Petty Treason (22 page)
Authors: Madeleine E. Robins
“I don’t know,” Miss Tolerance said frankly. “I have been eager to speak to him—he may have some information about a recent murder. Beyond that, and the fact that he is—what was it you said? A bit of a bully-boy? I know nothing worse. Perhaps he has something to hide and feared I would come too close.”
“If that’s so, ’twould be a stupid thing to set a fire, wouldn’t it? I mean, why draw attention to yourself that way?”
“If he believed I would die in the blaze, who would know the connection? I saw him looking down from the window last night after the fire was out, and I swear he looked amused. As if it all was a great joke.”
“A joke?”
“Not one I find amusing.”
This line of thought was interrupted by Cole, who informed her that the laundress had been put in possession of her clothes and was shaking her head with professional dismay as she prepared to go to work.
“She instructed me to say she could promise nothing. But I think she likes the challenge, Miss Sarah.” He also offered her two letters which had come for her that morning. Miss Tolerance thanked him again for his heroic assistance the night before, and for the morning’s more prosaic help, and examined the envelopes.
The first was from William Colcannon. He had learnt of his sister’s incarceration and was on his way to Cold Bath Fields Prison; would Miss Tolerance do him the kindness to meet him there—no, he would call upon her—no, he would meet her at the Public Office in Great Marlborough Street. She was left with no particular idea of where she was to meet the man, but a very good idea of his state of mind.
The second note came from Sir Walter Mandif:
I have spoken with Heddison and contrived to learn something of the evidence against your client. Aside from the matter of motive, which I understand to be rather more substantial than the usual reasons a wife might wish her husband dead, Mr. Boyse interviewed a man named Millward who says Mrs. d’Aubigny approached him in hope that he would kill her husband. The man apparently refused, and thus raised Mrs. d’Aubigny’s ire. Heddison has asked Boyse to bring Mr. Millward in (it seems this interview took place in a pothouse) so he may hear the story himself. Although I am sure you will wish to interview Mr. Millward, I have no description to give you, nor could I discover the pothouse where they met, Boyse having drunk rather deeply in the process of attaining the statement.
I know this will not please you. I trust, however, that you will take this information at its value. I have exhausted, for the moment, my influence with Heddison, but if there is any other way in which I can assist you, I beg you will let me know.
Your faithful servant—
“Perfection!”
“You don’t look it.” Marianne bound off a stitch.
“Sir Walter informs me that my client has been taken up for questioning on the word of a man one of the constables met in an alehouse—and as the constable was too foxed to remember which house, or what this witness looked like, I have little hope of discovering him.”
“Well, that is the way of these things.” Marianne shrugged. “Although if the informant was hopeful of the reward, you’d think he’d have given the constable his direction.”
“‘Tis vague, yes. And another thing that’s too convenient. I do not believe for a moment that Anne d’Aubigny could have tried to hire this Millward. How would she find the sort of man who would entertain such a proposal? But that leaves me with the vexed question of why this Mr. Millward would lay false information.”
“The reward,” Marianne said practically.
“Well, yes. But if he’s risking a charge of perjury for money which will be paid only after conviction, why not give his address to the constable?”
“P’raps he has an ax to grind with Mrs. d’Aubigny and wants to bring her down.”
“Yes, perhaps. But if Millward is honest, why seek out a constable in a tavern rather than present himself in Great Marlborough Street?”
“The sort of man gets approached to do murder is mayhap not the sort of man wants to see the inside of the Public Office.”
“You would be surprised by the sort of deep-dyed rogues who hang about the Public Houses telling outrageous lies in hope of making five pounds,” Miss Tolerance said. “It is all too convenient. No description of the man, no idea even of which alehouse. And if this Millward is never found, his testimony cannot be contested.”
“You think he’s one of those lying rogues.”
“It hardly matters what I think. The magistrate won’t release Mrs. d’Aubigny unless this man’s statement is refuted. My strong mistrust of Mr. Boyse—the constable who took the statement—is unfortunately not evidence of wrongdoing.”
“Well, you’ve got yourself a proper coil,” Marianne said placidly.
“I do. And I shall not unravel it sitting here. But before I go: Marianne, have you noticed any change in my aunt since her illness began? I went up to see her just now and she was—odd.”
