Foul Play?
Thursday, April 5
Shortly after dawn, Saint-Martin led Georges through a thin chilly mist to the tennis hall. It was still unlocked. Inside, a pale light sifted through the high windows, leaving much of the interior still in darkness. A hushed silence hung over the rooms. Saint-Martin was uneasy. Where had Jack Roach gone?
“The tennis hall must be searched thoroughly,” he said to his adjutant. “We’ll begin in the training room.”
Georges lit a pair of lanterns and handed one to Saint-Martin, who stepped cautiously forward, scanning the room. Nothing seemed out of order.
Since the building had not been cleaned during the past two or three days, a very fine dust had settled. While Saint-Martin held the lanterns, Georges squatted down and studied the floor from different angles, looking for telltale signs of violence.
He rose to his feet, held a lantern high enough to cast a wide arc of light, then pointed to an area at the far side of the room near a bench. “Scuffling feet have scattered the dust there.” He peered into the closet in the adjacent wall where he had eavesdropped on Sir Harry and Roach. “Before I left, I put things back where I had found them. Since then, someone has cleared space for a large object, then dragged it away.” He stepped back for the colonel to look.
They followed a barely visible trail in the dust out of the training room, across the tennis court to the back exit. Small strands of fabric had caught on the door sills and on the rough boards of the narrow rear hallway. A black shoe lay near a wall. In the soft sodden turf outside the back exit were hoof marks and wheel tracks, as well as a jumble of fresh boot prints.
Saint-Martin bent down and ran his fingers over the indentations. “Miss Cartier and Charlie sculpt objects with plaster. I’ll ask her to cast these boot prints before someone disturbs them.”
Georges grimaced. “It’s hardly worth her effort. I see three, maybe four different sets, all mixed up.”
“Why so many, Georges? Was a gang involved?”
“Not likely, sir. No sign of struggle. I think one man surprised Roach, stored his body in the closet, then came back later with servants and carted it away.”
“Roach? Are we sure?”
“He’s the only missing person we know of. The bits of fabric and the shoe must be his.”
“Burton’s problem,” said the colonel. “But I think we can help him.” Unbidden, a sense of relief swept over him. Anne was safe now. In all likelihood, Roach would not be found alive. His vices had overtaken him. “We’ll close this building. Sir Harry said last night he would be too busy to play tennis and Jeff wouldn’t train with a broken wrist.”
“I’ll get the key from the steward,” Georges said.
“When you’ve locked up, we’ll arrange to meet Mr. Burton.”
The two men retraced their steps, careful not to touch the suspicious marks in the dust. As they left the tennis hall, Saint-Martin had already lined up suspects in his mind.
***
After breakfast, Saint-Martin and Georges rode to the city with the steward on his way to the city market. In Stall Street they left the wagon and walked the few remaining steps to the Pump Room. Before departing from Combe Park, Saint-Martin had sent a message to Burton concerning Roach’s apparent disappearance. Now, together, they would see if Roach paid his usual visit. An unlikely prospect.
As he approached the Pump Room, Saint-Martin wondered how much he should tell Burton about last night’s suspicious activity at the tennis hall. Supposing Roach were found murdered, should he help Burton investigate Captain Fitzroy’s possible complicity and risk putting him in an English jail or in a hangman’s noose? That could jeopardize his mission to bring Fitzroy to France. In the end, Saint-Martin decided to take that chance and tell Burton what he’d seen. The Bow Street officer had a sharp mind. Attempting to deceive him would be foolish. Build trust instead.
Burton was waiting for them off to one side of the room, surveying the crowd with a critical eye and drinking a glass of warm, tawny water with obvious distaste. His cane hung on his arm. When he glimpsed the two Frenchmen, his face brightened. He listened attentively to Saint-Martin’s account of the previous evening, clearly pleased by his willingness to share.
“Colonel, it sounds like murder, but we don’t have a body. If Mr. Roach doesn’t come here this morning, we’ll try his home.”
The two Frenchmen walked to the counter, each purchased a glass of water, then joined Burton where they could watch the entrances. While they sipped from their glasses, Georges recounted the exchange between Critchley and Roach in the dining room.
Burton frowned, shook his cane. “Critchley’s playing a dangerous game, holding something back, trying to bargain.”
