Lynne Connolly (25 page)

Richard nodded. “Satisfy my mother, as much as she’s ever satisfied, cancel out his debts, so they aren’t carried forward for Susan to cover. I wouldn’t have allowed that, in any case.” He shrugged. “What’s your opinion, Rose?”

I agreed. “But it would mean he’s free to take another identity. Start again afresh.”

“We can’t have everything.”

We left it at that. But not before Richard warned Carier that he wanted my guards maintained, maybe even increased. I told him that I would if he would, but to deny the possibility of attack would have been foolish.

Susan identified the body as that of her brother, and the news appeared in the journals and newspapers. John’s
death
made few ripples, but as a newcomer to society and not one of significant fortune or estate, that was only to be expected. His relationship to some of the greatest didn’t die. We kept away from the official side of the business, even when John Fielding sent a note around asking us about the affair. Richard replied that it was none of his business.

Unfortunately, rumour, as it sometimes does, took a vicious turn. We took care to attend the balls and social occasions we’d accepted invitations for, and at each one we found a frosty reception from someone or other. To make it worse, the increasingly uncertain political situation made people more willing to take sides and to look for sides to take.

We found ourselves unable to speak about the murder except in the most general terms and the subject of much speculation. It became clear that we would have to discover who committed the crime or have the stigma permanently attached to our name.

Until we received the summons from Bow Street. The note intimated that certain information had come their way, which they would greatly appreciate our opinion. I liked that the note, while addressed to Richard, mentioned me.

We took Carier. Bow Street should have been a gracious thoroughfare, but built at the wrong time, in the 1630s, along with the adjoining Covent Garden, it hadn’t had enough time to establish itself as a fashionable area before Cromwell turned England into a republic. Then, on the Restoration, it quickly degenerated into an area of shops, ginhouses and suchlike. Still, the houses had the air of gracious gentility, despite the soot-stained exteriors and cacophony of trading, living and debauchery that went on outside its front door.

I always felt disappointed when we didn’t go by the courts and the business of Bow Street to reach the private part of the lodging, but I daresay Mr. Fielding needed a more discreet entrance, and that was the one we always used.

Mr. Fielding occupied a modest but comfortable parlour attended by Mr. Smith. I would always associate the scent of lavender furniture polish and spiced oranges with this place. The late Mr. Fielding’s wife adorned all the rooms with cloved oranges. I could see some now perched on top of a substantial lowboy.

When I’d declined the inevitable offer of a dish of tea, we could get to the point of the meeting. I could feel Richard almost thrumming with impatience. He had no time for people who liked to stage a scene, and John Fielding had learned the tricks from his late brother Henry, who began his career as a playwright. John Fielding had taken to wearing a broad black velvet band over his eyes, particularly in court, to emphasise the “blind beak” name he’d accepted. He had remarkable skills of hearing though. He could recognise most habitual felons by their voices.

At least he hadn’t donned the band today, though his large carved chair, almost throne-like, appeared near-regal. His sightless eyes turned to the door, he appeared much as I imagined he did in court, well though not spectacularly dressed in sober colours. A contrast to my husband, who’d chosen a green the colour of summer lawns for his rich wool coat, fashionably flared from the narrow waist, and a waistcoat of the palest green. He sported the diamond solitaire in his seemingly carelessly crumpled neckcloth that had probably taken him twenty minutes to achieve. Not to be outdone, I’d chosen a delicate, deeply impractical pink that Nichols would probably have to launder when I got home. Sometimes I felt like being impractical. Today never more so.

Mr. Smith bowed to us, not showing an iota of surprise or chagrin. Not that I expected it. I had yet to see Smith taken out of his dour mood. But a useful man in a tight corner, or so Richard informed me. I’d take his word for it. For us, he could be another tool to use.

Usually we met with the Fieldings—singular now—in a spirit of sharing and cordiality, but today we needed to use a great deal of caution. We could not have a volatile situation worsened by the interference of someone from the outside.

We sat at Fielding’s invitation and waited for his opening gambit. It didn’t take him long. “The death of the unfortunate John Kneller has had some repercussions, my lord.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Richard said, giving him no openings.

Fielding’s mouth twitched, but only slightly, not something anyone would notice when he sat on the bench in the court downstairs. “Smith tells me he was discovered outside your house.”

“No doubt left there in the erroneous assumption that I cared more than most people about him. The youth used a certain resemblance between us to insinuate himself into the highest circles.”

“Including your mother.”

Richard let two seconds pass before he replied, “Indeed. My mother has a delicate temperament easily swayed by distressing tales of woe. Kneller gave her one.”

I wondered if Lady Southwood would recognise herself from that description. At least Mr. Fielding gave no demur to the blatant falsehood. “Is there any truth in the story Kneller spread around town? That you married his mother and fathered him and his sister?”

“Not a whit.”

With Smith there as Mr. Fielding’s eyes, Richard had to maintain a completely calm front, but he had accustomed himself to doing so over many years. I followed his lead. We came here to receive information, not to give it.

I moved a little and my taffeta petticoat rustled in the hush. Muffled sounds from outside penetrated, the sound of iron wheels on cobbles, the shouts of pedlars and even someone calling for a friend. The room we occupied remained still.

We could wait.

Eventually Mr. Fielding broke the silence. He must have learned the secret of waiting for the other person to speak first, something Richard had mastered a long time since. “So you know nothing about his death?”

“Only that my wife found him outside our house on her way back from visiting my mother. That means the body must have been left during the hour between her leaving the house and returning. I presume they wished to distress her, whoever they are. Therefore, I’d like to know when you discover them. I am extremely displeased.”

“I regret the unfortunate predilection of the criminal class to cause the most hurt.” A delicate exchange when each side gave exactly nothing.

