Authors: Madeleine E. Robins
Petty Treason (30 page)
Madame Touvois shrugged again. “To create chaos, I suppose. There are some who relish the disarray of powerful nations. Does that seem grandiose to you? Well, you are young, Miss Tolerance. You have considerable force of character, but despite your history I find you rather naive.” She spoke the last word as if it were the
coup de grâce
after a long fencing match.
coup de grâce
after a long fencing match.
“I prefer to think of it as principled.” Miss Tolerance was conscious of a sense of breathlessness.
A burst of masculine laughter from the knot of gentlemen grouped around the sofa startled both women. Madame Touvois looked toward the men and sighed.
“This is such a charming conversation that you have persuaded
me to neglect my other guests, and that will not do. You have not yet told me, mademoiselle, what brought you to my house tonight.”
me to neglect my other guests, and that will not do. You have not yet told me, mademoiselle, what brought you to my house tonight.”
“Indeed I did. I came to condole with you upon Mrs. Vose’s death,” Miss Tolerance said again. “And having done so, I will beg you to return to your other guests, madame. Thank you for the wine.”
Miss Tolerance set her glass, almost full, on a table, and inclined her head. Madame Touvois put a hand on her sleeve and stopped her departure.
“But you have not told me, mademoiselle, how poor Josette’s death is connected to that task which I believe you had undertaken: to find the killer of the late Chevalier d’Aubigny.”
“That is simplicity in itself, ma’am. Mrs. Vose was involved with the chevalier, and now she is dead. How very convenient a thing for whoever killed the chevalier. For my part I dislike it very much when my witnesses die. It inevitably means more work for me.”
Again Miss Tolerance inclined her head in lieu of a bow. This time her hostess did not stop her from leaving.
M
iss Tolerance shouldered her way into the eddies of snow on Audley Street. What was she to do now? She had left Madame Touvois’ rooms as she arrived, strongly persuaded that the Duke of Cumberland had not killed Josette Vose. Equally she was convinced that Camille Touvois meant to brew up as much scandal and rumor to the contrary as it was possible for her to do. Why? It was not impossible that La Touvois was simply trying her power, seeing how much trouble she could stir up. Her character appeared to be one which delighted in mischief: where Miss Tolerance believed her own testimony against the Earl of Versellion to have been a painful matter of principle, Camille Touvois clearly viewed it as a very good joke on established authority.
iss Tolerance shouldered her way into the eddies of snow on Audley Street. What was she to do now? She had left Madame Touvois’ rooms as she arrived, strongly persuaded that the Duke of Cumberland had not killed Josette Vose. Equally she was convinced that Camille Touvois meant to brew up as much scandal and rumor to the contrary as it was possible for her to do. Why? It was not impossible that La Touvois was simply trying her power, seeing how much trouble she could stir up. Her character appeared to be one which delighted in mischief: where Miss Tolerance believed her own testimony against the Earl of Versellion to have been a painful matter of principle, Camille Touvois clearly viewed it as a very good joke on established authority.
But the nation was at war, and playing practical jokes upon royalty and law served no purpose other than to give aid and comfort to the French and their enemies. Madame Touvois’ lies should be stopped. However little Miss Tolerance liked the Duke of Cumberland’s politics, she liked Bonaparte less.
It took some time to locate a coach to take her to St. James’s Palace, and considerably more time to persuade the porter to call a footman who would take a note to Cumberland. She could not be certain that the duke would read the note, or that he would take the warning seriously if he did, but she felt she must try.
Your Highness,
she wrote.
she wrote.
I hope you will forgive my forwardness, and beg you will believe that I act only from a disinterested concern for the good of Crown and Nation. Rumors are being circulated in the city, implicating you in the death of a Mrs. Vose, who I believe was known to you. These rumors are not the inevitable murmurings of the London populace, but part of a deliberate campaign of whispers intended to blot the reputation of the Crown itself. I beg Your Highness will take measure to combat these rumors in the strongest possible way. If it is not stopped, this scheme can only cast the nation into confusion at a time when the war, and the question of Regency, depend rather upon clear thinking.
