Maggie MacKeever (13 page)

Mr. Throckmorton’s jaw had dropped open during this speech; now it closed  with an audible snap. “Don’t try to deny it!” he repeated. “You were seen sneaking about White’s on the day of the robbery.”

“Was I?” asked Willie. “I suppose it is quite possible. I pussyfoot all about the city, as innocuous as a lamp post, and you would be surprised at the things I learn.” He smiled seraphically. “Did you know that a perfect mermaid, with a comb in one hand and a looking glass in the other, has been blown ashore at Greenwich?”

“No, and I can’t say that we care.” Crump’s neat little feet thudded to the floor. “Throckmorton, you positively identify this man as the one you saw?”

“Use your eyes!” snapped Throckmorton. “Of course I do.”

“Then you may step into the hallway and give your evidence to the clerk.” Crump gazed benignly upon Willie. “While your deposition is being taken, I’ll just have a little chat with this gentleman.”

Willie watched with keen interest as Throckmorton, plump cheeks flushed, stomped out of the room, and then moved to the window where he perched, long legs dangling from the sill.

Crump remained briefly silent, puffing on his pipe as he contemplated the mysterious workings of his own clever mind. He hadn’t believed a word of Throckmorton’s tale about the mysterious prowler who displayed such interest in White’s august premises; yet here he was, confronted with that very man. No wonder Willie had seemed familiar, though they’d never encountered one another before. And Willie worked for Leda, who Crump was growing more and more convinced was involved in this series of very clever crimes. Perhaps she was the mastermind behind them all.

“You unnerve me, Mr. Crump!” Willie clasped his gloved hands between his knees. “It is delightful to see you again, of course, but I nourish the liveliest apprehension as to why you’ve called me here. Do you think you might explain?”

Crump chuckled. “It’s not
me
as has the explaining to do! You’ve heard Throckmorton swear he saw you at White’s. Mind telling me what you were doing there?”

Willie’s eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline. “Am I thought to be a suspicious and dangerous character? You flatter me, Mr. Crump, indeed you do.”

“I’ll do more than that if you don’t stop stirring coals!” said Crump. “I’ll see you committed to quod for a month as a rogue and a vagabond.”

“Name-calling?” Willie raised his eyebrows. “Rather like the pot and the kettle, is it not? People in my profession are merely accused of scandal mongering and lies, whereas people in
yours
are accused of catching innocent men and having them hanged. I do sympathize,”

“Speaking of hanging,” retorted Crump, so grimly that Willie blanched, “Answer my questions or it’ll go the worse for you.”

“Mr. Crump, you misjudge me! I am only too happy to oblige.” Willie wore a cautious expression. “What questions were those?”

“What were you doing at White’s?” repeated Crump, a great deal more patiently than he felt.

Willie shrugged. “I was waiting to speak with one of the members, not wishing to venture within. I’m truly sorry to disappoint you, but there it is! The truth is often dull.”

Crump greatly doubted that he’d heard the truth, dull or otherwise, but temporarily let the matter lie. “Who is paying Miss Langtry’s way at Newgate? Was it you that left a handsome purse for her use?”

“I?” Willie grimaced. “I’m sure I would’ve liked to, but I haven’t a feather to fly with. Nor can I help you regarding dear Leda’s comforts, other than telling you she has money of her own.”

“Does she, now?” mused Crump. “Odd, isn’t it, that she claims she doesn’t know who bought her way?” But, then, Leda claimed a number of things that were obviously untrue.

“Actually, it isn’t,” Willie replied. “The people are firmly behind Leda, as are my fellow Gentlemen of the Press. She is the only female member of the London Press Club. Anyone could have left that purse for her, and if he wished to remain anonymous, we would never learn who it was.”

Crump said nothing, recalling the gaoler’s rather dubious tale of a well-dressed gentleman. “Where does Leda get her money? Don’t try to tell me that damned newspaper is a financial success.”

Willie looked pained. “We journalists do not pursue our craft,” he said reprovingly, “for financial gain. To tell the world the truth, that is our concern. You
do
have hold of the wrong end of the stick, Mr. Crump. Surely you know Leda was visiting with a friend at the time of Warwick’s murder?”

Crump’s smile was a great deal less pleasant now, and his bright eyes rested thoughtfully on Willie’s gloved hands. “Mary Elphinstone’s body was found yesterday. She was apparently beaten unconscious, then thrown into a well.”

