I refolded the last letter and sat lost in thought. Suppose Chapman had discovered this place and his wife's duplicity-would it have driven him to murder? He would certainly have had reason to be incensed. Peaches and Barbury had been conducting a most intense affair.
True, Chapman had produced a witness to swear that he was dining during the hour his wife met her death, but I could not cross Chapman off the list of suspects yet. Of anyone, he had the greatest motive, and Peaches had been thrown into the river very close to Middle Temple Hall.
Likewise, I still could not dismiss Lord Barbury. Like Chapman, he'd had witnesses to his presence at White's at the time in question, but he could have hired someone to carry out the murder. When Peaches had turned from Lord Barbury the first time, his letters had been sad but understanding. However, other letters had shown a fiery, hot-blooded man-a man who very much desired a woman and was almost ill with despair when he could not see her.
If Peaches had told him she wanted to end their relationship a second time, could Barbury have been provoked to murder? Possibly. Many murders were committed out of jealousy and anger; the newspapers were full of such stories.
I stacked the letters together, laid them on the desk, and opened another drawer. I found there another letter, unfolded and unfinished, lying atop a neat stack of blank paper.
This letter was in a different hand and addressed to "My dearest, funny, sweetest Bear." Peaches had called Barbury "Bear," Jean had said. Not the salutation of a woman to a man she planned to leave.
We will have two delicious weeks together, she wrote, when we can pretend that we belong totally and completely to one another. Oh, my darling, my heart beats faster with thought of days and nights in your presence, where you may touch my hand or my cheek any time as though I was yours forever and ever. And nights-how I long to be with you in the dark all night long, without fearing the clock and the dawn.
She went on for a few paragraphs in this vein, excitement and desire pouring from her pen. She never mentioned Inglethorpe, or her husband, or her method for deceiving Chapman. Why she'd never finished the letter nor sent it, I didn't learn from her words.
The clean papers beneath the page were smooth and free of indentation. I toyed with the idea that Kensington had come in and removed a second page of the letter, one that incriminated him of her murder, leaving only the top page for me to find.
If he had, he'd removed any blank sheets that might have been under it to catch the indentation. The letter stopped a good two inches above the end of the page. Peaches likely had only written that much, then tucked the paper into the drawer to finish later.
I folded it over on itself, hiding the excited, happy words, and laid it with the rest of the letters.
I found nothing else in the writing desk or in my continued search of the room. Finishing, I seated myself on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed, my hand on my borrowed walking stick, and looked about me.
Peaches had lived here and loved here. Had she died here?
Again, I had seen nothing that obviously pointed to her murder, but Kensington could easily have removed any evidence. I still did not much believe he did not have a separate key.
I found it strange that the house had this one oasis of calm, where Peaches had found refuge. I had expected the room to be a terrible place, a prison, but it felt more like a sanctuary. Peaches had had this one place of her own, in which she could lock out her husband, Kensington, and even her lover if she chose.
I stayed there for a time, listening to the faint sounds of traffic outside, then I rose and gathered up the letters. There was a fairly large bundle, but I took them all. I gave the room one last look, descended to the ground floor of the house, and bade the doorman run and fetch a hackney coach for me.
The doorman was ill disposed to help me at all, but Kensington appeared and told the man to do what I said.
Kensington eyed the bundle of letters while I waited. "Finished prying, Captain?"
"For now." I gave him a cold look. "Tell me, what exactly were you to Peaches, all those years ago, when she was a girl just going on the stage?"
Kensington smiled. "A friend, I hope."
"What did you do for her? And what did you make her do for you?"
"I resent your implication, Captain. I managed to introduce Amelia to a company of players, to get her a part on a stage, to expose her to people with influence. That is all."
"She did not like you."
He waved that away. "She was young, with a head full of romantic notions. The ladies, you know."
"If I discover you murdered her," I said, my voice steady, "may God have mercy on you."
Kensington's eyes flickered the slightest bit and his bravado faltered. He was not exactly afraid of me, but he was uncertain. I liked that.
A hackney coach rolled to a stop in front of the door just then, and I departed with my treasures.
It was a long, slow, cold ride back to Covent Garden. We wound through the City to Fleet Street, then through the Temple Bar and onto the Strand and so to Grimpen Lane. It was dark by the time I climbed the stairs to my rooms.
Bartholomew was there, tidying, brushing my regimentals again for my evening meal with Grenville and Lord Barbury. I bade him find me a box for the letters, and he returned from the attics with a small one of rough wood, into which the letters just fit. I would return them to Lord Barbury to do with what he liked.
When Bartholomew deemed the regimentals ready for me, he helped me into them. Before I'd finished fastening the cords on my coat, someone knocked at the door. Bartholomew went to answer, then returned to tell me that Mrs. Beltan, my landlady, was asking for me.
"It's Mrs. Brandon, sir," Mrs. Beltan said when I reached the front room. "She's downstairs and would like a word."
I descended after Mrs. Beltan to the bakeshop in some disquiet. Louisa usually thought nothing of walking upstairs to my rooms, leaving her footman to gnaw bread in Mrs. Beltan's shop. That she'd chosen to send Mrs. Beltan upstairs for me worried me somewhat.
The shop was full of customers at this time of day, including Louisa's footman, who, as usual, was chewing on a pastry. Mrs. Beltan led me to the little parlor behind the shop, let me in, and closed the door, leaving me and Louisa alone.
Louisa awaited me in a room that reminded me of Mrs. Beltan herself: plump and cozy and old fashioned. Cushions covered nearly every flat surface, cushions that were fat and tasseled, thin and embroidered, plump and plush. They were piled on the Turkish couch, the two chairs, the window sill, and the shelves of a cupboard.
Louisa sat on the Turkish couch and did not rise when I entered. She looked tired, I thought. Very tired.
I went to her and raised her hands from her lap. She did not protest when I pressed a light kiss to each, but she kept her fingers loosely curled.
"Louisa, what is it? Are you all right?"
"I do beg your pardon, Gabriel," Louisa said, voice weary. "I did not mean to worry you. I've only come to ask you for a favor."
"You know I would do anything for you."
"Good. Then I will ask you to please cease baiting my husband."
She looked up at me, and I stilled. In her eyes was something I had never seen before. She was not angry. She had gone beyond that.
"He is easy to bait, Louisa," I said lightly. "He has no imagination."
"I know. He is as stubborn as you are."
I released her hands. "Thank you very much."
"You can stop this, Gabriel. You simply will not."
I took a step back and let out a bitter laugh. "You would like me to pretend that things are well and mended, as we did all last autumn? That was not easy, as you must have known. I am pleased that Brandon and I have returned to normal."