Petty Treason (23 page)

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Authors: Madeleine E. Robins

BOOK: Petty Treason
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Anne d’Aubigny looked around her a little wildly. “More? But I’ve told them—”
The gaoler, a beefy man with rheumy dark eyes and a lugubrious mouth, shrugged and bent to unlock the chain which attached Anne d‘Aubigny’s fetters to an iron staple. “Is what they sent me up for: fetch you down and hand you over. You never mind about your things,” he added. “Your man here’s paid for a nice room, neat as widow’s lodgin’. We’ll move your box back there and you’ll have everything comfortable for your return.”
Both Mrs. d’Aubigny and her brother turned to Miss Tolerance. She felt a momentary quiver of impatience, shrugged it off, and nodded to the pair. “Go along,” she counseled Anne d’Aubigny. “Do your best to answer their questions. Your brother will speak to his solicitor and learn what the law can do for you and I shall work to turn up this Mr. Millward. I’m sure you’ll not be here long.”
Miss Tolerance took Mr. Colcannon’s arm and steered him from the room; Anne d’Aubigny and her gaoler followed after and farewells were said in the corridor. Mr. Colcannon was much affected by the parting, and Miss Tolerance found it necessary to guide him through the crowd at the prison’s entrance. They paused at the crowds’ edge to draw a breath of cold air, deliciously clean after the prison. Then she escorted him to his carriage, which waited in Farrington Street. There, he gave vent to his outrage. Miss Tolerance permitted him to rant for a few minutes, then briskly informed him that he would feel very much better when he was doing something to help, and advised him again to speak to his solicitor.
“And I have a good deal to do myself, sir. If it is not out of your way, might I ask you to drive me to Henry Street? And perhaps we may discuss a little business as we go?”
Colcannon handed Miss Tolerance into the carriage and seated
himself, looking apprehensive. His relief, when he realized that Miss Tolerance meant only to ask for an advance of monies for her expenses, was patent.
“I am afraid I am a little more out-at-pocket than I had expected, sir. We could not have foreseen—” she waved her hand to indicate Cold Bath Fields Prison and its attendent fees.
“Good God, not at all, Miss Tolerance. It is we who are in your debt. My poor Anne. How much have you spent thus far?”
Miss Tolerance named a figure and Colcannon doubled it, putting a sheaf of paper money into her hands. She put the money in her pocketbook and they rode in silence to Henry Street.
 
 
S
he was greeted at Tarsio’s by Steen, who took her aside at once, saying, “Thank God you come quick, miss. He’s still here.” Miss Tolerance knew not what to make of this greeting until Steen explained that he had sent a note to her house not an hour past.
“Your Mr. Beauville is here, miss. In the gents’ cigar-room.”
“Is he so? There’s a stroke of luck—in a chore that has thus far been singularly lacking it. I hadn’t even seen your note.” She took out a coin and pressed it into the footman’s hand. “The Gentlemen’s Smoking Room?”
“Aye, miss. But you can’t go in there, not even dressed as you are.”
Miss Tolerance was well aware of Tarsio’s rules regarding the mixing of the sexes on club premises. “Of course not. But I can invite Mr. Beauville to take glass of wine with me in a private parlor. If a parlor is available?”
“Yes, miss. Number six is empty just now. I’ll ask Corton to invite him up, shall I?” Tarsio’s rules, primarily intended to protect the reputation of the establishment, specified that men and women might mingle in the Ladies’ Parlor or the Little Card Room; the rules likewise forbade women in the Gentlemen’s Smoking Room and men in the Ladies’ Withdrawing Room. What went on in the private parlors was, of course, the business of no one but the participants.
Miss Tolerance ascended to the parlor on the second floor, a
small, cheerful room with a fire already lit, ordered wine and cakes, and sat back to wait. This was her second too-convenient brush with Henri Beauville, and she placed no faith in its accidental nature. Mr. Beauville, who for a week had been difficult to find, was now all but throwing himself in her path. Why? Perhaps he had information to share with her. But whether it was information in which she could place her trust was another matter entirely. If the man had set the fire in her cottage the night before, might he now be meeting to warn her with a promise of worse to come?
