'Yes,' I said. 'We were looking in the wrong direction. Not Stacy or McAdams. Payne. '
Pomeroy was kind enough to allow me, Auberge, and Grenville to accompany him when he went to arrest Payne, coachman to Mr. Jeremiah Stacy.
'Payne?' Stacy said in confusion when Pomeroy announced his errand. 'I do not understand.'
It was early morning, and Stacy received us in a sitting room in his house on Upper Grosvenor Street. His attire had been hastily donned, his hair still tousled with sleep. I imagined that when his valet had announced to him that a Bow Street Runner had come to call, Stacy had tumbled out of bed in tearing hurry.
The sitting room was pleasant enough, with paneling picked out in gold trim, chairs upholstered in rose damask, and paintings of pretty landscapes lending their colors to the white walls. Touches of beauty that soothed the eye.
Stacy faced us in the middle of this lovely room, his blue eyes slightly red from however many bottles of port he'd consumed the night before.
'Your coachman, one Lewis Payne, has kidnapped three young women and killed one,' Pomeroy said with good humor. Pomeroy was always happy when about to make an arrest, particularly one certain to lead to conviction and reward. 'We would like very much to speak to him.'
'These are the girls you quizzed me about at Tatt's, Lacey? You are saying that Payne did this?'
'I am afraid so,' I answered. 'Both of the young ladies we recovered have sworn that a coachman answering to the description of Payne waylaid and kidnapped them, held them hostage in a filthy hole, and killed Mary Chester. Mary's death seems to have been accidental, but he was responsible.'
Stacy gaped. 'Good God.'
'Could not have pegged him without your evidence, Mr. Stacy,' Pomeroy said. 'The Runners are always grateful for cooperation.'
'My evidence?' Again Stacy looked to me for enlightenment.
I removed his journal from my pocket, the leather a little more creased than when I'd received it. 'It makes interesting reading, Stacy. I'd keep it well hidden. But it made me understand why Payne did it.'
Stacy's face whitened, and he snatched the journal from me. 'Where did you get that? This is a personal diary, Captain, how did you come by it?'
'Payne gave it to me. You mean to say you did not tell him to?'
'No. Good Lord, why would I?' Stacy went red. 'I suppose you and Grenville spent a merry evening over it.'
Grenville shook his head. 'When Captain Lacey told me of its contents, I admit that I did not wish to read it. What a gentleman does in his private life is his own affair. Lacey is a man of honor, I assure you. He will not breathe a word of it.'
'No?'
'No,' I said. 'An odd hobbyhorse you have, but I have been told by the young ladies of this book that you are harmless.'
Stacy held the journal close to his chest, as though protecting it. 'But you say Payne is not?'
I said, 'You must remember that while you were riding through Covent Garden observing game girls like a naturalist observing flora and fauna, Payne was observing them as well. You like the girls because they amuse you, or perhaps you enjoy feeling a bit lofty, playing benevolent lord to them. The point is, you like them, and they are fond of you in an indulgent sort of way. But there are men, as I was reminded by Felicity, who hate game girls, who see them as objects on which to take out their rage and disgust at women in general. Payne must be that sort of man.'
Stacy stared at me in shock. 'Mary and Bess were girls that I.. ' He bit his lip.
'You favored them. Perhaps Payne justified taking them because you'd been kind to them. I imagine that he loathes you as much as he loathes them.'
Auberge, who'd been very quiet since we'd returned Gabriella last night to her weeping mother, cleared his throat. 'But my daughter, why did he take her?'
'I imagine that Gabriella was a mistake,' I said. 'Payne saw Stacy speaking to her in Covent Garden. That is what you usually did, isn't it, Stacy? Spoke to the girls beforehand and set appointments with them for later. You were on your way to the theatre that night. Payne dropped you there, drove round the corner to Russel Street, found Gabriella again, and took her.' The anger in my voice rose. 'I do not know how he lured her away, but I mean to ask him, quite closely.'
'Dear God,' Stacy said, dazed. 'Those poor girls. Are they all right?'
'Black Bess and my daughter are recovering. Mary Chester, of course, is dead. Bess told me that Payne tried to rape Mary, she resisted, and she died when he wrestled her down. Probably suffocated in mud or earth; there were patches quite deep down there. I had wondered why Mary had soil stains on her gown, as though she'd been buried, but I understood once I had a look in the place he'd kept them. It is almost like a grave. The bruises on Mary's neck were put there by Payne, likely when he took her in the first place.'
Pomeroy broke in. 'But then he sees he has a dead body on his hands and knows he can swing for murder. He already knew that Bottle Bill liked to stash gin by the empty house. He sees his chance-he can dump the body on Bottle Bill, and then if the other girls are found, well, there's good old Bottle Bill with his pile of gin and his violent tempers when he's drunk. Poor old sod. I wager Payne even took off his coachman's livery and pretended to be a gentleman- Bottle Bill regards anyone not in the gutter with him as well above his station.'
'Payne did his best to shift the blame to you in several ways, Stacy,' I said. 'Not only did he offer me your journal with all your secrets, he lured Bess and Mary away with the hint that you were willing to take them up and be their protector. With the temptation of a large amount of money dangling before them, they gladly agreed to meet Payne in Covent Garden-thinking, of course, that he would drive them to you. Their friends would remember them chattering about a wealthy man who planned to do well by them, which pointed attention to you.'
'The bloody man,' Stacy said, his anger rising. 'This is the thanks I get for giving him good employment. By all means, Mr. Pomeroy, arrest him.'
'He'll be in the mews, then, will he?' Pomeroy asked. 'We'll have a walk round there and speak with Mr. Payne.' He bowed. 'Captain, Major, will you accompany me? But I must ask you not to murder the fellow. I won't get my reward money unless he stands more or less upright in the dock, and is still breathing.'
Grenville elected to stay inside with Stacy. 'You are a man in sore need of brandy,' he told Stacy. 'And a bit of a convivial chat. We'll allow the army men to tend to the messy work.'
Stacy looked grateful, and he and Grenville moved to Stacy's dining room, Grenville signaling to a footman to bring brandy on the way.
'He's a kind gentleman,' Pomeroy observed. 'Mr. Grenville, I mean. Shall we?'
Stacy's townhouse was located in Upper Grosvenor Street near Park Lane, an address that reflected his wealth. We went around the corner to the King Street Mews, a collection of stables and outbuildings nestled between the houses of Upper Brook and Upper Grosvenor Streets. In the coach house behind Stacy's home, we found Payne.
Payne was busily inspecting the right front wheel of Stacy's elegant town coach, crouching to observe the lay of the axle. The man's livery coat was unbuttoned, his coachman's hat hanging on a peg near the door.
'Good morning to you,' Pomeroy sang out.
Payne started, and rose. He saw Pomeroy, he saw me, and he stopped.
After a moment of silence, he tugged his forelock. 'Captain. What can I do for you this fine morning?'
'Allow me to introduce Milton Pomeroy,' I said. 'He was my sergeant during the Peninsular War and is now a Bow Street Runner. He has come to arrest you.'
'Bow Street,' Payne said hesitantly, his lined face paling.
'For the murder of Mrs. Mary Chester,' Pomeroy broke in. 'And for the kidnapping and assault of one Mademoiselle Gabriella Auberge and one Miss Bessie Morrow.'
Payne stared as one amazed. 'Not I, Mr. Pomeroy. Mr. Stacy did that.'
'Not according to the witnesses, Mademoiselle Auberge and Miss Morrow. They give very-what you might call, vivid — descriptions of your build and your face. Not to mention an exact account of how Mrs. Mary Chester died.'
