CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Gentle Art of Discovery
“I have stated this danger upon the supposition that the Marriage be a real one . . . ”
Langdale, Charles, Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert
Adam’s note was waiting for Rosalind on the front hall table when she walked into the house.
She let Claire help her out of her bonnet and coat and then took the missive into her private parlor. She closed the door. Her heart was hammering. She knew Adam’s hand and could see at once that he had written her name quickly. She seemed to feel the uneasy brush of his agitation rising from the penciled script.
Rosalind unfolded the note and read the contents and sat down heavily in her desk chair.
She was still staring at the hastily written scrap when Alice knocked on the door and leaned inside.
“Hullo. I heard you come in, and . . . What’s happened?”
Rosalind did not bother to ask how Alice knew something was very wrong. “Josiah Poole’s been murdered.”
“The lawyer?” Alice came inside and closed the door. “The one Ranking said was at Mrs. Fitzherbert’s?”
“Yes.” Rosalind held up Adam’s note.
“Good Lord! Why? Was it because of the certificate?”
“There’s no way to know yet,” said Rosalind. “Adam says that he was thrown from a carriage in front of a sponging house and that he’d been stabbed.”
“Lord!” Alice pressed a hand to her stomach, but Rosalind could see the wheels of her newswoman’s mind already turning. “That might mean anything. He dealt in debtors, you said, and was not always honest.”
Rosalind nodded. “Adam says he’s found the public house room Poole used as an office, but it’s been ransacked. He cannot tell if the certificate—or even the man’s home address—is there.”
“What can you do?”
“I don’t—” Rosalind began, but even as she spoke, an idea dropped into her mind. She crossed the room and pulled one of her books off the shelf.
All gently bred ladies kept books of various sorts—household lists, accounts, records of visits paid and visits owed, records of dinners planned and given—in addition to files of correspondence from all manner of friends and acquaintances. Alongside all these usual books, Rosalind also kept volumes of newspaper clippings that detailed dinners, balls, marriages, deaths, and even items of planted gossip, many of them annotated with her own careful hand.
She opened a volume from the previous season and leafed through it until she found the page she wanted.
“What is it?” asked Alice.
“Miss Margaret Huntingdon,” replied Rosalind. “Do you remember her?”
“Yesss . . . ,” said Alice slowly. “No, wait. Wasn’t she a drawing mistress?” For a short time, Rosalind and Alice had attended the same boarding school.
“Yes,” replied Rosalind. “She married a Mr. Cotes some years back. He’s a solicitor.” She tapped the page. “It is late for calling, but if I leave at once, I can still be there before the dinner hour.” Alice’s brow furrowed. “You think Mr. Cotes might know Mr. Poole?”
“Possibly. There are a great many attorneys in London, of course, but we already know this Mr. Poole has something of a reputation. Mr. Cotes might be able to give us a direction or point us to those who might. It could be quicker than sifting through a mountain of papers.”
“It’s certainly worth a try,” agreed Alice. “Should I come with you?”
“Could you stay here? Adam may come looking for me or send another note, and I’ll need it forwarded. If I don’t find anything out from the Coteses, I’ll send word and you can meet me at the White Swan.”
Alice stepped back and gave a fair imitation of a military salute. Rosalind smiled but also began gathering up her reticule and notebook and gloves. She had fully intended to ask Alice if she’d had time to write to her professional gossip, Mrs. Dowding. With Minney Seymore so suddenly returned to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house, it was important to know everything she could about her and her sister. But that would have to wait until later.
Murder must come first.
* * *
Rosalind presented her card for Mrs. Cotes’s gray-haired maid to take through to her employer. A moment later, the woman returned to usher Rosalind into a small but comfortable sitting room.
“Rosalind Thorne!”
“Mrs. Cotes. How good it is to see you again.” Rosalind had maintained a casual level of correspondence with Margaret Cotes after her marriage but had not seen her in several years. Rosalind remembered a sturdy young woman with long hands who had made a specialty of painting miniatures and landscapes, which sold at respectable prices. This had helped keep the household comfortable while Mr. Cotes finished his clerkship and was taken up as a junior partner at his firm.
