Eighteen

The ride back to Half Moon Street was a mixed triumph. Miss Tolerance, full of pardonable pleasure at her victory, had imagined her companions would join in her enjoyment. Mr. Colcannon did; he was almost puppyishly delighted by his sister’s release. But Anne d’Aubigny was as subdued as one who has sustained a final, finishing blow. Perhaps, Miss Tolerance thought, her look of sad bewilderment was owing to the shock of sudden release following hard upon the stress of incarceration and, before that, of her husband’s ugly death. The cramped quarters of the carriage prevented Miss Tolerance from taking Mr. Colcannon aside to suggest he temper his joy until his sister had more stomach for it. He, finding his expressions of pleasure met with silence, gradually slipped into sullen quiet.

The carriage had reached Picadilly when the widow spoke. “Do you think it was Josette?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did Josette kill my husband?”

“I do not think so,” Miss Tolerance said. “You did not use to think so either. Has something changed?”

The widow shrugged. “She is dead. That would be an end to it. I should so much like there to be an end to all of this.”

“I understand.” Miss Tolerance reached out to pat Mrs. d’Aubigny’s slight hand. “But a false solution is really no solution at all. I think I must look a little closer at Mr. Beauville—”

“But he was Etienne’s friend! And Josette, she endured all of Etienne’s—” her glance flicked to her brother, who was looking out the window sulkily. “His habits. Perhaps she could not tolerate any more. She called upon him only a day or so before he died, you know. Perhaps—”

“Mrs. Vose was paid to endure, as you put it. When your husband no longer could pay her, she ceased to visit. But that is a curious thing …”

“What is?” In her widow’s black Mrs. d’Aubigny, slumped into the seat opposite Miss Tolerance, was almost invisible.

“Mrs. Vose admitted calling in Half Moon Street the night of the murder, but denied making a visit on the day before.”

“But she would deny it if she had murdered him, would she not?”

“A visit at a time unconnected to the death? I can think of no reason for it. This visitor: are you certain it was Mrs. Vose, ma’am?”

Madame d’Aubigny shook her head. “I heard someone below, and Sophia told me Mrs. Vose had called for my husband.”

“So you did not see her yourself?”

“No.” Her face lit with inspiration for a brief moment. “I know it was her, for she was wearing a cloak of mine I’d given her, brown wool banded with black sable.”

“I see.” Miss Tolerance felt a moment of annoyance; each time she thought she had the end of the question in sight, some new obstacle loomed up. Mrs. Vose’s call upon the chevalier might have nothing to do with anything—except that the woman had denied it.

“I am so tired, I cannot bear much more of this,” Anne d’Aubigny said tearfully.

Mr. Colcannon, called out of his sulks by his sister’s obvious distress, turned to comfort her, clucking as comfortingly as a nursery maid. Miss Tolerance turned away to look out the window.

 

 

Miss Tolerance only stayed a few minutes in Half Moon Street. Mrs. d’Aubigny, greeted with subdued acclaim by her staff, was bustled off to her salon with Mr. Colcannon following after. Miss Tolerance stopped Sophia Thissen for a brief word; the maid confirmed that she had told her mistress that Mrs. Vose had called upon the master—because she had recognized Madam’s cloak, and because Jacks had said so. When she had given this information Sophia bustled off to minister to her mistress; Miss Tolerance suspected there would be a struggle for dominance between Sophia and Mr. Colcannon, and would have laid her money on Sophia.

When she turned to leave it was Jacks himself who stood ready to open the door.

“Mr. Jacks, I understand that a woman called upon your late master a few days before his death?”

The footman stood with a gloved hand upon the door latch. “A woman? Yes, miss, I recollect it.”

“And you are certain it was Mrs. Vose?”

Jacks frowned. “Certain, miss? How should I be certain? That was the name she give me.”

“I could give the name Queen Charlotte at your door, Jacks, and you would not believe it.” Miss Tolerance smiled to take the sting from her words.