A half-hour passed. No sign of Roach, though a pair of his ruffians looked into the room, furrowed their brows, and asked if anyone had seen him. Apparently, no one could say they had.
When an hour had passed without any sign of him, Saint-Martin and Dick Burton left to visit Roach’s rooms and Georges set off to search at The Little Drummer and among the riffraff of Bath. On North Parade, Burton stopped before a rather ill-kept house in an otherwise elegant row. Trash had been allowed to accumulate in the window well, and dark green paint was flaking off the surrounding wrought iron fence. He knocked on the door until it opened a crack. A thin middle-aged woman peered out warily.
“Dick Burton, ma’am. Officer, Bow Street, London. Is Mr. Jack Roach at home?”
She hesitated, glancing from one gentleman to the other, then shook her head. “I don’t think he came home last night.” She must have noticed a look of surprise in Burton’s face, for she added, “He’s often called away suddenly on business.”
“Would you allow us to examine his rooms?” asked Burton in a tone more like a demand than a request.
“Sir! This is a respectable house. Mr. Roach wouldn’t want me to let strangers into his rooms. Indeed, he would be very cross with me.” She began to wring her hands and back away, as if about to close the door.
“Would you rather that I trouble the mayor for a warrant to search?” Burton paused to allow the dire implications of his threat to sink into the woman’s mind. “We won’t disturb anything. Mr. Roach has gone missing. We’re looking for clues to where he might be.”
Saint-Martin understood the woman might have good reasons, apart from Roach, to avoid a legal search. Contraband brandy or lace or tea. Probably implicated in Roach’s schemes.
The woman chewed on her lip for a moment, then let them in. Gathering her skirts, she led them up to the first floor and unlocked a door to a small entrance hall. A pair of riding boots stood beneath a greatcoat hanging from a hook on the wall; whips and spurs and other riding gear were piled on shelves.
“Is this his only riding outfit?” Saint-Martin asked the woman.
“It’s the only one I’ve seen him in.”
He turned to Burton. “Then he hasn’t ridden from Bath.”
“That puts a small piece of the puzzle in place, Colonel. I’ll check the coaches and livery stables later.”
The entrance hall opened to a sparsely furnished parlor. Ink pots, quills, sealing wax, a stamp, piles of paper cluttered a table by the window. Nothing of interest. A small cabinet stood against the wall. Inside were boxes of bills and receipts which Burton fingered through quickly. None of them seemed remarkable.
Saint-Martin inspected the bedroom off the parlor. “Roach didn’t sleep here last night.”
“So?” said the woman. “Mr. Roach often has work that keeps him out all night.”
“Could you tell me where he was most likely to have worked last night?” Burton asked.
“Sir!” she spluttered. “I don’t pry into the private affairs of my tenants.”
Burton waited, staring at her with steely eyes. Finally, she gave him an address on Alfred Street.
As the two men left the house, Saint-Martin remarked, “We haven’t seen any notes to or from the excise officers, lists of his extortion victims, evidence of smuggling or scandal that he could use against them.”
“That’s true,” Burton agreed. “And Roach must have kept such papers hidden close by. He worked in his rooms. I’ll take a closer look at another time.”
Alfred Street was ten minutes away through the busy heart of the city. At midmorning, the fashionable brothel was being cleaned and aired. Its front door stood ajar, its windows wide open. A servant led the two gentlemen into a small, richly furnished front parlor and disappeared. Saint-Martin noted the gold drapes embroidered in purple, the fine brown mahogany table and chairs, the costly Turkish carpet on the floor. Judging from first impressions, he concluded the house catered to a discriminating clientele. It wasn’t where he would have expected to find Jack Roach.
“Surprised?” Burton asked with a chuckle, after he too had surveyed the room. “Roach comes from a noble family—by the left hand, as they say. Son of a lady’s maid and a baronet. Never been shy about it. Indulges in the fine things when he’s in money. As a youth, he wenched, gambled, and drank his way through Eton and Oxford, bent on wasting a small fortune. But his father cut him off. He’s lived by his wits ever since.”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. A handsome, stylish woman in a rose dressing gown entered the room, attempting to conceal the puzzled look on her face. For a long moment she studied the men with cold gray eyes, then her face relaxed in a tentative smile. Her visitors didn’t mean to cause her trouble, but they weren’t patrons either.
