A Covent Garden Mystery

Chapter Ten

Grenville looked up, interested. Pomeroy flushed. "I believe I told you that that was my business, Captain."

"You did, but the girl is missing. A second missing girl has just turned up dead. I'd like to know everything you know about Bess so that we might find her before she suffers a similar fate. Am I right? Was she paying you in kind?"

"I wouldn't say that, sir."

"What would you say, Sergeant?"

He bathed me in a light blue glare. "I would say we wasn't in the army any more and you can leave off bullying me. But I know that will do no good." He ran his hand through his already slick hair, pushing it behind his ears. "The thing with Bess, Captain, is she weren't paying me to look the other way. We're sweet on each other."

"She has a lover," I said. "He lives with her near Great Wild Street. I plan to interview him."

"I know that. Tom Marcus. But Bess didn't like him. He didn't treat her well enough, she said, and he clung to her something fierce. Like having a child about, she said."

"Did she want to leave him?"

"Don't think so, not yet. She wanted to have something fixed for sure before she left him. He has some brass from working in a brickyard, and he's good at stretching the money both of 'em made."

"I wish you had told me of this before," I said. "She might have threatened to leave him, and he might have grown angry with her, do you not think? Enough to harm her or at least to make her run away?"

Pomeroy's brows lowered. "Bess wouldn't have run away without coming to me. She knew where to find me. Tom didn't hurt her, because when he came and reported her missing, I shook him up a bit, to find out whether he'd hit her. I'm satisfied he hadn't. Besides, if he'd done her in, he like as not wouldn't come to Bow Street, now, would he?"

"Unless he wanted to direct your attention elsewhere," Grenville suggested. "Perhaps he killed Bess as well as Mary, then reported Bess missing to make it look as though he had concern for her. He killed Mary as a blind for the death of Bess, perhaps trying to make it seem as though a madman had decided to start killing game girls."

"You are reasoning ahead of yourself," I said. "We haven't found Bess, and there is no reason to believe the two incidents are connected. Besides, Thompson told us that Mary had gone to Covent Garden to meet a man."

Pomeroy held up his hands. "Well, it weren't me."

I looked at him. "If you say Bess was sweet on you, why did she not decide to leave Tom Marcus and live with you, instead?"

"Would look fine, wouldn't it, Captain, a game girl living with a Bow Street Runner? She wanted to give up her trade first, find a proper job and become a proper girl."

I traced the head of my walking stick. "Felicity told me that Bess allowed you privileges without paying in order to keep you from arresting her."

I thought that would anger him. I thought Pomeroy would puff himself up, offended, and tell me to go to hell and dance with the devil. Instead, to my surprise, his grin flashed, teeth white in the darkness. "Thing is about Felicity, Captain, you can't always trust what she says. She's a clever one. Has to be, don't she? But she'll tell a tale, wind a chap around her finger, so to speak. I'm not calling her a liar, but you have to question her version of the truth."

I mulled this over, realizing that I had been ready to believe Felicity, probably because I felt sorry for her. She exuded confidence in herself and her ability to please men, but because she was a game girl and had black skin, the world thought nothing of exploiting her. She must have come up with plenty of defenses against that.

"What is the truth, then?" I asked.

"What I said. Me and Bess, we like each other. She was working to leave her man and take up with me. I last saw her when your Felicity spied us. I was a-kissing her goodbye."

"Goodbye? Where was she going?"

"Good night, I ought to have said. She was off home, and I went to Bow Street. Last I ever saw her." For the first time, he looked troubled. "So I would thank you, Captain, if you could help find her. I never want to see her like this." He looked back down at the corpse.

I understood. I did not want to find Gabriella like this either, and by the look on Auberge's face, he shared my fear.

We waited in the warm night for Thompson and the coroner. Grenville had brandy in a flask, which he shared around. After midnight, one patroller returned with a plump man wearing an expression of curiosity, followed not much later by the second patroller and Thompson.

The coroner of the parish seemed in no way distraught that he'd been dragged from his comfortable home to examine a young woman's corpse in a back lane near the river. He spread a cloth on the ground and knelt on it, asking the patrollers to move the rest of the boards out of the way.

Thompson stood looking down at the young woman, his tattered-gloved fingers at his mouth. "Yes, that is Mary Chester. I'll have to have her Sam tell us for certain, but I am sure it's her."

The coroner gently untied the sash and removed it from her neck. "Her initials are on the dress," the coroner said, pulling back a fold of bodice. "M.C., embroidered on the seam, nice as you please."

"Was she strangled?" I asked, leaning down.

