Sheri Cobb South (22 page)

Two gentlemen passed the shop from the other direction, one pausing before the window just long enough to make a ribald remark to his companion, who laughed heartily as they continued up the street. Pickett, feeling more than a little ill, hardly noticed them. This, then, was what Mr. Colquhoun had feared. The insult was not aimed at him personally; the artist (if one could call him that) had apparently made no attempt to portray the particular officer investigating the viscount’s murder, but instead had resorted to a generic but readily recognizable type. In the process, he called into question not only Pickett’s integrity, but that of the entire Bow Street force.

With a heavy heart, Pickett realized what he must do. He would follow this last lead as far as it would take him, but if the deceased Deacon Toomer failed to lead him to the murderer, he would have no choice but to arrest the viscountess.

* * * *

John Pickett was not the only person to take exception to the sketches adorning the local shop windows. Another found them equally objectionable and this worthy, unlike Pickett, was in a position to take corrective action. He strode into the shop, demanded of the proprietor a copy of each of the offensive drawings and, armed with these, paid a call of ceremony in Berkeley Square.

Lady Fieldhurst, entertaining the Countess of Dunnington over morning chocolate, received him in the breakfast room. It was unlike Lord Rupert to be out and about so early (he had more than once complained in Lady Fieldhurst’s presence of being obliged to rise before noon), so when the newly restored Rogers entered the breakfast room to announce a visitor, the viscountess had expected to see someone of more matutinal habits—someone, for instance, like John Pickett.

“Good morning, Rupert,” said Lady Fieldhurst, feeling vaguely disappointed. “This is an unexpected pleasure, to be sure.”

Lord Rupert did not deign to admire how the sunlight pouring through the east-facing windows turned her hair to burnished gold, nor did he comment on the contrast between her ladyship’s angelically fair skin and the unrelieved black of her mourning gown. He likewise ignored the hand she offered for his kiss, except to thrust two sheets of foolscap into it, along with the command that she “look at that!”

Thus adjured, Lady Fieldhurst set aside her china cup and studied the two drawings in silence for a long moment before pronouncing, “This looks nothing at all like Mr. Pickett.”

“The devil take Mr. Pickett! It is the other one that most concerns me.”

“Yes, Rupert, I can see how it would,” agreed Lady Dunnington, examining the drawings over her hostess’s shoulder. “Mr. Gillray has quite failed to capture your good side.”

Lord Rupert refused to dignify this sally with a response. “Damn it, Julia, all of White’s is abuzz, while as for the betting book, its pages are filled with private wagers on your guilt or innocence.”

“Do the odds run in my favor?” asked the viscountess with detached curiosity. “Perhaps you would be willing to place a small wager on my behalf.”

“No, my dear, I would not! I am far more concerned with scotching the scandal. I came today for the express purpose of asking you to marry me without delay. I have already taken steps toward acquiring a special license, so we may be wed at once.”

“Why, Rupert, such passion!” exclaimed Lady Dunnington. “I vow, I am quite overcome!”

Lord Rupert glared at Emily. “Can you not grant us a moment of privacy?”

“Oh, never mind me,” Lady Dunnington said soothingly. “Julia assures me I am quite like one of the family.”

Lady Fieldhurst had been sipping her now tepid chocolate, but at Lord Rupert’s inelegant proposal, she set her cup on the table with sufficient force to send the light brown liquid spilling over the side. “You presume too much, Rupert! How, pray, will I avert a scandal by marrying you before Frederick is cold in the ground? Surely such haste would only add credence to this,” she said, gesturing toward the drawing.

“At least the world would know that my intentions were honorable.”

She had to smile at the elasticity of his morals. “I am sorry to inform you, Rupert, that there is no ‘honor’ in paying court to a married woman, any more than there was ‘honor’ in my encouraging your attentions. I am flattered by your offer, but if I am made uncomfortable by gossip linking my name with yours, it is perhaps no more than I deserve.”

Lord Rupert’s gaze shifted from the risqué sketches littering the table to the complacent woman sipping cold chocolate as if she were taking tea with the Queen. “Are you truly so hardened, Julia?”

She nodded. “Oh, quite! Six years of marriage with Frederick has that effect on one, to say nothing of being suspected of murder.”