Please believe me, I am
Your respectful servant,
She signed the note, sealed it, and gave it to the footman. She would have departed then, but the footman asked that she wait for an answer, if any. She sat in a small, barren chamber off the hall from the porter’s room, which was not warmed by fire or cheered by anything other than a pair of chairs and a rickety table. Miss Tolerance sat, feeling her toes slowly go numb in the cold.
The door opened. The man who stepped into the room was very tall and very thin; Miss Tolerance had expected to see a footman or perhaps an aide. This was the duke himself. She bowed deeply.
“I have heard of you,” Cumberland drawled. “From my brother Wales. He is much impressed with your enterprising nature, and seems to feel it quite overrules the questionable nature of your morals. I am not so impressed.” Cumberland approached her, looking down. Miss Tolerance, tall herself, was not often looked down upon; she suspected the duke used his height to intimidate.
She did not in the least wish to be intimidated; it occurred to her to point out that Prince Ernest was not always so particular in dealing with women of flexible morals—but she had not come to pick a quarrel with a member of the royal family. She set her features into a semblance of polite submission.
She did not in the least wish to be intimidated; it occurred to her to point out that Prince Ernest was not always so particular in dealing with women of flexible morals—but she had not come to pick a quarrel with a member of the royal family. She set her features into a semblance of polite submission.
“I am sorry to have troubled you, sir, but I do believe the matter of considerable importance. Someone apparently wishes to implicate you in the death of—”
“Yes, yes.” Cumberland waved a hand impatiently, acknowledging Mrs. Vose’s death. “The rumors have begun anew. The populace cannot keep their grubby fingers from the coats of their betters.”
“But it is not the populace—” Miss Tolerance began. Cumberland cut her off.
“My valet attempted to assassinate me, and the rabble insisted I had slain him. In the end, they could not touch me. As to this matter, I regret the woman’s death. She was
obliging
.” He dwelt upon the word with a peculiar emphasis which made Miss Tolerance think of the contents of the Chevalier d’Aubigny’s wooden box. “A great waste. But I will not dignify rumors by responding to them. The populace can go to Hell.”
obliging
.” He dwelt upon the word with a peculiar emphasis which made Miss Tolerance think of the contents of the Chevalier d’Aubigny’s wooden box. “A great waste. But I will not dignify rumors by responding to them. The populace can go to Hell.”
“I felt it my duty to tell you what I had learned. What Your Highness does with that information is, of course, entirely your affair.”
She could not leave until Cumberland dismissed her or left himself. It seemed clear to her that the audience was over, but Cumberland stood, looking down at her. From his expression, Miss Tolerance surmised he was trying to imagine what feminine shape might be hidden under her masculine clothing. It was an expression with which she had some familiarity; was he wondering if she would submit to an advance? Or perhaps deciding if persisting past her resistance would be worth the effort?
The minute or so during which Miss Tolerance submitted to this scrutiny was decidedly unpleasant. Then Cumberland nodded to her. “You have given me your message. If there is nothing more that you require to tell me, you may go. Unless, of course, you dislike to go out into the snow. I am sure we could find some place for you to weather the storm.”
A number of barbed responses came to Miss Tolerance’s mind. Common sense won out. She thanked Cumberland again for his
patience, bowed again, and left. However gratifying it would have been to explain to His Highness the several ways in which his proposition repelled her, royalty was royalty, and a woman with her own way to make must practice tact. She stood for a moment in the falling snow, letting cold air clear her head. Then she went to find a carriage to take her back to Manchester Square.
patience, bowed again, and left. However gratifying it would have been to explain to His Highness the several ways in which his proposition repelled her, royalty was royalty, and a woman with her own way to make must practice tact. She stood for a moment in the falling snow, letting cold air clear her head. Then she went to find a carriage to take her back to Manchester Square.
