'Involving murder?' I asked. 'Perhaps you are researching how a man might get out of hanging for a crime of passion? How to prove it was not premeditated?'
His flush deepened. 'Just what are you suggesting?'
'Did you leave these chambers last night, meet Lord Barbury, and shoot him dead?'
His brow clouded. 'Lord who?'
'Barbury. You saw him yesterday at your wife's funeral.'
'Did I?' He looked confused.
'The tall man with the dark hair. That was Lord Barbury. Your wife's lover.'
Chapman stared at me a moment longer then his face drained of all color. He crossed back to his desk and sat, his eyes fixed in frozen horror.
' He was her lover?'
'Yes. The Thames River policeman told the court all about him at Mrs. Chapman's inquest. He wasn't there himself.'
But Chapman had left the room, I now remembered, before Thompson had revealed Lord Barbury's name. Lord Barbury had managed to keep his name out of any newspaper reports of Peaches' death and inquest, probably by giving healthy bribes to the right people.
I could swear that Chapman's astonishment now was genuine. Not only astonishment, shock. He had known that his wife had taken a lover but had not realized that the name of the man was Lord Barbury. I wondered just who he'd thought the lover was.
Then it struck me. 'Oh, my God,' I said. 'You thought it was Simon Inglethorpe.'
Chapman looked at me, his face blotched red, his lips white.
'You must have heard she had been going to his house in Curzon Street,' I said. 'You so concluded that Inglethorpe was her lover.'
Chapman's breathing was ragged. 'It was an accident. The man ran at me, and the sword went right through him.'
I let him sit there while I envisioned the incident. I imagined Mr. Chapman approaching number 21, Curzon Street, filled with indignation, ready to dress down Inglethorpe for his improper relations with his wife. Chapman might have thought to threaten Inglethorpe with a lawsuit or perhaps he'd merely wanted to vent his feelings. Inglethorpe might have laughed at him, provoked Chapman to anger. And my swordstick was to hand…
I paused. How Inglethorpe had suddenly produced my swordstick, I still could not fathom, nor did I yet understand why he'd removed half his clothing.
'Tell me what happened,' I said.
'No, I should say nothing.' Chapman's hands shook.
I rose and opened the door. Bartholomew was sitting on a wooden chair, resting his muscled shoulders against the wall. I knew he'd heard every word. 'Run to Bow Street,' I told him. 'Fetch Pomeroy if he is back from Lord Barbury's. Tell someone to send word to Sir Montague Harris in Whitechapel. Tell them both it is urgent that they come here.'
Bartholomew nodded once, sprang to his feet, and dashed off.
I stayed with Chapman, who sat listlessly, forgetting about his books and everything else around him. Gower came to offer coffee, looking puzzled and very interested.
Pomeroy arrived in a remarkably short time, followed soon after by Sir Montague Harris and Thompson.
Chapman, looking defeated, told his story. Yes, he had learned from one of his maids that Mrs. Chapman was in the habit of going to a certain house in Curzon Street, owned by a wealthy gentleman called Inglethorpe, for regular visits. Mrs. Chapman would never allow the maid to follow her in, and in fact she would dismiss the maid at the door, saying she would return home alone later.
After Peaches' death, Chapman had wanted to see for himself who was this wealthy gentleman of Curzon Street. When he'd reached the house, he found the door wide open and Inglethorpe in the reception room, shirtless, for heaven's sake, and looking annoyed.
Inglethorpe had not even had the decency to pick up his coat and put it on. He'd demanded to know what Chapman wanted, very high and mighty. Chapman had accused him of being Mrs. Chapman's lover, and Inglethorpe had laughed at him.
He'd not denied that Peaches had come there regularly; she always had a marvelous time, Inglethorpe said.
A sword from a walking stick had been lying on a chair next to the door. Chapman had picked it up, uncertain why, he said. He did not really remember, but suddenly, the sword was in his hand. He'd looked down the blade at Inglethorpe, angrier than he had ever been. Inglethorpe, alarmed, had lunged for him. Chapman had held the sword steady, and the blade had pierced Inglethorpe's chest.
Inglethorpe had dropped to the floor. Chapman had let go of the sword and fled.
Chapman's voice was hollow when he finished. Thompson and Sir Montague exchanged glances. Pomeroy said, 'A nice story. Now then, sir, what about your wife?'
Chapman looked puzzled. 'What do you mean?'
'Your wife, who was cuckolding you with a Mayfair gent. Did you kill her first, vowing you would kill her lover as well?'
'No, no. I did nothing to Amelia. I told you, I never saw her after the time she left my house to begin her journey to Sussex.'
'Well, the jury will decide whether that's true,' Pomeroy said cheerfully. 'Who knows? Perhaps the gent what prosecutes you will be one of your acquaintance from Middle Temple.' He chuckled.
Chapman went white. The man who had aspired to take silk would now have a King's Counsel staring at him across the courtroom at the Old Bailey, questioning his stammered explanation of how Inglethorpe had run into the swordstick.
I rather believed Chapman had stabbed Inglethorpe in fury then had come up with the story of Inglethorpe skewering himself, while sitting in this room 'researching' his case. The sword had been thrust all the way through Inglethorpe's chest and into the carpet. I could imagine Chapman stabbing, Inglethorpe crumpling, dying, Chapman keeping the sword hard in him until he'd pinned Inglethorpe to the floor.
As Pomeroy had said, the jury would decide what was true.
Before Pomeroy dragged Chapman off, I said to him, 'What is the name of your wife's man of business? I wish to speak with him.'
Chapman stared at me in bewilderment. 'My wife did not have a man of business. All of our affairs were handled by mine.'
'Oh, but she did,' Sir Montague Harris broke in, a smile on his broad face. 'He sent the coroner a letter on hearing of her death, asking for the death certificate.'
Chapman continued to look surprised.
I was surprised as well. 'So the man of business does exist?' I asked.
'Indeed,' Sir Montague said. 'I think I ought to pay him a visit. Care to join me, Captain?'
'This is most irregular,' the thin man on the other side of the table said to us. He had sandy, almost colorless hair, narrow dark eyes, and pale skin stretched tightly over his bones. He kept a tiny room in a court off Chancery Lane, not far from the Temples, had a clerk as thin as he was, and an office of painful neatness.
His name was Ichabod Harper, and he'd been Peaches' man of business for six years, ever since she'd inherited property in a trust.
'Murder is most irregular,' Sir Montague replied.
'Indeed,' Mr. Harper said.
Sir Montague beamed at him. 'Now then, tell us, sir, what was this property, how did Mrs. Chapman come to inherit it, and to whom does it pass on occasion of her death?'
Mr. Harper cleared his throat, a dry sound. 'To answer that, sir, I must go back some years. Mrs. Chapman's parents were a rather low form of actors-strolling players, I believe they are called. Mrs. Chapman's grandmother had married one of these players, running away and disgracing her family, who then disowned her. The grandmother's sister-Mrs. Chapman's great aunt-took it upon herself to see that her foolish sister's offspring would not be completely destitute. Mrs. Chapman's parents died of a fever eight years ago, leaving Mrs. Chapman-then
