A Tissue of Lies
Saturday, April 7
In the second story classroom off the portico, Charlie laid down his quill and stretched. He had just finished his morning lesson in penmanship with Mr. Critchley, who sat facing him. The tutor was leaning forward, left elbow on his desk, chin in hand. Lines of worry creased his forehead. He was staring down at a sheet of paper on which he idly scribbled with a pencil.
Charlie lowered his eyes just as Critchley seemed to sense his pupil was no longer writing. The tutor looked up, his mouth fixed in a scowl. With an impatient sigh he beckoned Charlie to the desk, sent him back for his book, then pointed out the next lesson he expected the boy to prepare. Critchley didn’t say a word, as if he thought the effort would be wasted. He turned his attention again to his scribbling.
Charlie picked up his pen without complaint, dipped in the inkwell, and began to write. He had reconciled himself weeks ago to Mr. Critchley’s indifference. The tutor was supposed to teach him writing—and reading, arithmetic, Latin, French, and English, but he didn’t try very hard. Charlie had trouble grasping the lessons until Miss Cartier began to help him on the side. Now he was doing much better. Even Mr. Critchley had noticed—and complained she was meddling in his business.
Suddenly, the door to the hallway flew open. William rushed in shouting, his eyes wide with fright. Immediately alert, Charlie closely watched the young man’s lips and guessed the Bow Street officer was here with questions. William frantically threw up his hands.
Critchley grimaced. With a jerk of his head he sent William to the far side of the room by the window. As he rose from his desk, he cast a glance at Charlie, who had bent over his book just in time. William stood glowering, his back to the wall. Critchley walked up to him and the two men began a conversation.
Miss Cartier had asked Charlie to keep watch on his tutor. He could help protect his mother. Unfortunately, Mr. Critchley now had his back to Charlie. Still, the boy could glean something from his gestures. And he could see William’s face clearly.
The young man shook with anger, his eyes bulging, his lips quivering. “Where’s…package?”
Critchley’s back stiffened. He said something.
William looked doubtful. “Roach…no money…Pay later.”
Critchley nodded.
William drew close to Critchley. “You…package or money.”
The tutor shrugged his shoulders, lifted his hands, palms up.
William shouted, “You’re lying!”
Critchley slapped the young man’s face.
William stepped back, glaring at his tutor, then stalked across the classroom and out the door.
Charlie quickly lowered his eyes and resumed his lettering exercise.
Critchley swung around, his face pinched and wrathful. He strode past Charlie without giving him a glance and left the room. On the tutor’s desk lay the paper with his scribbling. Charlie hesitated for only a moment, then snatched the paper and dashed out the door.
***
Anne was at her table, puzzling out a note from Georges. For safety’s sake, he had written in cryptic French. Jeffery, she learned, would be ready Thursday at dawn. She was to tell the Quaker. A spasm of anxiety tightened her chest. The plan was set and would work, God willing.
A loud, sharp knock on her door made her jump. She dropped the note onto glowing embers in the hearth. When it had burned, she opened the door. Charlie rushed in, clutching his book, his face flushed with pride.
“What do you have to tell me?” she asked, pleased by his trust.
“I watched Mr. Critchley and William in the classroom. I think they talked about a package Mr. Critchley stole from my mother and tried to sell to Mr. Roach.” The boy carefully enunciated each word. From his book he took out a paper with phrases he had jotted down and described the gestures he had observed. He also handed over the paper Critchley had scribbled on. As the boy told his story, he grew distressed. “Is my mother in trouble?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” Anne replied gently. “But we’ll do what we can to help her.”
When Charlie had returned to his room, Anne took up his report and constructed a semblance of the dialogue between Critchley and William. It suggested to her that Critchley had secretly met Roach at the tennis hall Wednesday evening to negotiate a sale of the stolen item. William believed the sale had taken place and had protested he was wrongly denied a share of the money.
Critchley’s hasty scribblings were more difficult to decipher. Thick strokes of his pencil had crossed out the initials JR referring to Roach. Beneath the initials HR, referring to Sir Harry, were numbers ranging from 1,000 to 20,000. He had crossed out all but the highest number. It seemed he was demanding a sum of money equivalent to what Sir Harry had won in Wednesday’s boxing match. A small fortune.