“She’s been a mite touchy, yes. I suppose it chafes her not to be downstairs and managing everything.”
“Touchy?” This seemed an indifferent word to describe Mrs. Brereton’s erratic mood.
“But she is much recovered, you know. The doctor says the weakness in her arm is wearing off nicely, and we have only to keep her from overdoing when she does leave the sickroom.”
Miss Tolerance nodded, not wholly satisfied. It was possible, she thought, that she was simply viewing her aunt’s behavior with sensibilities affected by the stresses of the last several days. Marianne seemed confident that Mrs. Brereton was recovering well. She must put her faith in that, take up her greatcoat and hat, and herself off to Cold Bath Fields Prison to meet with William Colcannon and Anne d’Aubigny.
C
old Bath Fields Prison was a squat gray stone structure in Farrington Road. It was newer than its more celebrated neighbor prisons of Bridewell and Newgate, but was in no regard a dainty accommodation. Miss Tolerance found William Colcannon pacing the street opposite the prison gate, working himself into a state of extreme excitement. His long, earnest face was ruddy with distress, and he looked as if he had slept in his clothes. He barely looked at Miss Tolerance, but at once laid the blame for his sister’s detention at her feet.
old Bath Fields Prison was a squat gray stone structure in Farrington Road. It was newer than its more celebrated neighbor prisons of Bridewell and Newgate, but was in no regard a dainty accommodation. Miss Tolerance found William Colcannon pacing the street opposite the prison gate, working himself into a state of extreme excitement. His long, earnest face was ruddy with distress, and he looked as if he had slept in his clothes. He barely looked at Miss Tolerance, but at once laid the blame for his sister’s detention at her feet.
“I hired you to keep her safe! Imagine my shock to receive your note, writ in the coolest way possible, as if it were an everyday occurrence that a woman of one’s family should be hauled off to Newgate—”
“Cold Bath Fields,” Miss Tolerance murmured under her breath. She struggled to subdue a contrary spirit which wanted to respond to his panicked outrage with dry humor. “I am sorry if my letter seemed to you out of tune with what has happened. I hoped, by taking a calm tone, to encourage you to remain calm
likewise. I am more affected by these events than I appear, but I assure you, your sister needs you to be in command, to deal with the gaolers politely but firmly—to act, in fact, as thought the whole matter is merely a stupid mistake. Which I firmly believe it is,” she added.
likewise. I am more affected by these events than I appear, but I assure you, your sister needs you to be in command, to deal with the gaolers politely but firmly—to act, in fact, as thought the whole matter is merely a stupid mistake. Which I firmly believe it is,” she added.
Colcannon drew a long breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he appeared to have mastered his emotions.
“What must I do to help? Is there anything I
can
do?”
can
do?”
“Have you been to visit your sister yet, sir?”
“Not yet. I did send a purse of money to her, as you suggested.”
“We must hope it reached her and purchased her some comfort last night. This morning we should first speak to the gaoler and do what we can to secure Mrs. d’Aubigny comfortable accommodation and food. I sent her maid with
my
purse last night, and told her to promise more money in your name if necessary. It will be expensive—I’m told you can spend as much a night for a decent room in prison as at Claridge’s Hotel.”
my
purse last night, and told her to promise more money in your name if necessary. It will be expensive—I’m told you can spend as much a night for a decent room in prison as at Claridge’s Hotel.”
Colcannon looked mildly shocked, but murmured his assurance that he would pay whatever was required to see his sister comfortable.
“Then take out your handkerchief—the stench inside will appall you until you become used to it—and let us see what sort of night your sister passed.”
Inside the gates of the prison they were met, not only by the smell of which Miss Tolerance had spoken, but a sudden hush, as if a woolen cloak had been cast over the whole establishment. Prisoners at Cold Bath Fields obeyed a rule of silence—or disobeyed it at their peril; after the clamor of the street, the difference was remarkable. Miss Tolerance and Mr. Colcannon went first to the Warden’s office, where, after a brief interview with the gaoler, Mr. Colcannon secured for his sister a more pleasant room with a window facing away from the common area of the prison and offering some untainted air; a lamp, a fire, a bed with clean sheets, and some decent provisions. The extortionate hire of these modest accommodations being arranged for a week, Miss Tolerance and Mr. Colcannon were permitted to pay an additional fourpence each to visit Mrs. d’Aubigny.