“No, miss, of course not. Mrs. Vose had a veil wrapped round her bonnet, so I didn’t see her face, but I recognized the cloak—”

“The cloak. I see.” Miss Tolerance had begun to hate this inoffensive piece of clothing.

“To tell the truth, miss—” Jacks looked over Miss Tolerance’s shoulder as if to see if Beak were in earshot. “I didn’t inquire too deep when Master had female visitors. But how shouldn’t it be that Mrs. Vose? That was the name she give, and master didn’t scold me for giving the wrong name. ’E would have done, you know. He never kept back ringing a peal over your head.”

Miss Tolerance nodded. “Did you mention this visitor to Mr. Heddison and his constables?”

Jacks shook his head. “I didn’t think to, miss. Nor ’e didn’t ask.”

Miss Tolerance thanked him and descended into the evening street.

 

 

In Manchester Square Miss Tolerance begged a cup of soup from the kitchen before she retired to her room. A lavish supper was generally laid out in one of the parlors later in the evening, but she had no particular desire to mix with Mrs. Brereton’s customers. After dining with cordial informality in the kitchen, watching Cook put the final touches on an elaborate tower of French pastries, Miss Tolerance took the back stairway upstairs, balancing the inevitable teapot, a taper, and a tray of little cakes, and settled in to darn stockings. She found this homely activity remarkably useful for focusing the mind.

After the stockings, Miss Tolerance took up her other mending, and was occupied for nearly an hour. As she repaired a tear in the lining of her Gunnard coat, tucking the raw edge under and whipping a row of tiny stitches to finish the edge, an idea began to stir in her. Finished, she hung up the coat, put away her workbag, and took down from the wardrobe the box she had removed from the d’Aubigny house. The box’s contents still gave her a frisson of distaste, and she thought perhaps she had not looked as closely at it on her first inspection as she might have done. Now she sat on the bed next to the box on her knees, took her candle in one hand and examined the exterior of the box closely, running her fingers along its carved surface, seeking anything like a catch or secret drawer. A quarter hour of diligent inspection produced nothing.

Miss Tolerance poured herself another cup of tea, then opened the box. The contents she removed one by one, with close inspection. With each handling the flail and bonds and other paraphernalia grew more repugnant—perhaps, she reflected, because with each handling she imagined a little more about their use. With the contents in a pile beside her, she pressed against the inside and outside of the box’s floor, but there seemed no room for a drawer or false bottom. The red silk lining was worn and spotted, as she had previously noted. She tested the join between lining and wood along the top with one fingernail, but found no separation.

However, the fabric on one side wall rustled when she pressed it. Had it done so the last time she looked at it? Why had she not looked further? Because the fabric was old, because she had been looking for a device, something crafted as a hiding place. Miss Tolerance pressed again; it seemed there was something between the lining and the box’s wall, but the upper edge was firmly glued in place and showed no sign of recent tampering. The bottom edge disappeared into the join with the padded lining on the bottom. Carefully Miss Tolerance probed at the velvet, running her fingernail along the bottom edge of the inside wall. The fabric wrinkled slightly. She pried more urgently and a loose thread appeared. With a little more pressure several threads—the edge of the velvet—pulled out from the corner where they had been tucked. Excited, Miss Tolerance made herself work carefully: the space was only a few inches long and very narrow; in order to find and extract the paper which was hidden underneath she had to go slowly.

Before she opened the paper Miss Tolerance reminded herself that the box was old, and that what she had found might well be a love letter from another generation.

There were two papers, flimsy and creased but unyellowed. Miss Tolerance unfolded the first of them and laid it flat; she put the box to one side and surveyed her find with mounting excitement. The note was written in French.

B—

You are right. Public opinion will not suffice to control Pr. E. He is not much loved, but there is a difference between lack of love and his utter discredit. Tell S that if he cannot provide some way to embarrass his master, he will force me to move against his family in Corsica—that should provide ample motivation. If S can give us nothing useful, we may have to take the more drastic course. R wishes it done soon, before more support for W can be rallied. A day or two will decide it.

