapman. 'In Mayfair. You might have read of it.'
'I have better things to do than read the newspapers.'
'He was an acquaintance of your wife,' I said. 'Did you know him?'
Chapman bathed me in a freezing glare. 'She apparently had many acquaintances.'
'I have an idea that the same man who killed Inglethorpe also killed Mrs. Chapman.'
'That is the magistrate's business.'
Chapman started to walk away, but I stepped in front of him. 'Your wife was murdered, sir. I would think you'd be interested in discovering the culprit.'
He looked at me in dislike. 'Of course I wish to discover the culprit. But I have been a barrister for many years. I know that murderers are foolish people who do foolish things to give themselves away. The Bow Street patrollers will find him soon, and then I will prosecute.' He gave me and Grenville a cold bow. 'Good day to you, sirs.'
He took his sister's arm and stalked away. The sister's husband, silent but radiating disapproval, followed.
We watched as Chapman passed first Lord Barbury then Kensington. He made no sign that he recognized either of them.
Kensington had remained under his tree, staring toward the grave, as though lost in thought. Grenville and I held a low discussion then I made my way to Kensington, and Grenville approached Lord Barbury.
Kensington watched me as I walked to him, leaning on the walking stick. His eyes flickered when I stopped in front of him, but he stood his ground.
'You lied to me,' I said.
'Do not be indignant with me, Captain. You were the one breaking the windows and the furniture in my house. You have crossed a person who does not like to be crossed. It will be costly to have the window replaced.'
'I do not give a pig's ear about your window. I asked you to show me Peaches' chamber, and you took me to the wrong room.'
He gave me a self-satisfied look. 'Correction, Captain. You asked me to show you where she and Lord Barbury met. And I did.'
'I want to see the other chamber, the one in the attics.'
'You cannot, I'm afraid. It is locked, and only she had the key.'
My hand tightened on my borrowed walking stick. 'I do not quite believe you haven't found means to enter the room. Let us visit The Glass House and try, shall we?'
Kensington looked slightly alarmed but remained stubborn. 'You cannot force me to do anything, and you know it.'
'I can always summon a magistrate. Sir Montague Harris has wanted to look at The Glass House for a long time.'
'You should have a care, Captain. You do not know your danger.'
'I have some idea of it,' I said dryly. I'd had run-ins with James Denis before. 'What did you and Mrs. Chapman argue about the day she died?'
He looked startled. 'Argued? Who said that?'
'You shouted at her, and Peaches laughed. What was the row about?'
'I don't know. Perhaps I did shout something at her. Amelia could be quite a bitch, if you must know.'
'She is lying dead not twenty feet from here,' I said. 'Keep your remarks respectful.'
'That does not change what she was, Captain. I knew her when she was eighteen years old and first in awe of London. I know everything there is to know about her, never mind her husband or her lordship lover.'
I gave him a warning look. 'And now you will tell me. I believe that you also do not know your danger.'
Kensington heaved a sigh. 'Very well, I will show you the bloody attic room. I planned to burn all her things anyway. They are of no use to me.'
I started to say more, but Kensington looked past me, and color flooded his face.
Lord Barbury and Grenville had stopped behind me, Lord Barbury not looking well. He seemed to have aged since Peaches' death; his eyelids were waxen, his face pale, the bristles on his jaw dark against his white skin. His eyes were rimmed with red, lashes wet. One man, at least, grieved for Peaches.
'What the devil are you doing here?' he asked Kensington in a hard voice.
Kensington contrived to look sad. 'Saying good-bye to my lass.'
Barbury tuned to me. 'Captain Lacey, do not trust this man. He is a snake, and he made Peaches' life miserable.'
'Gullible fool,' Kensington sneered. 'You should ask what she did to my life.'
'You used her until she had nothing left,' Barbury snapped. 'When she made it clear she preferred me to you, you tried to buy her back.'
'And she came running. What does that say for you, my fine lord?'
'Gentlemen,' Grenville interrupted. 'We are standing in a churchyard.'
'Not for much longer,' Kensington said angrily. 'Are you coming, Captain?'
As Kensington turned and marched away, I told Grenville that I was going with him to have another look at The Glass House, to see what Peaches had left behind there.
'Would you like to come with me?' I asked Barbury.
He hesitated a long moment, then his gloved fingers closed and he looked away. 'No,' he said at last. 'No, I do not want to come.'
I sympathized. When my wife had left me, sorting through her things and those of my daughter had been