As they walked down the corridor Miss Tolerance remembered
one last detail. “What of her fetters?” she asked the man who was escorting them.
one last detail. “What of her fetters?” she asked the man who was escorting them.
“Oh, she paid for them when she was brought in, miss. Nice light ones, more like bracelets, you might say, hardly half a pound each. She’ll have passed the night quite comfortable.”
Miss Tolerance thanked the man. She did not look at William Colcannon’s horrified face.
Anne d’Aubigny had been quartered in a low-ceilinged, whitewashed room with no more than five other women who had arrived too late to be put into permanent quarters. They found her sitting upon the bandbox Miss Tolerance had last seen in Sophia Thissen’s hands; this served to keep her from sitting on the filthy floor, and to protect whatever remained in the box from Madame d’Aubigny’s cellmates. Miss Tolerance noted to Mr. Colcannon’s credit that the face he showed his sister was full of cheerful optimism and sympathy. Anne d’Aubigny was likewise composed; only a slight tremor in the hand she extended to Miss Tolerance suggested the effort it took to maintain that composure.
Mr. Colcannon assured his sister that she would soon be very much more comfortable, and asked if there was anything she wanted from her home. Anne d’Aubigny asked for her workbag. “One could go mad from lack of occupation here.”
“In the ordinary way, they’d put you to picking oakum or some other redemptive task,” Miss Tolerance said. “But your brother has paid to save you that, at least for now.”
Anne d’Aubigny nodded absently, as if the prospect of ruining her hands plucking apart old rope for use in caulking ship bottoms did not trouble her in the least.
“They kept asking me about a man named Millward,” she said. “I told them I knew no such person, but they insisted I should remember him. Have you any idea—”
“It appears that Mr. Millward told one of the constables that you asked him to kill your husband.” Miss Tolerance spoke the words with no emphasis at all, watching for reaction.
Colcannon and Mrs. d’Aubigny looked at her, shocked.
“I know little more than that, but I intend to learn enough to prove this Millward a liar. Do either of you have any notion who
this man could be? Do you know of anyone who would have reason to say such a thing?”
this man could be? Do you know of anyone who would have reason to say such a thing?”
“To lie about me?” Anne d’Aubigny shook her head. “His name is not familiar, and—I should not know where to go, how to—”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “Of course you would not. Mr. Colcannon, do you know the name? Is there anyone you can imagine with a grudge against your family who might—”
“Good Christ, no!” Colcannon said loudly. The other prisoners in the room tittered.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I did need to ask. And I entreat you to keep your voice low—any one of your sister’s companions might sell anything she overheard to the law as testimony. So: it seems that I must not only discover who killed the chevalier, but who this Millward is and how he features in the crime. Ma’am”—she turned back to Anne d’Aubigny—“can you give me no idea of how to reach Mr. Beauville?”
The question appeared to confuse the widow. “Mr. Beauville? But what has he to do—”
“I am not certain.” Miss Tolerance had decided not to say anything about the fire in her cottage. “I shall not be certain until I have spoken to him. Perhaps he will have some insight into your husband’s death. I should certainly like to know if he spent any part of that evening in your husband’s company, and at what time they parted.”
“You do not suspect him?”
“I must, perforce, suspect everyone, ma’am. At least until I know better.”
“But Beauville was my husband’s friend.”
Miss Tolerance nodded. “So it appears. But your husband seems to have been a man who cultivated drinking companions rather than bosom friends.”
“They drank and sported together. They were members of a club—”
“Tarsio’s,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “I’ve made inquiries there. If you—”
They were interrupted by a rise in the mutters and whispers of the other prisoners in the chamber; one of the gaolers had returned
and was stepping through the crowded room to Madame d’Aubigny’s party.
and was stepping through the crowded room to Madame d’Aubigny’s party.
“Beggin’ your pardon, missus,” he said. “Magistrate’s sent ’is men to bring you back to Great Marlborough Street. More questions.”
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