"Not a bit of it." The coroner turned her head, examining the bruises. "This was done before she died. Maybe a day or two. She's been dead I'd say a few days, but she can't have lain here all that time. Someone would have found her, at least the dogs and the rats."

"How pleasant." Grenville took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his lips.

"So she was killed elsewhere and brought here," I said. "If that's so, why wait so long to move her here?"

"Perhaps the gent had hidden the body in one place," Pomeroy said, "then had to move it or risk it being discovered."

Grenville patted his lips again. "Then why not tip her into the river? He'd carried her this far; the stairs to the river are only a street away."

"Perhaps he was seen, or thought he was seen," I said. "He leaves her at the first place he can find and flees." I turned back to the coroner. "Can you see how she died?"

"Well," the man answered, taking his time. He turned Mary's head again, lifting the hair from the back of her neck. "So far, I've seen no sign of injury, but I'll have to examine her more thoroughly in better light. She might have suffocated, or been poisoned, or perhaps died naturally. I cannot say until I take her elsewhere."

"My carriage is at your disposal," Grenville said.

The coroner climbed to his feet. His hand went to his back, and his face creased in pain. "Get a bit stiff on the hard ground." He grinned. "There's not many a gentleman that would offer his fine carriage to a corpse, Mr. Grenville, but there's no need. I brought my own conveyance. I just need a strong man to lift her."

The patrollers, with Pomeroy watching, did the job. They moved the rotted boards, hoisted the girl between them, and carried her out of the passage, Her gown trailed to the ground, and neither of the three thought to lift the skirt out of the mud.

Thompson looked about the lane after the coroner had gone, his face somber. "I believe he is right that she was killed elsewhere and left here. That poor sailor of hers will take it hard. I don't think he murdered her."

"Would he have tried to throttle her?" Grenville asked.

"Possibly, if she angered him. But the fact that she didn't die of that is a point in his favor, because he stopped himself before he killed her."

"Or she managed to get away from him," I said.

"True. But then he would simply have tried again. I doubt he would have come to me, worried, if he'd wanted her dead himself."

The same argument could be applied to Black Bess's lad. I had the feeling that we'd discover that neither of these girls' lovers were responsible for their disappearances or deaths.

Thompson sighed as we emerged from the passage. "Have to look up Chester and tell him the bad news. I'm not relishing that. Would you like to come with me, Captain? Not to break the news, but to see if he knows anything further?"

"No." I told Thompson about Gabriella and that I needed to hunt for her.

His expression darkened. "If I find the bastard who is doing this

…" He shook his head, his thin frame moving. "I'll tell the magistrate of the Bow Street house and the others to put as many men as they can spare on it. I'll also employ some of my own." He held out his hand for me to shake. "We'll find her, Captain."

His resolution only worried me more. Everyone except Auberge had offered the explanation that Gabriella had merely wandered off. Thompson, like me, believed something more sinister might have happened. Hearing my fear confirmed only increased the coldness in the pit of my stomach.

Auberge wanted to return to King Street and tell Carlotta what was happening. He and I, Grenville, and Pomeroy walked back to the Strand, Grenville fetching Jackson from the tavern to which he'd taken the others. Grenville ordered Jackson to drive Auberge back to King Street, while Grenville himself volunteered to remain and help renew the search for Gabriella. Thompson departed for the coroner's house to learn the outcome of his examination.

I decided to leave them and ride with Auberge, hoping against hope that Gabriella had returned to the house while we'd been distracted with the body of Mary.

But when we reached the house, Gabriella was not there. Carlotta flew down the stairs, wild for news. When Auberge merely shook his head, she flung herself into his arms, crying. I do not believe she even noticed me there.

I left the house, uncertain where to turn. I told Jackson to take the carriage back to Grenville and the others and help them continue the search. Jackson nodded and drove away. I tramped back to Covent Garden alone, drawn to the place as though it held the answers.

The stalls were shut and quiet, the market closed. That did not mean that the place was deserted. Game girls wandered the shadows, their high-pitched laughter promising a merry time. Thieves roamed, waiting for victims.

The pile of Covent Garden Theatre hugged the northeast corner of the square, the back walls marked here and there with small windows. The theatre's entrance and grand piazza were on its other side, in Hart and Bow Streets.

I saw a Mayfair gentleman near the back of the theatre, conspicuous in fine suit and tailed frock coat, a tall hat on his head. A dark carriage with a matched team waited not far from him. He was speaking to a game girl, the lady, bold in a feathered hat and scarlet dress, answering him with laughter.

