Black Gold (11 page)
A Poor Rich Boy
Saturday, March 31
Georges walked briskly to the city, urged on by a wet, mild, southwesterly wind. His spirit was troubled and gray, like the clouds scudding overhead. He had just served breakfast to Anne and assured himself she had passed the night safely. But she had been testy with him. And rightly so. He had rudely entered her room, embarrassed her. And for no good reason. The maid could have told him all he needed to know.
“Georges, you bungling idiot!” he exclaimed aloud. He took aim at a stone in his path and gave it a mighty kick. He wanted Anne to think fondly of him, and he had made her angry. Well, the experience would teach him a lesson. Even a police officer must show consideration to others. He would try to improve his manners, especially toward women.
A light rain pattered on his oilskin coat. He could have taken one of Combe Park's carriages, but he preferred walking to driving in the city's crowded streets, and walking helped clear his mind. He needed to find a way to deal with Jack Roach. A dangerous fellow, slippery as an eel. At Milsom Street he discovered with dismay that the shop was closed. Odd, he thought. Then he noticed a sign in the window: the shop would open at ten. He glanced at his watch. Barely eight o'clock. A bit early to call on a lady without warning. He shrugged, drew a deep breath, and knocked boldly on the milliner's door.
Pleading urgency, he persuaded a reluctant maid to lead him upstairs to the parlor and call her mistress. A few minutes later he faced an irate Madame Gagnon at table in a pink silk dressing gown, hair in disarray. He recalled with shame his recent commitment to good manners. To salvage some self-respect, he spoke his best French, wrinkling his brow with regret. “I'm sorry, Madame, but there's no time to lose.”
She glared relentlessly at him over coffee and rolls and said nothing.
He increased the sympathy in his voice and began to plead. “Baron Breteuil will be most grateful for your help.”
“What's so urgent that brings you here unannounced?” she huffed. “You routed me out of bed. Didn't even allow me time to put on a decent face.”
Georges knew how to appear contrite, and it was necessary in this instance. For Madame Gagnon's features, suffering from the ravages of time, required significant cosmetic remedies. He excused himself with as much solicitude as he could muster. “I would not dream of intruding like this, Madame, were it not that a life is in danger.” He explained how Jack Roach had attacked Anne Cartier in Islington a year and a half ago and once more threatened her. “We will take every precaution to protect her, but we must also anticipate his moves. Roach may have stumbled upon Miss Cartier at Combe Park by accident. In any case, he'll try to harm her. He may also be mixing his hand in the question of little Charlie Rogers' paternity, which could complicate our pursuit of Captain Fitzroy.”
Madame Gagnon sighed, sipped her coffee, gathered her thoughts. “The Red Devil's well-known to me. He lives in the North Parade, a row of fine town houses. It's a short walk to the Pump Room where he spends much of his time digging up scandal. He can be seen there shortly.”
Georges made a mental note to visit the place.
The milliner warmed to her story. “I know for a fact he extorts money from several of my customers or their husbands. His spies discover that these peopleâthey're usually wealthy merchantsâdeal in smuggled goods. Tea, brandy, lace. He threatens to expose them to the excisemen. His victims agree to pay him part of their profit from the illegal trade. If they don't, he informs the excisemen, who confiscate the smuggled goods, fine the culprits, and give Roach a reward for the information. He seems to enjoy what he's doing, and it earns him a good living.”
“And the hatred of his victims,” Georges remarked. “It's a wonder he's still alive.”
“He's shrewder than he looks.” Madame Gagnon bit into a roll, chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “You say he's meeting with Sir Harry. That tells me Roach is branching out into an even more rewarding line of work.” She gestured to the pot of coffee.
Georges leaned forward, filled her cup, and poured one for himself. “Nothing we know about Sir Harry suggests he's a likely victim of extortion. Where's he vulnerable? Selling slaves is perfectly legal, a respectable trade in this country. Adultery? That's hardly ground for extortion. Wealthy, powerful men like Rogers cheat their wives without shame.”
The milliner broke in. “But if
she
were unfaithful, Roach would be very interested. Sir Harry might have asked Roach to help him make a case for divorcing her. He'd have to convince Parliament. A long, hard task.”