M
rs. Brereton’s house was filled with custom, the snow having apparently an aphrodisiac effect upon a number of London gentlemen. The building glowed with light in the midst of snow, and Miss Tolerance was conscious of a grateful sense of homecoming. She made her way upstairs to the yellow room, where she rang for hot water and, after a moment’s thought, brandy. Her visits to Madame Touvois and the Duke of Cumberland had left her with a sense of unease which even hot water could not entirely scrub away. Clean and clad in a nightshift, she poured a glass of brandy and climbed onto the bed with a writing board, paper and pencil to hand, and spent a quarter hour bringing her accounts up to date. That done, she took up a fresh sheet and began to make lists of what she knew, hoping to diagram what, if anything, connected Mrs. Vose’s death to that of the Chevalier d’Aubigny.
rs. Brereton’s house was filled with custom, the snow having apparently an aphrodisiac effect upon a number of London gentlemen. The building glowed with light in the midst of snow, and Miss Tolerance was conscious of a grateful sense of homecoming. She made her way upstairs to the yellow room, where she rang for hot water and, after a moment’s thought, brandy. Her visits to Madame Touvois and the Duke of Cumberland had left her with a sense of unease which even hot water could not entirely scrub away. Clean and clad in a nightshift, she poured a glass of brandy and climbed onto the bed with a writing board, paper and pencil to hand, and spent a quarter hour bringing her accounts up to date. That done, she took up a fresh sheet and began to make lists of what she knew, hoping to diagram what, if anything, connected Mrs. Vose’s death to that of the Chevalier d’Aubigny.
She wrote on one side of the paper:
d’Aubigny’s Death
. Immediately under that she wrote:
Josette Vose—visited d’Aubigny, failed to come to terms, left before midnight, working
. In parentheses afterward she wrote:
source: Mrs. Lasher.
Then she wrote:
Anne d‘Aubigny
—
laudanum, asleep.
Which explained not only why she did not awake when d’Aubigny was murdered, but how she had slept through the hue and cry which followed the discovery of the body.
Source: A d’A; servants.
d’Aubigny’s Death
. Immediately under that she wrote:
Josette Vose—visited d’Aubigny, failed to come to terms, left before midnight, working
. In parentheses afterward she wrote:
source: Mrs. Lasher.
Then she wrote:
Anne d‘Aubigny
—
laudanum, asleep.
Which explained not only why she did not awake when d’Aubigny was murdered, but how she had slept through the hue and cry which followed the discovery of the body.
Source: A d’A; servants.
She listed each of the servants:
Beak, Jacks, Mary Pitt, Sophia Thissen: all in their quarters at the rear of the house. Door locked upon retiring by Beak. Source: A. Beak. Mrs. Sadgett: in her own home. Source: servants’ testimony
. And nothing she had uncovered gave any of the servants a reason to want their master dead. Miss Tolerance might think the man unpleasant, but servants often had to
deal with unpleasant employers. Murdering the master was too drastic a solution for so common a problem.
Beak, Jacks, Mary Pitt, Sophia Thissen: all in their quarters at the rear of the house. Door locked upon retiring by Beak. Source: A. Beak. Mrs. Sadgett: in her own home. Source: servants’ testimony
. And nothing she had uncovered gave any of the servants a reason to want their master dead. Miss Tolerance might think the man unpleasant, but servants often had to
deal with unpleasant employers. Murdering the master was too drastic a solution for so common a problem.
Miss Tolerance chewed the end of her pencil.
Henri Beauville,
she wrote.
With d’Aubigny earlier in the evening. At Mrs. Brereton’s from 10 p.m. until half past midnight. Afterward? Source: Beauville, Brereton.
she wrote.
With d’Aubigny earlier in the evening. At Mrs. Brereton’s from 10 p.m. until half past midnight. Afterward? Source: Beauville, Brereton.
Finally she wrote:
Camille Touvois.
