Sheri Cobb South (15 page)

“No trouble, Mrs. Watkins. Actually, I came to ask you about a man.”

“O-ho!” exclaimed Mrs. Watkins, seeing Pickett with new and disapproving eyes. “Well, that explains a lot, but I don’t run that kind of house.”

Pickett flushed to the roots of his hair. “You don’t—I didn’t mean—this particular man claims to have been with one of your girls two nights ago. Do you by any chance recall a big, hearty fellow in his mid-fifties, with white hair, mutton-chop whiskers, and a bit of a West Country accent?”

Mrs. Watkins screwed up her face in concentration. “Now that you mention it, I believe I do,” she pronounced at last. “He came to us two nights in a row, and he was so free with his blunt the first time that when he came back again the very next night, I offered to let him initiate our Daphne into the arts of love. They like that sort of talk, you know.”

“So he would have been with Daphne, then?”

“No, for he took one look at her, and said she was the image of his own little Ju-ju, whoever that might be.”

“His daughter.”

“Is that it? Well, then, it’s just as well he wouldn’t have her, for that’s the sort of thing I don’t put up with and never will!” She paused as a new thought struck her. “Does she? Look like this Ju-ju, I mean.”

Pickett shook his head. “Not to me, but then, I’m not a father.”

“Anyway, since he didn’t want Daphne, I gave him to Dolores.”

“May I have a word with Dolores, then?”

Dolores was duly summoned, and soon Pickett and Mrs. Watkins were joined by a raven-haired beauty whose Spanish antecedents, unlike Daphne’s virtue, might not have been entirely fictitious.

“Oh, yes, I remember him very well,” she said in answer to Pickett’s query. “He had a mole in the shape of a horse’s head, right on his—

“Never mind, I believe you,” Pickett interrupted before he learned a great deal more than he wanted to know. “Do you remember what time it was when you—when he—”

Pickett’s question rapidly dissolved into incoherence, but Dolores (who, along with most females of her profession, had dealt with Bow Street before) had no trouble following the thread. “He came to me at about eleven o’clock.”

“And how long did he stay?”

“He left at six o’clock the following morning.”

“He stayed with you all night?”

“He was very—energetic—for a man his age,” she purred with a reminiscent smile. “And he paid me well for my time, so I have no complaints.”

There followed so detailed a description of the squire’s points that Pickett was left in no doubt as to the intimacy of Dolores’s acquaintance with the gentleman in question. He thanked her for her cooperation, and resolved to inform the squire that he was free to return to Somersetshire whenever he chose. He would send a note round to Limmer’s that afternoon; he did not know how to look Sir Thaddeus in the face, given Dolores’s colorful and all too informative recollections.

He supposed he should be disappointed at having yet another promising suspect lead only to a dead end, but such, he found, was not the case; after all, the news that he had arrested her father for murder would be unlikely to win Lady Fieldhurst’s gratitude and admiration.

Not, of course, that he was attempting to win any such thing, he reminded himself hastily. He was, as he had informed her ladyship, merely a keeper of the King’s peace, doing his best to see that justice was done.

With this end in view, he struck Sir Thaddeus’s name from the list of suspects, and turned his attention to those who remained.

Chapter 11

In Which John Pickett Suffers for a Worthy Cause

“You want me to do what?” Lucy demanded some time later, when she was apprised of her newest rôle in Pickett’s investigation.

It was now late afternoon in Covent Garden’s bustling piazza, where the morning’s fruit and vegetable sellers had yielded pride of place to the orange girls, flower-sellers, and prostitutes who would offer their various wares to theatergoers later in the evening. Lucy’s incredulity was of sufficient volume to cause several of these young women to look her way; a few offering bawdy speculations as to what her companion desired, and generously volunteering to furnish any services which Lucy might be unable or unwilling to render.

“I want you to go to Seven Dials and search the rag shops,” Pickett echoed, resolutely ignoring these suggestions, although his ears turned pink. “Ask the barker if he’s had a pair of stained white pantaloons from a valet in the Albany.”

“Stained with what, pray?”

“Blood, if I’m lucky. Champagne, if I’m not.”

Lucy planted one hand on her ample hip. “And what am I to do with these pantaloons, if I find them?”

