For her first visit to Madame Touvois, Miss Tolerance had dressed as an unexceptional guest at an informal evening party, to suit her purpose as observer. Today, with the marks of a brawl unmistakable upon her face, she could not pretend to be unremarkable. Miss Tolerance decided to meet Camille Touvois as brazenly confident as possible. She outfitted herself in a seldom-worn gown of china-red twill with narrow ruffles of white lace at the throat and wrists. The simplicity of the tailoring argued respectability. The vibrant color suggested its lack. The effect of the whole, worn with a gray bonnet trimmed with red ribbon, was pleasantly bold.
Miss Tolerance presented her card to the maidservant who admitted her. She was ushered into the second of the rooms in Madame Touvois’ apartment, where there was a good fire. Madame Touvois rose from a chair by the grate to greet her visitor; as Miss Tolerance stepped further into the light and the livid bruises on her face became unmistakable, Madame Touvois’ eyebrows rose. Miss Tolerance curtsied and thanked her hostess for her invitation to call; neither woman mentioned the bruises, and Miss Tolerance took the chair to which her hostess gestured.
Madame Touvois turned to a tray at her elbow upon which were a decanter, a pair of glasses, and a plate of rather shopworn biscuits. She wore a gray-green dress, with a heavy shawl looped over her elbows which moved gracefully as she poured wine and offered a glass to her visitor.
“You wished to talk,” Madame Touvois said.
Miss Tolerance smiled politely and took the glass. The room, which she had seen only in candlelight and filled with people, was not improved by the addition of daylight. The ceilings and windows were high, the drapes heavy; there was gilding upon the woodwork and the furniture was handsome, but Madame Touvois and her servants were clearly indifferent to dirt. The windows were smoky, the gilt worn thin, and there was a taste of something stale and musty about the air.
“The day is dark, is it not?” Madame Touvois suggested.
“It is indeed. And windy as well.”
“And you have come to speak with me about the Chevalier d’Aubigny’s death.”
Miss Tolerance inclined her head.
“You do not ask how I know it?”
“But you knew that on the evening when I visited your salon, Madame. As for how you knew it, I imagine Mrs. Vose told you. Or perhaps the man who followed me from my interview with her.” Miss Tolerance brushed a finger across her cheek to indicate her injuries.
Madame Touvois looked sympathetic. “A man followed you from an interview? But such a thing must be an everyday event in your profession!” Then, with only the appearance of changing the subject: “I cannot tell you how gratified I was to receive your note, Miss Tolerance. Surprised and gratified.”
Miss Tolerance feigned misunderstanding. “Because I was followed home, ma’am?”
Madame Touvois blinked. Her smile became fixed. After a moment she went on. “Because I have been so very interested to speak more with you. You must know I am very curious about your so-interesting profession.”
“As am I in yours, ma’am.” Miss Tolerance looked at the wine in her glass but did not drink.
“Me? I have no profession. I am merely a woman with a taste for artistic society, and sufficient jointure to entertain widely.”
“You do yourself no credit, ma’am. The woman whose salon is talked of everywhere, and which attracts such visitors as a prince of the blood, is not an hospitable widow but an artful hostess.”
“You flatter me, Miss Tolerance.” Camille Touvois smiled.
“Certainly not, ma’am. I confess I was surprised to see His Grace of Cumberland here,” Miss Tolerance continued. “I would not have thought the company to his taste.”
“I believe His Grace honors us through a wish to understand his liberal enemies.”
“Indeed?” Miss Tolerance’s tone bespoke polite disbelief. Would the prince, who commonly referred to even the mildest exponents of the Whig party as canaille, mix with common poets and civil servants out of mere curiosity? Given Cumberland’s reputation, she thought it more likely that La Touvois had lured the duke there with the promise of handsome women—of which there had certainly been a number.
“Now, Miss Tolerance, I believe you have some questions to ask me.”
“About what, ma’am?”
“About the Chevalier d’Aubigny,” Madame Touvois reminded her.
