Barbary was looking at the ring again. His arrogance had crumpled, a man trying very hard to not believe the worst.
I said, 'I will see what I can do.'
'Please do,' Barbury glared at me. His grief made him abrupt, but I sensed that even in the happiest of times, he was a man of impatience and who brooked no fools. 'I want to find whoever hurt Peaches, and I want to watch him dance from the gallows.'
Whatever I thought about Barbury, I shared his wish. No matter what Peaches had done in life, I vowed that the man who had hurt that helpless and frail young woman would feel my wrath.
Grenville and I learned as much as we could from Lord Barbury before he departed the house, sunk in grief. The next morning, I visited Thompson to return the ring and tell him the story.
Peaches, Lord Barbury had told us, was in truth a lady called Mrs. Chapman. She had a husband, a barrister, and significantly, his chambers were in Middle Temple. Born Amelia Leary, Peaches had been an actress, moving from company to company in search of better roles, rather like Marianne did. Her sweet charm on the stage soon attracted Lord Barbury, and they’d become lovers.
Then, about five years ago, Peaches had left the theatre, married Mr. Chapman, and ceased to be Barbury’s lover. Barbury had spoken of this in clipped, dry tones. Peaches, it seemed, had had ambition. She must have realized fairly soon that Barbury would never marry her, she being beneath his station, so she'd turned her sights to another mark, the barrister called Chapman.
I wondered why Chapman, a respectable barrister, had taken a wife with Peaches' background. But perhaps he'd been flattered by her attention, perhaps the pretty Peaches had charmed him, perhaps Chapman hadn't known much about what went on in the world of the theatre. In any case, they’d married, and Peaches dropped from sight.
A year ago, Lord Barbury, still unmarried himself, had met Peaches again by chance. They'd discovered that their mutual attraction still was strong, and they'd begun another affair. They'd enjoyed a sweet reunion, Barbury said, his grief breaking his voice. They’d met regularly in two places-at the gatherings of a man called Inglethorpe in Mayfair and at The Glass House.
Thompson looked interested when I mentioned The Glass House. We sat in his office at Wapping on the Thames, a bare room with desk and chair and a stool for guests. I had come alone, Grenville having had an appointment to view a famous private collection of porcelain. He’d made the appointment weeks ago and had been vastly disappointed that he couldn’t traipse the back lanes of the East End with me this morning.
'The Glass House,' Thompson said. 'A name that has no good attached to it. Whenever magistrates or reformers try to close it, their intentions are blocked. Have you ever been there, Captain?'
I had not. I'd heard of The Glass House, a name spoken by many an upper-class gentlemen as a place to go for vices more exotic than those offered in the hells of St. James's. Grenville had never suggested taking me-never spoke of it, actually, from which I surmised he disdained it. Grenville’s tacit disapproval did not stop wealthy gentlemen going in droves, however, from what I’d heard. But I had neither the wealth, connections, or the interest to seek out The Glass House on my own.
'Nasty goings on there,' Thompson said. 'I believe a man must be deep in pocket and long in pedigree to even cross the threshold.'
That left me on the doorstep. A barrister who lived on what people paid him to prosecute cases likely would be left on the doorstep as well.
'I will have to send for Mr. Chapman and tell him the disagreeable news,' Thompson said, sighing. 'And he’ll have to identify the body. Not a happy errand.'
'Do you mind if I am present when you question him?' I didn’t necessarily relish watching a man look upon the dead body of his wife, but Chapman had the most motive for killing her. Peaches had been cuckolding him, and Chapman’s chambers were near to the Temple Stairs. Chapman might well have discovered his wife's affair with Lord Barbury, met his wife in the Temple Gardens, quarreled with her, and killed her.
I could not rule out Barbury, either, despite his impassioned plea to me to find Peaches' killer. He was an impatient man, as I'd observed. He could very well have been angry and jealous, and he was a large man, easily able to kill such a delicate young woman as Peaches.
Both men had strong connections to her; it was likely that she had been killed either by one of them or because of one of them.
'You’re welcome, if you like,' Thompson said. 'Sir Montague Harris told me things about you. He's astute as they make them, for a magistrate, and I've learned to trust him.' He slanted me a look that said he'd be interested to see what I did, if not explicitly sharing Sir Montague's trust in me.
Sir Montague Harris, magistrate from the Whitechapel house, had attended an inquest last summer at which I'd been called to give evidence. I’d been impressed with the man's common sense and pointed questions, even if the magistrate in charge had found him irritating.
I left Thompson, who told me he would send word when he fetched Chapman, and made my way back to Covent Garden.
Grenville and I met at the Rearing Pony to confer. I'd thought Grenville would prefer a more elegant meeting place, even our usual coffeehouse in Pall Mall, but he professed himself happy to settle in here. He explained, with an air of irritation, that here at least he would not be required by every passerby to render his opinion on a cravat, the cut of a coat, or the latest on-dit, as he had done all morning while viewing the porcelain.
I sensed that Grenville was growing weary of his role as most popular man in London. He betrayed a restlessness that had begun after our adventures last summer, and I wondered when he'd announce that he was returning to his world travels.
When he finally went, I would miss him. Despite our differences in wealth and opinions, we had become friends. Perhaps we were friends because of our differences; Grenville knew I would never toady to him, and he accepted me as I was-one of the few people in my life ever to do so.
As I repeated the conversation I'd had with Thompson, the barmaid, Anne Tolliver, slid another tankard in front of me and gave me a warm smile. I returned the smile with a nod. 'It would be helpful if we could piece together what Mrs. Chapman did yesterday,' I said as Mrs. Tolliver walked away. 'Where she went, who she met.'
I stopped. Grenville was staring at me, a half-amused, half-exasperated look on his face. 'How do you do it, Lacey?'
'How do I do what?'
'Good Lord, you do not even know.'
I studied Anne Tolliver’s retreating back, her hips swaying as she walked. 'If you refer to Mrs. Tolliver, she has a smile and a wink for every gentleman in the room.'
Grenville studied me, his eyes sharp, then he laughed. 'Not every gentleman. But never mind. We were speaking of Mrs. Chapman. We can quiz her servants, of course. Discover what she intended to do that day, whether she meant to meet friends, or Barbury, or perhaps even another lover.'
'Lord Barbury mentioned a Mr. Inglethorpe.'
Grenville looked uncomfortable. 'Yes, Simon Inglethorpe. He lives in Curzon Street.'
The name meant nothing to me. 'Who is he?'
'No one of particular importance. A gentleman of much money and leisure time. He enjoys social gatherings.'
I shrugged. 'So might many a man.'
'Lately, he has taken to the new sort of gas that leaves one feeling euphoric. He invites ladies and gentlemen to partake of it in his upstairs rooms. Interesting that Lord Barbury decided to take Peaches there.'
'Might she have gone there the day of her death?'
'That is possible. Let us hope so. If she'd had some of Inglethorpe's magic gas, she might not have felt the blow that took her life.'
I did not understand how that could be, but I didn’t comment. 'She might have made some acquaintance there, who could help us discover her movements yesterday.'
'It is worth a try,' Grenville agreed.
