Black Gold (27 page)

That look in Paul's eye triggered Anne's memory of them riding back from Allen's quarry and meeting Jeffery. He had stared at her riding astride in boy's britches and Paul had reacted brusquely.

“Do you
think
I have given Critchley any reason to believe Jeffery and I are…”

“Please, Anne, we must put this matter to rest. You are guiltless. Critchley indulged in the fantasies of a sick imagination. He slandered your friend Miss Ware as well.” Paul hesitated for a moment, chastened. “I suppose when I see another man showing interest in you, like Jeffery did, I feel the bite of jealousy. I love you beyond measure, but not as wisely as I ought. I'm sorry and ask to be forgiven.”

She rose from the table and knelt at his side, caressing his cheek. “There's nothing to forgive, Paul. I love you dearly.”

He lifted her to her feet. She put her arms around him and drew him to her. They kissed, holding each other closely. Then he stepped back and led her to the fireplace. “I brought Critchley's papers here so we could destroy them. No point allowing them to fall into the wrong hands and cause mischief.” He stirred the glowing embers and threw the offensive sheets among them.

Anne stared into the fire. Within seconds Critchley's tale was reduced to wisps of ash.

***

Georges found himself waiting again for Dick Burton, this time in Combe Park's tennis hall. Colonel's orders. Georges had protested. “It's beginning to look like I'm working for Bow Street instead of the Royal Highway Patrol.” The colonel had chuckled. “Burton's investigation is bound to touch Captain Fitzroy. We want to know what happens and, if possible, influence the outcome.”

Steps sounded at the entrance. The door opened and Burton limped in, leaning on his cane. He needs me, Georges thought. The Bow Street officer was his age but looked ten years older.

He greeted Georges warmly. “I've come with full authority to investigate Roach's murder,” he said. “Let's look for the weapon that killed him.”

Georges led him into the training room. “The wound in Roach's temple suggests that the murderer could have struck him with one of those.” He pointed to a dozen iron shots that lay lined up against a wall. Burton and Georges examined each of them but found no traces of blood or hair.

“The murderer could have improvised a weapon,” Georges added, as he picked up a sixteen-pound ball, slipped it into a sack hanging nearby, and swung it at an imaginary victim. “Or, he could have held the shot in his hand and used his arm like a club, or even thrown it, then carried the shot away when he left.” Georges rubbed the shot thoughtfully and returned it to its place in the line.

Burton drew the inference Georges expected. “In either case, he had not planned ahead, but had picked up a weapon on the spur of the moment. That theory would rule out hired assassins and Roach's enemies in the city and among smugglers. It would shrink the field of suspects to the Combe Park household and its guests.”

Georges agreed, then suggested they look again at the boot prints outside the back door of the tennis hall. They already knew that the two sets grouped around the donkey cart's tracks belonged to Fitzroy and his valet. The other prints were less well defined and trailed off in different directions. To whom did they belong and at what time during the night were they made?

“We should check Sir Harry's boots,” Burton said as they left the hall. “We know he had reason to meet Roach—as did Critchley.”

Georges remained respectfully silent for a moment, then suggested, “Before troubling those two gentlemen, I think we should try something else first.”

Inside the house to the left of the entrance, Georges opened a closet door and pointed to a row of boots of various sizes. “I'll wager we'll find a match here. Our suspect might have selected a pair of these for the short, wet walk to the tennis hall rather than go to his room for a pair, then march through the party wearing them.”

A quick comparison with Anne's plaster molds proved Georges' guess to be correct. Holding a pair of the boots that did match, Georges remarked, “The footman on duty at the door the night of the party could not always see the closet. Critchley, Sir Harry, any of the guests could have slipped in here and taken these.”

“That's true,” Burton granted. “It's too soon to draw conclusions. I'll have to interrogate the lot of them.”

Georges smiled inwardly. Fitzroy was still free for the taking.

Chapter 23

Quandary

Friday, April 6

Early in the afternoon, Harriet Ware came to Sir Harry's study. He had invited her to dine with him and one of his ship's captains scheduled to sail for Jamaica in a week. She had entertained for Harry on similar occasions and had grown comfortable with this setting. But recently she had begun to feel apprehensive. This had increased in the measure that he pressed his infatuation upon her.

