Suspects two and three were both clear. Of involvement in the murder of the Redepenning family, in any case, though David would pass on to Tolliver his suspicions about one of the traders. Nasty stuff, smuggling munitions in war-time.
The new governess in the house of merchant four worked for David, and he had first reports from the offices of the two new suspects—misers were such a pleasure to investigate.
The reports from Bristol and Liverpool were brief. He would need to go to both places himself, but time enough for that. He’d finish in London first.
Rede’s case in hand, he turned his attention to other cases before picking up Lady Georgiana’s again. The men following Hurley and Talbot had reported early in the day after their replacements took over. Both reported that the men they watched went home and stayed there.
David set one of his best informants on Talbot’s lunch with Annesley, wishing he could do it himself. But the risk of being recognised meant he couldn’t get close enough to be useful.
The informant watching Selby came in after noon. Selby had taken his watcher on a tour of London’s nightlife before visiting the mansion of a baroness whose husband was in the country. When he left just before dawn, he went on to Miss Fraser’s house, and was there yet. The watcher, who was inclined to admire the earl’s stamina, was grateful David had sent the relief watcher on to Miss Fraser’s when the man drew a blank at Selby’s town house and the house of his known mistress.
At least that meant Miss Fraser’s house was being watched for the moment. David would have to arrange for more surveillance—of her, of the earl’s four friends, and of Lord Jonathan. Would Lady Georgiana make a fuss at the extra money?
He seldom had the kind of generous budget for an investigation that Rede offered, but expected to more than replace any money he spent once the reward was paid.
The coffee house where he’d met his informers kept several boys to run messages for patrons. David poured himself another cup of coffee, then wrote a number of letters and summoned a runner to deliver them.
His next appointment arrived late, apologising as he approached the table, hand extended to shake. David ignored the open and guileless smile and focused on the eyes. Careful, considering, watching to see if the charm was having the desired effect.
“Lord Jonathan.” His own face would give the young man no clues about what David was thinking and feeling. He returned a firm press of the hand, and waved Lord Jonathan to a seat.
“Please. Call me Gren. Or Jon, if you prefer, as Aldridge does. After all, you’re my brother too.” Another friendly grin, of no more depth than the first.
A surprise attack might prompt a reaction David could use. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t tell Aldridge about your plan to get yourself exiled?”
Bare shock for a moment, quickly turning to calculation.
“Mrs. Worth is your informer. Of course. I thought her of too fine a quality to be a whore’s housekeeper.”
The boy was quick; David had to give him that.
The smile turned self-deprecating. “I’d rather you didn’t tell Aldridge. With luck, things have gone too far for him to fix, but I wouldn’t want to count on it. The magic ducal wand.”
“Aldridge wants to protect Her Grace,” David said. And he did, too, come to that.
“Aldridge wants to protect everyone. It’s been bred into him. Yes, and beaten into him, too.” Lord Jonathan—Gren—waved a casual hand, “His Grace is not a gentle father.”
He leaned forward, confidingly, the grin gone and his face suddenly open and sincere. “Aldridge doesn’t understand. I can’t live this life—this meaningless, idiotic life. He has work. I am allowed none. He has purpose. Mine is to simply exist until he marries and has children. After that, I’m redundant. Aldridge thinks I should be happy to drink and gamble and swive myself silly, then get up the next day and do it again. He can’t believe I’m not. But he wouldn’t like having nothing useful to do nearly as much as he thinks.”
Lord Jonathan shook his head thoughtfully. “Do you know how many younger sons die in pointless, stupid accidents, doing something crazy because they’re bored? Now, that would certainly upset Mama!”
David wasn’t sympathetic. “Then do something productive. Join the army. Take up employment.”
“I tried to join the army. His Grace refused his permission. So I joined under a false name. His Grace had me hunted down, bought me out, and confined me until I gave my word not to do it again.
“I went to work for an architect. His Grace had the man beaten. I changed my name again, and found work as a factory clerk. He threatened to ruin the man if I wasn’t fired. He told me that if I tried it again, he’d throw my old nanny out of the cottage she has retired to.”
Despite himself, David could feel for the lad.
“He wants me dependent. Which is partly your fault, by the way.”
The reproach was unexpected. “How do you draw that conclusion?”
Lord Jonathan shrugged. “You’ve made your own way. Refused all help, or so I’ve heard. His Grace doesn’t control you. With everyone else, he says jump, and they ask for instructions on how high and far, and for permission to come down. You just ignore him.”
“Not exactly,” David said. “I stay out of his way, that’s all.” A hard-learned lesson, that. He still suspected the duke was behind his arrest, if not the false murder accusation. Certainly, His Grace had sent a messenger to the prison, offering to make it all go away for the price of David’s complete obedience.
David might even have accepted, if the man had come the first day of his incarceration. But three days and nights in that hole had given David time to think, and to put the clues together. And the Bow Street Runner who had arrested him had come in answer to the message David spent his last coin to send, and had not only listened, but had tested David’s theory and arrested the real murderer.
That wasn’t the last time His Grace had attempted to bring his base-born son to heel. Jobs that suddenly went to another thief taker; rewards evaporating; rumours about his honesty—and letters and visits from His Grace’s representatives offering a job at one of His Grace’s estates, an income, and subtle hints about the penalties of recalcitrance.
David petitioned Her Grace and the interference stopped, but he wasn’t fool enough to believe His Grace had reformed. Far from ignoring His Grace, David made an effort to always know where the man was and to avoid drawing his attention. Her Grace could sometimes influence her husband, but it wouldn’t do to rely on that overmuch.
Could Her Grace do anything for Lord Jonathan? He asked, but Lord Jonathan shook his head.
