"It's important," I said, and Bartholomew loomed behind me to put in, "There's been a murder."
Mr. Gower looked somewhat more interested. "Really? And you want to prosecute? Mr. Chapman works through a chap called Sandringham, in Fetter Lane. I'll give you his direction."
"No, Mr. Gower," I said in a hard voice. "I want to talk to Mr. Chapman about the murder of his wife's lover."
Gower's freckles spread as he raised his brows. "Good lord." He looked at Bartholomew as though asking the large lad whether this were a joke, then he looked back at me. "Well, well. Did Chapman do him in?"
"Maybe," I said.
"Good lord."
"May we go up?" I asked pointedly.
Gower blinked at me, then nodded. "Yes, yes, follow me."
He led us up a flight of polished stairs, his gait agitated. He rapped briefly at a door at the top of the stairs, then pushed it open and fled before Chapman could say a word.
Chapman looked up from behind a stack of books, his graying hair awry. "I told you I did not want-"
He broke off when he saw me, his mouth remaining open. I walked inside. Bartholomew stayed in the hall but closed the door, shutting me in alone with Chapman.
"What do you want?" Chapman bristled. "I am a busy man, sir. What did my clerk mean by admitting you?"
"I am afraid I rather insisted." I dragged a chair from the wall and sat facing Chapman. The chair was hard, the upholstery frayed. "Your wife's lover is dead."
He flushed. "I know that. What of it?"
"You have heard the news, then?"
"I do read newspapers."
"Yes, you make much of your living from the sordid crime that is reported there. Where were you last night?"
He stared, puzzled. "Last night? At home, of course."
"You have witnesses to place you there?"
"Witnesses?" He rose. "See here, Captain Lacey. What are you on about?"
"Do you?" I asked.
"My housekeeper made me supper. I ate it and retired."
"What time was this supper?"
"Eleven o'clock. I am certain of that, because I arrived home at half-past ten."
"Why so late? Were you out?"
"No, I was here. I have much practice, much work to do. Not that my good-for-nothing pupil helps me. He whined that he wanted to waste time at his club with his friends, so I told him to go."
"At what time?"
"Why are you obsessed with the hours of the day, Captain?"
"Tell me, please."
Chapman came around the desk, but I remained seated. "Leave at once, sir. I do not have time for this foolishness. I have a difficult case for which I must prepare."
"Involving murder?" I asked. "Perhaps you are researching how a man might get out of hanging for a crime of passion? How to prove it was not premeditated?"
His flush deepened. "Just what are you suggesting?"
"Did you leave these chambers last night, meet Lord Barbury, and shoot him dead?"
His brow clouded. "Lord who?"
"Barbury. You saw him yesterday at your wife's funeral."
"Did I?" He looked confused.
"The tall man with the dark hair. That was Lord Barbury. Your wife's lover."
Chapman stared at me a moment longer then his face drained of all color. He crossed back to his desk and sat, his eyes fixed in frozen horror.
" He was her lover?"
"Yes. The Thames River policeman told the court all about him at Mrs. Chapman's inquest. He wasn't there himself."
But Chapman had left the room, I now remembered, before Thompson had revealed Lord Barbury's name. Lord Barbury had managed to keep his name out of any newspaper reports of Peaches' death and inquest, probably by giving healthy bribes to the right people.
I could swear that Chapman's astonishment now was genuine. Not only astonishment, shock. He had known that his wife had taken a lover but had not realized that the name of the man was Lord Barbury. I wondered just who he'd thought the lover was.
Then it struck me. "Oh, my God," I said. "You thought it was Simon Inglethorpe."
Chapman looked at me, his face blotched red, his lips white.
"You must have heard she had been going to his house in Curzon Street," I said. "You so concluded that Inglethorpe was her lover."
Chapman's breathing was ragged. "It was an accident. The man ran at me, and the sword went right through him."
I let him sit there while I envisioned the incident. I imagined Mr. Chapman approaching number 21, Curzon Street, filled with indignation, ready to dress down Inglethorpe for his improper relations with his wife. Chapman might have thought to threaten Inglethorpe with a lawsuit or perhaps he'd merely wanted to vent his feelings. Inglethorpe might have laughed at him, provoked Chapman to anger. And my swordstick was to hand…
I paused. How Inglethorpe had suddenly produced my swordstick, I still could not fathom, nor did I yet understand why he'd removed half his clothing.
"Tell me what happened," I said.
"No, I should say nothing." Chapman's hands shook.
I rose and opened the door. Bartholomew was sitting on a wooden chair, resting his muscled shoulders against the wall. I knew he'd heard every word. "Run to Bow Street," I told him. "Fetch Pomeroy if he is back from Lord Barbury's. Tell someone to send word to Sir Montague Harris in Whitechapel. Tell them both it is urgent that they come here."
Bartholomew nodded once, sprang to his feet, and dashed off.
I stayed with Chapman, who sat listlessly, forgetting about his books and everything else around him. Gower came to offer coffee, looking puzzled and very interested.
Pomeroy arrived in a remarkably short time, followed soon after by Sir Montague Harris and Thompson.
Chapman, looking defeated, told his story. Yes, he had learned from one of his maids that Mrs. Chapman was in the habit of going to a certain house in Curzon Street, owned by a wealthy gentleman called Inglethorpe, for regular visits. Mrs. Chapman would never allow the maid to follow her in, and in fact she would dismiss the maid at the door, saying she would return home alone later.
After Peaches' death, Chapman had wanted to see for himself who was this wealthy gentleman of Curzon Street. When he'd reached the house, he found the door wide open and Inglethorpe in the reception room, shirtless, for heaven's sake, and looking annoyed.
Inglethorpe had not even had the decency to pick up his coat and put it on. He'd demanded to know what Chapman wanted, very high and mighty. Chapman had accused him of being Mrs. Chapman's lover, and Inglethorpe had laughed at him.
He'd not denied that Peaches had come there regularly; she always had a marvelous time, Inglethorpe said.
A sword from a walking stick had been lying on a chair next to the door. Chapman had picked it up, uncertain why, he said. He did not really remember, but suddenly, the sword was in his hand. He'd looked down the blade at Inglethorpe, angrier than he had ever been. Inglethorpe, alarmed, had lunged for him. Chapman had held the sword steady, and the blade had pierced Inglethorpe's chest.
Inglethorpe had dropped to the floor. Chapman had let go of the sword and fled.
Chapman's voice was hollow when he finished. Thompson and Sir Montague exchanged glances. Pomeroy said, "A nice story. Now then, sir, what about your wife?"
Chapman looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Your wife, who was cuckolding you with a Mayfair gent. Did you kill her first, vowing you would kill her lover as well?"
"No, no. I did nothing to Amelia. I told you, I never saw her after the time she left my house to begin her journey to Sussex."
"Well, the jury will decide whether that's true," Pomeroy said cheerfully. "Who knows? Perhaps the gent what prosecutes you will be one of your acquaintance from Middle Temple." He chuckled.
Chapman went white. The man who had aspired to take silk would now have a King's Counsel staring at him across the courtroom at the Old Bailey, questioning his stammered explanation of how Inglethorpe had run into the swordstick.