Critchley had also written a list of cities, underlining London and Paris, circling Naples. Anne groaned. The man dreamed of escaping to a life of luxury in Italy. How pathetic! He was more likely to end his days hanged in front of Newgate Prison for the murder of Mary Campbell—and perhaps Jack Roach as well.
Anne recalled Mr. Burton was interrogating the household staff in the parlor downstairs. He wanted to talk to her. But she felt reluctant. For Charlie’s sake. The stolen package surely contained matter damaging to his mother, perhaps a secret diary. Anne didn’t want to expose her unless an innocent person would otherwise be harmed. Still, Burton already knew the stolen object was embarrassing. Lady Margaret was hopelessly involved in the case.
Anne leaned back in her chair and went on debating whether to step forward or not. Finally, she decided Charlie’s report and the scribblings might implicate Critchley in Roach’s death. That was evidence Burton needed to have. She gathered the papers and walked to the door.
***
William Rogers slouched at the table, his head tilted at a cocky angle, his arms folded on his chest. Only his furtive eyes betrayed his apprehension. Georges studied the young man. Like his uncle—tall, broad frame, square face, ruddy complexion. But the nephew’s jaw hung slack; his lips were sensual and self-indulgent, his eyes sly and mean. He lacked entirely Sir Harry’s rugged charm, his vigorous resourceful nature.
Across from the young man, Dick Burton settled into his chair, then asked Georges, whom he had engaged as a clerk, “Are you ready, Mr. Charpentier?”
Pen in hand, Georges nodded. He was prepared to observe as well as to take notes. He had also informed Burton of the letter William had received from Twycross. The young man was deep in debt and in danger of being exposed as a fraud. He could have killed Roach in a failed attempt to rob him of the stolen package.
The parlor was still, a quiet broken only by the occasional pop of glowing embers in the fireplace. Burton stared silently at the young man until he began to shift nervously in his seat. He had some explaining to do, Georges thought. On the table lay the young man’s statement from the day before. He had offered an alibi for his tutor and claimed to know nothing relevant to Roach’s death. Next to the statement lay little Charlie’s report which Miss Cartier had just brought down to the parlor. She had cautioned Burton and Georges to avoid mentioning Charlie by name. Critchley and William might retaliate against him.
“I understand Mr. Critchley employed you to spy on Lady Margaret,” Burton began quietly. With a start William sat up, surprised and annoyed, suspecting that someone had snitched on him. He appeared to quickly reckon who that person might be. Burton broke into his calculations. “I have that information from several sources—nearly everyone at Combe Park. No need to guess whom.”
Burton leaned forward, thrust out his jaw. “Where was Mr. Critchley Wednesday night between eleven and eleven-thirty?”
The young man tried to evade Burton’s gaze but failed. “We were in the dining room,” he stammered. “About twenty minutes before eleven, Mr. Critchley said he was tired of the party. We went to his room and played cards.”
Burton raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you told me yesterday. But it isn’t true, is it?”
William hesitated, apparently sensing Burton was about to catch him in a lie. His resentment against Critchley won out. “No, it’s not. I followed him through the house to the basement. When he thought no one was watching, he sneaked out the side door and went to the tennis hall.”
“Why did you spy on him?”
“I didn’t trust him. He cheats everyone. Why wouldn’t he cheat me?”
“Cheat you out of what?”
The young man was caught. Burton forced him to admit that Mr. Critchley had stolen Lady Roger’s package and was supposed to sell it to Jack Roach Wednesday night. Critchley had agreed to share the money with William. The sale took place and Roach promised to pay for it later. Or so Critchley claimed.
“When did you see Mr. Critchley again?”
“Thursday at noon. He said we had to get our stories to match and not mention the package. He looked worried.”
“You have just admitted your previous statement was a lie.” Burton tapped the sheet in front of him. “How can I believe you now?”
“Yesterday,” he hissed, “I covered up for him. But not any more. He didn’t treat me right.”
