"I read the letter she wrote to you," I told Lord Barbury. "Mrs. Chapman sounded excited about deceiving her husband into thinking she would be in Sussex, but she did not elaborate upon the deception. Did she tell you her plans?"
Barbury shook his head. "She sent me a message on Sunday, asking me to come to The Glass House. When I arrived, she told me that she'd tricked her husband into letting her leave for a fortnight. I was pleased. She begged for us to attend Inglethorpe's gathering the next day, but I said I could not." He drew a sharp breath. "I'd already set an appointment to meet Alvanley at White's to talk about a horse I wanted to buy from him. And then I planned to attend Mr. Grenville's soiree. I told her I'd meet her after that. I thought- " Barbury broke off, pressing his hand to his eyes. "I thought we'd have plenty of time."
Grenville tactfully sipped port, and I studied the hieroglyphs again.
Once Barbary had recovered himself a bit, I asked him, "Did Mrs. Chapman speak of planning to meet anyone else for any reason that day? At The Glass House, or elsewhere?"
Barbury shook his head again, his eyes moist. "No. She chattered on as usual but of nothing significant. She did not mention anyone else."
I traced a hieroglyph that looked like a horned snake. "She wanted to go to Inglethorpe's, you say. Do you know why? Did she mention someone she wanted to speak to there?"
"No. I tell you, she said nothing. She enjoyed Inglethorpe's laughing gas, that is all."
"Did she ever speak much to, or about, the other gentlemen who went there?" I named the five who had attended Inglethorpe's gathering the same day I had. "Or Lady Breckenridge?"
"Never. We kept ourselves to ourselves, Captain. Peaches found Lady Breckenridge rude and a bit stuck up. But she liked Inglethorpe. She talked to Inglethorpe, and she talked to me, and that was all."
"You made an arrangement to meet at The Glass House after the soiree," I said, thinking it through. "Mrs. Chapman went to Inglethorpe's by herself then returned to The Glass House, alone, by all accounts, at sometime after four o'clock that day. She was heard arguing with Kensington-or at least he was shouting at her-then she departed by the back door, never to be seen again."
"Lacey," Grenville said quietly. Barbury's throat worked as he studied his port.
"I beg your pardon," I said to Barbury. "I am only trying to decide what happened."
Lord Barbury looked up at me, a spark of anger in his eyes. "I know you must believe I killed her, Lacey. That I met her in my carriage near The Glass House and took her to the Temple Gardens to murder her. But I swear to you I did not. I would never have hurt her, gentlemen, never. I loved her dearly. She was my life."
He bowed his head again. I wanted to question him further, but Grenville caught my eye and shook his head, and I fell silent.
In my mood tonight, I squarely blamed Lord Barbury for Peaches' death, whether or not he had struck the fatal blow. He had treated her carelessly, and she had suffered for it. I knew, watching him, pale and wretched, that Barbury realized that truth as well.
After Lord Barbury departed half an hour later, Grenville blew out his breath.
"Poor devil," he said. "I am certain he did not do it, Lacey. Alvanley and several others put him at White's between three and six o'clock that day. He certainly was nowhere near The Glass House or Middle Temple."
"I agree that he was at White's," I answered. "But powerful men can hire others to do work that would soil their hands. Remember Mr. Horne of Hanover Square."
He grimaced. "Yes, he was sordid enough. I suppose your Thompson or Pomeroy are trying to discover whether Barbury or Chapman hired a man to kill her."
"Thompson is thoughtful and thorough. If there is such a connection, I imagine he will find it, eventually." I drank some port and pushed the glass aside. "There is one more person I would like to speak to, who might have known Peaches. An independent witness, if you like."
Grenville looked puzzled "I can think of no one. Whom do you mean?"
"Marianne Simmons," I said.
Color suffused his face. "I see."
"Is she still in your house in Clarges Street? Or has she legged it?"
Grenville's flush deepened. "Oh, she is still there. At least, as far as I know." He rotated his glass, catching candlelight in the tawny liquid.
"Marianne has been on the stage ten years at least," I said. "She is bound to have known Peaches at one time or other. She might be able to tell me something about Peaches' past-who she knew, what her connections were. Something we might have overlooked."
"Yes, I understand," Grenville said, his voice strained. "Very well, let us visit her. We will go on the moment if you like."
I did like, and so we finished off our port and left the dining room.
I ought to have known, of course, that Lucius Grenville could not simply shrug a greatcoat over his evening clothes and dash out to his carriage. The suit he wore was meant for dining indoors, and he had to redress to go out into the rain.
I accompanied him upstairs, and he summoned his valet, Gautier, who began to dress him with exquisite care. As I watched Gautier help Grenville into a new frock coat, Bartholomew came looking for me. He handed me a folded and sealed letter.
"Fellow delivered this for you."
The paper was heavy, expensive, and had no writing on the outside. "Why was it brought it here?" I asked in surprise.
"Don't know, sir. The fellow scarpered before I could find out."
Grenville watched me in his cheval mirror, his arms stuck straight out while Gautier brushed off the coat. The mirror had one rectangular pane of glass that moved up and down with counterweights, depending on which part of himself Grenville wanted to view.
I broke the seal and unfolded the paper. Something that had been inside it fluttered to the floor. I leaned down and picked up what had fallen, then stared at it, my fingers growing numb.
I dragged my gaze back to the letter. Only one line was scratched across the page.
"Damn," I said fiercely as I read it. I crumpled both papers in my fists. "Damn it all to hell."
Grenville, Bartholomew, and Gautier stared at me in surprise.
The paper that had fallen was my note of hand with the moneylender. It had been paid, all three hundred guineas of the debt cleared.
On the other sheet had been written in careful script: "With the compliments of Mr. James Denis."
Grenville tried to stop me racing away to confront Denis on the moment, but I would not be swayed.
"Lacey," he said hurrying down the stairs after me. "You cannot burst into Denis' house and wave your fist under his nose."
I did not care. James Denis had been playing a game with me for nearly a year now, devising tricks to draw me more and more under his obligation.
He wanted to own me, he'd said, because he saw me as a threat to him. Denis had located Louisa when she'd gone missing, learned the whereabouts of my estranged wife, given me information that had helped me solve not one but two murders, and now had paid my creditors.
Grenville at least persuaded me to let him accompany me, along with Bartholomew and Matthias. We rode in silence to number 45, Curzon Street, and I descended before Denis' tall, elegant house.
I thought that Denis' minions would stop me at the door, but I was admitted at once. Grenville and his footmen, on the other hand, were told to wait. Grenville began to argue, while Bartholomew and Matthias bulked menacingly behind him.
I left them to it and strode up the stairs after Denis' footman, who stood taller than Bartholomew and had a face like a pitted slab of granite.
The footman did not take me to the study in which I usually spoke to James Denis. He led me instead to a small, empty sitting room coldly furnished with blue and gold French chairs. The window was covered with heavy blue draperies that gave the room a somber air and cut out all noise from outside.