And there she stopped. Her instinct was that the woman must be involved somehow—if only because she had ties to d’Aubigny, Vose and Beauville—but she had found nothing whatsoever to implicate her. Whatever games Madame Touvois was playing, they were too many and too deep to be easily discovered. Which might make her a perfect target for blackmail by Etienne d’Aubigny, Miss Tolerance reflected. If only she could find evidence that d’Aubigny had been blackmailing anyone!
Camille Touvois.
And there she stopped. Her instinct was that the woman must be involved somehow—if only because she had ties to d’Aubigny, Vose and Beauville—but she had found nothing whatsoever to implicate her. Whatever games Madame Touvois was playing, they were too many and too deep to be easily discovered. Which might make her a perfect target for blackmail by Etienne d’Aubigny, Miss Tolerance reflected. If only she could find evidence that d’Aubigny had been blackmailing anyone!
A thought niggled at her; she got down from the bed and retrieved from the pocket of her Gunnard coat the white stuff she had prised from the chevalier’s grate. Examined closely, it was a roughly triangular scrap of fine lawn, with a bit of white thread which might have been embroidery on one edge. It seemed a strange thing to find in a gentleman’s fireplace; it was not a cleaning rag, although it was smirched with ash and soot. Alas, it told her nothing useful. She put the scrap into her wallet.
Turning back to her paper she wrote
evidence found on the scene: damned little
. After she had spent another half-hour staring at the paper Miss Tolerance sighed, put the paper and pencil aside, and retired to her restless bed to lie awake, listening to the distant sounds of venery, and pondering blackmail.
evidence found on the scene: damned little
. After she had spent another half-hour staring at the paper Miss Tolerance sighed, put the paper and pencil aside, and retired to her restless bed to lie awake, listening to the distant sounds of venery, and pondering blackmail.
S
now in a great city creates an unaccustomed hush. Some of the usual sources of clamor—sellers hawking milk or blacking or silver sand—are inconvenienced by ankle-deep drifts. The clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestones is muffled; a soft whisking sound marks each corner, where the crossing-boys mar the pure snow, brushing it out of the path and mixing it with the unmentionable contents of the gutter. Miss Tolerance had lain awake for some hours the night before, her mind turning as her body attempted to rest. At last, lulled by the snow-borne quiet, she slept. She woke to find a fire, kindled in the grate while she slept, which made the room invitingly warm. It was only at last, and with reluctance, that she rose.
now in a great city creates an unaccustomed hush. Some of the usual sources of clamor—sellers hawking milk or blacking or silver sand—are inconvenienced by ankle-deep drifts. The clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestones is muffled; a soft whisking sound marks each corner, where the crossing-boys mar the pure snow, brushing it out of the path and mixing it with the unmentionable contents of the gutter. Miss Tolerance had lain awake for some hours the night before, her mind turning as her body attempted to rest. At last, lulled by the snow-borne quiet, she slept. She woke to find a fire, kindled in the grate while she slept, which made the room invitingly warm. It was only at last, and with reluctance, that she rose.
Miss Tolerance washed, brushed and put up her hair, and dressed in her respectable blue twill walking dress. It had not required Sir Walter to make her aware of Mr. Heddison’s prejudice against her; there was little point in antagonizing the magistrate with reminders that she was not a respectable female. Better to be cold and successful in feminine dress than warm and a failure in top boots and greatcoat.
The Public Office in Great Marlborough Street was thronged with people of all conditions, albeit rather more of the meaner
working class and the underemployed than their betters. The benches which lined the walls were already filled with visitors, witnesses and complainants, most of whom seemed to have brought children, livestock, and property of various ages, sizes, and degrees of cleanliness. The din was powerful; the smell only slightly less so. Despite the inadequacy of the heating (coals glowed sullenly in grates at either end of the hall) the room was uncomfortably warm, and highly redolent of human animal.
working class and the underemployed than their betters. The benches which lined the walls were already filled with visitors, witnesses and complainants, most of whom seemed to have brought children, livestock, and property of various ages, sizes, and degrees of cleanliness. The din was powerful; the smell only slightly less so. Despite the inadequacy of the heating (coals glowed sullenly in grates at either end of the hall) the room was uncomfortably warm, and highly redolent of human animal.