“Assuming you're right,” Georges conceded, “when could she have done anything to justify a divorce? The servants say Mr. Critchley, Sir Harry's personal spy, keeps her under close scrutiny.”
Madame Gagnon stared into her cup for a moment, then looked up. “Roach would need to go back eleven years. Harry Rogers, a wealthy widower, went out in search of a bride. He found Margaret Pakenham of Westmeath in Ireland, a striking beauty and recent widow, the youngest daughter of an Irish baron in need of cash. Rogers paid off the father's debts and received Margaret in return. Shortly after their engagement, Rogers sailed to Jamaica for several months on business. Upon his return to England, they married and he bought his title.”
“Aha!” Georges sat up straight. “Was she faithful while he was away? Is Charlie Sir Harry's boy? That's the question.”
“But no one asked it then.” The milliner shrugged. “Charlie was born eight and a half months after Rogers' return. Neither he nor any one else suspected her, not for many years afterwards. Then Captain Fitzroy appeared at their town house in London in January. Gossips recalled he had visited Margaret at Pakenham Hall while Rogers was in Jamaica. They concluded she had had an affair then with Fitzroy.”
“Gossip isn't enough,” Georges interjected. “Rogers would have to prove to Parliament that Margaret had deceived him on an essential point of the marriage contract, like Charlie's paternity. Even then, Parliament might not be persuaded to grant a divorce with the right to marry again.”
“The House of Lords approves only three or four private bills of divorce per year,” Madame Gagnon admitted. “But, difficult as they may be, Sir Harry seems bent on getting one. I'm sure he's willing to pay Roach a handsome sum to find the necessary witnesses, documents, or other evidence.”
“How did you come by this information?”
“Mostly from Lady Rogers' maid. She often shops here. If she comes later this morning, I'll have her to tea. She might know someone familiar with the time Sir Harry was away.”
Georges rose to leave, then had an afterthought. “Could you tell me the inns that Roach frequents?”
She shook her head. “I'll contact a few people who would know.” She winked at Georges. “If you could give me an hour, I'll take you to the Pump Room and show you Jack Roach at work.”
***
At nine, Georges returned to the millinery shop and found Madame Gagnon groomed for public viewing in a fine gray woolen dress, her hair brushed and lightly powdered. She had engaged chairbearers who carried them to the Abbey Yard, the busy open area in front of the great church. They made their way on foot across the yard to the Pump Room, a simple, elegant structure whose most prominent feature was the north facade of five large rounded bay windows.
Inside, a mixed crowd of men and women gossiped or gawked at one another, glasses in hand. Among them were a lord or two, a few bishops, country parsons, wealthy merchants and country gentry, as well as several preening dandies and courtesans. Many of the visitors, afflicted by gout and other diseases, limped about, leaned on canes, or sported bandaged limbs. To them, the water promised relief or a cure. Georges gave a snort of disbelief.
“Would you care to try the water?” the milliner asked in a teasing tone. The pumper and his maids were selling the warm sparkling fluid at a nearby counter, while musicians played lively tunes in the gallery. Georges purchased two full glasses and gave one to his companion. Guarding their drinks, they wove through the crowd to an open bay on the south side of the room. “Down there is the King's Bath,” said Madame Gagnon, pointing to a small shallow pool crowded with pink-faced bathers up to their necks in hot sulphurous water, men and women alike wearing shapeless canvas garments for modesty's sake.
Georges had raised his glass and was about to sip when a wayward thought entered his mind. He stared at his glass. “Where does this water really come from?” He glanced down at the pool.
Madame Gagnon caught his meaning, wrinkled her nose. “Not from there, silly man!”
Georges twirled his drink, then sniffed. Rotten eggs, he thought. His thirst vanished. He lowered the glass and began scanning the crowd for signs of Jack Roach.
“There he is,” said Madame Gagnon, pointing to a man in a red coat pressing his thick body up to the counter. “Watch him carefully.”
Roach bought a glass of the mineral water and looked around the room. A flash of recognition lighted up his face. He walked over to a fashionably dressed lady conversing with several other women. She froze momentarily as he approached, regained composure, spoke a few words. He smiled thinly and stepped back to the water counter. A few minutes later, the woman beckoned her servant standing by and ordered him to fill her glass. Unnoticed by her companions, she slipped a small package into the servant's hand and whispered in his ear. He went to the counter, gave Roach the package, and ordered water for his mistress.
