Approaching Storm
Sunday, April 8
After leaving Anne and Harriet at the Abbey Church a little past noon, Saint-Martin stopped in the church yard and shielded his eyes from the sun. A riot of sounds, colors, and gestures assaulted his senses. A brass band clashed and clanged its way through the yard. A troop of Italian acrobats in gaudy checkered tights cartwheeled, built human pyramids, and juggled before a rapt audience of children. Vendors hawked their wares. Several young dandies preened themselves, ogling pretty young women in muslin dresses, their faces guarded from the sun’s rays by wide-brimmed, brightly beribboned hats.
Soon the square, energetic figure of the colonel’s adjutant snaked through the crowd. The colonel hailed him. “Learn anything this morning, Georges?”
“A few interesting bits.” The adjutant patted his stomach. “I’ve followed Captain Fitzroy around Bath for hours. Now I’m hungry. Could we talk over lunch?”
Saint-Martin agreed, leaving the choice of an eating place to Georges. He led the way to the Shakespeare, a coach inn at the city market. “Good seafood, decent wine,” he said as they took seats in a quiet corner of the large public room. “And we can speak safely.”
A sturdy, pink-cheeked barmaid came to their table, smiled coyly at Georges, and took their order. She returned in a few minutes with a steaming platter of mussels, country bread and cheese, and a carafe of dry white wine from the Loire valley. As she moved on to another table out of earshot, Georges leaned forward, glancing over his shoulder. “That’s Flora. I’ve paid her to eavesdrop on Fitzroy. He usually meets his two British officer friends here for drink, cards, jokes about women.”
Georges forked a mussel, dipped it in the juice, then in butter, and slurped it with obvious relish. After half a glass of wine, he resumed his story. “This morning was different. Just coffee and serious talk. They were cautious when Flora came around. Still, she heard Fitzroy tell the officers that Burton had canceled his passage to New York and had him under constant watch.”
Saint-Martin grew impatient. “We know that much already!”
“There’s more,” Georges continued apologetically. “Flora said the three men lowered their voices. Laying plans. She could pick up only scattered words until at the end Fitzroy spoke loudly enough for her to hear: ‘Tuesday morning, then!’”
“Not much to go on,” remarked Saint-Martin, pushing his plate to one side. He was less fond of steamed mussels than his adjutant. “Sounds like desperation, either flight or fight.” He leaned back, chin in hand. “Flight’s no longer a good option for Fitzroy. He’s not one to live like a hunted animal. He needs to strut about in public like a peacock. Besides, he and Lady Margaret seem bound together, even though he abuses her. Miss Cartier and I watched them during the concert last night. Not exactly love-birds. But they touched, smiled and nodded to one another, even swayed together with the music. And you saw him defend her afterwards.”
“And don’t forget her money!” added Georges, breaking off a piece of bread. He dipped it in the mussel juice and stuffed it into his mouth.
The colonel gently swirled the wine in his glass, smiling indulgently at his adjutant’s table manners. “Georges, if you were Fitzroy, what would you do at this point?”
The adjutant saluted Saint-Martin with his glass and emptied it. “I’d go for her money. After all, I’m a gambler. Lady Margaret and Charlie will inherit Rogers’ fortune. I’d make sure her marriage lasted until she became a widow. Then I’d become her legal guardian or husband.”
Saint-Martin leaned forward, arms resting on the table, hands clasped. “Hasten Sir Harry’s death, would you?”
“I couldn’t do it myself. I’m closely watched and my motive would be obvious. But, my friends could arrange it for a share in the inheritance. Wouldn’t be difficult. Sir Harry often rides to Bristol without a guard. He left a note in the stable for a cabriolet on Tuesday. He’ll drive it himself.”
“They would attack him, Tuesday morning!” exclaimed the colonel in a hushed voice. “Suppose they are successful, how would Fitzroy deal with Critchley and the stolen package?”