Yes, she told them, Jack Roach was a frequent and welcome visitor. Made no secret of it. No, she hadn’t seen him last night and had no idea where he might be.
For the rest of the morning, the men went separate ways: Burton to inquire at coach inns and stables; Saint-Martin to visit shops on Milsom Street upon which Roach preyed. After a fruitless search, Saint-Martin stopped to visit Madame Gagnon. Leaving her customers in the hands of an assistant, she led the colonel upstairs to her parlor. To his questions about Roach, she replied with a scowl; she hadn’t seen him either and suspected foul play. At least a hundred men in Bath would have gladly killed him.
“But I have something for you,” she said, reaching into the drawer of a nearby table. “A letter. It arrived an hour ago by overnight post from London. Read it while I prepare tea.” She handed him the letter and left the room.
Saint-Martin scanned the cover, noted Comtesse Marie’s elegant hand and seal. Mailed from Paris. He opened the letter, dated March 27. Folded inside was a note sealed by the baron. He set it aside and began to read his aunt’s message, his lips moving silently.
Dear Paul, I am sorry to send you sad news. Sylvie looks pale and haggard. Stares into space, never speaks, pushes her food aside. It’s been five days since she attempted to kill herself in the stable. We have moved her to Chateau Beaumont for the fresh air and the garden she loves. The servants and I keep a close watch over her. I am also concerned about her godfather, Baron Breteuil, who seethes with anger, doesn’t sleep well, and snaps at people. He has sent along a note to you.
He laid the letter in his lap and looked inward. His cousin Sylvie appeared with brutal clarity, standing in her shift, the rope around her neck. She seemed to gaze at him with eyes dull and despairing.
He felt a rush of pity for the young woman, followed by a visceral urge to beat her assailant into a mass of bloody flesh and broken bones. Fitzroy had callously destroyed her spirit. Yet, revenge seemed inadequate and self-serving, and would do Sylvie no good. Saint-Martin groaned softly, bowed his head, and prayed she would find her way back to a healthy mind.
By the time Madame Gagnon returned with the tea, he had composed himself. Without comment, he read the letter aloud to her. And then the baron’s note:
Bring back Fitzroy, whatever the cost.
She listened grim-faced on the edge of her seat, her back stiff. When he finished, she drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “What can I say? The villain shows no remorse for what he’s done. He’s put himself beyond the pale.”
“And perhaps beyond our reach.” Despair threatened to overwhelm his spirit. “I may disappoint the baron—and Sylvie. If Mr. Burton were to discover that Fitzroy has murdered Roach, he would lodge the rogue in an English jail. His trial might take place months from now during what the English call Quarter Sessions. Fitzroy would then plead self-defense and Lady Margaret would back him up. The court might acquit him and set him free or convict him of manslaughter and transport him to one of the colonies. In the meantime, my hands would be tied.”
She stared at him, wordless, with a mixture of horror and disbelief.
He felt stricken, rose from his chair, picked up his hat. At the door, he turned to her. “Fitzroy might escape justice entirely—the baron’s included.”
***
In the early afternoon, Georges unlocked the tennis hall for Dick Burton and Colonel Saint-Martin and stood aside as they entered. Neither of them had found Roach in the genteel parts of Bath. Georges could not find him on Avon Street or at his other vulgar haunts. The rogue had clearly come to a bad end. But where was his body?
The light inside the hall had much improved. In the training room Burton was shown where a heavy body had been recently dragged. Leaning on his cane, he lowered himself painfully to the floor. With a magnifying glass he closely examined several brown spots. “Blood. Beyond a doubt!”
Georges shrugged respectfully. “But you’d expect to find some in a room where bruisers spar.”
The colonel raised a finger. “I believe shedding blood is less likely in a tennis match.” He pointed out a few brown spots along the body’s trail across the court.
Burton took note of them, then examined the fibers Georges had discovered earlier on the rough floor boards of the rear hallway and on the sill of the back door. They were red, presumably from Roach’s coat.
Saint-Martin picked up the black shoe from the floor. “A big man has lost it.”
Burton examined the shoe and put it in the bag he carried. “There’s little doubt the person who was dragged to the back exit was Roach, but we don’t know for certain if he was dead at the time.”