“Is there something you wish to tell me?” Miss Tolerance’s instinct was that a direct question to Madame Touvois was likely to yield a flat lie. Her aim was to annoy the woman into admission, if it was possible. “My recollection was that you had some questions for me.” She was gratified to see that she had confused Madame Touvois.
“I had—”
“You wished to know—what was your phrase?” Miss Tolerance mimed recollection. “Oh, yes: how one would become what I am.”
“Oh, dear. I hope you did not take offense at my harmless curiosity, Miss Tolerance.” From her tone, Madame Touvois hoped quite the opposite.
“Not the least in the world, madame. I value curiosity; it is a staple of my trade. I can easily answer your question if you like.”
“I should like to know,” Madame Touvois said with studied earnestness.
“‘Tis easily told. I fell in love with a man when I was young. I was ruined. I did not like the usual career available to women like myself, and so I found another one.”
“But that does not tell me how you became what you are?”
“And what is that?”
Madame Touvois considered. Miss Tolerance had the impression that, for a moment, all artifice had fallen away and the woman was striving to put into words something difficult to articulate. “A woman who moves through a man’s world. A woman without regrets. A woman who does not capitulate.” She looked directly at Miss Tolerance with an expression that was reflexively admiring, as if by admiring these traits in Miss Tolerance she hoped to make it clear that they were hers as well.
“Now you flatter me,” Miss Tolerance said coolly. “I am only a woman with her living to make. Some do so on their backs. I choose to do it on my feet. I have regrets; I simply cannot afford to indulge them. As for capitulation—why, if I had capitulated to the man who attempted to kill me yesterday, I should not be here enjoying this conversation.”
She smiled at her hostess. Silence descended.
“You know that Etienne d’Aubigny was a very unpleasant man,” Madame Touvois said at last.
“That seems to be an understatement,” Miss Tolerance replied.
Whatever Camille Touvois had expected, it was not Miss Tolerance’s bland agreement. She gave a low, delighted laugh.
“You are right. He was well-looking enough. He had some charm and, from what I am told, some—” She paused thoughtfully. “Some gifts of invention. But he was not generous, which might have commended a man of his tastes to his playfellows. And he vastly overestimated his own intellect.”
“With you, ma’am?”
“Oh, certainly. He was the sort of man to match wits with everyone he met. Since most people have not the wit of a kitchen cat, M. le Chevalier had convinced himself he was a very clever fellow.”
“But he was not?”
Madame Touvois smiled at some private thought. “Not in the end, no.” She shook her head. “I believe he came here at first in order to be amused by the company—will it amuse you to know, Miss Tolerance, that most of the men who come to my parties believe that they are political theorists and patriots? It is easy to laugh at them.”
“So d’Aubigny came at first to laugh—and stayed?”
“Because of Mrs. Vose, of course.” Madame Touvois did not bother to deny the connection. “He was the sort of man who likes to dominate—a room, a conversation, a woman. Among her other gifts, Mrs. Vose is the sort of woman who will permit herself to be dominated. For a fee. They dealt very well together while he had money.”
“So she had told me. You would not have any notion of where the chevalier’s money came from, would you?”
Did Madame Touvois frown? “Why, I thought he had married it. Some poor little girl with countrified vowels whom he kept locked away at home. Certainly he could not have bought his boots on what the Home Office paid him.”
“In the days before his death, the chevalier apparently settled most or all of his debts, which is intriguing, since he had been unable to do so before. And he did not borrow the money,” Miss Tolerance added. “Not from banks or moneylenders. I was wondering if you knew of any particular friends who might have loaned d’Aubigny a substantial amount of money.”
Again, Miss Tolerance had only the impression of a frown on Camille Touvois’s face. “I doubt anyone would be so foolish as to loan M. d’Aubigny money, Miss Tolerance. They would surely never have seen it again.”
“For some people that is not the first consideration,” Miss Tolerance said. “Else the Dukes of Kent and Clarence would have been forced to rusticate long ago.”
“Yes, but there is no cachet to lending money to a man like M. le Chevalier to offset the insult to one’s pocket.”
Miss Tolerance nodded. An idea occurred to her. “Perhaps it was a … a forced loan?”
