The Glass House

I dropped the clothes back on the chair. Inglethorpe's death must be no coincidence-Peaches had come here the afternoon before she'd died. Had she told Inglethorpe something that the killer worried about? Had she been on her way to The Glass House to meet someone and had told Inglethorpe who? I'd planned to question Inglethorpe about Peaches yesterday, and of course had missed the opportunity through my own folly. I'd planned to ask him again today, and his death had put paid to that.

"Has Sir Montague Harris been informed?" I asked.

"Couldn't say, sir. I imagine he will be."

I walked out of the room with Pomeroy following. "Bloody hell, Sergeant," I said heavily.

"It's a nasty thing, sir, people sticking each other."

He sounded cheerful and confident. He'd never had a day of melancholia in his life.

"I did not kill this man, Pomeroy," I said. I took up my hat, clapped it back to my damp hair. "But I intend to find out who did."

"Probably in your best interest, sir."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

I strode out into the rain. Pomeroy said something jovial behind me, but I did not stop to respond.

I continued walking to Grosvenor Street, angry and worried, wondering what Inglethorpe had known-and what I had overlooked. I needed to know more about Inglethorpe's household and his friends, and I thought over ways in which I might find out.

When I reached Grenville's house, Matthias admitted me but told me his master was out. When I informed him and Bartholomew of the news of Inglethorpe, they both stared at me with stunned blue eyes.

"Lord, sir," Bartholomew breathed. "With your sticker?"

"Yes. It's a bother, that." I went over the plan I'd formed as I'd walked between Inglethorpe's and here. "Bartholomew, I'd like you and your brother to poke around Inglethorpe's a bit, get the servants to confide in you. Find out who was in Inglethorpe's house yesterday and this morning. Discover if any of the staff saw what became of my walking stick between the time I left it and the time it ended up in Inglethorpe's chest. I want to know any gossip about Mrs. Chapman-who she knew and what she did whenever she went to Inglethorpe's, how well she knew Inglethorpe, and what they talked about."

Bartholomew nodded, as did his brother. They'd both assisted me last year in the affair of Colonel Westin and looked eager to involve themselves in my adventures again.

Before I departed, I pulled out a bank draft I'd made to Grenville for three hundred guineas. "Give this to your master," I said to Matthias. "And do not let him tear it up or put it on the fire. He'll likely try."

Matthias raised his brows, mystified, but he took it and promised.

I returned to Grimpen Lane, impatient and depressed. Thompson was busily investigating Peaches' murder, of course, but everything was moving too slowly for me. I preferred the Army method of spotting the enemy and charging him, rather than the slow process of asking questions and piecing together what had happened, while the killer had the opportunity to flee. Or strike again.

Inglethorpe's death worried me greatly. Peaches's death had seemed almost simple; she had likely been killed by one of three men: her husband, Lord Barbury, or Kensington. Inglethorpe's death opened more possibilities. Any of the three men already mentioned might have stabbed him, or any of the gentlemen at the magic gas gathering might have, or Mrs. Danbury, or even Lady Breckenridge. While I had some difficulty picturing the ladylike Mrs. Danbury wielding a the sword, I had less difficulty picturing Lady Breckenridge doing so. Lady Breckenridge was a woman of determination, who'd viewed the death of her husband with relief, who retained her independence of thought in a world in which a woman was not encouraged to do so.

I remembered her lying against me, her head on my shoulder, how comfortable that had been. Had her motive been comfort, or duplicity? She had been kind to me last evening, in her own way, but I still did not trust her.

I tried to sit still and write everything out, but I was too moody to concentrate and pushed away the feeble notes I'd begun when Mrs. Beltan brought up my post.

One letter was from the Derwents, reminding me of my dinner with them Sunday next and assuring me that young Jean was doing well. She was an orphan, they said, and Lady Derwent was looking into what sort of employment for which she might be trained.

I was pleased that at least the little girl would do well out of this tragedy. I knew the Derwents would be diligent in looking after Jean and make certain she came to no harm.

My second letter set my teeth on edge. It was from my former colonel and invited me to dine at his Brook Street home that very night.

Last summer, Colonel Brandon had gotten himself caught up in one of my adventures and had acquitted himself well, helping me catch a killer. After that, he'd pretended to thaw toward me. All through the autumn, he'd invited me to his house to dine or for cards, to talk of our campaigns in Spain, Portugal, and India. He would drink plenty of port and pretend that the uglier incidents between us had never happened.

As autumn waned, however, the air between us became more and more strained, and we had returned to stiffness and veiled insults. By December, Brandon had had enough of me. He'd taken Louisa with him to a shooting party in the north, without sending me his good-byes.

Now this invitation. I did not doubt it had something to do with the fact that I'd become involved with yet another Bow Street problem. Brandon still regarded me as his junior officer, the man he'd made.

But I was no longer his man. I was on half-pay, semi-retired. I could perhaps get myself transferred to another regiment, if another captain were ready for half-pay or wanted my place in the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons. But the long war was over, I had little to offer another regiment, and there were plenty of half-pay captains wandering about at loose ends. Also, cavalry nowadays was used to put down riots, a practice I disliked. Firing at enemy soldiers doing their best to kill me in battle was one thing, firing at women and children, no matter how unruly they might be, was something else.

Additionally, the regimental commander of the Thirty-Fifth Light had made it plain to Brandon and me on that last day in Spain that we had better take our feud away from the Army. I could have brought charges against Brandon for what he had done, but I had not wanted his wife to face that shame. Our commander had snarled at Brandon and me as though we'd been recalcitrant schoolboys and called us a disgrace to the regiment. Brandon had taken the reprimand hard.

So here we were in London, both of us fish out of water. We were alternately painfully polite and boiling furious with each other. Louisa bore the brunt of it. She tried her best to heal the breach, because she blamed herself for the breach in the first place.

I could have told her that the rift would have come anyway. Though I'd much admired Brandon when I was younger, we no longer saw eye to eye. On the night when Brandon had made clear his intention to divorce Louisa, the break had come with a vengeance.

With all this in mind, I descended at the Brandons' Brook Street house at eight o'clock that night, on time. My breath fogged white in the January air, and the cobbles were slick.

Brandon was in full lecturing mode. The death of Simon Inglethorpe, via my sword-stick, was already the talk of Mayfair. As the footman served the meal, Brandon related how he'd been accosted at his club today by men asking him what had his captain got up to now? Louisa said nothing, keeping her golden head bent while she toyed with a thin bracelet on her wrist.