The three men stepped outside to inspect the fresh prints and tracks close to the door. Scattered bits of plaster indicated Anne had made molds of some of the clearer boot prints.
“The hoof prints are too small for a horse. Must be a donkey’s,” Georges remarked. “And the tracks come from a two-wheeled cart.”
A few minutes later, they found a young beast in a nearby pasture, quite strong enough for the task they suspected she had performed. Her hooves matched the prints by the tennis hall. Her harness and cart were in an unlocked gardener’s shed next to the pasture. The cart’s wheels fitted the tracks.
“Servants rise early. They might have seen something,” suggested Georges. “I’ll find out.” He left his companions in the tennis hall and hastened to the stables in Combe Park’s west wing. The stablemaster was standing, arms crossed, overseeing the cleaning of a coach. Georges waited until the man appeared to be free, then asked him about the movements of the donkey and her cart. He shook his head, he had slept through the night. The two men working for him shrugged that they knew nothing.
As Georges turned to leave, he caught the eye of a young groom polishing a brass lantern at the rear of the coach. He was listening, knew something, Georges could tell, but was afraid to leave his work or had reason to be shy of the stablemaster.
Georges lingered in the stable, feeding oats to a horse, until the stablemaster left and the groom seemed free. Georges beckoned him. The young man came hesitantly. Georges promised to say nothing to the stablemaster and showed the young man a handful of pennies. He bit on his lower lip, his eyes on the money.
Then his tongue loosened. He had spent most of the previous night with one of the nymphs of Avon Street. Walking up the road to Combe Park before dawn, he heard someone coming toward him. He crouched in the brush off to one side. Two hooded men wrapped in long cloaks led a donkey and cart to within a few paces of his lair. It was too dark to see their faces or the large object they had in the cart. But he recognized Juliette.
“Juliette?” asked Georges.
“The donkey. I feed and brush her. Give her treats. As she passed, she sensed me. Balked and whinnied. I was afraid they’d find me.”
“What did the men do?”
“One of them stopped the cart. The other drew a sword and stared in my direction. I was terrified. The man stepped toward me, his head cocked, listening. I held my breath. Then he said, it must have been a rat scurrying into the brush. He sheathed his sword and told the other man to move on. When they were gone, I hurried back to Combe Park.”
“Can you identify the men?” Georges could easily guess who they were.
“Their voices sounded familiar. Irish, for sure.”
By this time, Georges and the groom had fed and brushed the horse and cleaned his stall. “Before we leave the stable, tell me the rest.”
Upon arriving back at Combe Park, the groom had checked the pasture and found Juliette missing, her cart gone from the shed. “It was none of my business,” he told Georges. “I went to bed in my room above the stable. But I couldn’t sleep. I wondered what the hooded men were carrying down to the river. Finally, I got up and hid near the shed. In a few minutes the cart drew near. A hooded man led the donkey up to the door and unshuttered a lamp to find the latch. I recognized his face.”
“Who was it?”
“Captain Fitzroy’s valet.”
“And the cart?”
“It was empty.”
Georges gave the young man his pennies and dashed back to the tennis hall. Dick Burton and Colonel Saint-Martin were in the training room. Breathless, he told them what he had learned from the young groom.
Burton frowned. “Fitzroy and his valet, beyond a doubt, leaving with Roach’s body.” He gazed at Saint-Martin. “I believe we have a murder to solve.”
***
As he approached the house, Burton saw Sir Harry Rogers at the main entrance shaking the hand of a departing guest. A business partner, judging by the man’s sober appearance and ample girth. Sir Harry smiled as he turned to go back inside, apparently pleased by a profitable deal. Then he noticed Burton approach. His smile faded at the sight of a stranger.
Burton tipped his hat, introduced himself, and began to explain his mission.
Sir Harry cut him off. “Come to my study. We’ll talk there.”
Entering the room, Burton smelled the fresh aroma of fine Virginia pipe tobacco. A bottle of port and two empty glasses stood on a small table by the window. A scent of dinner still lingered in the air. And perhaps the sound of music—the harpsichord was uncovered. Burton applauded inwardly. Sir Harry treated his partners well, one of the reasons he was so successful.
He nodded to a couple of chairs by the fireplace and they sat down. “You started to speak about Jack Roach, I believe.” Sir Harry appeared annoyed.