A tray with wine and biscuits was delivered and left on the table at Miss Tolerance’s elbow. A moment after, Corton appeared in the doorway and bowed Henri Beauville into the room, indicated Miss Tolerance to him, and departed. Miss Tolerance rose, bowed to her visitor, and invited him to sit. She thought, from the expression on his face, that M. Beauville was attempting to reconcile the woman from Mrs. Brereton’s hallway with the person standing before him in breeches.
“Monsieur, we have not met formally. My name is Tolerance.”
Beauville bowed. “Madame.”
“Mademoiselle,” Miss Tolerance corrected, and took a seat.
“What is it you wished to speak about, mademoiselle?” Beauville had a light, melodic voice and a pleasant suggestion of an accent. He eyed Miss Tolerance from boots to a crown in a way she imagined was meant to intimidate.
“I thought, given the good fortune of finding you here today, that perhaps you wished to speak to
me,”
Miss Tolerance said mildly. Beauville’s eyes moved to her face. “When someone I have been seeking for a week twice appears at my doorstep, as it were, I must consider that a possibility. No? Ah, well. Perhaps you have heard that I am investigating the death of
M. le Chevalier
d’Aubigny? I am everywhere assured that you were a friend of his.”
“Poor d’Aubigny,” Beauville said without a note of regret. “A very sad end. Yes, we were friends.”
“Perhaps you have an opinion as to why he was murdered, sir?”
“How can one know such a thing? He was not an easy man, Etienne. He could be—harsh.” He lingered over the word as if it bore contemplation.
“The world is harsh. Is that alone a reason for murder?”
Beauville shrugged. “D’Aubigny was not a conciliatory sort; and he was expensive.”
“And yet, before he died, he paid his debts. Even the tradesmen’s bills.”
“Did he? Do you think he expected to die?” Beauville asked.
“I can only guess. You knew the chevalier. Do you think so?”
Beauville shook his head. “We were engaged for the evening at Madame Touvois’ two nights later. He was looking forward to it.”
“And you have no notion how he found the money to pay his debts, sir? As you say, the chevalier was expensive.”
“Not the least in the world.” Beauville waved a hand airily.
“When was the last time you saw him, sir?” Miss Tolerance took from her pocketbook a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil and scribbled thoughtfully. Beauville watched her for a moment before he answered.
“He and I spent the earlier part of the night of his death at a cockfight in Bankside, but we left early—before ten. He had an engagement with his mistress.”
“Which mistress is that, sir?”
“The same one as always. The only one who put up with d’Aubigny’s pleasures.”
“Mrs. Vose? Do you know where?”
Beauville raised an eyebrow. “You have been thorough. Yes, with Josette Vose. And at his house, I imagine. Her accommodations would not have suited him.”
“And yet she says that they were quits with each other a fortnight or more before his death.”
“Josie’s never quits with anyone with money.” Beauville slouched in his chair and regarded Miss Tolerance critically. “These clothes go better with the damage done to your face than the gown you wore last night.”
“And I had been fancying that the bruises were fading,” Miss Tolerance said. “I’m afraid the fire in my little house left most of my other clothes unfit for wearing. To return to the subject, sir: after this sporting event, where did
you
go?”
“A whorehouse. I don’t recall which one; they’re all alike, and I am more flexible in my pleasures than poor d’Aubigny.” Beauville
leaned forward. He was not a big man, and rather mild-featured, but his shoulders were broad and at this proximity and in this posture he appeared slightly menacing.
“There is no one can place you there that evening? Perhaps someone at Mrs. Lasher’s establishment in Green Street?”
Beauville’s mouth contracted for a fraction of a second. He said again, “You are thorough.”
“One must be, in my profession. Well, sir?”
He blinked. “Well?”
“Did anyone in this brothel see you there, or were you by yourself the whole time?”
“Not by myself. But whores, like whorehouses, are all much alike.”
“Doubtless whores feel much the same way about the men they service,” Miss Tolerance said blandly. “I only have a few more questions, sir. Have you seen Josette Vose since the murder? Or Camille Touvois? I did not see you among her guests when I was there the other night.”
Beauville leaned further forward and showed his teeth. “I do not hang about Madame Touvois’ neck, mademoiselle.”
Irritated by these attempts to intimidate her, Miss Tolerance leaned forward also, until she was close enough to feel his breath upon her face. She smiled. “How fortunate for you. I imagine that would be a very uncomfortable place to hang.”