“How did you know that Mr. Critchley walked toward the tennis hall after he sneaked out of the house? You must have followed him. How far?”
William lowered his head for a second, sensing a trap. He looked up, his eyes uneasy. “To the tennis hall. Then I came back to the house and went to my room.”
Burton gazed at him silently for a moment, then signaled Georges, who indicated he’d soon be ready. “Sign your statement, William,” said Burton, “and you’re free to go, but I may want to speak with you again.”
As William was leaving the room, Burton called out to him. “By the way, William, I just read in Jack Roach’s journal that Mr. Critchley killed Mary Campbell. Roach was very angry. Called Critchley a cretin.” The young man stopped in mid-stride, nearly stumbled. “How do you suppose Roach found out? Critchley would have been afraid to tell him.”
William slowly turned around, a desperate expression on his face. His mouth opened, but only a gagging sound came forth.
“You told Roach, didn’t you.”
Still no word from William, as if his mind were paralyzed by fear and confusion.
“But how did you know her death was murder rather than an accident?”
“I saw Mr. Critchley standing by her body. He told me…” William searched for words. “He had found her dead at the foot of the stairs. Didn’t want anyone to think he had pushed her or was even in the house. They had quarreled. Told me to say nothing. But I hate him so I lied to Jack Roach to get him in trouble.”
“Why didn’t you tell the magistrate instead?”
“I was afraid. Roach said not to tell anyone else. He still needed Critchley.”
Burton stared at the young man for a minute, then waved him out of the room. When the door closed, Burton turned to Georges. “The problem with liars is that you never know when they just might be telling the truth. I believe William saw more than he’s willing to admit.”
“He has cast doubt on the credibility of Roach’s journal. Its reference to Critchley may be based on a lie by William.”
Burton sighed with exasperation. “Let’s return to Roach’s murder. Shall we keep William on our list of suspects?”
“I think so,” Georges replied. “He might have done it for the money. Caught Roach off guard and killed him.” As Georges laid down his pen, he reflected darkly on William. A spiteful lad as well as a suspect of murder. The young man had serious reasons to hate Charlie and do him harm. Miss Cartier’s concerns were well taken; she must be warned.
***
“Mr. Critchley’s next,” said Georges. “He’s a major suspect now.”
“Yes, indeed,” replied Burton, “if we can believe William’s latest story.” He sighed with the weariness of a man who had spent too much of his life cutting through falsehood.
“Look at this.” He handed Georges the statement Critchley had written yesterday. He claimed he had left the dining room before eleven and had gone to his room with William. He also insisted he had no reason to kill Roach. They had a congenial relationship.
“A web of lies!” Burton exclaimed. He rose from his chair and stood by the fireplace. A few seconds later, the hallway door opened and Critchley entered the parlor.
Georges took his clerk’s post and studied the man walking toward him. Sir Harry hadn’t hired him for his good looks or his sweet nature. In the subdued light of the room, the man’s tall thin figure, sallow complexion, deep-set eyes, long arms, and long lank hair gave the impression of a living, breathing specter. Georges examined once more the statement in his hands. Beautifully rounded letters, polished phrases. The man could write.
“You wish to see me?” Critchley asked Burton, as he took a seat. His speech was precisely articulated; his voice, slightly nasal. He had a way of looking down his nose as if doing Burton a favor by speaking to him.
Burton remained standing, leaning forward on his cane. “Mr. Critchley,” he began, “You need to explain certain factual errors in the statement you gave me yesterday.” Georges handed it to the tutor.
He refused it with a wave of his hand. “I know what I wrote.”
“Mr. William Rogers now denies seeing you in your room,” Burton continued. “Instead, he claims you sneaked out of the house shortly before eleven and walked toward the tennis hall. That leads me to believe that you were with Mr. Roach at the time of his death.”
Critchley remarked coolly, “William has chosen this way to show that he resents his tutor’s efforts to make a gentleman of him.”
“I’m inclined to think William may now be telling the truth. In your room I found a pair of boots that fit prints found behind the tennis hall.”
Tricky, Georges thought. Boots in the downstairs closet also matched. The prints left in the wet sod simply weren’t clear enough for a closer identification.
