'Interesting,' he murmured when I finished, then he pocketed the quizzing glass, and his voice became brisk. 'If she wore the ring under the glove so it would not fall off her finger, that means she did not want to lose the ring, which indicates that she probably cared for the paramour, whoever he is.'
I rubbed my upper lip. 'We are rather presuming that the woman received this ring from a lover. She might have stolen it herself. Although, in that case, she likely would have tried to sell it or given it to a lover of her own.'
Grenville peered at the band again. 'Possibly, but it's common for a gentleman to give his ring to his ladybird. Pity there is no inscription.'
Indeed, a line reading 'To my beloved Miss Smith from Mr. Worth,' or some such would have been most helpful.
'However.' Grenville squinted. 'There is a jeweler's mark. Excellent. If it belongs to a jeweler in England, we will easily know for whom this ring was made.'
'As easily as that? Pomeroy winced at the thought of looking in at every jeweler in the West End and Mayfair. I supposed we will have to.'
Grenville's nose twitched. He was well and truly interested. 'Nonsense. All I need do is ask my man Gautier. He knows every jeweler, boot maker, glove maker, hat maker, and tailor in London, not to mention the history of each business and the family who owns it. I wager he can tell us what this jeweler's mark is in a trice.'
He rose and tugged the bellpull then sent the answering footman for Gautier. Grenville liked to move quickly when something took his interest, which, in this case, was amenable to me. The sooner we could discover who the lady was, the more speedily I could lay my hands on her murderer. The sight of the pathetic and bloated body in pretty clothes had done something to me.
Gautier, a fine-boned Frenchman who had, last summer, efficiently bandaged my hands after an impromptu boxing match, responded to Grenville's summons with perfect equanimity. He studied the ring and the jeweler's mark inside for a time, before he handed back the ring and announced it was the work of Mr. Neumann of Grafton Street.
'Excellent, Gautier, thank you,' Grenville said. He flipped the ring in the air, caught it. 'Tell Matthias to run and fetch Mr. Neumann here.'
Gautier bowed, took this instruction in stride, and glided from the room.
'It's a bit late, is it not?' I asked.
Grenville closed the ring in his fist. 'I am certain your Mr. Thompson of the Thames Patrol wishes you to be quick. Besides, the owner of this ring might be under my very roof right now. Best to find him and discover how much he knows right away, is it not?'
Grenville's surmise proved to be the case. While I knew his Grenville's real motive was his curiosity, I was happy that he had enough power to drag a respectable jeweler out of his bed in the middle of a rainy night and bring him here to be quizzed.
The man, middle-aged, with a handsome face running to fat, acquiesced to Grenville's request without protest. He was a businessman, after all. Any connection with Grenville, no matter how small, could boost his custom. The quantity of brandy Grenville gave him, along with a large tip, did not hurt either.
Mr. Neumann looked at the ring, gave us the name Lord Barbury, and departed home in the luxury of Grenville's carriage.
Grenville's eyes sparkled black fire. Lord Barbury, he said, a baron, had indeed answered the invitation to the soiree, and was likely still in the house. He departed in search of the man, nearly bouncing in his polished leather shoes.
He returned not long after with Lord Barbury in tow. Lord Barbury was a tall man with deep brown eyes, in his thirties, past his first blush of youth but not yet at middle age. Waves of thick dark hair dressed in the romantic style touched his shoulders and made his long face look still longer. His chin was shadowed with beard, as though his whiskers sprouted as quickly as his valet scraped them off.
Barbury wore a black suit much like Grenville's, with an ivory-and-white striped waistcoat. Heavy gold rings encircled his fingers, and his cravat pin sported a large emerald. A man about town, I assessed, living to go to his clubs, ride horses, gamble, and take a pretty mistress.
He frowned at me as Grenville introduced us, a frown that froze when Grenville opened his hand and displayed the silver ring.
'Where the devil did you get that?' Barbury demanded.
I said quietly, 'A woman was pulled from the Thames earlier this evening. She was wearing it.'
All the color drained from his face. 'What do you mean? Tell me at once.'
'Is this your ring?' Grenville asked.
'Yes, that is my be-damned ring. I do not understand why you have it.'
'Lacey?' Grenville said.
'The woman was small and pretty,' I said. 'She had blond hair and wore a gown of light pink and beaded slippers. She was wearing this ring under her glove. She had been murdered, her head struck, before she was pushed into the river.'
Lord Barbury gasped for breath, his eyes becoming pinpoints of black in his stark white face. Grenville caught him as he sagged and got him into a chair. I poured the man a glass of claret and handed it to him. Lord Barbury drank.
His hauteur and rage faded as he swallowed. He gave Grenville a dazed look. 'Please, gentlemen, tell me you are mistaken. That this is some disgusting joke…'
'I wish I could,' I said. 'The young lady died at about half-past four this afternoon, according to the men who found her. Did you see her today?'
'No. I was to meet her later. Tonight.' Barbury pressed his hand to his face. 'I cannot believe this. This cannot be.'
'Where were you, my lord,' I asked, 'at half-past four?'
He raised his head, eyes filling with rage, but I held my ground. If he’d killed the young woman, I didn’t care whether he were a baron or a boatman.
'I was at my club,' he snapped. 'How dare you think that I could do this, that I could harm my Peaches.' His voice broke.
'I believe I saw you with her once,' Grenville said. 'A pretty young woman.'
'Lovely and sweet as a peach,' he said. 'Which is why I call her..' Barbury looked up at me, brown eyes filled with tears, an anguished man unused to grappling with this sort of pain. 'Who did this to her?'
'That we do not know,' Grenville said. 'An officer of the Thames River patrol and one of Bow Street are looking into it.'
'Bow Street, bah. Trumped up watchmen who do nothing without a large reward dangling over their heads.'
'You could offer the reward,' Grenville suggested.
'Then they will simply scoop up anyone from the street and push through a conviction.'
I didn’t completely disagree with Barbury. Pomeroy was diligent in seeking out his rewards, and he enjoyed arresting people, whether they had anything to do with the crime in question or not.
'Mr. Thompson of the Thames River patrol struck me as being intelligent,' I said. 'He is interested in the truth.'
Lord Barbury waved away Mr. Thompson as well. 'You do it, Lacey.'
'Pardon?'
Barbury looked at me with a mixture of grief and rage. 'I have heard that you run about finding lost girls and discovering murderers. Twitting magistrates is an admirable quality. Besides, at least you're a gentleman.'
Lord Barbury had in no way convinced me that he had not himself murdered the woman called Peaches. He might have quarreled with her, he might have tried to end the affair and she resisted, or she might have threatened him. His grief seemed genuine, but I had met men before who could portray grief and be perfectly sanguine a moment later. It would be easy enough, however, to discover Barbury’s whereabouts between four and five o'clock that afternoon, though that was not to say that a man of his standing couldn’t hire others to do his dirty deeds.