Burton knew Rogers had engaged Roach to spy on his wife. Hardly an unusual practice in London or Bath. Could the two men have had a disagreement that became violent? Burton watched Rogers’ face. “Sir, I believe that Roach has met with foul play at Combe Park.”
Rogers drew back, mouth open, as if someone had suddenly struck him. “He was supposed to bring a report to my office last night on some work he was doing for me, but he never came. A footman said Roach had walked out toward the tennis hall. I looked there but couldn’t find him.” Sir Harry slumped down in his chair, confusion in his eyes, his hands nervously rubbing the arms of his chair.
Burton wondered about Rogers’ obvious distress. A great deal had hung on Roach’s report. It might have contained evidence for a divorce that Rogers desired passionately. If provoked by Roach, he could have reacted violently. But, until Roach’s body was found, it was premature to probe him any further. Burton stirred as if preparing to leave. “I’ll need to speak to servants and members of the family who might shed light on Roach’s disappearance.”
Distracted, Rogers didn’t respond at first, then looked up and nodded. “Of course. The steward will show you around.”
***
The parlor seemed like the best place for the informal interrogation Burton had in mind. He had sent a footman to summon Captain Fitzroy but had not indicated his purpose. That he was an officer of the Bow Street Court in London was usually enough to encourage a prompt response. Burton was standing by the fireplace, leaning on his cane, when the Irishman entered the room. He walked toward the officer with uneasy nonchalance. Curiosity and apprehension blended with his arrogance. Burton gestured to the chairs near the fire and they sat facing one another.
“Word may already have reached you, Captain, that Mr. Jack Roach has disappeared.”
Fitzroy raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t heard. Should I care?”
“It happened under suspicious circumstances, such that I think he may have been murdered.” Burton leaned forward, meeting Fitzroy’s eye. “And, I think you should care. Mr. Roach entered the tennis hall approximately twenty minutes before you and Lady Margaret. You two may have been the last persons to have seen him alive last night.”
“Wrong assumption,” observed Fitzroy, unruffled. “It’s true we went to the tennis hall. Mr. Roach had asked us to meet him there. I presumed Roach would beg for money, for he had lost heavily at yesterday’s boxing match. But when we arrived, we found no one. We waited for perhaps a quarter of an hour, then returned to the house.”
“Captain Fitzroy, is it likely Mr. Roach would have wanted to borrow money from you? He’d more likely have demanded it. He also knew you had lost as much as he had.”
The Irishman appeared momentarily speechless.
“I believe you are more involved in Roach’s disappearance than you have just led me to believe. I have taken the liberty of examining your boots.”
Fitzroy appeared surprised, then outraged. “What insolence!”
“No insult intended, Captain. I shall do the same to several other men. It appears someone found Roach in the training room and moved him during the early morning hours. There are boot prints outside the back door of the tennis hall. They match yours.”
Burton opened a package on a nearby table, revealing the plaster models Miss Cartier had made during the morning. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back, head to one side, watching Fitzroy.
Fitzroy glanced skeptically at the models. “They might fit many boots besides mine. I don’t see any distinguishing marks or distinctive shapes.”
“Furthermore,” said Burton, pleased to have rattled the Irishman, “during the early hours of the morning, a witness observed you and your valet going down the road to the river with a heavily laden donkey cart.” Burton realized he was stretching the facts slightly.
“Observed in the dark of night?” countered Fitzroy with contempt. “Absurd!”
“Your voice gave you away, Captain, when you thought a rat had startled the donkey. About an hour later, your valet was recognized as he returned the cart to its shed and the donkey to its pasture. Can you explain what you were doing? Or, must I draw the truth from your valet?”
The Irishman walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back and stood there silent for a minute. Finally, he turned around and glared at Burton. “It’s true, my valet and I moved Roach’s body in the donkey cart. You’ve already discovered that. But I didn’t kill him. He was lying sprawled on the training room floor, already dead, when Lady Margaret and I arrived between eleven and twelve. I didn’t want his body to be found on her estate. So I hid him in a closet, then later took him down to the Quay and dumped him into the river.”
“It seems fair to say, Captain, you moved Roach’s body because, if it were discovered at Combe Park, the public would leap to the conclusion you had killed him to save Lady Margaret’s honor.”