Pickett pressed half a crown into her free hand. “Buy them and bring them to me.”

Lucy, however, was unconvinced. “And why should I be buying clothes for you, John Pickett?” she demanded. “Lud, it’s just like I was your wife, only without any of the good parts!”

A second coin joined its brother in Lucy’s palm. “And while you’re about it, buy something for yourself for your trouble.”

Lucy looked down at the riches in her hand and wavered. “Do you have any idea how many bow-wow shops there are in Seven Dials?”

“No, but I’ll wager you do.”

“I know of six in Monmouth Street alone! And what about you? What are you going to be doing, while I’m out brangling with rag-merchants?”

Pickett could not resist. “What do you think?” he retorted. “Like any good husband, I’ll be hoisting a pint at the Coach and Four.”

Grinning, he turned and walked away, leaving an indignant Lucy to endure the bawdy hoots of her peers as she stood open-mouthed in the middle of the piazza.

* * * *

The Coach and Four, as its name implied, had originally catered to the grooms and stable lads employed by the aristocracy, who spent most of their working hours in the various mews tucked away behind the stylish town houses of Mayfair. But as this establishment’s reputation had grown, its custom had expanded to include house servants as well. On any given afternoon, one might find stately butlers enjoying their half-day, or roguish footmen courting flirtatious housemaids, in addition to the more traditional clientele.

John Pickett, entering the tap room at half-past nine o’clock, looked like none of these, and so the proprietor greeted him somewhat curtly with a grudging, “What’ll ye have?”

It had been Pickett’s experience that publicans were disinclined to view Bow Street operatives with favor; indeed, most of them regarded policing of any kind as a threat to the rights of law-abiding citizens, rather than a form of protection against the lawless. Pickett had, however, been with the Bow Street force long enough to learn that an exchange of silver did much to ensure cooperation, and that a liberal dose of spirits frequently loosened the most tightly-sealed lips.

“A pint of bitter,” said Pickett, slapping a coin onto the bar. As the barkeep drew the foaming liquid into a pewter mug, he tossed another coin down and added, “And have one for yourself.”

“Thank ‘ee, sir, don’t mind if I do,” said this worthy, much gratified, as he reached for a second mug.

“You’ve got quite a busy place here,” observed Pickett, glancing about the bustling taproom.

As these simple words hinted at an unspoken admiration for his business acumen, mine host unbent sufficiently to admit that, yes, his business was indeed prospering.

“I’ll wager you know what goes on in half the great houses in London,” continued Pickett.

“I’ll not deny it,” boasted the barkeep, standing a bit taller and thrusting out his chest. “Why, see that fellow there? He’s footman to Earl Grey. And that one in the corner was once stable lad to the Duke of Devonshire.”

Pickett leaned in close and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And what of Viscount Fieldhurst, who was murdered? Do any of his staff come here?”

It was a tactical error. The barkeep began to rub down the bar vigorously with a damp cloth, all trace of confidentiality vanished. “Now, listen here, I don’t hold no truck with murderers, no siree! This is an honest establishment, God’s truth it is, and so any one of these good people will tell you!”

He continued in this vein at some length, and not until Pickett had ordered a second round of drinks were his ruffled feathers soothed to the point of admitting that, yes, the butler Rogers had been one of his regular patrons, but he had not seen the man for some three days. Nor did he wish to see him again, if it were true that he’d snuffed his master. Further questioning brought forth the names of several rival establishments which, he assured Pickett, were not nearly so nice in their clientele as his own.

And so, having learned all he could at the Coach and Four, Pickett made his way first to the Butler’s Pantry, then to the Boar’s Head, and finally to the Grey Goose. His investigations followed a very similar pattern. Over the first pint, not one of the publicans knew anything about a butler named Rogers; over the second, each somewhat grudgingly recalled having served him on occasion, but could not recollect having seen him since the night of Lord Fieldhurst’s murder. All were quick to disavow any knowledge of his present whereabouts.

At the Grey Goose, however, something gave Pickett the distinct impression that the proprietor was lying. Precisely what had tipped him off, he could not have said; perhaps it was the simple fact that he spent fully ten minutes drying the same pewter mug. Whatever the reason, Pickett had sufficient confidence in his instincts (although, if truth be told, even these usually reliable faculties were by this time growing a bit blurred around the edges) to order a third pint, and then a fourth, for himself and his host.

