Deadly Affair: A Georgian Historical Mystery (Alec Halsey Crimance) (9 page)

Sir Charles reluctantly agreed and came to stand by Alec at the window. “That’s why I—
he
—needs your help.”

“What gives Cleveley the grand presumption I’d help save his neck?”

Sir Charles stared into the middle-distance. “It would get you an ambassadorship…”

Alec’s laugh was harsh. “My God, he thinks he can
bribe
me to help him?”

“I would not call it
bribery
but a
return
on the favor done you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Sir Charles turned and faced Alec in the window embrasure. “The whisper around town is that it was your godmother, the Duchess of Romney-St. Neots, who had the accusation of murder against you quashed. That it was through her efforts that you were elevated to the Marquessate Halsey because there are those in the Lords who were, and still are, against you inheriting your brother’s earldom. And before you ask it, I was not one of those who believed you capable of shooting your own brother in cold blood, not without good reason. Your brother was a repellant being. The Duke added his voice to your godmother’s efforts.” Sir Charles couldn’t help a smug smile. “It was through his efforts, not hers, that His Majesty was finally swayed to grant you letters patent.”

Alec scowled at his school friend with a mixture of disgust and disbelief. “You think I should be
grateful
to
the great man
? You think by telling me this I will be sympathetic to his predicament—
to yours
? How very wrong you are!” He snatched up his frockcoat. “Tell your master to bestow his ambassadorship elsewhere!”

Sir Charles was so taken aback that for a moment he just stood there, stunned. But in the next breath he came alive and hurried after Alec, tripping over his feet along the length of the Gallery as he tried to match Alec’s angry strides. He caught him up as he opened the door, and shuddering in breath said, “Listen—Alec!” He swallowed, chest heaving. “I grant you... You... You do not care for the Duke’s politics... And you... You care even less for the man, but I know you do care... You care very deeply for-for—Mrs. Jamison-Lewis…” He leaned his shoulders against the paneled wall and swallowed in air and breathed deeply. “Do you want to see her family disgraced? Do you want harm to come to her brother;
her
the center of scandal? Well?
Do you
?”

Alec slowly closed over the door. “What has Mrs. Jamison-Lewis to do with Stanton?”

Sir Charles’s breathing became more regular. “It’s her brother; not Cobham, her younger brother, Talgarth Vesey. He’s the blackmailer.”

“You seem certain.”

“I am. The letters are in his fist.”

“Why would Talgarth Vesey, a painter of portraits, blackmail Lord George Stanton?”

“Do you know why the Duke bundled brother and sister from that exhibition in such a hurry?”

“I imagine the embarrassment at having unveiled a mutilated portrait, and Vesey’s subsequent break-down in full-view of a hundred people, was all too much for his Grace’s delicate sensibilities.”

“Because he realized at once who had mutilated that portrait and why.”

“So you think?”

Sir Charles ignored the heavy sarcasm. “Lord George did it. He did it in a drunken rage.”

“I suppose he told you that?”

“He has confessed all to the Duke, although his Grace had already guessed.”

Alec was suddenly weary. “Would you get to the point, Charles.”

“My friend, the point is this: If you cannot or will not put a stop to Vesey exposing Lord George’s indiscretion then I’m afraid steps will be taken to make certain Vesey can never voice his threats.”

“Is that what happened to Blackwell? Did he discover Stanton’s sordid little secret while staying in the Cleveley household, and for that he was murdered?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. But we are not discussing the demise of one poor old vicar, are we?”

“How brave are little men when protected by the hand of power and privilege,” Alec enunciated coldly.

“I do not apologize,” Sir Charles replied, “Lord George cannot be allowed to bring down our Foreign Secretary, and all those who nestle within his velvet glove.” He took out his pocket watch. “Good Lord! I’ve a meeting with the party whips in an hour. I can inform his Grace you will see what you can do to help…?”

“May I know Lord George’s crime?”

Sir Charles couldn’t help a smile of embarrassment. “About five years ago he—er—
forced his attentions
on a young lady of good family: the female in Vesey’s portrait that was subsequently mutilated. Unfortunately she was impregnated—”

“
Jesu
...”