At the mention of his room having been searched, Critchley’s eyes flashed with anger, but only for a second. Otherwise he appeared unperturbed, silent, as if disdaining to defend himself. A cold fish, mused Georges to himself. He paused with his pen, waiting for the man to speak.
Then he stirred. “Your case is flimsy, Mr. Burton. The prints prove nothing of the sort. I wear boots cast off by Sir Harry. Lord Jeff wears them also. Our feet, if nothing else, are similar. Why don’t you arrest them? No one should believe the testimony of William, a disgruntled school boy. I had no reason to kill Jack Roach.” Critchley crossed his legs at the ankles and leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his face.
Burton left the fireplace and paced back and forth in the parlor, limping a little.
Georges’ pen scratched intermittently, while he mulled over Critchley’s remarks. The similarity among the boots intrigued him.
When the pen quieted, Burton sat down facing the tutor and spoke in a low, deliberate voice. “Mr. Critchley, you had a powerful motive to kill Jack Roach. In his papers I’ve found the London fence’s record of the stolen silver you sold him. For months, Roach has been holding that crime over your head. You were his slave.” Burton paused to allow his words to sink in. “I believe you met Roach in the training room, quarreled with him about payment for a package you stole from Lady Margaret, and killed him. You fled in haste when Captain Fitzroy arrived unexpected.”
Critchley sat bolt upright. His lips parted in disbelief. A look of terror spread over his face. “I didn’t kill him. Fitzroy must have done it. I gave Roach the package and left him alive. You’re trying to trick me about the silver. Roach wouldn’t have kept…”
Burton cut him off. “Roach’s papers also witness to your assault on Miss Mary Campbell.” Burton reached over and pulled a bell rope. Alarmed, Critchley began to rise out of his chair, as if to flee. Georges moved quickly to his side and eased him down. A pair of bailiffs appeared at the door. “Gentlemen. You will escort Mr. Critchley to the city jail. Hold him there pending charges of theft being drawn up against him.”
***
“Georges, would you ask Sir Harry to come here. He’s waiting in his study. And tell a servant to bring us something to drink. My throat’s dry.” Burton shifted in his chair, seeking relief from his arthritic pain. His face also reflected an inner discomfort that Georges didn’t expect to find in such an experienced officer.
Nerves? Georges asked himself, as he went on his errand. Why? Questioning Rogers should be merely routine. He might have seen or heard something helpful to the investigation. Still, Burton had reasons for concern. Sir Harry’s relationship with Roach seemed murky, as did his intentions with regard to his wife, Lady Margaret. Rumor claimed that another woman had won his passionate heart. And his boots were at the scene! Was he wearing them? To put a man as powerful as Sir Harry under suspicion of murder might well make even a Bow Street officer dry in the mouth.
A short while later, carrying a tray of drinks, Georges returned with Sir Harry to the parlor. Burton greeted Rogers politely and they settled down in their chairs by the fire, Georges again off to one side, pen at the ready.
“A few routine questions, if I may, Sir Harry,” Burton began with a deferential smile. “Please tell me where you were between eleven and twelve o’clock on the night Jack Roach was killed.”
Rogers sipped from his glass, gazed at the ceiling, then explained he had met Roach in his study for about ten minutes. Shortly before eleven, Roach left for the tennis hall to consult someone. The house was too noisy. He needed to talk without being disturbed and promised to return in a half hour.
“I waited, working at my desk. When Roach didn’t keep his promise, I searched for him at the party until shortly before midnight, then at the tennis hall. In vain.”
“Were you alone in the study while waiting for Roach?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a private exit from your study to the outside, I believe.”
Rogers smiled easily and swirled the wine in his glass. “I could have slipped out to the tennis hall, possibly without having been seen.”
Burton shifted in his chair and stretched his stiff leg. “Sir Harry, you may have been the last person—save the murderer— to see Mr. Roach alive. I hope you won’t mind if I inquire into your relationship with him.”
Rogers spread his hands, palms up, granting the dispensation. “I had engaged him to investigate certain matters of importance to me. To be sure, he had earned an unsavory reputation in the city, but he also had an uncanny ability to ferret out information.”