Fitzroy shrugged. “As good a reason as any I can think of.”
Burton pressed on. “How would you describe your relationship with Roach? I recall you slapping his face at the Fancy Ball.”
“It’s common knowledge in Bath, Mr. Burton, that I despised the man, as did many others. The truth is, he threatened to expose a non-existent love affair between me and my cousin Lady Margaret. I would have gladly shot him in a duel, but he was much too cowardly to accept my challenge. I went to meet him last night because he claimed he would show me some new incriminating evidence he had gathered against Lady Margaret. The brazen cad!” Fitzroy drew himself up as if insulted. “Even under such provocation, sir, I would not have stooped to murdering him in the dark of night.”
Burton believed the Irishman might be telling the truth. But, he might also be an accomplished liar. His appeal to honor was suspect. It had not restrained him from beating women on at least two occasions. Burton leaned back in his chair. “No more questions for now, Captain, but I must ask you to remain in Bath until I have discovered all the particulars of Mr. Roach’s death. You have made that task more difficult by throwing his body into the river.”
***
Saint-Martin entered the parlor, Georges Charpentier in his wake. Dick Burton had called for them and was sitting at a table set for three. He rose to greet them cordially, then stretched, swung his cane back and forth. A footman brought them a tray of tea and biscuits, poured for them, and withdrew.
“Fitzroy has admitted to moving Roach’s body,” Burton began. “I would also have liked to question Mr. Critchley, but he was out of the house. Probably at Spring Gardens. And, Lady Margaret. But she was indisposed. I’ll talk to her later.”
He paused to spread butter on a biscuit and took a bite. Then he turned to Saint-Martin. “Fitzroy’s the prime suspect, wouldn’t you agree? He had opportunity and motives for killing Roach.”
“A suspect, of course,” replied Saint-Martin, apprehensive lest Burton reach a hasty conclusion. “But not the only one. The killer could have been lying in wait when Roach entered the tennis hall, killed him, then fled when Fitzroy arrived. Any number of persons could and would have done it.”
“Do you have a particular person in mind?” asked Burton, his tone slightly waspish.
“It’s really too early to name one among many. But, I could point out that even Sir Harry had opportunity and motive.”
Burton looked doubtful.
“He could have slipped out of his study unobserved and surprised Roach in the tennis hall. Or, they might have agreed to meet there. Rogers badly wants to end his marriage with Lady Margaret. If Roach had offered the needed evidence but demanded too much, Sir Harry could have grown desperate enough to kill for it.”
Burton shook his head. “I spoke to Rogers a half-hour ago. He appeared genuinely distressed, like a man who has lost a business partner on whom he was depending.”
“Facial expressions are difficult to interpret,” Saint-Martin countered. “Business men are often skilled liars.” He added, “We should include on the list of suspects the many friends and relatives of the smugglers whom Roach betrayed to the excisemen, as well as the ladies and gentlemen of Bath whose scandals he exploited. With little effort and less compunction, any of them could have hired a couple of assassins to surprise Jack Roach last night when he entered the training room.”
“Allow me to make a suggestion,” Georges said respectfully. “I think Critchley should be considered. I saw him leave the dining room a little before eleven and he didn’t return. He also had a strong motive—to free himself from Roach’s grip. And, they were quarrelling about something Critchley had stolen from Lady Margaret, something that Roach desperately wanted. Critchley could have met Roach in the tennis hall, been cheated by him, and killed him.”
Burton broke in, apparently suspecting the Frenchmen were attempting to divert responsibility away from Fitzroy. “That something, the object of their quarrel, could also serve as Fitzroy’s motive for murder. It’s likely he and Lady Margaret were having an affair. Fitzroy feared Roach had proof and intended to use it, so he killed him.”
“Let’s not rush to judgment,” cautioned Saint-Martin. “Other suspects had equally strong interest in whatever was stolen from Lady Margaret.”
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Burton waved a hand to end the discussion and rose to leave. “I intend to question everyone who knew Jack Roach would be in the tennis hall between eleven and midnight and would have a reason to kill him. If you can think of one we’ve not yet identified, let me know. At the moment, Fitzroy is my chief suspect.” At the door the Bow Street officer stopped and glanced back. “I need to know why Roach was blackmailing the captain and Lady Margaret.”