Inglethorpe in truth might have nothing to do with Peaches death, but I wanted to leave no stone unturned. Peaches might have made a friend at Inglethorpe's gatherings, someone who possibly could tell us where she'd been the day she'd died and what she'd done. Also, she might have gone to this Inglethorpe's home and met someone there, gone away with them, and died by their hand, for reasons unknown. Perhaps Inglethorpe himself had killed her.
'Shall we speak to Mr. Inglethorpe then?' I asked, lifting my glass of ale.
Grenville nodded. 'He had gatherings on Monday and Wednesday afternoons. I will write and ask him to admit you to the gathering tomorrow.'
My glass paused halfway to my lips. 'Will you not be attending with me?' That seemed unlike Grenville, who was usually adamant to be in the thick of things. 'Another appointment with porcelain?'
Grenville flushed. 'I keep my distance from Inglethorpe.'
'May I ask why?'
'Oh, certainly you may ask.' Grenville stopped, looked contrite. 'I beg your pardon, Lacey. If you must know, Inglethorpe propositioned me once. A few years ago. It was a bit embarrassing.'
'I see.' Such things had happened to Grenville before, much to his dismay. Wealthy and elegant Grenville was not only the object of women's aspirations but of a few gentlemen's as well. 'Is Inglethorpe an unnatural, then?' I asked.
'I honestly do not believe he cares which way the wind blows,' Grenville said. 'Inglethorpe enjoys sensual pleasure of any kind. He claims he does not hold my refusal against me, but even so, I avoid him.' Grenville gave me a sharp look. 'That goes no further than you, please, Lacey.'
'I would never repeat your conversation to another,' I said stiffly.
He sighed. 'I beg your pardon. I know. I have been put off by this poor woman's murder.'
So had I. 'Have you been able to discover, at all, if Lord Barbury was at his club yesterday afternoon, as he claims?' I asked.
'He was. At White's. I've met a few fellows who claimed he was there, though I'll poke about a bit more and make certain. Though I do not like to think of Barbury as a murderer. He is grief-stricken. It’s heartbreaking to see him.'
'He might not have done the deed himself but hired someone to kill her,' I pointed out, 'while making certain he was visible at his club.'
'You are a cheerful chap, Lacey.' Grenville turned his ale glass, watching the liquid inside. 'I like Barbury, you see. He is not fatuous or toadying. He says what he thinks, and I find that refreshing.'
Grenville had genuine liking for few people. I hoped for his sake that Barbury did not turn out to be a murderer, but I could not dismiss him simply because Grenville approved of him.
He sipped his ale. 'It is a bother that we don't know whether Peaches was killed in the Temple Gardens or her body brought there afterward. At least in the Hanover Square affair, we knew where the man was killed and more or less why.' He made an expression of distaste, recalling that gruesome death. 'This is different. This is the work of a brute.'
I agreed.
I had not told Grenville or Thompson of the other reason I wanted to look into the mystery of Peaches' death. General anger that someone could commit such a crime was part of it, but the other was that, when I had looked upon the childlike face of Mrs. Chapman, gray and dead in the light of the torches, she had greatly put me in mind of my estranged wife, Carlotta Lacey.
Of course, the dead girl could not have been Carlotta. Peaches had been in her late twenties at most, and Carlotta would now be nearing forty. Carlotta lived in France-precisely where and with whom only one man in England knew, and he was the one man I would never ask.
The girl could also not be, thank God, my daughter, Gabriella. The child Carlotta had taken away from me when she'd fled so long ago would be about sixteen now, and Peaches had definitely been older.
But I hated to think of my own child lying dead somewhere, with no one to care. Barbury grieved but did not want Bow Street mucking about his affairs. Thompson investigated because it was his job and because of professional interest. Pomeroy sought the criminal for monetary reward, and Grenville helped in order to relieve his ennui.
So far, I seemed to be the only one concerned for Peaches' sake, although I could be wronging Barbury with that assumption. Whatever Peaches had done, whatever choices she had made, she did not deserve what had happened to her.
'Another avenue of possibility is The Glass House,' I said. 'If Peaches and Barbury went there together, someone there might have known her and perhaps be able to tell us what she did yesterday.'
Grenville made a face. 'The Glass House. What do you know of it?'
'Little. It is a gaming hell that costs much to enter. In the East End?'
'Number 12, St. Charles Row, near Whitechapel,' Grenville said. 'I have been once and vowed never to go back. Every vice is available there, whether you have a penchant for gambling, or women, or men, or- well, anything you can think of, The Glass House will supply it.' He watched me with his sharp, dark eyes. 'I do mean every vice, Lacey. I must wonder why Barbury went there with Peaches when he could easily have arranged a better place. Any connection Peaches formed there will be a sordid one.'
Nasty goings on there Thompson had said. Whenever magistrates or reformers try to close it, their intentions are blocked.
'Murder is sordid,' I said.
'I grant that, and you might be right that The Glass House is important. I will have to get you inside, because you'll never gain entry on your own. No insult to you.'
'None taken.' My father had been a gentleman; but a country gentleman of Norfolk, however ancient our family, was not in the same standing as someone like Lord Barbury or Grenville.
'I guarantee that you will not like it,' Grenville said.
'I have no interest in liking it,' I said. 'I am not seeking entertainment.'
'I know. But please, do not blame me if the place disgusts you. There, I have warned you.'
He made me curious. Grenville could affect disdain, but his distaste now was genuine.
We finished our ale, said our farewells, and departed, Grenville to return via his luxurious coach to Mayfair, me to my rooms in Grimpen Lane. Grenville promised to send word about when I should call on Inglethorpe.
He was interested, at least. When Lucius Grenville became interested in something, he pursued it with a tenacity the Emperor Bonaparte would have envied. The murderer would be hard pressed to elude the both of us.
Chapter Four
That evening, Thompson sent word to me that Chapman was due in Bow Street to speak to Pomeroy at five o'clock. It was a short walk to the magistrate’s office from my rooms, though I moved slowly, because the weather cramped my injured knee.
The tall edifice of the magistrate's house encompassed numbers 3 and 4 Bow Street. Behind it, across a small yard, lay the strong rooms for the keeping of prisoners; the officers sometimes used the cellar of the tavern across the road for prisoners when the house was full.
Church clocks were striking the quarter hour when I entered the house and made my way up to Pomeroy's room, where Mr. Chapman waited. In his early fifties, Chapman had a fringe of graying hair, small dark eyes, and an expression of one whose mind was always moving forward to his next task.
He greeted Pomeroy and Thompson politely, looking in no way worried about why they'd brought him there. Apparently, he’d not believed their story that his wife had been found dead and seemed impatient for them to prove it. He was uninterested in who I was and expressed a desire to get on with it as he had important appointments.
Peaches' body had been placed in one of the buildings in the yard behind the house. Pomeroy led us there and unlocked the door. The stone room was chilly and damp, a foul tomb for anyone.