Since speaking to Annie on Monday, she had hoped Harry would come to his senses. This week's boxing match had distracted him from his marital problems and put him in a very good mood. But was that likely to last? Pausing at the door, she bit her lips to bring out their color, then knocked lightly.

Sir Harry opened the door with a smile, took her hand, and drew her in. “Are you in good voice today, Harriet? My guest, Captain Fairbrother, loves Irish airs and he's not likely to hear any for a long while. I want you to sing for him.”

“I'd be ever so happy to please the gentleman,” she replied, thinking a seaman would be appreciative. Yesterday, she had sung Scottish airs at Harry's dinner for a proper businessman, who had hardly noticed her. In any case, Harry enjoyed her voice and paid well to hear it.

He took her cloak, offered her wine, and led her to a table by the window. While waiting for the captain, they chatted easily about music and the theater. Harry admired her gown, an elegant yellow wool, the bodice low-cut. Purchased with money from her first concert at Combe Park, she fondly recalled. She lightly fingered the lace trim, then looked up guardedly into his eyes.

His mood was tender but lusty. He plainly wanted to touch her and to have her. But she held back, warned by a small inner voice of caution that had thus far served her well.

Their conversation turned to the news that Jack Roach had been found dead. The Bow Street officer had informed Harry a few hours ago. Harriet sensed he didn't want to talk about it. But his feelings were so pent up, he couldn't hold back.

“Jack Roach was a scoundrel,” he blurted out. “His death hurts no one—but me!” Harry's ruddy face grew nearly purple with anger. “Roach was investigating a most delicate matter.”

Harriet listened quietly. She understood what Harry meant, although he had never openly spoken to her about it. He had hoped to receive the legal evidence he needed to end his marriage to Lady Margaret and marry again. After raising Harry's hopes, Roach had disappointed him. And had been arrogant and rude into the bargain.

Harry's frustration threatened to grow out of control. He rose and gripped the back of his chair. “Now Roach is dead and what had appeared to be within my grasp is lost.” After a few moments of strained silence, he released the chair and began to pace back and forth, trying to calm himself. He glanced out the window, then turned to her. “Get ready, Harriet.” His voice became almost normal. “Captain Fairbrother has arrived.”

During the meal, Harry put on a good face for the captain, sharing sea stories from his youth on a slave ship. He had had several narrow escapes from ship wreck, mutiny, and insurrection. The captain had similar tales to tell. The adventure of a slaver's life seemed to blind these two men to its horror. Harriet lost her appetite, picked at her food, straining to appear interested.

Between courses, Harriet accompanied herself on the harpsichord in several of the captain's favorite airs. He settled back in his chair, a wistful expression on his weathered face. Probably dreaming of an Irish lass he had known. Seemed like a kindly man. Harry noticed his captain's pleasure and smiled at Harriet. Her spirits rose. Appreciation always made her feel better. After lunch, she left the two men to their pipes and port.

Half-way down the hallway on her way out, she recalled leaving a pair of gloves in the ballroom the night of the victory party. She turned around, walked past the study door and into the ballroom. After searching for a few minutes, she found her gloves set aside on a table. She breathed a sigh of relief, then retraced her steps. As she neared the study again, the door opened and the two men stepped out into the hall just a few paces away. They turned in the other direction and didn't notice her.

She was about to cough or say something, but she stopped herself—she didn't know why. The two men leaned together, their bodies tensed. Her heart beat wildly. She edged behind a column.

Sir Harry nodded toward Jeff standing unawares in the entrance hall and whispered to the captain, “That's the man.”

The captain stared at the footman, a massive pillar of ebony, then glanced sharply at Rogers. “Good God! Not him!”

“Don't worry. He'll be drugged and bound.”

“Aren't you sorry to lose a great boxer?”

“Sorry? Yes indeed. But if he stays here, I'll lose him anyway. At least this way, I'll get a good price for him. There are other big, fast black slaves where he came from. I'll train one of them.”