“—and gave birth, most unfortunately, to a healthy female child. Her family was
persuaded
not to press charges and the female was bundled off to an undisclosed direction. No more was thought of her until letters of a threatening nature arrived on Lord George’s doorstep. It is not known how he found out, but Talgarth Vesey is now championing the woman’s cause for monetary compensation from the Duke or he will expose Lord George’s folly to the world.”

Alec was skeptical. “What trump could Vesey possibly have in his possession that could out-maneuver the likes of Cleveley?”

Sir Charles followed Alec out onto the landing where they were met by the butler coming up the stairs.

“In a moment of guilt-ridden drunken weakness, that fool Lord George replied to one of those letters and wrote the girl a sniveling apology; Vesey now holds this damming piece as evidence.”

“Wantage,” said Alec, suppressing the urge to rearrange the politician’s neckcloth, “show Sir Charles the street door.”

“I should think, given your—um—
influence
with the sister, persuading the brother to give up such a trifling letter will be a simple task,” Sir Charles concluded with a condescending smile and passed the butler to walk down the stairs before him.

Wantage remained fixed on the top step.

“Wantage,” Alec said through his teeth, “
get rid of him
.”

The butler bowed. “Certainly, my lord. I shall do so immediately. It’s just that, it’s Mr. Halsey, my lord. He’s up in his rooms with a nasty knock to his head. The physician says it’s a concussion and wants to blood him…” His voice trailed off.

His master had turned and was running along the passageway to his uncle’s rooms.

Earlier that same morning, while Alec was going through his paces with the fencing master, Tam was visiting The Stock and Buckle, a crowded coffee house in St. James’s on the corner of Berry and King Streets. The Stock and Buckle, like most coffee houses in London, was identified by its regular clientele who spent their few idle hours drinking coffee, tea, or chocolate, playing at cards, and enjoying the freedom of speech within its comfortable surroundings. If one was not inclined to conversation then newspapers could be rented and read on the premises.

Tam often enjoyed an hour within the cozy rooms of this establishment amongst his fellow upper servants. Being valet to a Marquess afforded him the respect due his master’s rank, begrudgingly so because of his youth, and with suspicion because he was well versed in the secret arts of the apothecary and was known to dispense medicines to the needy.

It was in his role as apothecary that he shouldered past a group of valets gathered in the foyer, making noisy preparations for their departure, and slid onto the chair at the table in the bay window. He ordered a coffee. He should have been studying for his exams. He felt a great sense of guilt wasting the valuable time so generously given to him by his lordship, but the summons had come from ‘the Duke’ himself and so could not be ignored. Besides, there were a number of questions he wished to put to ‘the Duke’ and if the answers were not forthcoming he planned to withhold the small glass bottle of oil he carried in a deep pocket of his frockcoat.

Since his first visit to The Stock and Buckle Tam had been warned that the table in the bay window with its view of the street was reserved exclusively for Robert Molyneux, valet to the Duke of Cleveley. Known as ‘the Duke’, a term used with derision because he carried himself as if he was indeed of that rank and even spoke with the same arrogant inflection peculiar to his master, Molyneux had been valet to the Duke of Cleveley for twenty-two years. He always drank his coffee while perusing the latest newssheets, coldly oblivious to those about him. Most of his fellows avoided him, not only because he was insufferably arrogant but also because his face and neck were hideously scared from the smallpox.

The coffee came and Tam waited.

Molyneux continued to read the
London Gazette
, hidden from view behind its upheld pages. Ordinarily such rudeness would not have bothered Tam, who was used to ‘the Duke’s’ ways, but he did not have the leisure to wait to be acknowledged. He sipped his coffee and put the little blue glass jar on the table, careful to keep his fingers curled about its stem.

“I’ve brought the oil, as you requested, Mr. Molyneux. Bathe your knee with it at night before you retire and you should have some relief by morning. If not, I suggest—”

“What’s it made of?” came the blunt question from behind the spread-out newssheets.