“His unsavory reputation,” Burton observed, “was earned in part by practicing extortion. Had you any reason to think he might turn his skill against you?”
Georges watched Rogers’ face for signs of dissimulation. He desperately wanted to divorce Lady Margaret. But, adultery with another woman could ruin his chances. Roach might have tried to exploit Rogers’ relationship with Miss Ware and triggered a violent reaction.
“Sorry,” Rogers said slowly, eyes wary. “I don’t follow the drift of your question.”
Burton reached into the valise resting against the leg of his chair and pulled out a folder. “This contains a report Mr. Critchley sent to Jack Roach. I found it among his papers.” As he handed it over to Rogers, he added, “I regret having to distress you.”
As Rogers read through the folder, his naturally florid face turned deep red, his lips worked with fury. “Critchley! That ungrateful, lying bastard!” Rogers threw the folder on the table, sputtering with exasperation. “There’s not one scintilla of truth in what he says!”
Burton nodded sympathetically.
Rogers rushed on. “Miss Ware is a beautiful, charming young woman, a talented dancer with a lovely voice. I’m advancing her career. We’re friends. Nothing more. She’d be most distressed to read this.” He jabbed his finger at the offensive folder.
Burton leaned forward and retrieved it. “It occurred to me that Mr. Critchley might have imagined the lurid details.” He held up the folder, regarded it with distaste. “The point is, how would it be read outside this room? In the city? In Bristol or London? What would it do to Miss Ware’s peace of mind and to her career in the theater?”
“Are you suggesting that Jack Roach might have tried to extract money from me under the threat of publishing this report?”
“Hardly a farfetched idea, if I may say so, considering his character.” Burton reached into his valise again and pulled out another folder. “Critchley’s report on Lady Margaret,” he said, handing it to Rogers. “Roach had engaged him to spy on her relationship with Captain Fitzroy. He even installed a hidden optical device to survey her rooms. Critchley then stole an item, perhaps a document, that was likely to seriously compromise her.”
While Burton spoke, Rogers stiffened, his eyes darkened. “What are you getting at, sir?”
“Your marital affairs are none of my business, Sir Harry, except in so far as they give you a compelling motive for killing Jack Roach.” He pointed to the folder in Rogers’ hands. “A fair reading of those pages would lead one to believe that you wish to divorce Lady Margaret. Roach could force you to pay almost any price to discover grounds for your bill of divorce to proceed successfully through Parliament. He was bargaining with you on those terms the night of his death. You would be less than human if you hadn’t wished to kill him.”
“Your conjecture is barely plausible,” said Rogers, thrusting the folder back to Burton. “I may have had the opportunity and the motive to kill him, but you are a long way from proving that I did.” He rose from his chair, grim-faced. “If we are finished here, sir, I have business to take care of.”
“One more matter, Sir Harry. I have arrested Mr. Critchley. He’s charged with felony theft of silver in London and under suspicion of the murder of Mary Campbell. Should be in the city jail by now.” Burton tucked the papers into his valise and told Georges to prepare a statement for Sir Harry to sign at his leisure.
Rogers appeared momentarily stunned, turned abruptly and strode to the door. As he went out into the hall, he looked back as if to say something, then shook his head and disappeared.
***
They were expecting Fitzroy in a few minutes. Still a serious suspect. While Burton limped to an open window for a breath of fresh air, Georges reviewed in his mind what the captain had already admitted. He had gone to the tennis hall at eleven-thirty Wednesday night, to meet a man he hated. He claimed to have found Roach dead on the floor of the training room, hid him in a closet until early morning, then carted his body off to the river. Georges’s mind balked. Fitzroy could have found Roach alive and seized the opportunity to kill him.
Hearing steps in the hall, Burton returned to his chair. Georges assumed his post.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Burton.” Captain Fitzroy extended his hand, and the Bow Street officer shook it. The Irishman’s expression was amiable, as if he expected this meeting to be routine, having already explained his movements. They sat facing each other. Fitzroy casually crossed his legs. “I really have little more to say.”