Georges replied for Fitzroy. “With Sir Harry dead and me in control of his business and Lady Margaret’s wealth, the stolen item would matter less. The marriage would be over and who would care much about the love letters, if that’s what’s in the package. I’d let Critchley hang.”
“And the British officers would do Fitzroy’s bidding?” Saint-Martin was unconvinced.
“Their brutality in the American War is notorious—a pair of thugs in red coats. They’ve not improved their character since then. They’ll do whatever Fitzroy wants if he pays them enough.” Georges tore off another piece of bread, cut a piece of cheese, poured more wine for Saint-Martin and himself.
The colonel stared into his glass, twirling the stem. Finally, he glanced at Georges. “I think we must protect Sir Harry, our best hope for capturing Fitzroy and shipping him back to France. If the rogue acquires Harry’s widow and her wealth, he’ll become nearly untouchable.” He saluted Georges with his glass, who responded in like manner, and they finished their drinks. “Keep a closer watch on those two redcoats,” Saint-Martin said. “We won’t tell Harry yet. The danger to him is still guesswork.”
Georges frowned. “Are we going to let him get hold of the stolen package, divorce Lady Margaret, and take Charlie away from her? Miss Cartier believes he needs his mother, weak though she is. Sir Harry hates the boy and will abuse him, perhaps disinherit him if he gets a son of his own.”
The colonel rose from his chair, leaned over the table, and stared at Georges. “Remember why we’re here. To capture Fitzroy. That’s how we judge everything else. I don’t see how we can recover the package or stop Sir Harry from ending his marriage.” He uttered his words through thin, tight lips. “Don’t forget Sylvie de Chanteclerc.”
***
From a clerk at the York Inn, Saint-Martin learned that Mr. Burton had left after breakfast. He was expected back soon. The colonel glanced at his watch. Almost three o’clock. He decided to wait. He found a chair in the parlor to the left of the main entrance. Burton would have to pass by him to get to his room.
In the meantime, Saint-Martin observed his fellow human beings, a useful exercise for a policeman. Perhaps because of the fine weather, he felt kindly disposed toward them today. A stout, ruddy-faced, well-dressed Englishman and his wife peered into the parlor, exchanged smiles with him, then walked on into the public room. Their good-natured candor was what he’d come to expect from people of their class. Even from Dick Burton, though he had a police officer’s wary curiosity. Saint-Martin recalled in contrast the sly, sardonic expressions so common among the French.
The next person to glance into the parlor was Burton himself, who also smiled when he noticed the French colonel. The two men shook hands and went upstairs. By the time they reached Burton’s door, he was breathing heavily and limping. “It’s been a long day,” he said, mustering a cheerful expression. “I’m looking forward to giving this leg a rest.”
At ease in a comfortable chair, Burton explained he had spent the day with several of Roach’s victims, returning scandalous documents that had been used for blackmail. “People of quality, they were, and most grateful.” Irony crept into his voice.
Saint-Martin suspected that Burton, like other Bow Street officers, must have received financial rewards for his kindness for he had to pay a clerk, probably several informants, and his own travel expenses.
After learning that Sir Harry had visited Critchley in jail, Burton had interrogated the prisoner again. “He wasn’t forthcoming. Repeated his claim that he had left Roach alive and insisted it was Fitzroy who killed him.”
Saint-Martin looked askance. “It’s not likely Sir Harry went to the jail to offer solace.”
Burton smiled. “According to Critchley, Sir Harry promised him a character reference if he were put on trial for Roach’s death and would try to persuade his former employer to drop his accusations about the stolen silver.”
“Would that save Critchley from hanging?”
“No. His former employer is unforgiving.” Burton fell silent, lines of sadness at his mouth, as if he had seen too much human misery during his many years on Bow Street.
“Did you learn any more about the stolen package?” the colonel asked.