“An ounce each of Friar’s balsam and tincture of myrrh; two ounces of spirits of turpentine—”

The newssheet came down and was folded away. “I didn’t ask for the recipe, Thomas Fisher.” Molyneux put out a hand to take the bottle but slowly withdrew it when Tam kept his fingers closed around it. He was so taken aback that at first he did not know what to say. He was not used to being denied. “Is it payment you want,
boy
?” he spat out in a whisper.

Tam shook his head. His intestines churned with nervousness, yet his eyes did not waver from the man’s face. “No, Mr. Molyneux. I don’t take payment. You know that. What I want is the answers to a few questions.”

“
Questions
?
Answers
? You presume a damn lot.”

Tam swallowed. Now was not the time to be tongue-tied. “Yes, sir, I do,” he said politely. “But only you can answer them for me.”

Molyneux stared at the freckled-faced youth with his mop of carrot-red hair and clear green eyes, weighing up whether he was being deliberately insolent or stupidly naive. He decided the latter. He threw several pennies on the table and made to rise. But Tam’s next sentence put his stiff knees back under the table.

“It’s about the death of the Reverend Blackwell, Mr. Molyneux. Thank you, sir,” he said when the man resumed his chair. “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”

Molyneux leaned across the table. “If you think we have anything to say to you about a scruffy man of God, you’re much mistaken!”

“His Grace didn’t like him, sir?” Tam asked innocently. He knew he was treading on hallowed ground; it was an unwritten rule that one’s employer was never discussed within the walls of The Stock and Buckle. So it was no surprise when Molyneux visibly stiffened. “Then again, sir, he must’ve had some consideration for him. After all, it was at his invitation that Mr. Blackwell came to stay in St. James’s Square, wasn’t it, sir?”

“What do you know about that?”

So it was true. The Duke had invited the cleric to his house. Why? Tam looked at the liquid in the blue bottle. “Mr. Blackwell was my friend, Mr. Molyneux.”

Molyneux sniffed contemptuously. “A pity then that he didn’t come begging at your master’s door. It would’ve saved us a great deal of trouble!”

“When he died so unexpectedly, Mr. Molyneux?” asked Tam, all wide-eyed innocence. “Or was it expected?”

“Listen, boy. I don’t care for your insolent tone. How could we have known the old fool would up and die like that? He had a heart attack. And very inconvenient it was for us too.”

“I know the physician said it was a heart attack,” Tam said calmly. “I also know what is being whispered around town, Mr. Molyneux.”

“Whispered?” The valet looked confused. “Why would anyone be interested in the death of a nobody vicar?”

Tam sipped the last of his coffee. It was cold and very bitter. “Servant gossip, Mr. Molyneux.”

Molyneux drew himself to sit up. “Not in our house,” he enunciated.

Tam took a gamble. “Sir Charles Weir’s servants don’t possess the same loyalty, Mr. Molyneux,” he said with apology.

This hit the mark.

Molyneux frowned. To hide the fact he was rattled he gestured for a waiter. The waiter knew what to bring without asking.

“You know not to listen to servant gossip, lad.” Molyneux said, focusing on Tam with something of a sneering smile. “If I listened to servant gossip I’d say you needed the wind taken out of your sails. Too cocky by half, that’s what’s said about you. Valet to a pretty-faced Marquess, and you such an infant. Whoever heard of the like. What did you do to earn it, aye? I’ll tell you what they say around here: That you’re his catamite.”

Tam felt the heat rise in his face and cursed himself, but he wasn’t about to let ‘the Duke’ get the better of him. “You know that isn’t true, sir,” he said quietly. “And I’m not half as cocky as people make out. Every day I count my good fortune.” He leaned toward the valet. “You and I have something in common, don’t we, sir? I mean, people are just as jealous of you, what with you taking care of such a powerful nobleman and for so long. They say you’re a papist plotter for the Jacobites, and that his Grace hasn’t a clue. What do they know? I don’t believe for a moment you’re a traitor to King and country; not being as devoted to his Grace as you are. And I don’t care in the least if you’re a papist. When all’s said and done we’re all Englishman, one and all, aren’t we, sir?”