I glanced at Smith. He stood behind Mr. Fielding’s chair, gripping the back of it. With little nudges and tugs that we might not see, he could transmit his concerns to his master. I had no doubt he would. “I trust your ladyship took no serious hurt from the distressing sight.”

I’d never heard him so diplomatic. The mood must be catching. I smiled and assured him that I had taken no hurt. He must know that. He knew I’d seen much more distressing sights, and sometimes caused them. “The misguided young man had a most undeserved end,” I added. If anyone lied it was me, just then. He courted it, he deserved it, but it was truth in that the youth who lay dead in the street had probably not merited his fate.

“Indeed, my lady. You knew he had a sister?”

“Yes.”

Fielding took a hand. “I believe she had some dealings with you, my lady?”

“None at all.” I hated lying, but sometimes I had to.

Richard spoke. “The girl had some dealings with the staff registry that I own. I made enquiries.”

“Ah yes.” Mr. Fielding smiled benignly, and I knew he’d wanted to discuss Thompson’s. He wasn’t the only one. He could set up his own spy network if he wanted one. He probably had, but not one as good as ours.

“Thompson’s.” Mr. Fielding savoured the word. “My brother ran a staff agency once. Did he tell you?”

“I knew of it,” Richard admitted. It had given him the idea to use Thompson’s for more than a business for his valet.

Unlike Richard and Carier, Henry Fielding had run his agency into the ground. He had neither the contacts nor the quality of staff that we’d managed to attract. So he’d become a magistrate instead. Occasionally we came across staff that had signed with the Universal Register, and we suspected that Henry Fielding had tried to establish something similar to our agency, but he had failed.

The power of good connections.

Mr. Fielding sighed and leaned back. “I’m expected in court in an hour’s time, and I still have some cases to review. Regrettably I have little time to spare.”

Most aristocrats would have taken the remark as a severe insult. It was not for them to excuse themselves, their betters would tell them when. But Richard was a realist and appreciated the curtailment of the delicate dance. “Indeed, sir. Then I should tell you that I believe whoever killed John Kneller thought that the link between us was closer than in reality. John Kneller himself believed it. It is why he followed us to Devonshire last year, and why he came to London. I had a fleeting affair with his mother when I was seventeen, and she tried to foist the children on me.” Genius, to alter his age at the time of the affair just a few years.

“If I may enquire, what age are you now, my lord?”

“Thirty-three.”

“And Kneller is eighteen.”

“As is his sister.”

Fielding grunted. “So you couldn’t be their father, sir. If you had fathered them, you’d have been fourteen at the time. I cannot imagine you began your—” He paused, probably remembering my presence. I moved again to make the petticoat rustle and fill the silence.

“Just so,” said Richard smoothly. “From my enquiries, I believe the boy and his sister would reach their nineteenth birthdays in August. Not that the boy will ever see that date, of course.”

“So the mother tried to foist the children on you?”

“She knew better than that,” Richard said. “Her son did not, or he chose not to. To that end, he visited my mother. I am particularly distinctive in my personal appearance, and it would be easy to copy my manners and way of dressing to make us appear similar.”

“A trickster, a shaver, a sly, a fox—”

“I’d call him a shuffler,” said Richard, interrupting Mr. Fielding’s knowledge of thieves’ cant with one of his own.

“Did you threaten him at all?”

“Never. I had no reason to do so. He was no threat.” I heard the tension in Richard’s voice and knew he was remembering John’s threats to me, the way he used me to get to Richard. But we couldn’t tell John Fielding, couldn’t give him a reason to call on us now or in the future. Knowing the way Mr. Fielding used all his acquaintances in his pursuit of a different legal system, we couldn’t not let him draw us into his web. Richard agreed with Mr. Fielding on many points of the law, but not all of them. We belonged to no one except each other.

Mr. Fielding shifted in his chair. “Very well. I can only return your frankness with my own.” And I guessed he was running out of time. “We don’t think that Kneller was killed outside your house. He was dropped there by someone in a carriage. We have a witness.” I perked up my ears. Here was something we didn’t know. “A street urchin. Unfortunately, only the one, but he is at present resting in my third best bedroom, and he is willing to cooperate by bearing witness.”

“Does he require a reward?”

Mr. Fielding cleared his throat. “I have need of a boy to run errands for me. I will reward him that way. He’s a likely lad. What I have to tell you, my lord, is what he told me before I offered him anything but a shilling for his time.”

“Men have been killed for less,” Richard said.

“Indeed they have.” Mr. Fielding let a note of regret into his voice. “But not in this case. The boy saw a coach with no crest, but a gentleman’s coach. Clean and new looking, he said. The door opened and a body fell out. He had no difficulty recognising the corpse. He saw a lady inside, one who, without any bark on it, fits the description of Mrs. Julia Drury.”

I caught my breath. Richard glanced at me and covered my hand with his before he returned his attention to Mr. Fielding. “Is there any proof that it is Mrs. Drury? Anything distinguishing?”

“No, sir, but I intend to put the boy in her way later today so he can verify the sight for himself.”

It seemed too easy. Would Julia really have risked it? “Why would she do it herself?” More likely that she’d pay someone else to do it and kill them afterwards. Or perhaps she wasn’t thinking properly.

“She would not want her servants to know,” Mr. Fielding said. “But someone must have driven that coach.”

“Indeed.” Richard didn’t sound convinced to me. “Have you any more evidence? A sighting won’t convict her.”

“I’m collecting statements. Which is why I invited you here today, my lord, and why I mentioned your register. I would consider it a personal favour if you could cause any servants you supplied to the house, either their personal residence or their club, to answer a few simple questions.”