After a time, he held his hand out to her, offering. She took it, and together they went to the carriage and climbed inside. The coachman gave office to the horses and drove on at a snail's pace. I stepped aside to let the carriage pass.

I'd recognized the gentleman, a man I'd met at White's with Grenville, one by name of Stacy. He was a husband and a father-likely his wife and daughter even now were inside the theatre, while Stacy entertained himself elsewhere.

I knew that some rich men slummed, picking up game girls without discretion. I wondered as I watched the carriage recede into the darkness of King Street how often Stacy visited Covent Garden, and whose company he enjoyed there.

I walked north on James Street. The intersection between it and Hart Street was busy with people leaving the theatre between performances. A few enterprising acrobats had set up on the corner opposite me, two men and a girl tumbling and dancing while a little boy wove through the crowd with an upturned hat.

The acrobats were quite good and had drawn a small crowd. The girl scrambled onto one man's back and stood up on his shoulders, then he tossed her high into the air. The other man caught her with ease and set her on her feet again. The audience applauded.

I crossed the street, letting a threepenny bit drop into the boy's hat. He said, "Thankee, sir," before moving along.

A carriage rattled to a halt behind me, and I looked around to see a window drop down and a white face topped with an odd lace and feather headdress appear. A pair of shrewd eyes observed me, then the face left the window.

A footman swarmed from the back of the coach and opened the door for me. He assisted me in and closed the door, shutting me into an opulent, stuffy, and dark box with the lady who'd stopped for me.

I sank into the cushions next to Lady Breckenridge, relieved to have somewhere soft to rest.

"Whatever are you doing wandering the streets, Lacey?" she asked.

Her drooping headdress swayed with the carriage. Female fashions were heading down the avenue of the ridiculous these days, with stiff lace and many flounced ribbons decorating skirts, the fabric almost like canvas for layers of decoration. Headdresses weren't much better. I preferred the simplicity of a bandeau woven through locks, but women, especially in the aristocracy, were keen to follow fashion. Lady Breckenridge managed to look pretty even with the baglike lace hood covering her hair and the peacock feathers that sagged to either side of her face. Gloves covered her arms past her elbows, her short-sleeved, summer garment shimmering gold and silver.

I'd come to prefer Lady Breckenridge in little but a peignoir, her black hair cascading, or better still, Lady Breckenridge wrapped only in her sheets. I raised her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm.

Her eyes darkened. "Come with me to South Audley Street?" she asked.

I'd been her lover for a few months now, and every moment spent with her had been a delight. But I lowered her hand and shook my head. "Donata, the most terrible thing has happened."

I meant to say the words calmly, but my voice broke, and I could not continue. I sat mutely in the carriage while it bumped its way to God knew where, holding her hand and staring straight in front of me.

"What is it, Gabriel? Please, tell me."

I had explained to so many people today-to Pomeroy and Thompson, to Auberge, to Nancy and Felicity. The words grew more difficult, not less, as I repeated them. "My daughter has disappeared."

Lady Breckenridge's eyes widened. "Disappeared? What do you mean?"

I pressed my hand to my face. "Oh, God, Donata, we've looked all afternoon and all night, and she is nowhere to be found. And someone is killing game girls in Covent Garden, and what if he took her too?"

I breathed heavily, my voice a dry rasp. I hated to break down in front of her, a woman whom I wanted to think nothing but high things of me. Most Englishmen hated displays of emotion-cool sangfroid was the rule, unless it was cold anger. I'd lived too long in hot countries, where rage or grief could be let loose under the merciless sun.

Lady Breckenridge chose neither to pat my shoulder nor to bathe me in scorn. Instead she waited until my weeping had run its course, saying nothing while the carriage creaked and swayed through the warm streets.

I drew a long breath and wiped my eyes, my hands shaking. Lady Breckenridge sat calmly, a drooping peacock feather brushing her cheekbone.

In a low voice that threatened to crack again, I told her of the events of the day, beginning with the meeting with James Denis and my wife. Donata turned away as I described speaking with Carlotta, and Denis suggesting I bring a suit of criminal conversation against her and Auberge. I told her of seeing Gabriella while I talked with Nancy and Felicity, how I'd sent Gabriella home, and how Carlotta had come looking for her later.

"We searched," I finished. "We took streets between us, and we looked and looked. Auberge and I walked every street, every lane, we looked in every suspect house. She is nowhere to be found."

I finished, my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands. I could not afford to give in to despair. I had to remained clearheaded, to think.

Donata put her hand on my arm. "Gabriel, stay with me tonight."

I shook my head. "I have to return to Grimpen Lane. She might make her way back there."