“So, what d’ye think?” asked this worthy, wiping the foam from his mouth with his sleeve. “Did this ‘ere Rogers really rub out ‘is lordship?”

“I don’t know that for sure,” Pickett demurred. “For all I know, Fieldhurst might have rubbed him out instead.”

“Well, I can tell you that’s what he didn’t do,” returned the publican, leaning confidingly across the bar. “Poor old Rogers was in here just two days ago, drinking hisself into a stupor and rambling about getting the sack from old Fieldhurst.”

Even through the fog which was beginning to cloud his brain, Pickett realized that this was what he had come for. If Rogers had indeed been sacked by the viscount, he had a motive for murder, especially if he knew he was to receive twenty pounds upon Fieldhurst’s death. That sum would go a long way toward establishing an unemployed man in a new position. It was true that Lady Fieldhurst had said nothing about the butler losing his position, but it was possible that she had already departed for the Herrington ball when her husband dismissed the butler, and therefore knew nothing about it.

Pickett could not afterwards recall paying his shot and taking his leave, but he must have done so, for he eventually found himself weaving his way down Bond Street in the direction of Berkeley Square. The street was deserted by this time, and he was surprised to discover that the fashionable thoroughfare, which had always remained stationary before, now demonstrated an alarming ability to blur, split in two, and criss-cross before his somewhat owlish gaze. Only with the greatest concentration was he able to remain upright while putting one foot in front of the other, long enough to mount the low steps onto the front stoop of number 12 Berkeley Square. He raised the brass door knocker and let it fall against the strike plate, but the black crape ribbons adorning the knocker muffled the sound. Abandoning this useless device, he pounded hard against the wooden panel with his fist.

Some few minutes passed before the door opened to reveal a sleepy-eyed Thomas, the coat of his blue-and-silver livery hanging open over his nightshirt, breeches, and bare feet.

“Mus’ shee—see—her la’yship,” Pickett pronounced with an effort.

Thomas’s sleepy eyes grew round as dinner plates. “B-beg pardon, sir?”

“Lady Fiel’ursht,” Pickett reiterated. “Musht ask ‘er—”

“Meaning no disrespect, sir, but perhaps you’d best wait till tomorrow,” said Thomas, gently but firmly closing the door.

“No, no!” protested Pickett, thrusting his foot into the rapidly closing gap. “Musht ask ‘er—Rogers—”

“Thomas?” inquired a feminine voice. “What is the matter? Who is it?”

Thomas, distracted by the query, released his pressure on the door. Pickett, seizing his opportunity, pushed it open and caught a glimpse of Paradise.

Lady Fieldhurst stood at the foot of the stairs, clutching a pink silk wrapper closed over her night rail. Her unbound hair spilled over her shoulders in glorious waves of gold.

“Lucy—too late,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Over my head—already.”

“Mr. Pickett?” cried the viscountess, recognizing the man reeling on her doorstep. “Have you any idea what time it is?”

Blinking, Mr. Pickett looked around the square, seeing for the first time its dark houses and empty streets.

“Oh dear, I suppose we can hardly cast you into the street at this hour,” Lady Fieldhurst conceded. “You’d best come in. Thomas, light a fire in the small guest chamber. Mr. Pickett will be there directly.”

Thomas, who knew his duty, took himself from the room, albeit with some reluctance.

Lady Fieldhurst, left alone in the entrance hall with her unexpected guest, regarded Pickett with mingled exasperation and amusement. When she had first realized the identity of her midnight caller, she had recalled his interrogations of Lady Herrington’s guests and feared the hour of her arrest was at hand. It was, however, difficult to be frightened of the gawky, rumpled, and absurdly young man who stood at the door, swaying on his feet as she approached him.

“Pray, Mr. Pickett, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?” she asked, taking his arm to steady him.

He yielded to the pressure of her hand in the crook of his elbow and allowed himself to be led into the house. “Your name,” he said with great deliberation, “ish Julia.”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed, somewhat surprised that he would have taken notice of what to him must be an irrelevant point, much less that he should call on her in the wee hours of the morning to inform her of it.