The Matter of the Secret Bride

“. . . I am, however, not inclined to argue the question of justice or injustice . . .”

Langdale, Charles, Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert

It felt strange to be walking back into Bow Street.

Adam followed Goutier past the clerks who kept the crowd at bay in the main lobby. Only the junior clerks glanced up as he and Goutier worked their way through the crowd, but none of them moved to acknowledge or stop them. They just turned back to the press of London citizens, each demanding their full attention at the top of their lungs.

Stafford was usually to be found on the highest stool, helping his subordinates sort through the sea of shouted claims and anxious stories. Today, however, he was nowhere in sight.

Adam wondered about Stafford’s absence and what he might be doing. He wondered if he had already heard that Adam would be talking with Townsend today.

Probably.

It had been agreed that Goutier would go to Townsend on Adam’s behalf and arrange the appointment. In the meantime, Tauton would remain at the White Swan, aiding and keeping an eye on Stafford’s clerk as he sorted through Poole’s papers. Adam himself had spent the morning at Ross’s sponging house, interviewing the “guests” and dodging their questions about Poole’s murder and whether anyone was going to take over his business. He’d also had to pretend not to notice the coins and signet rings and even a pocket watch pushed so casually across the table as their owners talked about how their cases were coming due soon and asserted that nothing that had happened to them was in fact their fault.

The consistency of the refrain coming from each man left Adam feeling slightly sad and more than a bit angry. But now he must set all that aside.

He had not been away from the station that long, and yet he felt like a stranger here. There were at least a dozen new faces in the patrol room, and even the men he knew started and stared before they leapt to their feet to shake his hand and ask how he did, as if he’d returned from overseas.

“I’m well, I’m well,” Adam assured them all, which was true. At the same time, he was conscious of missing his place at the station. His awareness of the questions he needed to ask, and what they might reveal, did not change his feelings.

The wardroom was the haunt of Bow Street’s principal officers. A long worktable took up most of the space. It was surrounded by racks of newspapers and cabinets filled with documents. Maps of London and Westminster had been pinned to the whitewashed walls.

The only officer at the table when Adam and Goutier entered was Stephen Lavender. The thin, hatchet-faced man was writing busily away at a report, extra quills and bottles of ink ready to hand. Adam had always appreciated Lavender’s comprehensive reports, but he wrote like it was heavy labor. Even now, Adam could see the sweat beading on his brow.

Lavender glanced up at Goutier, and then he saw Adam in the larger man’s wake.

“What are you doing here?” Lavender climbed to his feet.

“I’m here to see Mr. Townsend,” Adam told him.

Lavender smirked. “Come to ask for your job back? More fool you. Mr. Townsend’s got no use for radicals and reformers.”

Goutier rolled his eyes. “How’s he feel about men that don’t know what they’re talking about, Lavender?” Goutier didn’t wait for an answer. He simply strode across the room to knock on the door to Townsend’s private office. There was a bark of assent from inside. Goutier stood aside.

“Good luck,” Goutier whispered as Adam passed him.

Little had changed in Townsend’s office. It was still overly warm, still crowded with knickknacks given as tokens of esteem by various highly placed individuals. The white hat that had been a gift of the prince regent hung in its place of honor.

It was Townsend himself who had changed. He looked more tired than Adam had ever seen him before. His stubbled cheeks were sunken, and his color was poor. He leaned across his desk, planting his weight on both hands, so he could pour over a sprawling map of London. He glanced up as Adam entered, and the look in his red-rimmed eyes was one of pure, simple irritation.

He looked down at the map again.

“Well, Mr. Harkness,” he said to Adam and to the map, “Mr. Goutier has made the case that I should listen to you. What do you have to say to me?”

Adam folded his hands behind his back. As he had not been invited to sit, he remained standing. “Sir David sent me to make some inquiries regarding the attorney Josiah Poole.”

“Sent you?” Townsend scowled and ran his finger along one of the streets inked on the map. “He could not come himself?”

“He is very much occupied this morning.”

“Very well, very well. What can I do for Sir David?”

“It’s been implied that you might know some details about Josiah Poole’s death.”

Now Townsend’s head jerked up, and he stared at Adam, frozen in momentary shock. Then, much to Adam’s surprise, he burst out laughing.

“Implied, is it? Implied by whom?”

Adam waited until Townsend’s guffaw subsided.