C

What was she to make of that? Who were B and C? Pr. E? S and R? She took up the second sheet. It was written in a different hand, and in English. This was dated the twentieth of October, only a fortnight before d’Aubigny’s death.

CVT—

I have hit upon another plan to deal with Pr. E as you would like, but I shall have to rely upon you to bring him to the point. You may tell him you have several women who might be suitable to his taste, if only you can get him here. If he complains of the company, tell him to stop his nose and come anyway. I believe I can persuade I to break with hers—he has been entirely uncooperative in providing information, so is small loss to us—and she would be the very thing for our purpose. When she has Pr. E in her toils we can manage the affair to your pleasure.

It was signed B.

Miss Tolerance stared at the letter for a few minutes, then laid the two pieces of paper out before her. Here was high treason, spread across her counterpane. Certainly it would have made excellent leverage for blackmail. And quite certainly it was an excellent motive for murder.

The hour was late, but Miss Tolerance took up pen and paper, wrote a short note to Mr. Heddison, and folded the two papers into it. This packet she entrusted to Cole for immediate dispatch to the Great Marlborough Street Public Office. Then she dressed and asked Keefe to call a carriage to take her to Audley Street.

The windows of Camille Touvois’ rooms were lit to a dull glow in the dark of the quiet street. Miss Tolerance paid the carriage driver and stepped up to the door. She could not be certain what she would find upstairs—although from the quality of the light above it appeared that Madame Touvois was not entertaining tonight. Miss Tolerance had dressed for a confrontation, in breeches, boots and coat, with her sword in its hanger on her left hip. She entered the building and climbed up to La Touvois’ rooms on the second floor. No one answered her knock. Miss Tolerance knocked again and listened for the approach of a servant. After a moment she realized that there was no sound at all; not of maid or footman coming to the door, not of voices in conversation. She pushed on the door. It was unlocked and unlatched, and swung halfway open. Miss Tolerance, considerably piqued, entered, on her guard.

The rooms were empty. As she had noted from the street, candles were lit in each room; they were not more than an hour burnt down. Miss Tolerance advanced through the first and second rooms and came at last to Madame Touvois’ bedchamber. There was no one there. Most of the furnishings were in place—tables and chairs, rugs dotting the polished floors—but the personal belongings were gone. The wardrobe doors hung open with nothing inside. Across the back of a chair a brown cloak was draped; there was no other sign of an occupant.

Madame Touvois had run, and very recently, but left the rooms with candles burning, to give the impression that she was still in residence. Silently damning her luck, Miss Tolerance continued to prowl through the rooms, looking for a clue to where the woman might have gone. Her servants might know, but by the time Miss Tolerance found them, Camille Touvois was likely to have disappeared beyond recovery.

From one of the outer rooms there was a noise. Miss Tolerance turned, hand on the hilt of her sword, as a masculine voice called out.

“Camille! Devil take it, where are you?”

Miss Tolerance stepped into the front room, hand still on her sword hilt, and bowed ironically to Henri Beauville.

“A very good question, sir. I don’t suppose you know the answer?”

In the silence of the moment, several emotions appeared to pass over Beauville’s face: surprise, apprehension, and, at last, amusement. His blue coat was spotted with rain; his sugarloaf hat he carried in the crook of his arm. He spoke to her, but his gaze went from one side to the other.

“It appears, mademoiselle, that she has left us both.”

“Indeed it does, sir. May I ask what brings you here?”

“I came—” He appeared to consider what was wise to tell her. “I came to reclaim something of mine that Madame Touvois was … holding for me. And to give her some news I thought she would be glad to know.”

“It appears that she had already heard your news, sir. If what you meant to tell her was that Mr. Boyse was in custody and had implicated you—and thus herself—in the plot to incriminate Anne d’Aubigny.”

Beauville stared at her blankly, then began to laugh. “A plot to incriminate the little widow? Is that what you thought?”