Beauville blinked, then sat back, wheezing with laughter. “You are right, without a doubt. As for Mrs. Vose, she’s far too busy being taken up by royalty these days, from what I hear. Have you any other questions, mademoiselle?”
“Just two. Have you ever met a man named Millward?”
“Millward? I do not believe so.” Beauville let his theatrically honest expression drop. In consequence, Miss Tolerance believed him. “And your last question?”
Miss Tolerance took a sip of wine.
“What amused you so much last night about the fire in my house?”
M
r. Beauville studied the sleeve of his coat. He had reacted to her mention of Mrs. Lasher’s flagellary; he had distanced himself from Camille Touvois. But to this question Mr. Beauville evinced a studied lack of reaction which piqued Miss Tolerance considerably.
“Is that what happened?” Beauville asked at last. “I observed a great ado in the garden.”
“Yes, sir. I observed you observing, and you were mighty amused by what you saw, I thought”
“The scurrying of my fellow man always amuses me,” Beauville drawled. He looked up from his coat sleeve and grinned like a dog.
“Does it? I find the willingness of my fellow man to keep my house—and the rest of London around it—from burning to the ground to be more laudable than amusing,” Miss Tolerance said. “I am rather surprised that when the alarm was sounded you did not join the scurrying yourself. You appear to be a hale enough fellow.”
“I was occupied.”
“Indeed? May I ask how?”
“Fucking the jade I was with.”
“Quite reasonable.” Miss Tolerance did not oblige him by reacting to his language. “It is interesting, is it not, that when I saw you observing your fellow man you were fully dressed, even to your neckcloth. The sight gave me the oddest notion.”
“Yes, mademoiselle?”
“It could not be that you set the fire yourself, sir?”
If Miss Tolerance had wished to remove the grin from his face she had succeeded in her object.
“Why should I do such a thing?”
“I really do not know. Do you?”
“I was with a whore. You may ask her.”
“I’m sure Lisette will commend your performance, sir. And I will, of course, ask her. As to why you decided to grace Mrs. Brereton’s house—where you have never been a frequent patron—on the very night when someone tried to roast me in my bed, I shall simply have to reserve judgment.”
She rose to her feet.
“I thank you for your time, Mr. Beauville. Now I must take myself off to Mrs. Vose’s.”
“Mrs. Vose’s?”
“Investigation is an additive and subtractive process, sir. If I add your testimony to Mrs. Vose’s and subtract what I know to be untrue, I may perhaps come upon a clue to the chevalier’s death. So it seems I must talk a little more with Mrs. Vose.” Miss Tolerance rose and bowed. “I thank you very much for your time, sir. If anything else occurs to you, I hope you will let me know of it. A note here will always find me.”
She left the room before Beauville had time to rise. She would have liked to have seen the effect of her final shot, but felt strongly that its effect relied on her leaving before he could respond. Miss Tolerance left Tarsio’s quickly and stepped onto the street, invigorated as if she had spent an hour fencing in a
salle.
As she walked north toward Balcombe Street, however, the invigoration faded and her footsteps slowed until she found herself stopped on the corner of Oxford Street, thinking. She had two immediate tasks: to find the chevalier’s killer, and to secure Anne d’Aubigny’s release from Cold Bath Fields Prison; discovering who had set fire to her cottage came after those. The Chevalier d’Aubigny was unlikely
to become more dead; his wife’s situation, however, could very well worsen if no steps were taken. Before she could convict Beauville, Miss Tolerance must first impeach the mysterious Mr. Millward. With a little regret, Miss Tolerance turned south toward Covent Garden and Bow Street.
 
 
T
he Brown Bear had been for nearly half a century the chiefest public house catering to Bow Street’s officers and their private counterparts, the thief-takers. Since the inception of the seven Public Offices patterned upon Bow Street, many of the constables of those offices also came to the Bear, to drink, brag and gossip. Miss Tolerance had been to the Bear once or twice before, and knew enough about the competitive nature of law enforcement to be certain that no Runner or constable would willingly share information with anyone who might reap the statutory rewards before himself. She was also aware that the patrons of the Bear regarded her not as a colleague but as an annoyance, an unfeminine abomination. They were unlikely to be charmed, or paid, for information. She did not hope to learn anything about the case against Anne d’Aubigny, but thought she might gain some insight into the habits of John Boyse.