The captain shrugged. “Next Friday, then. Three seamen will come with a wagon to carry him to Bristol and put him on board.”

Rogers and the captain stepped back into the study, their voices a bare murmur. Harriet slipped away, shaking with disbelief.

***

Anne leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. The scent of burnt paper lingered in the room, reminding her of Critchley's slanderous tale. Fortunately, it had brought her and Paul closer together. She warmed at the thought.

Her rest was interrupted by a knock on the door. She opened to find Harriet Ware, her face ashen. Anne put an arm around the young woman's shoulders and led her to a chair. “What's the matter, Harriet? Sit down and tell me about it.” Anne poured her a small brandy.

As Harriet sipped from the glass and color returned to her cheeks, she related what she had heard at Sir Harry's door. “It's like a bad dream. I allow Harry to lose his temper. That's in his nature. And I can understand his hatred of Captain Fitzroy, who has betrayed him. But Jeff's done nothing to harm Harry. He even risked his life in Wednesday's match to win a fortune for him! It's wrong to drug him and ship him away.”

Her composure broke down and she began to cry. “Harry's been so generous and kind—just wonderful to me. But now he acts like a stranger. I feel like walking away from him. Am I ungrateful?”

“Not at all!” Anne replied. “Your instinct is sound. Sir Harry is to blame.” She was silent for a minute, reflecting on what could be done for the slave. A plan came to her mind, but sharing it with Harriet seemed too risky. She took her friend's hand. “For the time being, carry on with Sir Harry as if nothing has happened. I'll speak to Mr. Woodhouse.”

***

Dark clouds scudded across the sky as Anne left the house. Georges was waiting for her at the door with a carriage.

“Going to Jeff's friend, the seamstress?” he asked.

“Yes. I just found out that Sir Harry plans to send him back to Jamaica soon. Sarah Smith needs to know.” She explained how Harriet had brought the news to her.

“Heartless villain!” exclaimed Georges without regard for whoever might be listening. “But Burton might frustrate Sir Harry's plans. Jeff could find himself in a courtroom facing royal judges instead of cutting sugar cane. A few minutes ago, I found out that he's one of Burton's suspects in Roach's murder.”

“Jeffery had good reasons to hate Roach, but so did many others. Please explain, Georges. I need to tell Sarah.”

“Jeff stands out among them because of his ability to pitch.”

“What?”

“Roach was killed by a single, powerful blow to the right temple by an assailant he didn't see—or sense. At first, we thought someone could creep up behind him and hit him with a heavy, round object. But that would be difficult to do. Roach was unusually alert. The man who killed him might not have come from behind. He could have stood off to one side in the dark, thirty paces away, and pitched a sixteen pound ball at Roach's temple. With deadly accuracy.”

Georges paused, then measured his words. “Jeff's the only man at Combe Park, or in Bath, for that matter, who could do it. The servants say he often pitches at old pots and pans to amuse them.”

Anne recalled him pitching at a wooden block on the bowling green. “True, he could have killed Roach, but I doubt that he did.” She was less sure than she let on.

“In any case,” Georges continued, “Burton can't show that Jeff was near the tennis hall at the time of the murder. The cook and the coachman swear he was in the basement of the house, ill and in bed. At about 10:30 she prepared a tisane to help him sleep and a cold pack to reduce the swelling of his wrist. No one admits to having seen him leave his room.”

“That sounds like a good alibi for Jeffery,” Anne observed.

“But Burton senses that the cook likes him and may be covering up for him. He's helpful to her. Peter Hyde is also protecting him. So, Burton still considers Jeff a suspect, though not the main one. This makes little difference to Jeff. He's already under virtual house arrest.”

The horses shook their harness and snorted impatiently. “I'd better go,” Anne said. She sniffed the air. It didn't smell like rain. “Let me out on Avon Street. I'll find my own way back.”

Georges pulled down the step for her. “Do you have a plan for helping Jeff?”

She took his hand and climbed up into the carriage. “Yes, but I'm open to suggestions.”

“You may need a miracle. Sir Harry has surely anticipated all the easy solutions.”