Her hand moved, stroking my arm, soothing and firm. "There is no reason she would try to find her way to Grimpen Lane. If she is free, she will go to King Street, where her mother is."

Swift pain darted through me, but I realized she was right. I hadn't been thinking logically. She'd try to find her mother, of course. And Auberge, much as I hated to admit it.

"Still, I must continue looking."

"You are all in, Gabriel. A wreck. Come home with me, and let Barnstable give you a drop of laudanum and put you to bed. You need to rest and clear your thoughts."

"I cannot. Anything can happen in the few hours I am asleep. I want to be out searching."

She rested her head on my shoulder, the spice of her perfume touching me. "I will spread the word. All of London will turn out and hunt for her, every servant, every coachman, every errand boy. I know kind people. We will turn London upside down and shake it until Gabriella drops out again."

Part of me was touched by her concern and generosity but that part was buried under a blanket of fear. "She might have been taken to a bawdy house. Or even out of London. A fast carriage could get far by this time."

Lady Breckenridge squeezed my hand. "I have many connections. I will use every one I can. I promise you that."

I turned, my view of her rather obscured by her peacock feathers. I touched the headdress. "Take this off."

She smiled and complied, as though she'd known how ridiculous it looked but waited for me to say so. She unpinned the headgear and dropped it to the seat opposite, where it lay like a misshapen bird.

"I prefer your tresses long and loose," I said.

"That is a bold thing to say to a lady."

I slid my arms around her and pulled her close. "It is only the truth."

Lady Breckenridge held me quietly. I had grown to care for her deeply, my feelings a far cry from those I'd had the first day I'd met her, when she'd directed cigarillo smoke and sardonic comments at me in the home of a rather tasteless baron in Kent.

Since then I'd come to know her as a fond mother, witty observer, steadfast friend, and vulnerable woman whose hopes for happiness had been dashed early in life. She was a comfortable person to talk to, even when she was cutting a member of the ton to ribbons with her pointed humor. She was my lover without drama, taking and giving without rancor. I wanted to do nothing to lose what I had with her.

We reached her house in South Audley Street, and I managed to enter the very modern, monochrome dwelling without breaking down entirely. She called Barnstable, her butler, who seemed to live to administer to my aches and pains. He had massaged balm into my injured leg when I'd hurt it deeply this winter and helped heal my wounds after I'd fought with a French officer during the Berkeley Square affair.

This time, he led me upstairs to the spare bedroom in which I'd slept before, bustling about to fetch me a nightshirt, tea, and laudanum.

I let him light the fire and warm the blankets for me-or rather, he gave sharp orders to Lady Breckenridge's maids and footmen to do so-but after he departed, I poured the laudanum-laced tea into the fire. I did not want to risk that Gabriella would turn up hurt or dead while I slumbered too deeply to wake.

I did realize that I needed to rest. I could only push myself so far, and I had to be ready to take up the hunt for her again. I also knew that Donata would be as good as her word. If she said she'd stir her friends and neighbors to join the search, she would.

I decided to rest a few hours in the bed Barnstable had prepared for me, the same one in which I'd lain months ago when I'd strained my knee. The room was small but elegant, in pale green with tasteful plaster medallions on the walls and a candelabra lending a warm glow to the night. I lay down in the bed, pulling the blankets over me because the air had cooled, and closed my eyes.

I was still awake half an hour later when Lady Breckenridge joined me. She snuggled against me under the blankets, as though perfectly prepared to stay all night.

"I sent word to Lady Aline," she said. "She promised to pass the news along. She is sending word to Sir Gideon Derwent, who will know some likely places to look, being a reformer. I also sent word to your Mrs. Brandon, though she has already retired for the night."

"Louisa. Dear God, I forgot all about her."

Donata rose on her elbow and sent me a speculative look. "Surely not."

I scrubbed my face, noting the stiff bristles on my jaw. "She was to have come to my rooms this afternoon, so that I could take her to meet Gabriella. She never turned up. She might have missed us when we went out searching, but she would have waited."

"Perhaps she simply could not come," Donata said.

"She would have sent word."

"Well, she is home now and in any case will know what has happened. Call on her when you wake up."

"I will never sleep. I poured away the laudanum."

She lay down again, draping her arm across my chest. "You will break Barnstable's heart, you know. But you must sleep. I will stay until you do."

I knew what she meant. Felicity had offered me the same thing, except that Lady Breckenridge did not offer out of pity.

I laced my hand through her hair, wanting to tell her no, but instead I found myself pulling her to me. In the darkness, she slid her body over mine.