“Do you suggest robbery, Miss Tolerance? M. le Chevalier had
far too high an opinion of himself to take to the—what is it called? The high toby.”
Miss Tolerance, in the grip of a theory whose logic grew more convincing with each second, shook her head. “I was not suggesting he had turned highwayman, madame. But consider: an unpleasant man who likes to dominate rooms and conversations and women, who imagines himself very clever indeed, a man who must constantly expect to hear the bailiff’s knock, but has no resources to pay his debts of honor, let alone his butcher’s dun. If such a man got hold of a secret, might he not use it to his advantage?”
“Chantage?”
“Blackmail, yes. It would answer a good many questions.”
“But where would he have got such a secret? Even his most optimistic superiors at the Home Office would not have entrusted secrets of state to a man like d’Aubigny.”
“As his superiors knew he was gambling and traveling in a questionable set, you are likely correct. But I was not imagining d’Aubigny would traffic in secrets of state. I think it must be blackmail and not treason that was his goal.”
“Why is that?” Madame Touvois paused to refill the glasses.
“As you say, his work was not likely to provide him with information that could have commanded money. And, too, with all the unpleasantness of which it appears the man was capable, I have not heard that he was ungrateful to the nation which took his family in. You are an émigré, Madam. Would you betray England?”
“What a question!” Madame Touvois pursed her lips. “Perhaps, then, d’Aubigny learned a secret in one of the birching houses—”
“You think he threatened to expose a patron? But would that be such a dire exposure, ma’am? When you consider the sorts of dissipations with which many of our leading men are credited, mere birching seems rather tame. But let us suppose that your notion is correct.” Miss Tolerance nodded amiably and tasted her wine. It was very dry. “Using a secret learnt in a whorehouse creates a sort of reciprocal effect did he try to blackmail one party, he might be blackmailed in return. But a person who can turn tables on his
oppressor is less likely to resort to murder himself. And, of course, I am looking for a murderer. Therefore, I am looking for someone who could not exert a reciprocal pressure on his blackmailer.”
“Nicely reasoned, Miss Tolerance. Except, you appear to argue away every venue where the chevalier might have learnt a valuable secret.”
“Do I? I wonder if perhaps he learned something in the drawing room of a friend.”
“Here? Should I resent the implication, Miss Tolerance?”
“Not in the least, ma’am. I have no wish to offend you. Yours is, after all, not the only drawing room to which the chevalier was a visitor. Nor can you be expected to control what your guests murmur to each other out of your earshot.”
That, Miss Tolerance thought with some satisfaction, was a palpable hit. She was not certain which her hostess disliked more: the assertion that there was something in her circle that she could not control, or the reminder that hers was not the only salon of note in the city.
“But perhaps lesser drawing rooms would not yield the sort of visitors capable of supplying M. le Chevalier with his needed cash,” Madame Touvois countered. “But you see how I am confused! Do I truly wish to convince you that mine is the only house in which the chevalier might have blackmailed another of my guests? Of course I would have been horrified had that been so.” She fixed Miss Tolerance with guileless regard.
“I am certain of it, ma’am.” Miss Tolerance returned her look. “But you have been generous with your time. I must not trespass on that generosity further.” She stood, took up her gloves and reticule. “Thank you, ma’am. It has been very informative to speak with you.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Tolerance. And pray—” Madame Touvois tilted her head solicitously. “Pray do take care that no more men follow you home from your interviews.”
Miss Tolerance left Audley Street convinced in her mind of three things: that Etienne d’Aubigny had found relief from his financial troubles in blackmail; that Camille Touvois had been
aware of it; and that she had also known of the attack upon herself. Now all she needed was proof.
From Audley Street she shouldered into an icy wind to walk to the d’Aubigny house. Closed carriages plied the streets, but there were no idle strollers out. She found herself one more scurrying figure amid erranding maidservants and footmen. The gutters were inches deep in half-frozen muck, but crossing-boys were scarce, all hiding from the cold regardless of the pennies they might have made. In Half Moon Street it appeared that cold had diminished the thrill of notoriety in some who had thronged around the house—the crowd in the street was notably thinner.