***

When Anne entered the shop on Avon Street, Sarah Smith was alone. A look of surprise, then pleasure flashed across the young woman's face. She laid aside the gown she was working on and rose expectantly, lips slightly parted as if about to ask if she could be of service.

“I've come from Combe Park with news of Jeffery,” said Anne quietly. “Could we go where we won't be disturbed?”

“This room will do. Mother has just left for the market.” Sarah's brow began to furrow with anxiety. She locked the front door and sat facing Anne. “Is something the matter? I know Jeffery won his fight—the news is all over Bath. Was he badly hurt?”

Anne removed her bonnet and shook her hair. “His wrist is broken but seems to be mending well. He has a few bruises.” She hesitated, gauging the concern in Sarah's face. “I'm sorry to tell you, Sir Harry has secretly arranged with a ship's captain to take Jeffery back to Jamaica next Friday. He doesn't know this yet. In the meantime he can't leave Combe Park. He's also suspected of killing Jack Roach.”

“How awful!” Sarah clenched her hands before her mouth. “I was hoping to hear from him after the fight. Now I know why I didn't.” Tears began to flow down her cheek.

Anne offered her a handkerchief. “I think we should visit the Quaker who has shown interest in Jeffery's situation.”

“David Woodhouse. Yes, of course.” Sarah dried the tears and returned the handkerchief. “Jeffery is gentle. He wouldn't kill anybody.”

Anne gazed at Sarah, admiring her generous, trusting heart. But she couldn't banish the thought that even gentle men can be violent if sufficiently provoked.

Sarah bent over the table and began writing. “I'll leave a note for Mother.”

***

Mr. Woodhouse was at work in the printing room of his shop in St. James's Parade. A young apprentice stood alongside him setting type. Sarah introduced Anne and asked if they could speak about a private matter. Woodhouse's eye searched Anne discreetly, as if he had heard of her but still wasn't sure he could trust her.

Anne understood his caution. The slave trade enjoyed strong support in Bath and Bristol. Their commerce and the employment of many of their citizens depended on it. Defenders of the trade felt encouraged to harass Abolitionists like Woodhouse. Or do worse.

After an uncomfortable moment, Woodhouse smiled tentatively. “Sorry, I have to be careful.” He instructed the young man to watch the shop, then turned to the women. “Please follow me.” He led them into a small room in the back of the building that served as an office. Anne searched for a place to sit. Stacks of paper covered every surface. The Quaker grinned apologetically, cleared three plain wooden chairs, and asked what was on their mind.

Anne explained to him Sir Harry's plan to drug Jeffery and secretly ship him back to Jamaica. “He's holding him like a prisoner and might at any time put him in irons.”

The Quaker sighed. “I confess this news comes as a surprise. I had thought Jeffery was safe for now, having proven to be so valuable as a boxer. But I see he has angered Sir Harry by claiming his share of the gate money. That was like asserting his right to freedom.”

“What can be done for him?” Anne asked, casting a concerned glance toward Sarah Smith, who sat rigid on the edge of her seat. “I've heard of cases similar to his in which magistrates freed slaves.”

“True,” Woodhouse replied, “slavery is contrary to English Common Law, and courts have freed slaves in recent years. But, like many slavers, Sir Harry has found a way to evade the law. While still in Jamaica, he had Jeffery put his mark on a contract of indentured servitude for seven years, which is perfectly legal in England. If he were to flee from his master, as many slaves do, he would become a fugitive and subject to arrest and prosecution. I don't doubt for a minute that Sir Harry would pursue him vigorously.”

“Perhaps he could flee to a foreign country, like France,” Sarah offered quietly.

The printer shook his head. “France doesn't welcome fugitive slaves. Its slavers are rich and powerful and think as ours do about property rights.”

“Has Jeffery no other choice?” asked Anne, feeling increasingly desperate.

“Yes, he does,” Sarah interjected in a choking voice. She struggled to gain control of herself. “Jeffery told me, he would kill himself rather than submit to a slave's life on a plantation. He had signed the indenture to escape it.” She covered her face with her hands. Anne moved to her side and put an arm around her.