“Critchley still claims he doesn’t know where it is. Nor does William Rogers. Critchley has surely hidden it—and is using it to bargain with Sir Harry.”
“That’s likely,” Saint-Martin agreed. “Are you going to charge Critchley for the murder of Roach?”
“Yes, I shall.”
“Why Critchley rather than Fitzroy or one of the other suspects?”
“A fair question,” replied Burton easily. “The black footman’s alibi is supported by the cook and the coachman. I couldn’t shake their story. In my view, Sir Harry and his nephew William lacked sufficient motive. Fitzroy remained a serious suspect until I questioned Lady Margaret. I was persuaded that her testimony corroborated his.” Burton hesitated briefly before going on, as if less sure of himself. “I’m also inclined to believe Fitzroy wouldn’t have killed Roach in her presence.”
Hmm, thought Saint-Martin, recalling Sylvie’s battered face. Fitzroy’s respect for women was erratic at best.
Sensing the colonel’s skepticism, Burton quickly added, “I don’t mean that honor would have restrained Fitzroy. He simply wouldn’t have wanted Lady Margaret to witness him killing Roach. If she were interrogated, he couldn’t depend on her testimony and he couldn’t afford to get rid of her.”
“Sounds reasonable,” granted Saint-Martin, concealing his true feeling. In fact, Burton’s reasoning failed to convince him. Critchley was a convenient scapegoat, already charged and virtually convicted of a capital theft. Roach’s true killer was still unknown. Fortunately, Fitzroy remained available for abduction and the rigors of French justice. Could that possibly be Burton’s intent?
“A magistrate will charge Critchley on Wednesday morning,” Burton went on to say. “He’ll be held for trial in Taunton castle, several months hence, during the royal judges’ next quarter sessions. On Thursday, I’ll return to London and search Roach’s apartment for the stolen silver.”
“Have you finished investigating the tennis hall?” Saint-Martin asked. “Sir Harry and I would like to play a game soon.”
“I envy your good health,” Burton replied. “No need to keep the tennis hall closed. Georges has sketched the scene for me.” He suddenly caught Saint-Martin’s eye. “Will you accomplish what you’ve set out to do here?”
The colonel wasn’t sure how he should answer the question. Its ironic tone, the skeptical curl of Burton’s lips meant he knew why Saint-Martin was in Bath. Nonetheless, it seemed wise to maintain the fiction of a vacation trip. “Yes, I believe I may. God willing.” Depending also, he thought, on how helpful Sir Harry proved to be.
***
The clock in the servants’ hall struck four o’clock. Jeffery sat down at the table with Mr. Cope the steward, the housekeeper, Peter the coachman, and a maid. To his surprise, William Rogers joined them a few minutes late. Their Easter meal of roasted lamb, potatoes, and green peas lay steaming before them. They had this time for themselves. Upstairs, the dining room table had been set. In the kitchen, the cook and her helpers were preparing the evening meal for the family. The night footman had already eaten and was minding the main entrance.
Jeffery had come to the servants’ table with a mixture of apprehension and satisfaction. He was supposed to eat at a small table apart from the others. Yesterday afternoon, without warning, Sir Harry had barred him from wearing Combe Park livery or serving the family and had consigned him to menial tasks in the basement or the stable. When Lady Margaret heard of it later, she had objected, but Sir Harry ignored her.
This evening, he was not at home and would not return until late. Lady Margaret ordered Jeffery back into livery and assigned him to serve the family meal. He believed she had done this to spite Sir Harry, but he also suspected other motives. There was a certain gleam in her eye whenever she looked at him.
The weakness of his arm wouldn’t matter upstairs. A maid would help him. She was seated now at his left, solicitous of his injury, holding the platter while he served himself with his right hand. The servants were usually sympathetic, obeying Sir Harry’s orders as leniently as possible. But they had to be mindful of his spies.
From across the table, William glared at Jeffery, then turned abruptly to the steward. “What’s this black slave doing here? My uncle ordered him to sit by himself.” William pointed to the small table in the corner.