“There is more, of course,” Miss Tolerance said coolly. She watched Beauville closely; his face was turned to her, but his eyes were moving around the room. Seeking something, she thought. Seeking something very urgently.

Public opinion will not suffice to control Pr. E. The words danced in her memory. The note had been addressed to “B.”

“You will not find the letters here, Mr. Beauville. Were you working with Madame because she was blackmailing you, or did she keep the letters as insurance of your continued loyalty?”

Beauville’s eyes snapped to Miss Tolerance. His laugh was hard and without humor. “What do you think?”

“I think, sir, that Madame Touvois was working for the French as a spy, and that you were her cat’s-paw. I think that Etienne d’Aubigny learned of Madame’s plots against the Duke of Cumberland—I presume to discredit the War Support Bill and his bid for the regency?—and was blackmailing her. Did you kill d’Aubigny for the letters?”

Beauville took a step backward. “You don’t know—”

“Oh, I think I have at last pieced it together, sir. You will tell me where I err, of course. Madame Touvois was a spy, and had been given the task of discrediting the Duke of Cumberland. She threatened Sellis, the duke’s valet, with harm to his family in Corsica if he did not brew up some scandal—we know how that turned out. And then she needed some other plan. So poor Josette Vose broke with d’Aubigny a-purpose to seduce Cumberland. And you throttled her, did you not? Was the plan always to murder her and attempt to pin the blame upon Cumberland?”

“You cannot prove it,” Beauville said hoarsely.

“Perhaps you should sit down,” Miss Tolerance offered. “I would suggest a glass of wine, but it appears that Madame took all with her.”

Beauville again looked around the room.

“You may search the entire of the apartment, sir. You will not find the letters Madame Touvois wrote to you.”

“The Devil,” he muttered. “You have them?”

“They are safe,” Miss Tolerance said noncommittally.

“Where were they?”

“In the chevalier’s box. The one we spoke of.”

Beauville stared at her for a long moment, then began to laugh so hard that it appeared to Miss Tolerance that he was in danger of choking. “The box. The bloody box. And I was too dainty to look inside!”

“They were indeed very well hidden,” Miss Tolerance said sympathetically. “It took me some time and diligence to discover them.”

“I congratulate you. I suppose you will find it necessary to give the letters over to the authorities?” Beauville’s tone was pleasantly regretful. His eyes did not leave her face.

“I have already done so.” Miss Tolerance’s tone matched his. “I know that you attempted to burn my house down, and me with it. I believe that Mr. Boyse’s attack on me was his own idea—”

Beauville gaped at her.

“He admitted as much to Mr. Heddison, who I suspect is eagerly looking for you, sir.”

“Bitch,” Beauville said, low. “Christ, which of you is the worse? At least Camille was as honest as a woman can be. She was vicious and made no secret of it. She enjoyed having power and she enjoyed using it. And—”

“And it appears that she has left you to bear the blame and take the punishment. High treason in a time of war. If you wished to lose your head, sir, you might as well have stayed in France.”

Beauville paled for a moment, then recovered himself. “You speak metaphorically, mademoiselle. England does not use the guillotine.”

“No, sir. But hanging leaves one just as dead. I do hope the money you and Madame Touvois realized was worth your life.” Miss Tolerance kept her eyes on the man’s face. He was again looking over the shoulder; likely calculating how much force would be necessary to push past her and make his escape. She put her hand lightly on the hilt of her sword.

Beauville shook his head. “I made a good sum, of course. Camille did better, but it was never a matter of money for her.”

“What, then? Loyalty to la Belle France? I should not have thought it of her.”

“Loyalty? Camille? Control. This employment gave Camille the upper hand with a number of powerful men; she could make them dance to her tune. She enjoyed that.” Beauville smiled. “But I see you have a sword, mademoiselle. I hope you will not think to use it on me.”

“Only if you plan to escape, Mr. Beauville.” Miss Tolerance returned his bantering tone, but did not take her hand from her weapon.