Mr. Cotler, the clerk who had been on duty on the night of Anne d’Aubigny’s arrest, was in his place this morning. He wore the extremities of fashion approved by the dandy set: high collar points, large brass buttons on his blue coat, and a neckcloth tied in an elaborate, slightly grubby knot, as Mr. Cotler had apparently forgotten to wash his hands. His boots were shined, his hair pomaded, and his expression that of a man who feels himself superior to his surroundings. Miss Tolerance greeted him as an old acquaintance and requested a few words with Mr. Heddison. Cotler stared at her, clearly trying to recall who she was.
“You must see so many people every day,” Miss Tolerance said sympathetically. “Will you permit me to remind you? I am the woman who accompanied Mrs. d’Aubigny’s maid when she was brought in the other night. And I need very much to speak with Mr. Heddison.”
Cotler shrugged. “‘E’s busy, miss. Don’t know that I can call him away from the business.”
Hoping for a bribe, Miss Tolerance diagnosed. Well, it was her own fault for having paid the boy the other evening. “The matter I am come upon is business, too. Will this help to assure that my message is brought to him?” she asked, and slid a half-crown along the edge of Cotler’s desk with one gloved finger. The clerk’s gaze followed the coin’s progress from left to right and back again; his own finger extended to take the coin. Attempting a fashionable wardrobe—even one bought secondhand—must take rather more money than Mr. Cotler’s wages provided.
“Do you want to write a message out, miss? Or shall I just tell ’im what you have said?”
Miss Tolerance said that she trusted him to convey the sense of her message, and returned to the benches to wait a summons. It
was not quick in coming. A number of people came and went as she watched, transacting business, making promises and threats, scuffling among themselves once or twice. Miss Tolerance gave up her seat to a woman far gone with child, who rested a toddler on her knee; mother and child stared into the hopeless distance with a gaze that did not include their immediate surroundings.
was not quick in coming. A number of people came and went as she watched, transacting business, making promises and threats, scuffling among themselves once or twice. Miss Tolerance gave up her seat to a woman far gone with child, who rested a toddler on her knee; mother and child stared into the hopeless distance with a gaze that did not include their immediate surroundings.
After more than an hour Mr. Cotler, who had risen from his desk half a dozen times since their conversation, waved Miss Tolerance forward. “Mr. ’Eddison’s compliments, miss, and could you talk to one of the constables instead? ’E’s very busy today.”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Given the delicacy of my information I can speak only to Mr. Heddison. I am afraid I cannot trust his constables.”
Cotler raised an eyebrow. “Not trust the constables? ’E ain’t going to like that.”
“I did not imagine he would. I do not like it myself. Please tell him, Mr. Cotler. Neither the day, nor my client, nor I am growing any younger waiting here.”
Whatever Heddison’s reaction to her second message, it was another hour before she was again beckoned forward.
“Secon’ door on the left,” Mr. Cotler instructed her tersely. She gathered, from his expression, that he expected her discussion with Heddison to go badly. Miss Tolerance felt some qualms herself, but followed in the direction Cotler’s ink-stained finger had indicated.
Mr. Heddison sat at a large, well-ordered desk to the left of the door. Neat stacks of paper lined shelves on the wall behind him, each stack held down by a miscellany of rusty iron objects: bootmaker’s lasts, bent horseshoes, a carpenter’s wedge. Five straight-backed caned chairs were lined against the right-hand wall; none appeared to have been moved out for the accommodation of visitors very recently.
“Thank you for seeing me, sir.” Miss Tolerance dropped a curtsy, which salute forced Mr. Heddison out of his chair to bow in return. As he had favored her with the response due a gentlewoman, Miss Tolerance was hopeful that his attention would be as respectful.
