The Hanover Square Affair

Chapter Nine

I soaked in the steaming water for half an hour as the heat slowly leached into me. I heard Grenville and Mrs. Beltan in my front room, discussing me.

"He gets like this sometimes," she confided. "Won't speak to a soul. I've seen him take to his bed two days at a time, and not even look at me when I come to see if he's all right. Melancholia, they call it."

"What do you do?"

"Nothing, sir. I make sure he's well and leave him be. He comes out of it on his own and goes on right as rain."

I let them talk, although I could have told Mrs. Beltan that my mood did not stem from melancholia. I simply wanted to wash the evil of number 22, Hanover Square from my skin.

I knew evil existed in the world. I had seen men, fire in their eyes, thrust bayonets through other men they did not even know. I had seen scavengers swarm battlefields to take everything from the fallen, even the coats on their backs. I'd seen such a scavenger put a gun to the head of a soldier, who might have lived with a small amount of help, and pull the trigger, all so that the murderer might steal his boots. But never had I felt the clinging, clammy evil of Horne's household, the gruesome secrets that hid behind a mask of respectability. At least the evils of war had been committed in the open.

The gray shadows of my bedchamber chased each other over the carved posts of my bed as the day died and the water warmed me. The wooden flowers and leaves became eyes and mouths, open and round.

I rose from the bath, dried myself, and dressed. Grenville was alone again when I emerged.

"Horne is dead," I said before he could speak. "Someone murdered him."

Grenville stared at me in open-mouthed astonishment. "Good God. You didn't-Lacey, you didn't-kill him yourself, did you?"

"No. I only wanted to."

I told him everything. We sat in the darkening room, the firelight's shadows on the curved beams rendering the room a cavern of hell. I hadn't wanted to talk about Horne's murder at all, but the words came out of me, forced out as though another entity moved my mouth.

"No wonder you looked like you'd been wrestling the devil," Grenville said when I'd finished. "Did Pomeroy make an arrest?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask him."

"What about Aimee? Did she hear anything when she was inside the wardrobe?"

I sighed, suddenly tired. "I didn't ask her. I wanted to leave her alone. I'm rather more interested in the fate of Jane Thornton than with Horne's murderer."

Grenville touched his fingertips together. "They might be connected. You say Denis visited that day?"

"According to the maid."

"Odd, because he rarely visits anyone. One goes to him. Only with his permission."

I shrugged, not caring very much.

"A puzzle," Grenville said. "What about the butler-Bremer? Perhaps he had grown disgusted with his master and decided to stick a knife into him."

"I would swear his shock when we found the body was genuine. But any of them had time and opportunity to murder him. With only five of them to look after so large a house, each of them would have been alone for some stretch of time during the day. I didn't speak to the valet, because it was his day out."

Grenville pursed his lips. "Perhaps he returned, killed Horne, and left again."

"I suppose he must have a key. I imagine Pomeroy has asked questions about him. He's usually thorough."

Ploddingly, ruthlessly so. Pomeroy had hounded more than one poor soul to the gallows-guilty and innocent alike.

"What about the other maid? Grace?"

"I didn't speak to her either. The cook had sent her off."

He started to say something more, then stopped and stared at me. "I sense a lack of interest in you, Lacey. Or perhaps you believe Horne deserved what he got."

"No one deserves what was done to him."

"You say that out loud. But do you feel it in your heart?"

I did not answer.

Grenville tapped the arm of the chair. "Well, I'll not press you. The reason I presumed to call on you today is because I received an answer to one of your advertisements." He reached into his pocket and plucked out a letter.

I came alert. We had agreed that inquiries should be sent to the newspaper itself, but I had been too stunned by Horne's death and finding Aimee to stop for the letters tonight. "Someone has found Jane Thornton?"

"I don't know. The letter is from a man called Beauchamp, who lives in Hampstead. He saw the notices and the advertisement, and wrote to say a young lady from his household had also disappeared in mysterious circumstances."

I sat back. "Which may have nothing to do with Jane."

"Possibly not. But I would like to look into it. It seems a cousin of his wife's came to live with them a year ago. Her family is from Somerset. When her parents died, she had no living relatives but the Beauchamps, and she went to Hampstead to live with them. About two months ago, she left the house and never returned."

"About the same time Jane Thornton disappeared."

"Exactly. The two incidents may not be connected, but then again, they might. This young woman, Charlotte Morrison, is about ten years older than Jane."

"Denis might have procured her as well."

Grenville threw me a look. "Might, Lacey. Might. We should gather facts. Are you well enough to go to Hampstead with me?"

I did not have the energy to light a candle, let alone be dragged to Hampstead. But Grenville was ready to run there himself and probably frighten the life out of the worried family. "You don't have to go. I can call on them alone."

"I'd rather go. I am damned curious. Or do you think they'd be intimidated to have Lucius Grenville pay them a visit?"

I snorted. "They have probably never heard of you."

Grenville looked affronted, then he smiled. "Touche. You pay the call, and I'll follow along as an anonymous gentleman."

I studied the fire, not answering. Grenville waited, and I sensed his impatience. I looked up to find his dark eyes upon me and something in them that had lost friendliness.

"Very well," I said. "Let us journey to Hampstead."

After Grenville left me, I let the fire die down. He'd stoked it with at least a week's supply of coal, with the zeal of a man who never had to think about the cost of fuel.

I sat in the wing chair he'd vacated and let my hands fall limply over the sides. I sensed melancholia, black, menacing, and watching, start to creep over me. I closed my eyes and willed it away. When it struck me, it often laid me abed for days, rendering me unable to move or eat. But I needed all my faculties at the moment. Jane Thornton was still missing, perhaps in danger, and I wanted to find her. I could give in to despair after that.

The murderer had cheated me out of throttling the whereabouts of Jane from Horne's throat. But the butler, Bremer, must know, or Grace, the maid. They were the only ones allowed to wait on the two girls, and a man could hardly spirit away one young woman and hide another without the help of his butler, valet, or coachman.

Pomeroy would bully most of the information out of Bremer, but I still wanted a go at the spindly butler. Pomeroy would not know the right questions to ask. I'd lost my temper today, but I'd get Bremer in my hands again and interrogate him coldly. He had to know something.

The valet was another matter. I would wait until Pomeroy tracked down the valet-which he would-then ask the man pointed questions. Grenville was right when he'd commented that the valet could very well have let himself into the house, slain his master, then let himself out again, without the other servants seeing him. He'd know who was likely to be where in the house, and perhaps he had been disgusted by Horne's proclivities. Or perhaps he'd been jealous and wanted Jane or Aimee for himself. Or perhaps the murder had nothing to do with Jane and Aimee whatsoever.

Someone knocked on my door, making my head throb with each rap. Only one person would think to pound on my door so late.

I called out, "Go away, Marianne. I don't have any candles to spare."

This was met with silence. Usually Marianne would make foul remarks about my stinginess and enter anyway.

The knock did not sound again. I supposed I should rise and see whether anyone stood on the stairs beyond the door, but I did not have the strength.

The handle moved, and the door swung open. Janet Clarke stood on my threshold.

The strength returned to my limbs in a rush. I was out of the chair and halfway across the room before she could step inside.

She smiled at me. "Hello, my dear old lad."