She slipped into the Bear and went directly to the bar. Even now, not so long after noon, the small room was thick with custom, and the air with wood and tobacco smoke. At one table half a dozen Runners, distinguishable by the red waistcoats of their office, were arguing over their coffee. Further from the door there was a similar group of fellows, less noisily refreshing themselves and watching the Runners’ table with something she construed as envy. At the bar a woman stood polishing glasses. Iron-gray hair curled under her cap and framed her square-jawed face. She was heavy and poorly corsetted; from the way she shifted from foot to foot, Miss Tolerance surmised that her feet and her back felt the strain of her work very much.
“Aye, sir. What can I get for you?” the woman asked.
Miss Tolerance put a silver piece on the bar. “Ale, please.”
“Please. That’s nice,” the woman said comfortably. “Most a’
yon paragons of the law don’t say please nor thankee. Here you are, sir.”
She slid a pewter mug across to Miss Tolerance and filled it from an earthenware jug. “Brewed fresh. You taste that, now.”
Miss Tolerance did, and smacked her lips. It was very good, and she said so.
“Polite and knows good ale. Wish we had more of your custom here,” the woman said. She took a handful of coins from her pocket and began to pore over them nearsightedly to discover the proper change.
“Keep it, please,” Miss Tolerance said.
Rather than endearing her to the woman, this seemed to arouse her suspicion. “And what?” she asked.
“Not much. I was curious to know if a constable named Boyse comes in here for a drink.”
The suspicion on the woman’s face deepened. “You a friend of his?”
“Mr. Boyse? I shouldn’t think he had any friends,” Miss Tolerance said.
The woman snickered. “You’re right there, sir. But you won’t find ‘im here. He does his drinking nearer to his own Public Office—don’ t come in here unless it’s to pick a fight. Which I’m grateful for, as you may imagine. If you’re wanting of Mr. Boyse, look in Oxford Street at the Duke of Kent. I’ve a friend married to the barman there, she’s mentioned Boyse more than once.”
“Not with favor, I gather?”
The woman shook her head. “I’d stay clear of that ’un were I you, my lad. Unless you want your face more bashed about than ’tis already.”
“Actually, I’d happily stay clear of Mr. Boyse. I’m looking for a friend of his, a Mr. Millward.”
The woman shook her head. “Don’t know the name. What’s he look like?”
Miss Tolerance shrugged. “I don’t know. And I’ve a need to find him without Mr. Boyse learning of it.” She reached for her pocketbook. “If you happen to hear of a Mr. Millward, I would be very grateful—”
The woman put a hand on Miss Tolerance’s arm. “Keep your money, boy. ‘Fit happens I hear of this Millward, and ’fit happens I get word to you, you can give me a little something then.” She rubbed an affectionate finger on the heavy cloth of the Gunnard coat. “I never had a fancy for brown hair, but even with them bruises there’s something agreeable-like about you.” She took her hand away. “Millward? ‘F’I hear aught of him, where shall I let you know?”
Miss Tolerance bit her lip to keep from smiling. “You can send a note to me at Tarsio’s Club in Henry Street,” she said. “Address it to Miss Tolerance. I really would be most appreciative, ma’am.”
The barmaid’s brows drew together and she squinted, examining Miss Tolerance’s face closely. Then her face lit with a lopsided grin; it appeared she was not one to hold a grudge. “Damn, took me in proper, you did. Well, my eyes ain’t what they was. Very well, Miss T. ‘F’I hear of Millward, I’ll send to Tarsio’s to let you know, and you can pay from that wallet. But do you try the Duke of Kent, too.” She turned away, chuckling.
Miss Tolerance, smiling herself, left the smoky, hospitable warmth of the Bear.
 
 
T
he Duke of Kent shared a narrow street front with a stairway to the two upper stories of its building. Once inside, Miss Tolerance perceived that the alehouse was considerably larger than its front suggested. The room described an L, with a massive greasy fireplace on the right wall which looked as if it had not been cleaned since the time of the last King Henry. In contrast to the venerable fireplace, the furnishings of the tavern gave the impression of great impermanence; the bar itself was merely a few boards laid atop sawhorses, with half a dozen barrels stacked behind, each with a label scrawled on in chalk: bitter, new ale, apple beer and the like. The clientele of the Duke of Kent gave an equal impression of rough-hewn unsteadiness. It was not the most disreputable public house Miss Tolerance had ever seen, but neither was it an inviting spot in which to take refreshment. Miss Tolerance shouldered her way through the crowd with as good an impression of masculine impatience as she could muster, and took a
place at the bar. When the sullen barman turned to her she ordered apple beer and tried not to notice that the man barely wiped the pot before he tapped the cider into it.
