A Strange Letter
Thursday, April 5
From supper in the servants’ hall, Georges walked with Peter Hyde to his room in the house’s detached west wing where the stable was located. The coachman had invited the Frenchman to enjoy a pipeful of Virginia tobacco. Sir Harry had given it to him after Wednesday’s fight for helping to train Lord Jeff. Though Georges didn’t care to smoke, he feigned enthusiasm and brought along a flask of French brandy to share.
Hyde lodged comfortably in spacious quarters above the stable’s harnass room, from which seeped up the distinctive odor of oiled leather. The furnishings were of good quality: simple, solid, and sensible, like the man himself. They also reflected his privileged status among the servants, one of the master’s favorites. On the whitewashed walls hung mementoes of an adventurous life. A cavalryman’s sabre and pistols, a boxer’s blue scarf and sparring mittens held pride of place.
The coachman waved Georges to a worn but comfortable upholstered chair by the hearth, stirred the glowing embers to a bright fire, and lowered himself into a similar chair opposite. Georges brought out his flask, poured for Hyde and himself, then set the flask on a small table between them.
“To your health,” they said, lifting their glasses together. The coachman drank a mouthful and smacked his lips with pleasure. Georges sipped uneasily from his glass, a twinge of guilt nagging his conscience. Drinking a brandy this fine, purchased with a baron’s money, smacked of aristocratic self-indulgence. But it hadn’t seemed right to drink it under the envious eyes of the other servants, and there wasn’t enough for everyone.
The brandy was meant to dispose the coachman to talk freely. For some time Georges had wanted to meet privately with him, a knowledgeable, keen-sighted man, well-placed to observe the Combe Park household. He and Georges had become fast friends since that day on the Bristol road when together they had defended their coach and its passengers against a horde of bandits. Or, so it seemed to Hyde, who never tired of recounting the incident to anyone willing to listen.
After lighting their pipes, the two comrades exchanged small talk about the main house and its servants and reminisced about their military experiences. As young men they might have fought one another in the wars between their countries. But nostalgia banished any lingering trace of old hatreds or hardships.
At a lull in the conversation, Hyde peered over his shoulder conspiratorially, then caught Georges’ eye. “So the captain dumped the Red Devil in the Avon, did he. Now that’s a shame. The fish won’t be fit to eat.”
“Who told you that?” Georges asked irritably. “We are trying to keep it secret until tomorrow at least.” He and Dick Burton hoped to search Roach’s rooms early in the morning before news of his death led excisemen and other interested parties to interfere. Roach, if surprised by death, could have left behind a large collection of scandalous and otherwise incriminating material. Georges wanted to be the first to examine it.
Hyde made a soothing gesture. “The young groom, the one who saw the donkey cart on its way to the river. I overheard him telling his tale in the servants’ hall. I said to him, now you’ve got it off your chest, I want you to stop. And I told the others to be quiet about it until the Bow Street man says it’s all right.”
The sound of footsteps outside the door interrupted Hyde’s account. He opened for Jeffery, who stood there politely until invited to enter. “May I speak to you, Mr. Charpentier?” He glanced at Hyde and added with a courteous bow, “Privately.”
“Of course,” Georges replied. He turned to Hyde. “I want to talk to you later.”
Hyde settled back with his pipe. “I’ll keep the fire going and guard the brandy.”
“Brave lad!” Georges handed the coachman a folded newspaper. “Here, read the latest Bath Chronicle while I’m gone. You may find a horse you’d like.” Georges then followed Jeffery by a back way into the basement of the main house. He opened the door to a room little more than a closet with space for a bed, small table, and chair.
“What can I do for you, Jeff?” asked Georges with genuine concern. He sensed the footman came to him as a last resort.
The footman pulled a sealed letter from his coat. “This just arrived, addressed to Mr. William Rogers. Bad business, I think. Help me decide what to do with it.” He explained that a well-dressed stranger, Mr. John Twycross, had come to the house earlier, demanding to see young Rogers. The visitor’s grim demeanor had alarmed Jeffery, who left him standing outside while he consulted Lady Margaret. She knew the man and refused to let him in. One of William’s bad companions, she had said.
“Twycross came back a few minutes ago, this time with a letter,” said Jeffery. “I can’t ask Lady Margaret—she’s gone out for the evening. Would you read what’s inside and help me decide what to do?” Jeffery smiled innocently. “I believe you know how to open it.”
Georges nodded gravely. The letter might shed light on Roach’s death, since William was one of his spies in the house. “I may be able to help you.” He took the letter and studied its wax seal. Prying it open shouldn’t be difficult. While working for Lieutenant-General Sartine, he had opened diplomatic correspondence of the most eminent statesmen of Europe, and had come to enjoy their gossip.
“Wait here, Jeff,” he said, tapping the letter. At first, he was inclined to open it in front of the footman but then changed his mind. Jeff should be able to say without lying that he had not seen the letter opened. “I’ll bring this back to you in five minutes.”
The footman bowed slightly, his expression blank except for a sly look in his eyes.