But there was something else: as she neared the house she was struck by a familiar and unpleasant smell of sewage, more noisome than usual even for the London streets. Somewhere behind the houses a privy was overflowing.
Miss Tolerance took her handkerchief from her reticule and held it before her nose, where it slightly lessened the awful smell. She knocked upon the door of the d’Aubigny house and was greeted by Beak, who blinked once at the sight of her injuries, then admitted her with an expression of studied blankness.
“Mrs. d’Aubigny is out,” he said. “She is expected to return shortly, however. If Miss would care to wait in the back salon?”
Miss decidedly disliked the notion of waiting in the back salon, which overlooked the garden: she had concluded from the evidence of her nose that it was the d’Aubigny backhouse which required cleaning. Perhaps she could use the time more profitably.
“I will wait, thank you, Beak. But before I sit, I should like to look again at the room where the chevalier—” She paused out of respect for Beak’s sensibilities, which appeared to her much tried by events.
Beak’s understanding seemed to encompass both her business purpose and the stench from the yard; clearly he would not want to sit in the back salon himself. “Madame did say you was to be cooperated with. I suppose there could be no objection.” He turned and was about to lead the way up the stairs when the younger manservant, Peter Jacks, appeared and said something in
Beak’s ear, of which Miss Tolerance made out only the word “goldfinder.” From this, and the expression of relief upon Beak’s face, she apprehended that a man had arrived to clean the privy. Beak muttered something to Jacks and turned again to the stairs, motioning Miss Tolerance to follow. She did, musing upon the dire financial straits which would have led Anne d’Aubigny to neglect so vital (and inexpensive) a service until matters had reached a crisis point.
The chevalier’s chamber was as cold and untenanted as she remembered it. From the fact that the drapes were still missing from the bed, Miss Tolerance concluded that they had been destroyed. There was a rime of dust on the top of the chest; after the initial effort to remove the signs of violent death, perhaps no one in the household wanted to clean here.
Whereas the first time she had examined the room Miss Tolerance had wanted merely to see the murder scene and had not expected she would find clues that the diligence of Bow Street had missed, now she had a specific question in mind. If the chevalier had been a-blackmailing, he must have had proofs to use as leverage. If the murderer had sought, but not found, evidence which rendered him vulnerable, it must still be there to be found. Where would a man such as Etienne d‘Aubigny hide his secrets? It took only a few minutes to look in the most obvious places—the writing table, the drawers of the chest and the garderobe, the small box which proved to hold a case of razors. If d’Aubigny had hidden something in any of those places it was gone already.
Miss Tolerance shivered. No one had lit a fire in the room since the chevalier’s death. The fire tools she had noted upon her first visit to the room stood orderly by the grate. Miss Tolerance examined the fireplace, wishing for a convenient romantic article such as a trap door or secret cupboard, but found none. The grate had been swept, a fire neatly laid but unlikely to be lit anytime soon. The brass fittings shone dully.
Something caught her eye. She dropped to one knee—a little clumsily, as the red dress was not designed for such a movement—and tried to prize the bit of something white that had been caught in the pinched joint of the grate. She lamented that she did
not have a knife with her with which to work the thing loose—and then Beak was at the door.
“Mrs. d’Aubigny has returned, and asks that you join her downstairs in the back salon, miss.”
Miss Tolerance sighed, rose to her feet and started after the manservant. As they reached the stairway she saw Anne d’Aubigny below her in the hallway, handing her coat and bandbox to Jacks. The widow looked up, saw Miss Tolerance, nodded slightly, and began to say something.
There was at that moment a considerable noise from somewhere in the rear of the house, the sounds of persons both male and female shouting. Madame d’Aubigny was drawn away to the conflict and Beak all but ran down the stairs to find out what had disturbed the peace of the house. Miss Tolerance, no less curious, followed down the stairs and to the rear of the house, through the green baize door which separated the worlds of servant and served, and stopped on the stairway just outside the kitchen.