“I should hate to have to offer violence to a lady, however peculiarly dressed.” Beauville had shifted his stance, moving to the balls of his feet as if poised to move suddenly in one direction or the other. Miss Tolerance altered her own stance. “You are intrepid, my dear. I should hate to kill you.”

Miss Tolerance nodded. “Indeed, sir, I should hate to—”

She had no time to finish. Beauville rushed at her, clearly intending to startle her into dropping back, giving him a dear path to the door, the street, and escape. She did not oblige. With the distance between them so small, Miss Tolerance had not room to draw her sword; instead she ducked under the path of Beauville’s attack, head down and right shoulder lifted, forcing the man to roll forward over her back, landing with a painful thud behind her. Miss Tolerance spun around and stepped a few paces ahead of Beauville as he scrambled to his feet, putting the door to the street behind her again.

Beauville was panting, more from surprise than exertion. Miss Tolerance had drawn her sword and held him en garde. He eyed the point of her blade, which hovered on a level with his heart.

“That was not what I expect from a lady,” he said at last.

“But I am no lady,” Miss Tolerance scoffed. “I hope you will not force me to more unladylike behavior.”

Again Beauville looked toward the door beyond Miss Tolerance’s shoulder, and then back at her blade.

“I do not suppose that you would yield to bribery?” he asked politely. “No, I suppose not. It seems we are at a standstill.”

“Do you think so, sir?” Miss Tolerance stepped in, the point of her blade rising until it just touched the folded linen of Beauville’s neckcloth. Beauville did not look down, but kept his eyes upon Miss Tolerance’s face, compelling her own gaze to meet his. Then his eyes flicked over her shoulder and widened in surprise. Miss Tolerance’s own eyes went for a moment to the side.

Beauville swept her blade aside with his left hand, stepped back, and drew his own blade. He had cut the meaty outer edge of his hand in throwing off her sword, but he ignored the welling blood of the wound and made his attack upon her.

Miss Tolerance found herself on the defensive for a moment, parrying rapid thrusts to her shoulder and hip and beating his sword away from her own throat with a determined hand. Then she returned the attack. Beauville was a flashy fencer who could not resist flourishes Miss Tolerance had long ago discarded from her own style as extraneous. The overall effect was an ornamented style with less power than precision. Still, he was strong and, over the course of the first few exchanges, abandoned the notion that his opponent would offer no challenge. Beauville made a series of thrusts to Miss Tolerance’s shoulders—left, right, right—which she parried easily. She made her own cut to his right shoulder, was parried, and thrust to the left. He beat her sword away and thrust for her throat, stepping sideways in a circle which would have put him again closer to the door. Miss Tolerance, to counter him, threw his blade off to the left and stepped right, again interposing herself between Beauville and the door.

They broke for a moment, breathing heavily. The fluted cuff of Beauville’s shirt was soaked with blood from his initial injury. He looked at the wound thoughtfully. “May I bind this up?”

“Certainly, sir. If you put your weapon up,” Miss Tolerance said politely.

“That is hardly sporting, mademoiselle.”

Miss Tolerance’s smile hardened. “I do not fence as a gentleman’s sport, sir. If I draw my sword it is in earnest. Nor will appeals to womanly delicacy help you; I should prefer not to kill you, Mr. Beauville, but if I must do so I shall.”

“Kill me, Miss Tolerance? Do you really think you could?”

“I have killed a man, sir. ’Tis not an accomplishment I prize, but I am a practical woman.”

“Ladies and their accomplishments! It appears that your life has been far more exciting than mine,” Beauville said dryly. He bowed and returned en garde.

Poised upon the moment, both fencers hesitated. Then Beauville moved to attack, mixing thrusts with sweeping cuts with a speed which allowed Miss Tolerance no time for thought, only instinctive response. She parried each cut economically, beating a cut to her hip away strongly; she thrust, and caught her blade along Beauville’s side. He reeled away from the scratch and, enraged, slapped the flat of his blade against Miss Tolerance’s left arm. It stung like a whip. Miss Tolerance pulled her blade back, out of the entangling folds of Beauville’s coat, and shook her left arm, which was numb with pain. For his part, Beauville gingerly tested the wound on his side with his bloodied left hand.