***
At a table in his own room, Georges held his knife’s thin sharp blade in the flame of a candle. When it was hot, he deftly slipped it under the seal and lifted it from the paper. He unfolded the letter and began to read:
Mr. Rogers:
It troubles us greatly to be obliged to send you this letter. We would have preferred to discuss our matters face to face, but you have studiously avoided us. Three months ago you asked us for a large sum of money in order, as you said, to enjoy the privileges of our establishment. You offered us a document, stating you were the nephew and ward of Sir Harry Rogers and requesting that you be extended the courtesies owed to a gentleman. Sir Harry’s signature and seal authenticated the document. Privately, you claimed to be heir presumptive to Sir Harry’s fortune, since Sir Harry, for reasons that are common knowledge, would soon set Master Charlie Rogers aside. On that basis, we the undersigned lent you two hundred pounds. You agreed to a repayment schedule of fifty pounds per month with interest of five per cent. Unfortunately, we have not received any of the scheduled payments. Furthermore, and more seriously, we now have reasons to believe the document is fraudulent and Sir Harry’s signature is forged. You have until next Thursday to meet the payment schedule and to prove you are the heir you claim to be. Otherwise, we shall take the matter to Sir Harry and to the magistrates. This is the last warning. Indicate below that you have received this letter and return it to the bearer who will wait for it.
Mr. John Twycross & Mr. Richard Wetenall
Georges copied the letter’s salient points and resealed it, then returned to Jeffery’s room. The footman’s guarded expression betrayed a hint of curiosity.
“As best I can determine, the letter doesn’t directly concern Jack Roach. Bring it to William.” Georges handed the letter to Jeffery, who glanced at it and smiled. The seal appeared unchanged.
“William is in serious trouble,” Georges added, then explained the charges of deception against the young man.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Jeffery remarked. “The servants talk much about his gambling.”
“I noticed something else, Jeff, that you should know about.” Georges engaged the footman’s eye. “William would like to replace little Charlie as Sir Harry’s heir. That could pose a threat to the boy. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” he replied softly. “I shall be watchful.” He flourished the letter. “I shall take it to William now.”
A short while later, Jeffery returned with the letter.
Georges took it to his room again and opened it. William had written, “I shall satisfy you by Thursday,” and signed his name. Georges resealed it and returned to Jeffery’s room.
“How did he look when he read it?” Georges asked as he handed the letter over to Jeff.
“He pretended it wasn’t important, but his hand shook as he handed it to me. I’ll give it back to Mr. Twycross now.”
***
Georges found Peter Hyde still in his chair by the fire, noticeably mellowed by the brandy. The Bath Chronicle lay spread open on his lap. The room stank of tobacco, affronting Georges’ nostrils and watering his eyes. Like a stoic, he took his place opposite Hyde and poured himself a brandy.
“So, Georges, what has caused such concern to our champion, Lord Jeff, that he would search you out?”
The coachman was prying, Georges thought. But there was mutual benefit in sharing confidences, so he told him what he had learned.
Hyde frowned. “Sir Harry will be very angry about the forged signature. William’s not his ward, and he’s not willing to pay his gambling debts.”
“How can the young man gamble away two hundred pounds so quickly?” Georges asked.
“Much of it went to Critchley. I’m sure he’s behind the scheme. He has no credit, so he had to get money through William. They gamble together at Twycross’s place. Critchley probably wrote the letter, signed Sir Harry’s name, and used his seal. If anything went wrong, William would be blamed.”
“Is there any truth at all in William’s claim to be Sir Harry’s heir-presumptive?”
The coachman grimaced. “For the time being, his heir is still little Charlie. And…” Hyde lowered his voice. “William doesn’t stand a beggar’s chance. I’ve overheard Sir Harry say he’d like to leave his fortune to a son of his own. Can’t hardly blame him. Little Charlie’s a fine boy, but he’s not Sir Harry’s.” The coachman paused, cleared his throat. “Or, so they say.”
Georges played innocent. “I guess that means Sir Harry wants to divorce Lady Margaret, disinherit Charlie, and marry again. Does he have a woman in mind?”
“Why Miss Ware of course! He can’t take his eyes off her pretty face. Mind you, she’s proper when I see them together. Friendly like, but not romantic. I’m not the one to ask how this will turn out. I know horses much better than women.”
“Better than gamblers?” Georges asked, grinning. “Tell me about Mr. John Twycross and Mr. Richard Wetenall.”
“Partners in a large fancy gambling house on Alfred Street near the Upper Assembly Rooms. There’s much talk in the city about prominent hidden partners in the business. Some folks, including the mayor, call it a den of iniquity. Others praise its fine food and beautiful women, its high-stakes games of chance. Country gentlemen lose huge sums at its faro table. That’s an open secret. The mayor of Bath is about to charge the two men in his court. He’ll fine them one or two thousand pounds, only a small fraction of the profits they’ve made.”
“Crooked characters!” Georges exclaimed. “Worthy successors to Jack Roach. Perhaps they will take over his extortion practice where he left off.”
“And meet the same end,” observed Peter, knocking the ash out of his pipe.
***
On the way back to his own room, Georges found Colonel Saint-Martin at his table, writing in his diary. He pulled up a chair and told him about Twycross’ letter. “It gives William a motive for killing someone,” Georges argued. “He desperately needs money. And he has the nasty character, as well as the physical strength to do it.”
“But why would he want to kill Roach?” the colonel asked.
Georges rose and began to pace the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Let’s suppose William thought Roach had the stolen package. He might conclude, if he got his hands on it, he could sell it to someone in the city or give it to Twycross in return for canceling his debt. So, he sneaked into the tennis hall between Critchley’s and Fitzroy’s visits, caught Roach unawares and killed him. Then, too late, William discovered Roach didn’t have the package after all.”
The colonel nodded. “A plausible scenario. William could be the person I saw at the entrance to the tennis hall before Fitzroy arrived. We can add the young man to our list of suspects.”
“Critchley must have the package,” Georges added. “If William had it, he would have no reason to avoid Twycross.” He shook his head as he got up to leave. “There’s still too many dark corners in this case. I’m hoping to throw some light on them tomorrow at Roach’s house.”