An interesting tableau was there. In the doorway to the kitchen garden stood a short man, amply padded against the cold, with a filthy smock over all, high boots, and gloves. He was pocked and toothless, and would have been ugly even had he been clean and well dressed, but the mark of his profession was everywhere upon him, rendering him repellent. Further, the smell which had penetrated the house was concentrated in his presence. The privy-man stood in an attitude of combat with something, perhaps one of his tools, tucked under his arm. The cook, Ellen Sadgett, stood in opposition to him, a rolling pin clutched in one hand as if to smite him if he despoiled the cleanliness of her kitchen. Beak advanced upon them, ready to chastise both for making such ado. Beside him Anne d’Aubigny stood, watching.
The privy-man was yelling, “Well you’d better let me talk to someone, you oul’ besom! What I got ’ere ain’t just the wrecking of a perfectly good jakes—it may be vallable! What it was doing down there, backin’ matters up, I can’t say.”
“You get right out, you smelly varmint, or I’ll—” Mrs. Sadgett
waved her rolling pin menacingly. “I don’t care what you ’ave there. Madame’s not to be bothered by—”
“Mrs. Sadgett!” Beak roared over both. “And you!”
“Willis, sir.” The privy-man happily turned to report to masculine authority. “A man in my position is liable to all manner of abuse, and if I finds something looks as it might be a’ value, I’m bound to turn it over as soon as possible. I don’t want no misunderstanding about that, sir. I keep nothing what ain’t mine, no matter where I finds it. Not to mention your jakes will back up do you go heavin’ furniture into it!”
Willis reached under his smock and produced a handkerchief, incongruously white against the stains of his smock. He shrugged the object under his arm forward and wiped it all over with the handkerchief before extending it toward Beak.
“What’s a thing like that doing in your cesspit is what I want to know,” Willis scolded, and bounced the thing at arm’s end by way of emphasis.
Beak regarded the object with revulsion. It was a wooden box, perhaps two hands high and four hands broad, about the size of the box in which Miss Tolerance kept her own writing materials at home, but of a far more aristocratic origin. Mr. Willis’ ministrations had barely lessened the crusting of filth on it, but she could see that the box was carved upon the lid and sides; there was a brass latch on one side.
Anne d’Aubigny gasped and stepped forward as if to examine the box. Then she crumpled to the kitchen floor in a profound faint.
The effect upon the occupants of the room was electric. Mrs. Sadgett forgot about the privy-man and dropped to her knees, fluttering over her mistress. Beak hurried forward, barking for Jacks’ assistance, then for Mrs. Sadgett to leave over fidgeting and fetch Madam’s vinaigrette. Mr. Willis, apparently much gratified by his effect upon the household, dropped the offending box upon the table and hurried forward to give advice, being careful not to rub against any of the kitchen furnishings. Within a moment Jacks had appeared and gathered up Mrs. d’Aubigny. With Beak leading the way they started up the stairs, followed by Mrs.
Sadgett, who waved a bottle Miss Tolerance assumed to be sal volatile, and Mr. Willis, giving helpful suggestions. For a moment Miss Tolerance was left alone in the kitchen.
And there, upon the table, was the box.
She took up one of Mrs. Sadgett’s kitchen cloths and used it to wipe the worst of the muck from around the latch. It lifted easily, and in a moment the box was open to her. It was a nice piece of workmanship; despite its immersion in the privy, the box’s contents were dry and clean, although disordered. With one finger Miss Tolerance carefully pushed the contents from one side to the other, examining them and the box. As Anne d’Aubigny had told her, it was lined in red silk, worn napless in spots and specked, here and there, with rusty flecks. There were several silk scarves and what looked at first to be a number of whips but proved, when she took it up, to be one whip with many ends, each finished with a small lead weight. Imagining the impact of this object upon tender flesh, Miss Tolerance shuddered. Below the cat was a case with six tiny pearl-handled blades, one still wearing a brown stain of blood. There were several lengths of heavy silk cord, and some other objects the use of which Miss Tolerance could only guess.
Miss Tolerance poked through the box’s contents until she reached the bottom, a matter of a minute or so. What she did not find were letters or evidence which might have been used for blackmail. She returned the cat and scarves to the box. The filth on the box’s exterior, and the sight of the box’s contents, acted unpleasantly upon Miss Tolerance’s stomach. She was almost grateful to be interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.