“Perhaps I should tell you, then, that odds are running four to one against you.”

The fragile china cup rattled against its saucer, but her voice remained steady. “In that case, you must certainly place a wager for me. I could earn a rather tidy profit—provided, of course, that I live long enough to enjoy it.”

“Will you at least tell me whether your rejection of my offer is more in the nature of a ‘not yet’ than a ‘no’?” demanded Lord Rupert.

“Since you will have it, Rupert, no, no, a thousand times no!” declared Lady Fieldhurst in a voice that brooked no argument. “I have not been released from one marriage only to rush headlong into another. Believe me, the last thing I need in my life right now is a man!”

“Very well, Julia,” said Lord Rupert, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. “Say no more! I trust, however, that you will forgive me for observing that this show of independence would be more convincing did your life not at this very moment rest in the hands of a man—if one may so describe a cub not yet old enough to shave.”

Lady Fieldhurst, recalling the faint but unmistakable beard adorning Pickett’s chin on the morning following his overindulgence, could not let this animadversion pass unchallenged.

“Oh, he shaves,” she assured him, then blinked at the two scandalized faces regarding her across the breakfast table. “Now, what have I said to make the pair of you look at me like that?”

Chapter 16

In Which John Pickett Undertakes a Journey

After leaving Oxford Street, Pickett, in a frenzy of righteous indignation, not only examined the crypt at St. Martin in the Fields, but the tombs at Westminster Abbey as well, the close proximity of that historic edifice to the Foreign Office rendering it a promising meeting place for political intrigue. Alas, though he made the acquaintance of numerous Toobys, Tuckers, and Trueloves, not one Toomer could he find.

With the air of one clinging to a vain hope, he hired a hackney to convey him to the City. St. Paul’s Cathedral, he knew, was so popular with tourists that two or more men might meet in its crypt without occasioning a second glance. Upon being set down in front of this historic edifice, he dropped a sixpence into the poor box (the requested remuneration for touring the premises) and fell into step behind a group of fashionably dressed young people descending into the crypt. One of these, a young lady fetchingly attired in a pale blue pelisse and a straw bonnet with matching ribbons, exclaimed with ghoulish delight that it was exactly like something in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. As her companions flitted eagerly from tomb to tomb with morbid relish, Pickett addressed the curate whose unenviable task it was to point out the genius of Christopher Wren and the tombs of John Donne and Dr. Johnson to sightseers more interested in gothic horrors.

“Do you have many repeat visitors?”

“Oh, yes,” said the curate. “Many make an annual pilgrimage. There are those who do not consider their stay in Town to be complete without a visit to the Whispering Gallery.”

“What about the crypt? Does one visit per season usually suffice?”

Pickett was obliged to repeat his question, for farther into the vault, one of the young men leaped out from between two large monuments, sending the ladies of the party into shrieks of mock terror that reverberated in the cavernous depths.

The curate, observing with disfavor the hilarity which ensued, gave a weary sigh. “Lord Nelson’s tomb is always popular, but yes, one visit to the crypt usually satisfies all but the most voracious appetite for the macabre.”

“If there were regular visitors, then, you would probably have noticed them,” Pickett observed, “especially if they were interested in one particular tomb, such as that of Deacon Toomer.”

“Deacon Toomer?” echoed the curate, his brow puckered in concentration. “I cannot recall that we house such a tomb at all, although I would hesitate to claim intimate knowledge of every single one. If you would care to search for it, you are welcome to do so.”

Pickett thanked him with a sinking heart. The crypt was cavernous, and he had already wasted far too much time poking about the tombs at Westminster Abbey. Fortunately, he received assistance from an unexpected quarter, as the young lady in blue enthusiastically squealed out the name on every memorial she examined. But even with this unscheduled aid, he failed to locate a single Toomer, deacon or otherwise, among the inhabitants of St. Paul’s crypt.

The sun was riding low in the western sky when he left St. Paul’s, and Pickett knew that at the Bow Street office, the night patrol would have come on duty. He was free to go home, but the prospect of Mrs. Catchpole’s good-natured meddling filled him with dread. Delaying the inevitable, he traversed the mile or so from the City to Covent Garden on foot. As he drew abreast of a pub, scents wafting through its open doors made his stomach growl, and he realized with some surprise that he had not eaten in six hours or more. He stepped inside, ordered a ploughman’s dinner and a pint of ale, and took a seat at a corner table where he might be alone with his thoughts—none of which, it must be said, made for very congenial company.