“I hope you will not need much of my time, Miss—er—” the magistrate said.
“I shall be as brief as possible, sir,” Miss Tolerance agreed. “It has come to my notice that there may be some inaccuracies in information which I believe was brought to you by one of your constables with regard to the death of the Chevalier d’Aubigny.”
“And how would you know that?” Heddison asked. His gaze had returned to a paper on the desk before him.
“I researched the matter,” Miss Tolerance said simply. “As I have only one investigation to follow, it is perhaps easier for me to devote my entire attention to finding a witness such as Mr. Millward—”
The name Millward brought Heddison’s head up. “I shall not inquire how you came to learn that name. Have you located him?” he asked. “Boyse has had very little luck, and I want to ask some particular questions—”
“I am afraid that will present some difficulties, as Mr. Millward does not exist.”
Heddison looked at Miss Tolerance in silence for a full minute. “Just because you have not been able to locate him—”
“Not at all, sir. I have been told that Millward was an invention.”
“Nonsense. My constable must have received his information from somewhere—”
“I think that the information must likewise be an invention, sir. If there is no Millward, whom would my client have approached to murder her husband? Have you not wondered how a woman like Anne d’Aubigny could be expected to find a man like Millward without causing considerable notice? The kindest construction I can put upon the matter is that Mr. Boyse was so eager to see my client convicted that he invented a bit of damning evidence.”
Heddison’s wide mouth thinned until he looked like a dyspeptic lizard. “You accuse an officer of the law—”
“I do, sir. I do not do it lightly.”
“No more lightly than turn in a peer of the realm as a murderer,” Heddison said flatly. He peered at her to see if his barb had struck home.
“No more lightly than that,” Miss Tolerance said coolly. “My governess suggested that acting rightly would not always be agreeable, and I think I may say that I have proved her right. If
you think Versellion’s trial gave me any joy, Mr. Heddison, you are quite wrong. But on this present matter: Mr. Boyse claims, I believe, to have been approached by this Mr. Millward on the evening of November seventeen, between the time when you and he visited Mrs. d’Aubigny in Half Moon Street and the next day, when Mrs. d’Aubigny was taken in for questioning. I have witnesses who place him at the Duke of Kent in Oxford Street, in the company of a who—a woman known to be an intimate of his. The barman at the Duke of Kent remembers that he was there from half past eight to one in the morning, and says that no one approached Mr. Boyse there for more than a moment.”
you think Versellion’s trial gave me any joy, Mr. Heddison, you are quite wrong. But on this present matter: Mr. Boyse claims, I believe, to have been approached by this Mr. Millward on the evening of November seventeen, between the time when you and he visited Mrs. d’Aubigny in Half Moon Street and the next day, when Mrs. d’Aubigny was taken in for questioning. I have witnesses who place him at the Duke of Kent in Oxford Street, in the company of a who—a woman known to be an intimate of his. The barman at the Duke of Kent remembers that he was there from half past eight to one in the morning, and says that no one approached Mr. Boyse there for more than a moment.”
“That does not mean that this Millward could not have spoken to him before half past eight. Or later, after he left the public house.”
“The woman Mr. Boyse was drinking with, and with whom he subsequently spent the night, was a Mrs. Strokum. He was with her until morning. The barman will attest that she was with him at the Duke of Kent. It was she who told me that Millward was an invention. She did her best to shield Mr. Boyse, sir, telling me at first that there was a man named Millward but that Boyse had never spoken to him—I think she meant to provide an alibi to your constable. Later, after Mr. Boyse had beaten her—”
“Beaten—That is quite enough! Can you prove any of this? I should have Boyse in to refute it.”
“I can provide the barman and Mrs. Strokum, sir. She is in hiding just now, not caring to invite another beating by Mr. Boyse, who threatened to kill her if she gave any information about Millward or himself.” She held up a hand to forestall another interruption. “Mrs. Strokum said that Mr. Boyse did speak to one man that evening, but only long enough to exchange a few words, not the involved story your constable told you. From her description I am quite certain that the man Boyse spoke to was a Mr. Henri Beauville, who was an intimate friend of Etienne d’Aubigny.”
