"I don't think Chapman killed him," I continued. "He was astonished when I told him Lord Barbury had been his wife's lover. He'd been fixed on Inglethorpe."
"Why would someone other than Chapman kill Lord Barbury, in any case?" Thompson asked. "Unless Lord Barbury knew something about Mrs. Chapman's death that he hadn't revealed?"
I turned my cup around on the table. "I have toyed with the idea that Lord Barbury might have been blackmailing the killer, and the killer grew fearful or tired of it. But I do not think so. I would swear Barbury knew nothing of how Mrs. Chapman died."
"Unless he killed her himself," Sir Montague suggested. "Then remorse built up so much that he took a quick way out. Or perhaps after speaking with you and Mr. Grenville, he realized that he could not hide his guilt forever."
"Lord Barbury was a man of volatile passions," I said. "I saw that in him, and in those letters he wrote to Mrs. Chapman. I agree that he could have quarreled with Mrs. Chapman and killed her, perhaps even accidentally. Both of the bedrooms I saw had heavy brass fenders at the fireplaces. If she'd fallen and hit her head, the blow could have killed her. I did check both fenders and found no evidence of blood on either, but they could have been cleaned afterward. The one in the attic was certainly shiny."
"Well, I shall ask Mr. Kensington about those fenders, when I have him up before me," Sir Montague said, sounding happy. "I intend to arrest him before the week is out. I will need your testimony and that of the little girl, Lacey, but I will get him."
"What of Lady Jane?" I asked. I had explained about her, and what Denis had told me, on our way to see Mr. Harper.
"I've heard of her," Sir Montague said. "So far, no one has been able to fasten anything illegal to her, but that is because she's slippery, not innocent." He thought a moment. "Can Mr. Denis set us an appointment with this Lady Jane?"
"He and Lady Jane are fierce rivals," I said. "I doubt she'd let him pin her down."
"Mr. Denis might find it in his best interest to keep a magistrate happy," Sir Montague said, smiling.
"Unfortunately, that may not sway him."
"No harm in asking," Sir Montague said with good cheer. "Or we can get to her through her subordinate, although I have the feeling that when we arrest Kensington, she, the larger fish, will slip the net. I would like to do this the easy way, Captain. I do not have the manpower to scour the city for her."
I gave him a nod and promised to send word to Denis, though I was not optimistic.
Sir Montague grunted as he climbed to his feet. "I will have Mr. Harper keep me informed of who will inherit the house. I hope this person, whoever it might be, is horrified to learn it is being used as a bawdy house and closes it. And if he is of mercenary disposition and wishes the income from it, I will have a little talk with him."
Sir Montague looked buoyed. He had realized today that The Glass House's lifespan would be even shorter than he'd hoped.
"Lady Jane can simply open another house," I pointed out.
"Not if I have anything to say about it." Sir Montague stuck out his hand. "You have been of great help, Captain."
"I have done very little," I said, as we shook on it.
"Nonsense. You got yourself into The Glass House where my patrollers could not go, you found the connection between Mrs. Chapman, Lord Barbury, and The Glass House, you got Chapman to confess to the murder of Inglethorpe. Impressive work to this plodding magistrate."
"It comes from poking my nose where it does not belong."
"Yes, indeed." Sir Montague clapped me on the shoulder. "Keep it up, there's a good fellow."
Chapter Fifteen
Much happened that afternoon. When I returned home, I wrote to James Denis, telling him that Sir Montague wished to speak to Lady Jane, and it would please Sir Montague if Denis would help us find and meet with her. I doubted Denis would be impressed, but I sent the letter anyway.
I had two missives waiting for me at the bakeshop, one from Lady Breckenridge asking me to join her in her box at Covent Garden Theatre that night. The other was from Grenville who had learned of Barbury's death and was anxious to discuss it with me. I wrote my acceptance to Lady Breckenridge then journeyed with Bartholomew back across the metropolis, to be greeted by the impatient Grenville and invited to partake of yet another meal.
I ate savory chicken pastries with succulent wine sauce while I told Grenville all that had happened. He was as angry as I at Lord Barbury's death and expressed a wish to pin it on Kensington.
"I dislike Kensington," I said as I finished off the excellent dish. "He is manipulative and a liar. But he also strikes me as a coward. I can believe him killing Peaches, but Lord Barbury was large and strong, and Kensington is a small man."
"Lord Barbury was shot," Grenville pointed out.
"The gun was pressed against his head. The powder burns around the wound attest to that. I cannot imagine Lord Barbury standing still and letting Kensington shoot him. If he'd have seen Kensington coming at him with a pistol, he would have tried to fight him."
"Then he didn't see the pistol," Grenville suggested.
"But Barbury knew Kensington. He wouldn't have trusted the man for a moment. I too want Kensington to be guilty, but I am not certain he is. At least not of killing Lord Barbury."
"And Thompson is still not certain how Peaches got herself to Middle Temple Gardens?"
"And who would have noticed anyone scuttling down the streets on that afternoon?" I asked. "At just after four that day, it was raining and dark and cold. Anyone walking would have been heavily bundled against the weather-everyone looks like everyone else in such a circumstance, especially in the dark. Most people were indoors seeking warmth. Did the killer count on that, or did circumstance work in his favor?"
"Begging your pardon, sir," Bartholomew said from where he stood against the wall. "But I've thought of something." He and Matthias had taken up stations on either side of the room, waiting to serve us. It was not a footman's place to speak to his master or guest while they served-servants were supposed to be invisible. Not in Grenville's house, however, where he solicited opinions of his staff, saying he employed them for their brains as well as their service.
Bartholomew approached the table, while his brother topped off our glasses with hock. "Seems to me that we are all thinking that since poor Mrs. Chapman ended up in the river she was tossed from the banks. But what if she was in a boat already? Rowed up to the Temple and heaved over the side? Or, since she fetched up under Blackfriar's Bridge, why not put in the river right there? The murderer might figure she'd wash far away downstream before anyone found her. His bad luck she stuck under the bridge."
He had a point. Boatmen and others did go up and down the river all the time, scavenging for articles that they could sell or keep. They could be paid to transport people, if you wanted to share a boat with a smelly, ragged man and his family.
I remembered standing on the Temple steps, reflecting how the river used to be the main artery of travel in days gone by. Two hundred years ago, men had rarely moved about the city on horseback or foot or in any kind of conveyance. With the river handy, they'd had no need to.
"A long way to row from The Glass House to the Temple Gardens," Grenville said. "Upstream."
"Maybe, sir, he was afraid that if Mr. Thompson figured out she went in by London Bridge or below that, he'd connect her more easily with The Glass House," Bartholomew said. "If she went in by Middle Temple, she'd be more connected to her husband. Maybe The Glass House would never be mentioned."
"And wouldn't have been," Matthias added, putting the stopper in the decanter and licking a bit of spilled hock from his thumb, "if the murderer had noticed her wearing his lordship's ring and took it from her."