Bartholomew rubbed his nose. "Wouldn’t think so, sir. Not much wherewithal, I'd say. According to his footman, he likes a soft chair and a footstool, and his cup and saucer handed to him even when it's on the table right next to him. Mr. Yardley was at home yesterday afternoon, so his footman says, at the time in question."
"Unless the footman is lying for him," Grenville said. "Now, what about Mr. Archibald Price-Davies-who saw nothing, knows nothing? Another helpful gentleman."
"Friend of Mr. Yardley," Bartholomew said promptly. "Likes horses, don't talk of much else." He chuckled. "Got Mr. Grenville into a corner one afternoon and plagued him about nearly every horse in London, wanting his opinion and such."
Grenville grimaced. "I remember."
"So, a nuisance full of his own opinion," I said. "But a murderer?"
"Could not say, sir. Maybe if he and Mr. Inglethorpe disagreed about a horse."
"An unlikely motive for murder," I said. "Although any of them could have exchanged heated words with the man and killed him in a fit of rage."
"Mr. Price-Davies was at Tattersall's, yesterday, all day," Matthias said. "If you can believe his groom."
"Very convenient," Grenville said. "Next is Lord Clarence Dudley. I know him but only in a vague way. Different schools."
"Marquess of Ackerley's youngest brother," Bartholomew said. "Would not do anything to mar his manicure, I would say. And I hear he is an unnatural."
Grenville and I exchanged a glance. So had Inglethorpe been. Grenville said, "At the inquest, Dudley claimed to have been at home in bed until three."
"Certainly he was," Bartholomew answered, and chuckled. "His valet says with the next gent on your list."
Grenville raised his brows, consulted the paper. "Arthur Dunstan. Truly?"
"Mr. Dunstan goes about everywhere with this Lord Clarence Dudley. If you see what I mean, sir."
"No wonder they both mumbled a bit about where they'd been," Grenville said.
"Last gent I asked about is Mr. Carleton Pauling, MP," Bartholomew said.
"I know him a bit better than the others," Grenville said. "But I haven't the remotest idea whether he would kill Inglethorpe or why."
"He is a radical, sir, at least that's what everyone says," Bartholomew said. "I suppose a radical could be a murderer. Except he was in Parliament that afternoon. Plenty of people saw him there."
"Yes, so he said at the inquest," Grenville said.
A drop of ink had puddled on the C of Mr. Carleton Pauling. "So, they each have alibis," I said, "confirmed by their servants. Unless one of them is lying and has convinced their servants to lie for them."
"So where does that leave us?" Bartholomew asked after another slurp of ale.
"Nowhere," I said. "At least not yet. Bartholomew, you have done very well. Thank you. Could you and Matthias prevail again upon these gentlemen's slaveys and discover for certain whether any of the gentlemen or their servants picked up my walking stick? And whether any were acquainted with Mrs. Chapman?"
Bartholomew nodded. Matthias looked eager too, ready to render me assistance. To them, this was adventure.
There was not much more to discuss. Grenville sent Bartholomew and Matthias off, and he and I made our way to Peaches' funeral.
The sky had clouded over by the time we reached the burial ground of a church near Cavendish Square, but at least it did not rain. The vicar, who looked uninterested in the whole proceeding, waited while the mourners approached the grave.
There were not many. Mr. Chapman stood stiffly near the vicar, rigid and displeased at missing his appointments. A thin woman stood next to him, looking enough like him that I guessed she was Chapman's sister. A prim-looking gentleman waited next to her, likely the sister's husband.
I spied Lord Barbury, wearing unrelieved black, his hat pulled down to hide his eyes, standing near the railings that separated the churchyard from the street. A little way from him, in the shadow of a tree, I saw, to my surprise, Mr. Kensington. He gave me a belligerent stare.
Grenville and I stood not too near the grave, so we would not intrude on the family, but close enough to pay our respects. The vicar, conceding that no one else would appear, opened the Prayer Book and began.
He went through the lines in a hurried monotone, with the attitude of a man who wanted to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. Chapman stared at the ground, his mouth shaping the responses, while his sister and husband spoke them loudly and clearly. "Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us."
The vicar concluded the service, said the blessing, shook Mr. Chapman's hand, and disappeared into the church. The sextant silently began the task of filling in the grave.
We approached Chapman, who looked in no way pleased to see us. "My condolences, sir," I said.
"I have nothing more to say to Bow Street," he snapped.
He eyed me in an unfriendly manner, but I saw a bleak light in his eyes behind his habitual stiffness. Despite the self-righteous looks his sister and her husband wore, Chapman might actually mourn his wife.
"I did not come representing Bow Street," I said. "But to say that I am truly sorry for your loss. Mrs. Chapman was too young for such a fate."
Chapman scowled and did not answer.
Chapman's sister glanced at the sextant, who was plying his shovel to the rich, black earth. "Blood will out, I always said." She sniffed. "And it did."
Not the most tactful thing, I thought, to tell a man who had just buried his wife.
"A gentleman named Simon Inglethorpe died yesterday," I said to Chapman. "In Mayfair. You might have read of it."
"I have better things to do than read the newspapers."
"He was an acquaintance of your wife," I said. "Did you know him?"
Chapman bathed me in a freezing glare. "She apparently had many acquaintances."
"I have an idea that the same man who killed Inglethorpe also killed Mrs. Chapman."
"That is the magistrate's business."
Chapman started to walk away, but I stepped in front of him. "Your wife was murdered, sir. I would think you'd be interested in discovering the culprit."
He looked at me in dislike. "Of course I wish to discover the culprit. But I have been a barrister for many years. I know that murderers are foolish people who do foolish things to give themselves away. The Bow Street patrollers will find him soon, and then I will prosecute." He gave me and Grenville a cold bow. "Good day to you, sirs."
He took his sister's arm and stalked away. The sister's husband, silent but radiating disapproval, followed.
We watched as Chapman passed first Lord Barbury then Kensington. He made no sign that he recognized either of them.
Kensington had remained under his tree, staring toward the grave, as though lost in thought. Grenville and I held a low discussion then I made my way to Kensington, and Grenville approached Lord Barbury.
Kensington watched me as I walked to him, leaning on the walking stick. His eyes flickered when I stopped in front of him, but he stood his ground.
"You lied to me," I said.
"Do not be indignant with me, Captain. You were the one breaking the windows and the furniture in my house. You have crossed a person who does not like to be crossed. It will be costly to have the window replaced."
"I do not give a pig's ear about your window. I asked you to show me Peaches' chamber, and you took me to the wrong room."
He gave me a self-satisfied look. "Correction, Captain. You asked me to show you where she and Lord Barbury met. And I did."
"I want to see the other chamber, the one in the attics."
"You cannot, I'm afraid. It is locked, and only she had the key."
My hand tightened on my borrowed walking stick. "I do not quite believe you haven't found means to enter the room. Let us visit The Glass House and try, shall we?"