“Is this seat taken?”

Lost in melancholy reflection, Pickett started at the sound of the familiar voice. Mr. Colquhoun stood there with his hand on the back of the opposite chair, clearly awaiting an invitation to sit down.

“It’s yours, sir, if you want it.”

Apparently the magistrate did, for he drew it out from the table and made himself comfortable. “I saw you come in,” he told his most junior Runner. “From your gloomy demeanor, I gather your investigations were fruitless?”

“Utterly. If the tomb of Deacon Toomer ever existed—or the deacon himself, for that matter—you could never prove it by me.” He paused and took a long pull of ale. “I did accomplish one thing, though: I stopped in Oxford Street and took a look in the shop windows.”

He wished Mr. Colquhoun would say something. Even an “I told you so” would be better than that look of wordless sympathy.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Pickett continued. “I had no idea. I hope you know I would never do anything to damage the reputation of the Bow Street force, at least not intentionally. I owe you too great a debt to repay you so shabbily.”

“Faugh!” snorted the Scotsman. “Any debt you owed me was paid in full long ago, so let’s hear no more of it.”

Pickett could not help smiling a little, well aware that Mr. Colquhoun was uncomfortable with any suggestion of sentimentality. “As you wish, sir.” His smile faded. “Still, I don’t want to discredit the force. I am prepared to do my duty, but I wonder if you would give me three days’ grace.”

“Why three days?”

“I’d like to travel to Kent, sir.”

“Kent? What is in Kent, pray?”

“Fieldhurst’s estate. I’d like to have a look at the church yard, the family crypt, that sort of thing.”

Colquhoun’s bushy white brows rose. “You still expect to find Deacon Toomer?”

“To be honest, sir, no. But it is the only clue I have to go on, and until I have exhausted every avenue—”

He broke off, and the two men sat in silence for a long moment. “Very well,” said the magistrate at last. “You have your three days.”

Pickett looked sharply at him, almost afraid to hope. “You’ll not send someone else while I’m gone?” Seeing the look of affronted dignity on his magistrate’s face, he quickly demurred. “No, I know you would not. I beg your pardon. Thank you, sir! I’ll take the first stage to Maidstone tomorrow. Now—if you’ll excuse me—I’d best go home and pack!”

Filled with a new sense of purpose, Pickett leaped up from his chair, pausing only long enough to stuff a crust of bread into his mouth, then headed for the door in such haste that he tripped over the table leg and only narrowly avoided sprawling spread-eagled on the tavern floor.

Colquhoun, observing his ungainly departure with ill-concealed amusement, plunged a hand into his coat pocket and withdrew a bulging coin purse. “Oh, John?”

The use of his Christian name, while not unheard of, was sufficiently unusual to cause Pickett to pause in mid-flight. “Yes, sir?”

“A little something in advance,” said the magistrate, pressing a few silver shillings into his hand. “To offset the expenses of the journey.”

“Thank you, sir.” Recalled to propriety, Pickett bobbed a rather awkward bow and took his leave in a slightly more restrained fashion.

Left alone with Pickett’s abandoned dinner, the magistrate reached across the table and broke a bit of cheese off the forgotten chunk on his plate. “The lad is besotted,” he muttered, shaking his head sadly. “God help him.”

* * * *

Pickett, disembarking from the stagecoach at Maidstone, took a moment to stretch his cramped muscles before going into the nearest public house and inquiring as to the location of Lord Fieldhurst’s principal seat.

“That would be over to Fieldhurst village, it would,” said the publican. “If you be needing a ride, Old Ben will be heading in that direction shortly. Won’t you, Old Ben?” he added, pitching his voice so that it might be heard by someone apparently half a mile away.

The heavy tread of hobnailed boots heralded the entrance of Old Ben into the taproom. Pickett, who had been expecting a fellow in his dotage, was somewhat amused to discover that Old Ben was in fact no older than Mr. Colquhoun. “Aye, I can offer you a lift, if a Londoner like yourself won’t mind the smell of a farm wagon.”