Mr. Cope stammered helplessly, “We thought….”
Peter Hyde broke in, “Since Lady Margaret put Lord Jeff back into livery and ordered him to serve upstairs tonight, we thought he should eat with us. We’ve important matters to discuss.” He glanced around the table at his companions and snickered. “Like his great fight last Wednesday.”
Jeffery felt pleased but suppressed a smile. The coachman was his best friend among the servants. A bluff man, he could risk speaking up because Sir Harry was fond of him.
The coachman reared back in his chair and looked down his battered nose at William. “And to what do we owe the honor of your presence among us? Master Charlie’s going to eat upstairs.” The steward stirred uneasily, pursed his lips, and shot the coachman a warning. The others looked down at their food.
William started, as if slapped in the face, then glared at Hyde. But the coachman held a level gaze, the hint of a smirk on his lips.
Red-faced with wrath, William sputtered nonsense, as if he had lost control of his tongue. Finally, he burst out, “The little devil hates me, poisons his mother against me.” William’s eyes narrowed to mere slits, his jaw tightened. “But I’ll get even with him someday. Soon.”
The force of William’s malevolence was shocking, almost tangible. For a moment, the table grew deathly still. The smirk left the coachman’s lips. The steward grew pale. Jeffery felt a tightening in his chest. A moment later, conversation resumed as if nothing had happened. William ate silently, sulking.
***
Anne guided Charlie into the dining room, her hand on his shoulder. She looked at the table with surprise. It was set for only four persons. Charlie smiled up at her, then pointed across the room. Jeffery, a massive ebony figure, crimson-clad, was standing rigid by a sideboard, his left arm in a sling. Anne was delighted to see him. She had heard he was banned.
Lady Margaret took her seat at the lower end of the table; the place at the other end was empty. “My husband asks to be excused,” she remarked to Paul, who had accompanied her. She added with a quick sardonic smile, “Business in the city, he said. Odd, don’t you think, on Easter evening. But there you are.”
She invited Paul to the place on her left usually occupied by Captain Fitzroy. “My cousin, the captain, isn’t the kind of man who offers excuses. He declared he would sup—and I expect he will also gamble—with his friends this evening.” She inclined her head slightly toward Paul, her hand lightly touching his. “The two men on whom I must rely have both deserted me. Fortunately, there’s at least one gentleman in the house to escort me to the table.”
“My pleasure,” he said politely, as he took his place.
Anne sat to his left, across the table from Charlie so he could more easily try to read her lips. The boy sought his mother’s attention, timidly waving his hand. She ignored him, engaging Anne in a conversation about last night’s concert. “Did you notice Miss Ware?” she asked coyly. “She usually sings like a princess, fearless, at ease in her part. But on this occasion, she appeared nervous, as if overwhelmed by old Isaiah’s lamentation. And…by my Harry’s hungry stare.”
“I’m afraid I failed to notice what you observed,” Anne replied, grateful that she could not have watched Sir Harry from where she sat. “Harriet is a religious person. The prophet’s sentiments may well have touched her deeply.”
While Anne turned the conversation to other matters, she kept an eye on Jeffery serving the meal. His expression was enigmatic. Only his tired eyes betrayed the stress he was under. As he offered the meat platter to Lady Margaret, he seemed to stiffen slightly. A flicker of self-awareness broke through his mask. She was staring boldly at him. Anne had earlier noticed Lady Margaret’s interest in the black footman. Beneath her cool indifference stirred strong, unsatisfied human passions. Jeffery’s virile body—exotic, yet elegant in crimson and silver livery—his swift, graceful, cat-like movements, seemed to catch her fancy. Her conscience, however, seemed unaffected. The indignity and injustice of his bondage, even the injury to his arm didn’t appear to concern her in the least. Like Sir Harry, she regarded Jeffery as property, a fascinating pet.
