I looked at him in surprise. 'You enjoy taking in strays, do you? First Marianne, then me.'
'Touche, Lacey.'
'I could not pay you the worth of the lodgings, and you know it.'
He gave me a critical look. 'You know, Lacey, your difficulty is that you spent most of your life with overwhelming tasks to undertake. Push back the Tippu Sultan in Mysore, push back Boney in Spain. Now, nothing so dire engages your attention. I have had this in mind for several weeks, and in fact, it was the news I wished to tell you at my soiree before you interrupted me to tell me you had found a ring on a poor dead young woman.'
He stopped as though assessing my mood, and I gestured for him to continue. 'What?'
'I have an old school friend in Berkshire, a widower and a gentleman of means, now head of the Sudbury School there. He is in need of a secretary. I saw him at Christmas, and he asked me in passing whether I knew of any gentleman he could take on. I thought at once of you. How about it, Lacey? Live in Berkshire and write letters for a dull headmaster? Hot meals by night and a servant to light your fire in the mornings?'
I sat still for a moment. Grenville was offering me what I wanted, a way to earn a living, a way to leave London and its smoke and grime and loneliness. Perhaps a way in which I could leave behind my melancholia and uncertainty, perhaps again find my own respect.
I wondered what Louisa would think of the offer. She would doubtless encourage me to take it. If I were out of London, she would no longer have to watch me bait her husband.
'It was good of you to think of me,' I said.
'Not at all. It seemed the perfect solution.'
'I might well be interested,' I said. 'I will think on it. Thank you.'
Grenville nodded and we ended the discussion.
His coach dropped Bartholomew and myself at home then clopped away into the night. I went to bed, sending Bartholomew up to the attics to do the same. The next morning, Bartholomew fetched a newspaper for me as well as bread and coffee from Mrs. Beltan's shop.
I ate bread and leafed through the newspaper, and then I stopped, my blood freezing.
On the second page, in the middle of the column was a notice that a member of the peerage, Lord Barbury, a baron, had been found outside his house the night before, shot through the head, a pistol clasped in his hand.
Chapter Fourteen
I hastened back to Mayfair, taking Bartholomew with me. Lord Barbury's home was in Mount Street, in a large house typical of the neighborhood. Pomeroy was there, along with another Runner from the Queen's Square house, asking the neighbors what they'd heard. Nothing, Pomeroy told me in disgust.
Lord Barbury had been laid out on his bed, pale and cold. A dark red hole marred the black locks of his hair just behind his right ear. As I looked at him, my anger soared.
The fact that the pistol had been in his hand might convince the Runners that it was suicide-over grief for his dead mistress, they'd say-but I was not convinced.
His coachman, who had been the last to see him alive, replied readily to Pomeroy's questions. Upon leaving Grenville's, Lord Barbury had asked his coachman to set him down in Berkeley Square, saying that he'd walk home from there. He'd wanted to think, he'd said. Why he could not have thought in the carriage, the coachman couldn't say, but that was not a coachman's business. The man set his master down as requested and returned home. Later, one of Barbury's footmen had heard a noise outside, opened the door, and found Lord Barbury lying dead on the front doorstep.
The servants were shocked and grieved. Barbury had been a good master and a kind man. I was in a boiling fury. I had Bartholomew fetch another hackney, and I rode to Middle Temple.
I ought to have consulted Sir Montague or Thompson or even Pomeroy first, but I was tired of waiting for them to uncover evidence through slow investigation. Whatever my thoughts were, they were not clear; I only knew that I wanted to find the killer and drag him to justice. In the affair of Hanover Square, I'd sympathized with those wanting to murder the odious Horne. In the regimental affair, I'd understood the motives behind the deaths; but Peaches and Lord Barbury, though a misguided in some respects, were hardly in the same standing.
I turned to the most obvious suspect, the jealous husband.
Chapman's chambers lay in the Brick Court of Middle Temple. The house and those around it bore the same formal architecture of gray brick and white windows. The Middle Temple coat of arms, the Agnus Dei, reposed over the door.
Mr. Chapman sent down first his clerk, then his pupil, to try to put me off. Very busy, the clerk said. The red- haired Mr. Gower made a face and said, 'He's been closeted all morning by himself, pouring over mucky books. Why, I do not know. I'm only thankful he hasn't made me help him.'
'It's important,' I said, and Bartholomew loomed behind me to put in, 'There's been a murder.'
Mr. Gower looked somewhat more interested. 'Really? And you want to prosecute? Mr. Chapman works through a chap called Sandringham, in Fetter Lane. I'll give you his direction.'
'No, Mr. Gower,' I said in a hard voice. 'I want to talk to Mr. Chapman about the murder of his wife's lover.'
Gower's freckles spread as he raised his brows. 'Good lord.' He looked at Bartholomew as though asking the large lad whether this were a joke, then he looked back at me. 'Well, well. Did Chapman do him in?'
'Maybe,' I said.
'Good lord.'
'May we go up?' I asked pointedly.
Gower blinked at me, then nodded. 'Yes, yes, follow me.'
He led us up a flight of polished stairs, his gait agitated. He rapped briefly at a door at the top of the stairs, then pushed it open and fled before Chapman could say a word.
Chapman looked up from behind a stack of books, his graying hair awry. 'I told you I did not want-'
He broke off when he saw me, his mouth remaining open. I walked inside. Bartholomew stayed in the hall but closed the door, shutting me in alone with Chapman.
'What do you want?' Chapman bristled. 'I am a busy man, sir. What did my clerk mean by admitting you?'
'I am afraid I rather insisted.' I dragged a chair from the wall and sat facing Chapman. The chair was hard, the upholstery frayed. 'Your wife's lover is dead.'
He flushed. 'I know that. What of it?'
'You have heard the news, then?'
'I do read newspapers.'
'Yes, you make much of your living from the sordid crime that is reported there. Where were you last night?'
He stared, puzzled. 'Last night? At home, of course.'
'You have witnesses to place you there?'
'Witnesses?' He rose. 'See here, Captain Lacey. What are you on about?'
'Do you?' I asked.
'My housekeeper made me supper. I ate it and retired.'
'What time was this supper?'
'Eleven o'clock. I am certain of that, because I arrived home at half-past ten.'
'Why so late? Were you out?'
'No, I was here. I have much practice, much work to do. Not that my good-for-nothing pupil helps me. He whined that he wanted to waste time at his club with his friends, so I told him to go.'
'At what time?'
'Why are you obsessed with the hours of the day, Captain?'
'Tell me, please.'
Chapman came around the desk, but I remained seated. 'Leave at once, sir. I do not have time for this foolishness. I have a difficult case for which I must prepare.'