“That's typical of him,” said Madame Gagnon in a pained voice. “I'll leave you now. I must return to the shop. Call on me early in the afternoon. I hope to have something for you.” She slipped away into the crowd. Georges moved closer to Roach, who sipped from his glass, glancing over the rim at the people milling about him. At one point, he lifted the glass to a nondescript man who sidled up to him and spoke in a whisper out of the side of his mouth. Roach replied in like fashion. The man drifted away. Part of Roach's gang, Georges thought.
From the Pump Room, Roach moved to a public breakfast in Spring Garden across the Avon, Georges following at a safe distance. Musicians entertained while a crowd chatted noisily over their food. Georges recognized many of them from the Pump Room. Roach took payments from another well-dressed woman and a man and met with a pair of dandified cronies.
At one o'clock in the afternoon, eager to match wits with Roach, Georges returned to Milsom Street. Madame Gagnon led him into a private room in the rear of her shop. Cabinets lined the side walls. Rolls of ribbons, a measuring stick, and cutting shears lay on a long table in the middle. Sunlight sifted evenly through a large high window in the back wall.
“I have something for you,” she said. “The maid from Combe Park knows of an elderly Irish woman from Pakenham Hall, Betty Murphy, who nursed and raised Lady Margaret, then looked after Charlie until he went to Braidwood's institute. She's retired on a pension from Sir Harry. Lives with a younger invalid sister in Bristol. The maid didn't know the address.”
“That's a good start,” Georges said. “We must find Betty before Roach does.”
Madame Gagnon furrowed her brow. “What does this have to do with capturing Captain Fitzroy?”
Georges leaned against a cabinet and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Roach would try to bribe the old nurse to testify against Lady Margaret. If Parliament were to grant the divorce, Sir Harry would cut Lady Margaret and Charlie off without a shilling, and Charlie could no longer inherit Sir Harry's fortune. That money is what Fitzroy is really after. Without at least the likelihood of it, he would leave Combe Park and his capture would become problematic. Therefore, we must make sure nurse Betty does not give out any damaging information about Lady Margaret. I'll try to persuade Colonel Saint-Martin to get that address in Bristol and go there tomorrow. In the meantime I must keep track of Roach. Where can I find him in the evening?”
“At The Little Drummer on Avon Street.” Tapping her chin, the milliner stepped back and inspected Georges. “If you go there, you'll want a disguise.” She opened a closet. “Old, worn costumes from the theater. Take your pick.” She pressed a key into his hand. “Use the back door. It opens on to John Street. Come and go as you like. No one will notice you.”
***
After the stress of the training session, which had left Charlie overwrought, Anne felt she must divert the boy's attention to something positive. She coaxed him to the classroom with the promise of a treat later on. From eleven o'clock until noon, they worked hard at reading lips, a difficult but essential art he happened to be good at.
Today's lesson followed their usual routine. They began with letters, words, and short phrases the boy encountered almost every day, as simple as “come” and “go.” He read them off cards and observed while Anne spoke them. She also taught him to distinguish words that looked the same to the eye by discerning their context. In the classroom, for example, Mr. Critchley would tell him to “mark” not “park” or “bark” his lesson.
He needed to anticipate words and phrases that people around him were likely to use and especially to grasp the meaning of their gestures and facial expressions. Anne had earlier devised a pantomime of typical activities at school. This time, just for the fun of it, they would switch roles: Charlie the teacher, she the pupil. She guessed the boy had a talent for mimicry. Fear of offending others kept him from using it at Combe Park. She assured him he could express himself freely with her.
He hesitated, glanced up at her shyly. “Really?” he asked.
“Yes, really.”
He drew himself up straight, mouthed a phrase rather carelessly and questioned her with a look of authority. She hesitated, unable to discern his meaning. He cupped a hand to his ear for an answer, then shook his head. She made a guess. He shook his head and asked again with a frown. She tried once more. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he listened impatiently, raised his arms in despair, and began pacing the room. He suddenly stopped, jabbed a warning finger at her, mouthed the phrase again, cocked his head attentively for a moment. She guessed correctly this time. With a condescending smile, he patted her on the shoulder.