She gave me comfort in that high tester bed, and when she lay beside me again, I fell quickly asleep.

As morning brightened, I made ready to visit Louisa. Barnstable shaved me as well as any valet; he'd procured a razor to have ready for my visits, seemingly delighted that his mistress had taken a paramour. Barnstable approved of me. Perhaps, I thought with wry humor, because I gave him a chance to practice his remedies. My humor wronged him; he was an excellent butler and took fine care of Lady Breckenridge.

Lady Breckenridge, awake and dressed in a morning gown of ecru silk, her hair under a small cap, announced her intention of accompanying me to the Brandons'.

"You hate rising early," I said, surprised. And yet, she was on her feet, her eyes as bright as though she'd slept all night instead of snatching a few hours between dawn and full light.

She gave me a faint smile as her maid draped a shawl over her shoulders. "I am a jealous woman, Gabriel, and I know how fond you are of Louisa Brandon. I will go with you."

I could have argued, but I saw no purpose in it. I was grateful for Donata's help. She could have had many reactions to my daughter's disappearance, but she'd chosen worry and compassion. And further, she'd chosen action. Not for Donata Breckenridge a fit of the vapors and retiring to the country until it was all over.

She had her carriage readied to take us on the journey from South Audley Street to Brook Street. As we rolled through clean morning sunshine and cool air, the streets rather empty except for servants on errands, I said, "You have no need to be jealous of Louisa Brandon, you know. We have always been friends, but nothing more, and since Brandon's troubles this spring, she has been quite attendant on him."

Donata chuckled. "You are so very literal, Gabriel. I know that you are not slipping off to her bed under the colonel's nose, but you have known Mrs. Brandon for a very long time. You and she share a deep friendship, and you exchange secret smiles when any subject is mentioned about which you and she have a common memory. I feel a bit left out."

"I beg your pardon," I said, heartfelt. "I had no idea I was being so rude."

"You cannot help it. I imagine my mother and I do the same thing." She raised a delicate brow. "But do not try to tell me that you regard Mrs. Brandon as you would a sister, because I will not believe you."

I stretched my game leg, moving the tendons so they would not stiffen. I thought of the night Donata and I had just shared together and the scent and feel of her on me. I nuzzled her cheek. "You have no need of jealousy," I repeated. "None whatsoever."

Lady Breckenridge turned her head and met my lips in a kiss. The carriage bumped hard over a stone, and we broke apart, smiling a little.

I had not quite banished the trepidation in her eyes. By nature of life in the army, Louisa and I had shared circumstances both happy and dire, had seen what men and women living sedately in London would never see. Louisa had been exposed to the full horrors of battle and death, the heat of India and Spain, bitter winters and roasting summers, disease, dysentery, dismemberment, and parasites. She had weathered it all with aplomb, the only thing destroying her peace being her marriage to her stubborn and turbulent husband.

Lady Breckenridge was correct-Louisa and I had shared much and had comforted each other whenever the need arose. Donata was also correct that I would never regard Louisa as a sister. I had been half in love with her most of my life, needing her, at least, until I'd stumbled upon the compelling attraction of Donata Breckenridge.

We said nothing more until we reached the Brandon house in Brook Street. A startled Matthews said that the master and mistress were breakfasting, but if we cared to join them, he would take us up.

In the dining room, we found Louisa picking at her meal, looking troubled. Brandon was lifting his newspaper, his face red and his breathing quick. We'd interrupted a quarrel, I guessed.

Louisa raised her head when Matthews announced us and started when she saw Lady Breckenridge. "Your ladyship." She rose hastily. "Might I offer you breakfast? We are eating simply today, but my cook would be happy to prepare anything you like."

Brandon rose as well, his veil of politeness descending. He pulled a chair from the table and swept a gesture at it. "Please, sit here, your ladyship. You may have coffee, or chocolate, as you prefer. Matthews, get a footman up here. Her ladyship is hungry."

"No, indeed." Lady Breckenridge gracefully slid into the offered seat and rested her hands on its arms. "I could not eat a thing at this appalling hour, but I am craving coffee. Fetch some very strong for me, Matthews, if you please." She flicked her gaze to Louisa. "I would never dream of calling on you this early, Mrs. Brandon, and it is horribly rude to interrupt your breakfast, but Gabriel is in trouble, and we must help him."

Brandon and Louisa exchanged a glance. I sat down, nodding at Matthews that I, too, wanted coffee.

"We have heard the news," Brandon said stiffly. "My wife insists that it is her fault. Please talk her out of this nonsense, Lacey."