“Well?” Townsend dropped into his chair and made a come-hither gesture with two hands. “Let’s have it, man. Who was it? Your Miss Thorne, perhaps?” He cocked his head. “Did her woman’s intuition tell her I am somehow to blame for what happened?”

Adam held his tongue for long enough to set his anger aside. He waited one more heartbeat, offering doubt and instinct that much time to change the uncertain course he had planned.

At last, he spoke. “No, sir. It was Mr. Stafford who said so.”

“What?”

Adam took a deep breath and hoped. “The reason Miss Thorne went to Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house was that there had been a robbery. Her strongbox had been broken open, and her personal papers stolen.”

One muscle at a time, Townsend’s face fell into an expression of confusion.

“Josiah Poole was seen entering her garden and leaving in a hurry,” said Adam. “It has been determined that Poole most likely had some confederate inside the house, or perhaps someone who has a close connection with the family. His purpose in his illicit entry was to obtain these private papers, possibly to sell or to use to extort some form of payment.”

Townsend’s pale face had begun to lose the last of its color.

“It is believed that Poole met his death while keeping an appointment with the client who had asked him to acquire Mrs. Fitzherbert’s papers. They were not found on his person, and so far, they have not been found either at his house or his place of business.”

Adam waited and watched. Townsend re-collected himself and remembered who was standing in front of him now. The cold confusion in his expression turned rapidly to heated anger, but this time, he was able to keep his emotions under strict control. He brought his hands together and steepled his fingers, watching Adam through half-lidded eyes, as if he were a magistrate considering some exceptional case brought before him.

“And Stafford told you I was a client to Josiah Poole?” asked Townsend.

Adam nodded once.

“What else did he tell you?”

“That you feared for the loss of your relationship with the king,” said Adam. “That this was what led you to try to retrieve the paper proving his previous marriage to Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

“And you believed this?” asked Townsend.

“Because there’s now been a violent death, it is my duty to make the necessary inquiries for the coroner’s office,” he said. “Even if it brings me back here.”

Townsend rose slowly to his feet. He paced to the far side of his office and paced to the other. His face was so tightly contorted that Adam could not tell whether he was about to shout at the top of his lungs or break down in sobs.

“Very well,” Townsend said. “Very well. You are sent here by Sir David. You have no choice in the matter.”

“No, sir,” agreed Harkness. Neither do you.

In this one area, the coroner’s office held a power that Bow Street’s officers did not. Because he acted in the king’s name, Sir David could compel testimony from a man who did not wish to speak.

“The king’s justice cannot lower its gaze.” Townsend faced the wall as he spoke. It seemed to Adam he was testing the words, the way a man might try on a coat to make sure of the fit.

Adam felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

“Remind me,” said Townsend. “When was Poole killed?”

“Yesterday, midafternoon.”

“Very well. I can and will take my oath that I was here, in this office, at that time. I have been overseeing the assignment of our patrols to control the crowds and the mobs that have come out in response to the queen’s arrival. You may ask whomever you please, and they will all confirm to you what I have said.”

“If I may speak frankly, I had hoped you would say something of the kind. But there is also the allegation that you orchestrated the theft of the marriage certificate.”

“Merest slander,” said Townsend. “Someone has lied.” Now he met Adam’s gaze fully. “Tell me, is Stafford prepared to swear to his allegations?”

“I have not yet asked him,” replied Adam.

“I think when you do, you will find Mr. Stafford has no desire to take his oath, much less stand up in court,” said Townsend. “Further, if you ask him, as you asked me, to give an account for his whereabouts for the time Poole met his end, he will not be ready with an answer.”

But I did not ask you, thought Adam. You offered.

“Now, unless you have something else, I am extremely busy.” Townsend bent over his map again. “You know your way out, I believe?”

Dismissed, Adam made a curt bow and returned to the wardroom, closing the door firmly behind him. Goutier was sitting alone at the table, looking over a copy of the Bow Street paper, Hue and Cry.

“Where’s Lavender?”

“Went off to find someplace quieter to write,” said Goutier. “Any joy?” He nodded toward the closed door.

“I can’t tell yet,” said Adam. “I need to find Stafford.”

“Do you want me along?”

Adam shook his head. “You’re in enough hot water on my account as it is. If anybody’s going to pull Stafford’s nose, it should be someone he can’t sack.”

“I wouldn’t count on that if I was you,” said Goutier. “But, as you’re determined, I wish you Godspeed.”