“Thank you,” she said, and dropped a coin onto the bar. It fell on its edge and began to roll along the rough surface, but the barman was evidently familiar with the phenomenon, and caught the coin before it fell off the edge of the bar.
“We’re fixing things up,” he said in tones of grudging apology.
Miss Tolerance nodded. “Is Mr. Boyse in this afternoon?” she asked.
The barman turned to take another order, then shook his head. “Not yet. Mayhap this evening, around about ten or so. Come in most nights when he’s off duty, like.”
“A regular, then?”
The barman pulled off a pot of ale and pushed it in the direction of its recipient. “What you want with Boyse? ‘E’s not the sort a young gent like you ought to be mixing with.”
“I’ve no wish to mix with him,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “In fact, I’m not interested in Boyse at all—only with a friend of his named Millward.”
The barman looked to one side and then the other and began to swipe at the surface of the bar with his apron. “Wouldn’t say Boyse ‘ad no friends, like. Even that nancypants mate of ’is don’t drink with ’im above twice a month.”
“Mr. Greenwillow?” Miss Tolerance suggested. “So you don’t know of a man named Millward?”
“What am I?” The barman left off polishing the uneven surface of his temporary bar and looked square at Miss Tolerance. “I don’t ask no one’s name. Look, you. If I did know of this ’ere Millward—”
“I would make it worth your while.” Miss Tolerance slid her hand inside her coat to suggest payment of a sum sufficient to loosen the barman’s tongue. “I believe Mr. Boyse was drinking with him two nights ago. They made quite a batch of it, from what I hear.”
The man shook his head. “Two nights ago? They weren’t hard-drinkin’ here. Boyse come in, sober and full of hisself as usual, and took up straightaway with Betty Strokum, like he does when
he’s in funds. They supped a while, had a few tots of gin, then left.”
Miss Tolerance took another sip of her apple beer. Despite the unpromising surroundings, the cider was crisp and potent. She considered. “Together? And how long was Mr. Boyse here?”
“Look,” the barman said firmly. “I don’t know who you are or what you want. Boyse is a constable—I don’t want no trouble here.”
“I promise you: tell me the truth, whatever you know of it, and I’ll pay you well. If all goes as I hope, you’ll never hear from me again.”
There was a thoughtful pause while the barman drew another pot of ale and received payment for it. Then the man leaned forward over the bar, close enough that Miss Tolerance could see the rheum in his bloodshot eyes and smell tobacco and juniper berry on his breath.
“Boyse come in about eight that evening. Soppin’ wet from the storm, of course, but sober as a judge when he got there. Like I told you, ’e was here wiv Bet a few hours, then they left, Bet with her tongue in Boyse’s ear. After that? Ask Mrs. Strokum, if you want to know what Boyse was doing. That’s all I can tell you, in truth or safety. You’ll oblige me by moving’ along, then, sir,” he added loudly. “We don’t want troublemakers at the Duke of Kent”
“Right, then,” Miss Tolerance agreed as loudly. More quietly she asked a last question. “Where might I find Mrs. Strokum, sir?”
The barman laughed, apparently genuinely amused. “Look on any corner hereabouts. Handsome mort, yellow hair and a red dress. She’s got no teeth in the front—makes it convenient-like, see?”
Miss Tolerance blinked, then laughed. She put a half-crown piece flat on the bar so that there was no chance of its rolling away, then turned the collar of her Gunnard coat up, tucked in her muffler, and went in search of Mrs. Strokum. She did not believe she would have much luck at—she checked her pocket watch—three of the afternoon. Still, she walked in an expanding circle around the Duke of Kent, looking for a blonde woman with a convenient lack of teeth, wearing a red dress. A few streets away from the tavern she came upon a whore in an ancient bottle-green velvet coat,
leaning against an iron fence and calling drunkenly to passersby. Despite the coat and a patchy fur tippet wound round her throat, the woman’s teeth were chattering so hard it made her offers of pleasure hard to understand. Miss Tolerance noted a rosy chancre at the corner of her mouth and shuddered.

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