For once, Willie had no prompt retort. Crump listened to the crash of cartwheels on the cobblestone streets below, the occasional hearty curses of draymen, as he mulled over the details that he’d withheld. Around Mary Elphinstone’s well had been a woman’s footprints, prints the same size, or Crump missed his guess, as Leda Langtry’s feet; and on Mary Elphinstone’s body had been a brooch stolen from the worthy establishment of Rundle and Brydges. It was impossible to determine exactly when the woman had died, but one thing was sure: if Leda hadn’t killed Lord Warwick, she had certainly killed Mary Elphinstone. Crump rather suspected Leda was responsible for both murders, and that Mary Elphinstone had died not only because she could disprove Leda’s alibi, but because she knew too much about Leda’s activities.

“Good God,” said Willie, at last. “Poor Leda is in a dreadfully forlorn position now. I suppose you’ll next be asking me to unbosom myself to you now, Mr. Crump, to make a full confession of
my
guilt.”

“No.” The Runner was convinced that he was on the right track, but there were still certain abstruse points to be cleared up. “What I’m asking is that you take off those gloves and show me your hands.”

Willie slid off the windowsill. “It is another of the hazards of the profession,” he said gloomily as he stripped off the gloves. “The printer fell ill and I was forced to deal with the press. As you can see, it is not an occupation at which I am adept.”

What Crump saw were knuckles as raw and abraded as if they’d beaten the spirit out of an old woman. He contained his excitement, however, and merely rose to lean casually against the back of Sir John’s chair. There were moments of sheer joy in this profession of his, when he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was hot on the trail of a murderer.

Yet even Crump had to admit that Willie hardly looked like a bloodthirsty criminal, drooping as he was in the middle of the room. “Who were you looking for at White’s?” asked the Runner. He might be convinced that he had solved the puzzle, but Sir John would require proof.

“Mr. Crump, you
do
have an ax to grind.” Willie slowly pulled on his soiled gloves. “And I, alas, have a deadline to meet. Very well, if you must have it, I was waiting for Viscount Jeffries.”

Crump had a nasty sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, for he recalled very clearly that he’d met that gentleman in Lady Bligh’s Drawing Room. “Why?” he asked.

“I’m afraid my reasons are personal, and I doubt that you’d approve of them.” Crump stared astonished as Willie winked. “Now, Mr. Crump, loath as I am to depart your stimulating company, I must attend to that deadline!”

The Runner made no move to prevent his visitor from blithely exiting, for Willie would be closely followed wherever he went. Crump knew evasive action when he saw it: Willie had been relieved at the thrust of the questioning. Willie was a man with a great deal to hide, concluded Crump. Those secrets would be exposed ere long.

The journalist had given him more than a little food for thought. Things were taking on a definite shape, for all there were so many busy fingers set on making a muddle of the pie.

So Viscount Jeffries was a member of White’s. Now that the chimney sweeps were cleared, it was one of Crump’s more tedious tasks to discreetly investigate that select membership. He decided his first efforts might be directed toward nosing out the association between Viscount Jeffries, Willie Fitzwilliam and Leda Langtry.

Chapter 13

Although it was an unreasonably early hour, Lady Bligh was already closeted with her two most loyal retainers in the Breakfast Room. “Well, Culpepper,” said the Baroness, who was elegant in a lacy dressing gown and with an even lacier cap covering her curls, “what have you learned?”

“To heartily dislike oysters!” retorted the abigail, whose ill temper might be partially excused by the particularly severe bout of indigestion that had kept her awake half the night. “A woman
was
seen leaving Warwick’s apartments, by way of the window, very near to the time when the murder took place.”

“Ah!” The Baroness popped a well-buttered scone into her mouth.

“She wore black,” continued Culpepper. “Though she was heavily veiled, it was noted that she had white hair.”

“So do half the dowagers in London.” Dulcie sipped her chocolate. “Gibbon, step into the hallway and ask my niece to come in.”

 The butler threw open the door. Mignon— dressed for the out-of-doors in a forest green spencer over a paler walking dress, a neck scarf of emerald with lime stripes, beige half boots and kid gloves, and a most elegant green velvet hat trimmed with coque feathers—stood on the threshold, hand upraised to knock.