“I’ve asked, believe me. And she has tried. But he won’t budge. This touches his pride. Of us all, we three boys, the little girls… you’re the only one who got away.”
David had never before thought of his banishment as good fortune. But perhaps it was.
“You’re lucky you don’t care about anyone except Mama,” Lord Jonathan was continuing. “If you did, His Grace would use them to control you.”
Prue’s face suddenly appeared in David’s mind. His Grace had better never know what she meant to David. Prue would give the old tyrant all the leverage he needed.
“Just as well,” David agreed.
“So will you tell Aldridge? Or Mama?”
David nodded. “I’ll keep your secret. For now, at least. But Lord Jonathan, be careful. The accusations against you could get you hanged.”
Lord Jonathan waved carelessly. “Aldridge won’t let it come to that.”
David hesitated, then said, “If Aldridge fails, and you find yourself in trouble, send for me. A message to the landlord here will find me.”
The lazy grin again, this time lighting the eyes. Genuine amusement. “Why thank you, big brother. You must like me a little, after all.”
David was not about to admit the reluctant truth of that.
“Her Grace would be upset if her baby boy’s neck were stretched, Lord Jonathan,” David explained.
“Gren. Call me Gren.”
“Gren, then. Gren, I want you to tell me everything you can about the woman known as Lily Diamond.”
A flare of surprise. “I thought you’d want to know about Selby and Annesley and their friends?”
“I do. But The Diamond first, if you please.”
“Sir?” The interruption came from a plump little maid. “Are you Mr. David Wakefield, please Sir?” Her nose red from the cold, she was dressed in a cloak damp from the persistent drizzle, the hood pushed back to show an anxious face under a tidy mobcap.
“Yes, I am he,” David confirmed.
The maid curtseyed. “Please, Sir, you’re to come at once, Mrs. Worth says. The mistress has been murdered.”
At Miss Diamond’s house, David and Gren found Prue fiercely defending the front parlour while she waited for the coroner.
“I’ve told them nothing is to be moved,” she said.
Madame Dupont had not taken kindly to the edict, but Prue had been backed by the cook, whose brother, it transpired, was a Runner, and the maids had elected to support them. Madame was sitting on the stairs, weeping, and complaining that she should be let into the room, in wails that slipped in and out of a French accent.
The French accent was fully in place when Prue let Gren and David in. “What is it they do here? They have no place here.”
Gren sat on the stair below Madame and took her hands in his. “I am sorry for your loss,” he told her, and she began to weep again.
“I warned her,” she said. “I warned her this job was dangerous. I said we shouldn’t take it.”
The French accent was gone again, the voice slipping into crisper consonants and longer vowels. David couldn’t identify the origins, but somewhere in the north of England, he thought.
Gren made soothing noises.
“We needed the money, she said. But what good will money do her now?”
Prue opened the door to another knock, and a woman swirled into the house as Madame said, “One of them killed her. One of them we were meant to spy on.” Then, seeing the newcomer, “It’s your fault, you bitch!” And she launched herself down the stairs, clawing for the visitor’s eyes.
David and Gren both reached her at the same time, David catching her hands, and Gren clasping her around the body.
Prue moved quickly to put herself between the visitor and the parlour door. “No, Miss Fraser,” she said. “No one may go into the parlour until the coroner has come.”
Miss Fraser was not impressed. “Out of my way, Worth.”
Prue stood her ground.
“Out of my way, I say. You have no authority to stop me.”
David knew that voice. He left Gren to comfort Madame, who had stopped struggling and was crying again.
“On the contrary,” he said. “Every citizen has the authority and the responsibility to assist the coroner, Miss Fraser.” Then the woman turned towards him and the face under the bonnet confirmed his suspicions, “Or should I say, Miss Frobisher?”
He watched the expressions changing on her face, could tell the moment she gave up the notion of brazening it out. “Watson,” she acknowledged. “Or is it Walker this week?”
“Walker will do.”
He had met her several years ago during another case for Tolliver, though he had not, to begin with, realised her connection to the case. He winced inwardly at how quickly he’d fallen into her bed, and at how long he’d taken to realise she was attempting to play him for his knowledge of the case, Tolliver, and England’s spy network.
He had ended the affair, but hadn’t given her a reason. She must have realised it, though. When the constables arrived to arrest her for spying, she was gone, and who she was spying for was still an open question.
“Very well,” she conceded now. “Worth, bring refreshments to the dining room. I will wait with Madame until the coroner has been and gone.”
“The first floor sitting room, if you please, Miss Fraser,” Prue said, firmly. “Lord Jonathan?”
The spy looked as if she would argue, but she changed her mind and led the way up the stairs, Lord Jonathan shepherding Madame behind her.
Prue sent the maid down to the kitchen with the refreshment order, leaving herself alone with Shadow. David took advantage of the moment. “What happened?”
“I think it was something she ate, David. Madame screamed, and when I got here, she was writhing in pain. She was dead within minutes. She’d had a few sips of her hot chocolate, some ham and pickles, one of the cakes Cook made, and several marzipans from the box that was sent this morning.”
“Sent this morning?” That sounded promising. “Any card?”
“A poem but no name. The card with the chocolate said it was from Lady Georgiana. And the ham was from Baron Hurley. Purportedly.”
Yes, as well to remember that the card might be signed by one person but sent by another. He was about to comment as much when the door knocker sounded again, this time for the coroner and a Bow Street Runner.
David didn’t recognise the coroner, but he did know the Runner. Tobias Gifford. Not a fool, but a man inclined to jump to conclusions and disinclined to take advice. And no fan of David Wakefield.