Adam and Goutier clapped hands. Goutier took himself into the patrol room, and Adam went through to the lobby.

He was in luck. Stafford had returned to his usual perch on his high stool and was busy checking off points in his ledger book, while still managing to keep some sliver of attention turned toward the junior clerks and their activities.

“Mr. Stafford.”

“Ah, Mr. Harkness.” Stafford finished his notation and laid down his quill. “I was wondering when you would appear. Have you spoken to Mr. Townsend yet?”

“I have.”

“And now you wish to speak to me?” Stafford nodded in answer to his own question. “Very good. Dalton!” Stafford did not raise his voice. Adam would not have thought he could be heard over the babble of voices around them. But one of the junior clerks jumped off his stool and ran over, his coattails flapping behind him.

“Take over here.” Stafford climbed down from his stool. “Mr. Harkness, if you would accompany me?”

Mr. Stafford’s private office was attached to the magistrate’s courtroom. Despite the dampening effects of the bookcases full of folios and the tall cabinets of documents, during particularly fraught trials, the rumble of voices could be heard through the walls.

Stafford opened a drawer, rifled the files inside, and inserted the documents he carried. Only when the cabinet was closed and locked did he turn to face Adam.

“What did Townsend tell you?”

Adam looked at him. Stafford returned his gaze stoically. “Ah, yes,” he said, his voice as expressionless as his face. “You cannot tell me, because I also might be a witness.” He paused. “Or the perpetrator,” he added, with just the barest touch of humor seeping into his tone. “Can you at least tell me if you believe him?”

Adam considered this. “In the years I’ve known Mr. Townsend, I’ve known him to be many things.”

Vain, arrogant, and even self-deceiving, possessed of a certainty in himself and those he considers his superiors, which can lead him to grave mistakes.

“He is, however, experienced and intelligent, and committed to order and the king’s peace,” Adam went on. “When it comes down to it, he is also a terrible liar.”

“And I, on the other hand, am a skilled and considerable liar,” said Stafford.

Adam did not bother to disagree. “Which leads me to wonder why you would tell a lie about Townsend’s potential involvement in this business that could be so easily disproved?”

Stafford’s mouth bent into a thin, wintry smile. “To save us all time,” he said. “Sooner or later, you would have discovered Mr. Townsend’s role in the theft of the certificate. From there, you would have discovered mine. You would not have believed a direct declaration of innocence on my part or his. Therefore, I had to arrange for you to question Mr. Townsend as soon as possible. This is now done, and you may remove him from your inquiries, at least as far as the murder is concerned. If Mrs. Fitzherbert wishes to make a complaint against him as far as the matter of the theft of her property, that can be dealt with in due course.”

Given Mrs. Fitzherbert’s desire to avoid publicity, Adam very much doubted it would come to that. This was something else he felt sure Mr. Stafford knew.

It did, however, leave one urgent question.

“And what of you, Mr. Stafford?”

“Mr. Harkness, I am not in the habit of stabbing my sources.”

“You are not the first person to say that to me.”

“I am delighted to find my reputation precedes me.”

“A man’s reputation is not proof,” Adam said.

Stafford sighed. “There are those who would disagree, but I see you are not going to leave until I give you some better answer. Very well. The death, as I understand it, happened at about one of the clock?”

Adam nodded.

Mr. Stafford reached across his desk and pulled a journal toward him. “At that time, I was taking a deposition from one Mr. Matthew Ashdown on a matter of grand theft, with Mr. Bernie and young Dalton in attendance. Does that answer you?”

“Thank you,” said Adam.

Mr. Stafford closed his book. “Now that this is settled, Mr. Harkness, I will tell you this. I resent having to use these circumlocutions in this matter. I want very much to know who did this thing, and more importantly, I want to know why they did it. If it was a simple criminal act, very well. The magistrates and the hangman know their duty. But if it is a matter of the king’s enemies seeking to destabilize the Crown, then that, sir, is my business, and I take it very seriously.”

“Even though this thing would not have happened without your instigation?” asked Adam.

Townsend would have shouted. Stafford’s face betrayed nothing. “It was not at my instigation,” said Stafford. “But my mistaken judgment did contribute to this outcome. And so here I am, relying on you to supply my deficiencies. You may take that to your friends and brag on it if you will.”

But Stafford, of course, knew he would not. So, Adam simply bowed and walked away.

There was still too much to do.