Mr. Heddison’s mouth pursed. He stared at Miss Tolerance for a moment.
“What do you expect me to do with this information?” he asked at last.
“I hope you will see that your chiefest evidence against Anne
d’Aubigny has evaporated, and you will secure her immediate release from Cold Bath Fields Prison. For the rest—I have the greatest respect for the magistracy and should dislike to have any of Mr. Boyse’s transgressions become public. I leave that matter entirely to your judgment.”
d’Aubigny has evaporated, and you will secure her immediate release from Cold Bath Fields Prison. For the rest—I have the greatest respect for the magistracy and should dislike to have any of Mr. Boyse’s transgressions become public. I leave that matter entirely to your judgment.”
Heddison smiled sourly. “That’s mighty kind of you. But even if you can prove any of this, it still does not remove Mrs. d’Aubigny as a possible murderer. What motive could Boyse have to produce such a fabrication?”
“You must ask him, sir. Or ask Mr. Beauv—”
With startling speed Heddison took up a walking stick that leaned against his desk and swept it in a furious arc. Miss Tolerance jumped back; her hand went automatically to her left hip for the sword she was not wearing. The head of the stick breezed past her and hit the door with a loud crack.
Cotler’s head appeared in the doorway. “Yes, sir?” He appeared to find this mode of summons nothing out of the ordinary.
“Fetch Mr. Boyse in here. At once.”
Miss Tolerance bit her lip, letting her racing heart slow.
“Did I startle you?” Heddison asked. “My apologies. Take a seat, if you will.”
Miss Tolerance doubted the sincerity of the apology, but took a chair from those along the wall, pulled it before the desk, and sat. For the next several minutes neither she nor the magistrate spoke. It was not a comfortable silence.
The door opened and Mr. Boyse stood there, filling the space with his height and girth.
“Have you had any luck in finding your man Millward, Boyse?”
Boyse looked from Heddison to Miss Tolerance and back again. “What’s she been saying to you, sir?” He stepped into the room until he was beside Miss Tolerance’s chair. It was like having a furnace set beside her; his size and heat were palpable. Miss Tolerance was certain he meant to intimidate her with his proximity; she looked up at the constable, nodded coolly, and looked away.
“You will answer the question, Mr. Boyse. Have you been able to discover anything about this Millward whom you say Mrs. d’Aubigny hired to kill her husband?”
“Tried to hire, sir. He refused the job, if you’ll recall. No, I h’ain’t found hide nor hair of ’im. Vanished clear off the face of the earth.” Boyse turned and smirked at Miss Tolerance. She smiled politely.
“Did your Mr. Millward give you any idea of how Mrs. d’Aubigny found him, or why she thought he would accept her offer to employ him as an assassin?”
Boyse shrugged. “Barman told her ’e’d be likely to do a bit of work for her.”
“So there exists a barman who could testify that Mrs. d’Aubigny approached Millward?” Heddison asked sharply.
Boyse realized his misstep; if he could not find Millward, surely he should be able to find this barman. “That’s what Millward tol’ me, sir.”
“And when you spoke to Millward—have you any idea at what hour the conversation took place?” Heddison asked.
Boyse shrugged. “Somewhere’s between I was dismissed—round about seven—and midnight, I’d say. Of course, I’d have time to get myself properly pogy,” he added confidingly. “Say it was p’raps ten or so, sir.”
“And this took place where, this conversation?”
Boyse shrugged again. “As I said, I was fair mystified. Don’t recollect the location. Somewheres in London.”
Heddison nodded. The purse of his lips became more pronounced.
“There appear to be witnesses who state that you were at—the Duke of Kent?” He turned to Miss Tolerance, who nodded. “The Duke of Kent, that night, where you are well known, and left with a woman—”
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