“Please, Miss.” The abigail, Sophia Thissen, stood in the doorway, looking not at Miss Tolerance but at the box. “Madame asks will you join her in the rear parlor.”
Miss Tolerance closed the lid of the box and stepped away from the table.
“I’ll see to that,” Sophia said. “Madame would not like to have it sitting out”
She was certainly correct in that, Miss Tolerance thought. She noted that Sophia recognized the box and understood its contents—which made sense, for certainly Sophia must have been the
one to patch up Anne d’Aubigny when her husband had finished disporting himself. Perhaps I should talk a little with Sophia Thissen, she thought. What she knows of the late chevalier’s life is like to be unflattering but informative.
“I shall go up, then.” Miss Tolerance wiped her hands on a clean towel—alas for Mrs. Sadgett’s orderly kitchen—and went past Sophia to the stairs. Some prudent instinct caused her to turn and instruct Sophia to put the box somewhere safe, just in case. “Perhaps I shall need to look at it again,” Miss Tolerance told her, and went upstairs.
In the hall Miss Tolerance met Mr. Willis, apparently quite pleased to have started such a fuss, with Mrs. Sadgett following him to the kitchen and maintaining a steady flow of expostulation. In the back parlor Anne d’Aubigny sat in an armchair, eyes closed, the pallor of her faint beginning to recede. A decanter stood at her elbow with an empty glass next to it.
“Are you recovered, ma’am?” Miss Tolerance asked.
“Nearly so, Miss Tolerance. You must think me very weak and easily overset!” Anne d’Aubigny essayed a smile. It did not convince.
“Not at all. You had sustained a shock.” She waited for a moment, then asked, “May I sit, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive my shabby manners, Miss Tolerance, and—good Heaven, what has happened to you? Are you all right?”
Miss Tolerance put her hand to her cheek as if to remember her bruises. “Please don’t think of it. I had a bit of trouble on my way home last night, that is all.” Ready to talk of anything but her injuries, she asked the first question that occurred to her. “Was it you who put the box in the necessary house, or Sophia?”
Anne d’Aubigny gaped.
“It takes very little to come to that conclusion, and to hit upon the reason. It must have been painful to you to know it was in the house.”
The widow nodded.
Wholly understandable, if perhaps a little ill-advised. Now,
let me tell you of my progress, and ask you some questions quite unrelated to the box.“Miss Tolerance took on a soothing note of false heartiness, like a nursery maid calming a child with a cut finger.”It is the belief that you are awake to the whole of your husband’s character that encourages me to speak freely. I think the chevalier was blackmailing someone, and I believe that when I learn who it was, we will know who killed him. If I’m right, the murderer can have no designs upon your safety, which should give you some ease, at least.”
Miss Tolerance watched as Anne d’Aubigny took in the whole of this intelligence and considered it. At last she smiled a crooked smile.
“My poor husband. He will have no character left at all. You say you have questions, Miss Tolerance?” She sat very straight in her chair, with her hands folded in her lap, as she had done when questioned by Mr. Heddison.
“Only a few, ma’am, and you need not fear them. Did your husband have a safe or some other place he might have hidden blackmail proofs?”
“At his desk, in the library. He had a locked box. I thought it held things like the lease to this house, and his passport, perhaps a little money. When he died I looked for it but could not find it—”
“You did not inquire of—”
Miss Tolerance’s question was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps in the hall. Beak was thrust into the room, his mouth open. The massive form of Boyse, the constable who worked with Mr. Heddison, pushed past him and stopped, legs spread as if he were establishing a claim upon the space. A smaller, younger man in a bright blue coat was just behind him, frowning at Boyse.
“I beg pardon, ma’am—” the second constable began, but Boyse cut him off.
“In the name of the King, we’re here to bring you to the Public Office, Anne Dobinny, for questioning in the willful murder of E-ten Philleep Dobinny. You come along quiet with us, ma’am, and I shan’t have to put the irons on you.”