Now Mrs. Cotes had grown stout, as she herself had once predicted would happen. Her hands were still strong and capable, and she bustled forward to grasp Rosalind’s.
“How good to see you, Miss Thorne! You are looking very well, I must say. But do sit down! Tea is here, as you see, and you must try this walnut cake. I begged my sister’s cook to make it for me. She’s German, and you know how they excel at cakes.”
The cake was excellent, as was the tea. Rosalind heard about Mrs. Cotes’s sons, away now at school, and her daughter, still in the nursery, and about the cares and delights of housekeeping for a busy husband and a variety of children.
“But you, Miss Thorne!” Mrs. Cotes cried. “We hear all about your doings in the papers! I know old Mrs. Wallis would tell me I should be appalled that you have come to any such notice.”
“I’m sure she hopes I never think to mention her school,” agreed Rosalind.
Mrs. Cotes waved this away. “I say it is a tribute to our teaching that one of our students should become so useful and original. Now, I am going to press you shamelessly for gossip. Have you truly met Lady Jersey? What is she like?”
Rosalind offered a few small anecdotes about the lady patronesses and a description of Almack’s rooms and one of the balls. A voice in the back of her mind urged her to hurry, reminded her that a man was dead, and that even now the papers might be printing news of Mrs. Fitzherbert’s stolen marriage certificate, but she silenced it firmly. It was necessary to observe the formalities when renewing an acquaintance. A few moments’ conversation must be had before she set her cup down.
“Mrs. Cotes, you must forgive me, but I had a particular reason for calling today.”
“Did you?” said Mrs. Cotes happily. “You may believe I am all ears. Is it for one of your . . . clients?” Even as she spoke, her eyes grew rounder, because she had already as good as informed Rosalind that she, too, had seen the papers. “Is it—”
Rosalind did not permit her to go any further. “I’m afraid I cannot say, Mrs. Cotes. It is a matter of some delicacy.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Cotes’s cheeks colored. “Oh, of course you cannot say, my dear. I am quite ashamed of myself for asking. As an attorney’s wife, one might think I would know better! But I am delighted to help, if I can.”
“I am looking for information about an attorney, a man named Josiah Poole.”
Mrs. Cotes considered this. “Poole? No, I do not know the name. He is no one I have met, I am sure, and I have met many of Cotes’s colleagues. Shall I summon him? He came home for his luncheon today, and he’s still in his bookroom. He might be able to tell you something or know who might.”
Which was exactly what Rosalind had been hoping for. “Thank you. That would be most helpful.”
Mrs. Cotes rang the bell for the maid. A few moments later, Mr. Emmet Cotes joined them. Mr. Cotes was an energetic aging White man with keen dark eyes, an arched nose, and a deeply receding hairline. He had come late to his profession and was ten years older than his wife, but that fact did not seem to discommode either of them. He wore a brightly patterned waistcoat with a heavy gold watch chain. He greeted Rosalind with breezy respect and looked on Mrs. Cotes with open affection as she fixed him a cup of tea.
“Miss Thorne has a question for you, my dear,” said Mrs. Cotes as her husband settled into his chair. “About a man, an attorney. Josiah Poole, I think you said it was, Miss Thorne?”
All the good humor drained from Mr. Cotes’s expression. “I do hope, Miss Thorne, that you have not been forced into dealings with Josiah Poole.”
“I have not,” said Rosalind. “I am inquiring on behalf of an acquaintance.”
“Well, you may tell your acquaintance that they should have nothing to do with that man.” Cotes leaned forward and stabbed the air with his blunt finger. “He’s crooked as a rusty pin and thinks only of lining his pockets. Debt’s a dirty business, Miss Thorne, but there are respectable men who practice honorably in that area. I can give your acquaintance a list if they are in need. Poole’s name, needless to say, will not be on it.”