“We must finish this,” he said. He had abandoned amused condescension. “Give way or I will kill you.”

Miss Tolerance shook her head. “I regret I cannot, sir.”

“Very well.” Beauville swept a cut at her head; Miss Tolerance parried and returned the cut with one to his shoulder. Beauville danced to the side, seeking to maneuver Miss Tolerance away from the door. Miss Tolerance stepped in to his attack and kept herself between him and his escape. When one of the rugs rucked beneath her feet Miss Tolerance kicked it blindly away. Beauville was distracted for a moment, then snapped his eyes back to Miss Tolerance’s face. He swung his sword in a wide, elegant moulinet which, unfortunately for him, telegraphed his intent to slice his opponent’s head off. Miss Tolerance ducked beneath his blade and lunged, making an upward thrust which came in under his guard. Beneath her foot the carpet slid again, just enough to give her arm extra momentum. The sword pierced Beauville’s coat and waistcoat, stopped for a second upon a rib, then slid in deep. As she felt the sword slide into resisting flesh Miss Tolerance knew it for a mortal wound.

Beauville made a sighing noise of pain and surprise.

Miss Tolerance pulled back at once and tried to support Beauville as he slumped forward.

“Lie back, sir. Here, let me make you more comfortable.” Miss Tolerance eased Beauville’s weight onto the floor and, after a glance around the room, pulled one of the drapes from the window, rolled it up, and put it under Beauville’s head. She took up the cloak she had seen before—brown with sable trim—and covered him with it.

Beauville gasped; there was a wet, sucking sound to his breath.

“I should—should have believed you,” he said.

“Hush, sir. Don’t try to talk. I will summon someone—”

Beauville shook his head. “By the time they come I will be dead, I think. Who taught you to fence? I should like to give him my compliments.”

Miss Tolerance was winded and near tears. “‘Twould be difficult, sir. He died some years ago.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps not so difficult after all.” Beauville coughed. “What was his name? If I see him in Hell I will tell him you do him credit.”

“His name was Charles Connell, sir. Lie quiet; you do yourself no good to keep talking.”

Beauville ignored her warning. “You will use this to free the little widow, mademoiselle? My death?”

“She is already free, sir. With Mr. Boyse’s testimony exploded and the link to you—”

Beauville gave a ghastly, coughing sound Miss Tolerance realized was laughter.

“I had Boyse lie, it is true, but—”

“But?”

“Mademoiselle, I am much of what you think of me. I set the fire in your little house. I killed Josette—Camille demanded it, and Josette could have linked me to d‘Aubigny’s death. She went there that night a-purpose to leave the door open for me, all by Camille’s design. I do not think she cared to be in another’s power—she preferred to be the one holding the reins. She paid him one time, visited him another, hoping to steal the letters away then. But no—” Beauville paused and gave a long shuddering sigh. “I was to kill him and retrieve the letters. But d’Aubigny was occupied”—he gave the word a peculiar emphasis—“when I arrived. I heard him, and the woman’s noises. So I waited in the hall, behind a cabinet. I—” another horrible laugh. “I fell asleep for a time. When I woke, all was quiet. She was gone, Etienne was dead. The bloody box.” He laughed again. “The one place I would not look.”

“Who was the woman, Beauville?”

“Am I to do your work for you? Who else could it have been?” The man stared over her shoulder at someone or something or someone invisible to Miss Tolerance. “Christ, in the box. The bloody box, the bloody box, why did I not …”

He drifted into silence, still panting.

Miss Tolerance went to the stair, called for the porter and gave the alarm, asking for a surgeon and the watch. In an afterthought she sent to Great Marlborough Street for Mr. Heddison as well. Then she returned to sit by Beauville’s side as he fought a solitary, hopeless battle with death.