“Since we spoke on Thursday, Captain, new facts have come to light which I should discuss with you.”
Fitzroy raised an eyebrow of mild curiosity. “Yes?”
“Mr. William Rogers claims Mr. Critchley went to the tennis hall, Wednesday evening, to sell a certain package to Mr. Roach. Critchley admits going there but claims he left Roach alive. He suggests that, when you arrived shortly afterwards, you killed Roach. It appears that someone is lying.”
Fitzroy bristled. “It should be clear, sir, who is the liar.”
Burton remained silent, inviting the captain to explain.
“Critchley’s a sneak, a man without honor, who spied on a noble lady, broke into her room, and stole her secret papers to sell to Jack Roach. What man of good sense would believe the self-serving testimony of a Critchley!”
Burton pressed on. “Critchley also claims that he gave Jack Roach those secret papers.” He paused, leaned forward. “Did you search Roach’s body?”
“Yes.” Fitzroy hesitated fractionally. “But I didn’t find them.”
“The truth will out,” observed the officer in a flat, low voice. “As for Critchley, he’s on his way to the city jail to face various charges unrelated to Roach’s death.”
Fitzroy started with surprise, then seemed to turn inward, as if studying the changing face of the battlefield and devising new strategies. His objective: that package!
“Oh,” Burton went on, “I’ve also taken the liberty to contact the captain of the Hampton at the Bristol docks and cancel your passage to New York. I want you to remain in Bath for the time being.”
A flash of alarm crossed Fitzroy’s face.
***
At midafternoon, Anne and Paul rode back to Combe Park from the south after racing their horses in the countryside. Anne’s black mare chafed at the bit, yearning for the comfort of its stall. Paul’s big chestnut hunter, a more docile beast, took the return in stride. They had lunched at a charming wayside inn, its walls ivy-covered, its roof thatched. The sun had broken through the clouds for much of their ride, and a soft spring breeze now caressed their faces. Anne felt happier than at any time since arriving in Bath.
Then the main house came into view, its great mass beginning to darken under a large gray cloud. Anne felt apprehensive, suddenly reminded of the conflicts raging within its walls.
Paul gazed at her with concern, sensing the change in her mood.
As they crossed the courtyard, Sir Harry galloped past them, his face flushed, a wild look in his eyes. “What’s that all about?” asked Anne, startled.
“Georges must know.” Paul pointed to his adjutant, just now leaving the stable. When he recognized them, he broke into a run.
“Critchley’s in jail,” exclaimed Georges, panting from the exertion. At the stable door, a groom appeared and took the reins of the horses. Anne and Paul followed Georges into the grooms’ small social hall. It smelled of horse and leather but the tile floor was clean, the walls whitewashed. Georges stepped into an adjacent pantry, then returned with cider, bread, and cheese. He sat his companions at the room’s plain wooden table. “You’ve not dined in a stable before, have you, sir?”
The colonel tasted the cider. It was cool and refreshing. “Until now, I wasn’t aware of what I’d missed.”
Georges waved his hands grandiloquently over the table. “Courtesy of Baron Breteuil. He has paid for dressing up this room and for the food. But among the grooms and stableboys, I give you the credit.” He bowed to the colonel. “That’s why you and Miss Cartier will always ride the best horses in the stable, and I’ll be the first to know what’s going on here.”
At the table their conversation turned to Burton’s strategy. Puzzled, Anne asked Georges, “Why has he imprisoned Critchley just now?”
“It’s simple,” Georges replied. “Burton wants to keep Critchley alive until the Roach case is finished. He may be needed as a witness. He surely knows more than he admits. And, Burton’s a Bow Street officer after all. He’ll earn a fat commission if Critchley is convicted of the theft of the silver and it’s recovered from Roach’s hiding place.” Georges added darkly, “Judging from the look on Rogers’ face, Critchley is much safer in jail than at Combe Park.”
“What’s become of the mysterious stolen package?” asked Paul.
His adjutant shrugged his shoulders. “Burton has searched Critchley’s room thoroughly—even lifted floorboards and removed wooden panels from the walls. Found nothing. The package is hidden elsewhere—if it still exists.”