“How nice you look, my dear.” The Baroness was apparently no whit disturbed that her niece intended to set out on foot into a very dreary morning, an undertaking that would have sent Mignon’s mama, had she but known, into convulsions. “Do heed my advice and take one of the footmen along. I shall not ask him to report to me where you’ve been, I promise, child. Now sit down and have some chocolate.”

Mignon, greatly startled, obeyed. How could Dulcie have known she meant to set out alone? She frowned. Could her aunt have also guessed where she meant to go?

Dulcie had turned back to Culpepper. “There
was
something queer about that woman,” conceded that worthy, somewhat unhappily. “She displayed the agility of a far younger woman than she appeared to be, dropping to the ground as easily as if she clambered in and out of windows every day.”

“That
is
odd,” agreed the Baroness. She eyed her butler. “Gibbon?”

“I have discovered one thing, my lady.” He, in turn, surveyed Mignon. “It concerns Lord Barrymore.”

“You fear Mignon will betray us to her so-worthy suitor?” asked Lady Bligh. Mignon blinked. “We need not regard my niece. What about Lord Barrymore?”

Gibbon did not share his mistress’s assurance concerning Miss Montague. He stared stiffly straight ahead. “It is being said, my lady, that Lord Barrymore owed Lord Warwick a considerable amount of money.”

“Money.” Lady Bligh tapped her elegant fingers on the tabletop. “Interesting. However, I daresay Barrymore has a perfectly innocent explanation. I wonder what it is.”

Mignon could have cared less in that moment about Lord Barrymore and his explanations. Her nerves were already taut as fiddle-strings with combined anticipation and dread. She set down her cup.

“You’re off then, Mignon?” asked the Baroness. “While you’re out, you might match a piece of ribbon for me.” She pulled a scrap of lilac cording from the pocket of her robe.

“I would be happy to,” Mignon replied, “but
I don’t plan to be near the shops today.”

“Dear Mignon, you will learn that plans are things to be lightly discarded when more pleasant alternatives present themselves. Take the ribbon!” No small bit bemused, Mignon obeyed.

In the hallway, she waited briefly for the prescribed footman to ready himself. “Refresh my memory, Gibbon!” demanded the Baroness, clearly audible. “Is not a convict returning from transportation likely to be hanged?” Gibbon’s answer was lost; in a burst of prudence that she herself did not understand, Mignon turned and closed the Breakfast Room door.

“Going out, miss?” Charity had approached so silently that her voice made Mignon jump. She swung around to find the homely maid surveying her with an oddly critical eye. “I hope you have a pleasant walk. Though it’s hardly a day for it.”

At last, with her unwanted escort following a few paces behind, Miss Montague stepped outside. She touched the letter that was folded in her reticule. If only she had been sufficiently dishonest to steal unseen out of the house—and if only Dulcie had not seen fit to provide her an escort. Mignon considered various ways of ridding herself of the footman. Despite the Baroness’s promise that no questions would be asked, Mignon thought it would be a great deal more prudent to dispense with his company.

It was indeed a bleak morning. Summer had deserted London, as had most members of the
ton.
If only Maurice had been similarly inclined! He might have taken himself to New Brighton with its elegant residences facing the ocean, its smart bathing boxes and its graceful terraces. Brighton was a favorite resort of their mother’s and Maurice had, some years back, been thrilled to witness Prinny driving his coach-and-four under the tutelage of Sir John Lade. But no! Maurice must present himself in London and fall in so firmly with Lord Barrymore that he had even written to their mama and given his august opinion that Tolly would be the perfect man to take Mignon in hand. Miss Montague scowled so dreadfully that the footman gulped, afraid he had caused offense.

At least there was some consolation in the fact that Maurice’s attention was not fixed firmly on his sister—else, thought Mignon grimly, she would have hardly escaped the house. Maurice was breakfasting with Tolly and doubtless waxing enthusiastic about a lovely and retiring young widow who, from Maurice’s description, was as perfect a female as ever drew mortal breath. Mignon cordially wished her brother success with this latest in a series of infatuations. If only Maurice would wed one of the ladies who caught his wandering eye, he might have less time to meddle in his sister’s business. Alas, Maurice’s marriage was slightly less likely than a second appearance of the Savior, for Lady Montague was not only singularly unwilling to share her son’s affections with any other female but remarkably skilled in disposing of those ladies who posed a potential threat. Mignon hoped it might be different here in London where Maurice was not so firmly under his mama’s thumb.