Just the sort of man to slip into a house through the garden gate. And slip out again the same way.
“May I take it, then, he is not too particular of the sort of work he takes on?” asked Rosalind.
Mr. Cotes snorted. Mrs. Cotes frowned, and the lawyer instantly blushed. It was rather charming.
“If Josiah Poole scents profit, he will go after it, by fair means or foul,” Mr. Cotes told her. “He will lie, cheat, or steal to gain his fee.”
“Do you mean that literally, Mr. Cotes?” asked Rosalind.
Cotes’s eyes narrowed, which turned his jovial face shrewd. Rosalind felt certain that it was a look honed by his experience in the courts.
“I do. When Poole is on the case, vital papers—receipts, ledgers, letters, the lot—have an excellent chance of going missing.”
Rosalind’s heart thumped once.
“I see. And this is widely known?”
“Within the profession. Obviously, nobody’s actually accused him of outright housebreaking, but there’s been one too many persons caught flat-footed in court by a demand to produce a vital document that is found to be missing.”
“I see,” said Rosalind again. She took a sip of tea to help calm the whirlwind of her thoughts.
“I would never pry into a lady’s confidence,” said Mr. Cotes. “But if you know anything that can help us hound that rascal out of the practice of law, I should be gratified to hear it.”
“You will not be called on for such an effort,” replied Rosalind. “Mr. Poole is dead.”
The Coteses stared at her, frozen in absolute surprise. Mr. Cotes recovered first.
“Is he b’ghad?” he exclaimed. “What did for him? A client or his heart, if he had one?”
“Cotes!” cried Mrs. Cotes. “In front of a guest!”
“I apologize, Mrs. Cotes, Miss Thorne.” Cotes bowed his head but this time did not look at all contrite. “That was more than I should have said.”
“No apology necessary, Mr. Cotes,” Rosalind told him. “I expect it will be in the papers quite soon—he died by violence. The coroner’s office is conducting an inquiry into the matter.” Surely by now Adam was speaking of the matter with Sir David Royce.
“Did Mr. Poole have a partner of any sort?” Rosalind asked. “Anyone who would have known his business or his plans?”
“None that I know of, but then I kept as far from him as I was able.”
Rosalind paused and arranged her expression to show that she understood she was asking about a matter of some delicacy. “Would you happen to know his personal address?”
“Lord, what do . . . No, no.” Cotes held up his hand. “I withdraw the question. Give me a moment . . .” He heaved himself out of his seat and left the room.
“I’m so glad we were able to help, Rosalind.” Mrs. Cotes refilled her teacup. “I know you cannot say why you need to know, but you must believe me, this is most exciting for us.”
Rosalind’s expression must have shifted, because Mrs. Cotes’s eyes flew open wide. “Oh, no, you mustn’t think I’m going to gossip! You would be amazed at what’s been said in this house, and I promise you, none of it goes any further.”
“I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
“Of course not, of course not. But you do look a little tired. How horrid to have the death of even a bad man land at your doorstep. I am sure your nerves must be close to breaking.”
Rosalind let herself smile a little weakly and drank her tea. This allowed her to avoid formulating a reply.
Thankfully, Cotes returned a moment later. He handed Rosalind a visiting card.
“Poole and I had dealings a year or two ago,” he said. “The man actually called here rather than going to chambers.” He snorted again. “And well he might. He meant to sound me out to see if I’d take a bribe.” He tucked his fingers into his waistcoat pocket. “So, you can see, I’m not exactly startled to hear he’s come to a bad end.”
Rosalind read the address and felt her eyebrows rise. Mr. Poole had a terrible reputation, but he lived in a fashionable, and expensive, neighborhood.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Cotes.” She tucked the card into her reticule. “I’m afraid I have to ask another favor.”
“Of course, dear,” said Mrs. Cotes. “What is it?”
“I need to send a message, and after that, I need to send for a cab.”