At a break in the conversation, Paul turned to Charlie and, speaking clearly, asked him, “Have you learned to bowl?”
“Yes,” the boy replied, his soft blue eyes brightening. He explained with nearly perfect diction how Lord Jeff had taught him the game.
Anne covertly signed to Charlie, “Well done!” She and Paul had rehearsed this little conversation with the boy during the hour before supper.
Lady Margaret’s cool demeanor vanished. She stared at her son, startled, as if seeing him for the first time. She reached for his hand and patted it. “I’m proud of you, Charlie,” she said, her voice breaking a little.
“Thank you, Mother,” he replied and squeezed her hand.
For a moment, she regarded her son, taking in his long, wavy black hair, his fair skin, his fine, regular features. Then she turned to Anne. “I have noticed what you’ve done for Charlie in the twelve days you’ve been here. Before you came, I thought I might lose him, so far had he withdrawn into himself. Now he’s happy.” She gazed at her son, a hint of concern appearing in her face. “I’ve watched him practice reading my maid’s lips. How hard it is!” She smiled at Anne. “You’ve made his task much lighter and I’m grateful.”
Anne thanked Lady Margaret for the compliment, then seized the opportunity she had been looking for. “Charlie would be greatly encouraged,” she said respectfully, “if you could train the household how to speak more clearly to him. Include him in company. Encourage him to speak. Listen to him patiently.”
For a few seconds it appeared that Lady Margaret might have resented Anne’s unsolicited advice. A frown crossed her brow. Then, she sighed. “Perhaps I should do as you suggest. Later. When my mind is free.”
The meal passed pleasantly with Charlie taking part. Lady Margaret engaged in the conversation, but from time to time appeared preoccupied. When the meal ended, Paul and Charlie went off for a walk in the mild evening air. Lady Margaret drew Anne aside and asked in a low, strained voice, “Miss Cartier, would you come to my room, please?”
***
While Lady Margaret rang for a maid and changed into a dressing gown, Anne surveyed the room, noting the peephole in the ceiling, the table with the secret drawer. Could Critchley have slipped the package back into the drawer? Who would ever think of searching for it there? Anne’s fantasy was interrupted by the maid coming with a decanter of brandy and two glasses. Lady Margaret gestured that they should sit at the table.
The offer surprised Anne. The noblewoman had previously kept a strict class barrier between them. Anne looked into her eyes. The hauteur was gone, replaced by hints of trouble and uncertainty.
Lady Margaret dismissed the maid and poured a full glass for herself, then asked Anne, who indicated a half glass would suffice. The two women raised their glasses, toasted each other, and tasted the brandy. It was excellent.
Settling in her chair, Lady Margaret briefly assessed her guest. “You’re a stranger at Combe Park, but I’ve learned to trust you. And I’ve got to talk to someone. My cousin will not listen to me. My husband surrounds me with spies, like his despicable nephew William. And my little Charlie’s deaf…” She broke off, as if she were sorry she had slighted her son, then she went on, “and he’s only eleven.”
Anne studied Lady Margaret over the rim of her glass. Thin lines of worry creased her forehead, and her deep green eyes had lost their lustre. Her hands trembled. Anne felt sorry for her and remarked she’d be happy to listen.
“You and I have Jack Roach in common. Over a year ago in Islington, he nearly killed you. Last week, he tried again on our portico, and you gave him a bloody lip.” She ventured a wry smile, then drank deeply of the brandy. “He has also been a nightmare to me, probing into my life without mercy. And I’ve not been able to get back at him. Someone has even robbed me of the pleasure of killing him. Now his evil lives on in Critchley. With his help my husband intends to rid himself of me and Charlie. My cousin defends us with such passion that I foresee a bloody end to it all. Soon!” She took another long sip of brandy and sighed. “There’s nothing I can do to stop it, but I warn you to stay clear of us. Or you, too, will suffer.”