"That would not have hidden things for long," Grenville said. "Lady Breckenridge, for example, knew that Mrs. Chapman was Barbury's mistress. Barbury would have been questioned eventually, and the connection to The Glass House revealed."
Bartholomew shrugged. "Maybe the murderer didn't think of that. He was panicked and hauled off her corpse, supposing everyone would think her husband had done her in. Husbands usually do. Or wives their husbands."
I ignored this optimistic view of marriage and drank deeply of hock. "It is an interesting theory," I said. "But how much time would it take to go upstream from London Bridge to Blackfriar's Bridge in a boat? Peaches died at about half-past four. She was in the river a few hours before she was found at eight o'clock. Does the time fit?"
"One way of finding out, I suppose," Bartholomew said.
Grenville looked at the faces of his two eager footman, glanced back at his wine, and groaned. "Oh, no. Why do I think I know what you're going to say?"
I suppressed a smile. "It is a possibility," I said. "But I hate to send Thompson questioning all the boatmen up and down the river if it proves to be a false one."
Grenville looked pained, then he sighed. "Oh, very well. I will ask Gautier to prepare a suit appropriate for riding in a fisherman's boat."
I doubted the wisdom of Bartholomew's plan once we were out on the water. It was not raining, and the clouds had cleared a bit, but the wind was sharp. It was just a mile between Blackfriar's Bridge and London Bridge, but the current was strong and the boat full.
The boatman we hired seemed oblivious to the cold and the wind. He took one look at the gold guineas Grenville offered him and shuffled us into his boat. His wife stood on the bank, hands on hips, and watched while her husband and son pushed us off.
The boatman bent his back to the oars, while Grenville sat in the bows, watch in hand. The man's son, a spindly lad of twelve years, manned the tiller. The river was dense with traffic, boats scuttling this way and that, fishermen hauling nets in and out, the occasional large vessel moving silently upriver, carrying goods to the upper Thames or to the narrow barges that would traverse the canals.
The boatman and his son skittered around and out of the way of other craft with the ease of long experience, but still the going was slow. Matthias had professed an aversion to boats and had remained with Grenville's coach near London Bridge. Halfway along our journey, I, hunkering into my coat, envied Matthias. No doubt he'd found a warm tavern or a corner out of the wind where he could play dice and swap gossip with the coachman.
The smell from the river was not nice. I could not help thinking of the wide open meadows of Spain and Portugal, warm and sweet under the summer sun. I thought of sleepy towns with brick plazas and people sauntering about their business in no hurry. Those places had been bright and warm and beautiful, a sharp contrast to the gray of London.
After a time, the arches of Blackfriar's Bridge drew near. We passed the place where the waterman had fished Peaches' body from the river and so on under the shadow of the bridge. The smell grew intense. Refuse clung to the stones and pilings under the bridge, and rats swarmed everywhere.
"Take you in here?" the boatman asked, the first words he'd spoken since we'd entered the boat.
Grenville studied his watch. "A little farther, to the Temple Stairs."
The boatman grunted. The boy swung the tiller, and we moved slowly toward the Temple Stairs, which lay not far west of the bridge.
In a few minutes, the boat bumped the slime-coated steps, and the boatman's boy sprang off, holding the boat in place with a line. Bartholomew stepped off first then gave his hand to Grenville, then me. I slipped a little on the step, but Bartholomew's rock solid arm kept me from falling.
Grenville had returned his watch to his pocket. "Forty-five minutes," he told me.
No one had been terribly precise about the times of Peaches' movements that day. Lady Breckenridge had her leaving Inglethorpe's a little past four. Jean thought she saw Peaches in The Glass House at half past. Thompson put her death at half past, but the doctor had said anywhere between four and five. There was enough discrepancy that she could well have reached the Temple Gardens before she died. Or she could have died at half past and been brought here, as Bartholomew suggested.
"It could have been done," I said. "Winding through town in a hackney would likely have taken even longer."
"Are you wanting to go back?" the boatman asked.
Grenville looked a question, and I shook my head. I was quite ready to be free of the chill river. "I can walk to my digs from here."
Grenville handed the boatman his payment. "Go back and tell my coachman I went home with Captain Lacey. He will give you another shilling."
The man took the guineas; they vanished quickly into his pocket.
Before he departed, I asked him, "Did anyone else ask to be taken upriver to the Temple Stairs last Monday? Perhaps one or two people?"
The boatman shrugged. "Never heard of it."
The lad looked hopefully at me. "I can ask, sir." No doubt visions of more shiny coins danced in his head.
"No," I said quickly. The last thing I wanted was someone silencing an innocent boy for asking the wrong questions. "But, if you happen to hear of anything, send word. Ask for Captain Lacey in the rooms above the bakeshop in Grimpen Lane, off Covent Garden."
"Right you are, sir," the boy said.
The boatman looked less interested, but he nodded a farewell and picked up his oars again.
Grenville, Bartholomew, and I trudged up the steps to the Temple Garden. If any of the pupils and barristers walking purposefully about were surprised to see us emerge from the river, they made no sign. The clouds had parted today, rendering the garden a refreshing bright green, with the bare trees making delicate patterns against the sky.
The only pupil who noticed us was the tall, gangly Mr. Gower, whose face brightened as he waved to us.
"Well met, Captain." He grinned, more cheerful than on any occasion I'd seen him previously. "So, you got old Chapman arrested for murder. Never thought he had it in him."
"What happens to you?" I asked. "You are out a mentor."
"Had a stroke of luck there. A gentleman of the Inner Temple, a silk no less, announced he would take a pupil, just today. I ran to him at once, and he said he'd take me on. Not because he thinks I'll make a great barrister, but because I'm tall and will look impressive in court." He grinned, freckles dancing. "Sir William Pankhurst's a fine orator and takes only the most interesting cases. Perhaps he'll even prosecute Chapman. Wouldn't that be a lark? With me assisting?"
I found his callousness a bit distasteful, but he was young, and he'd had no love for Chapman.
"Congratulations are in order then," I said. I turned to Grenville and introduced him. Gower's eyes widened.
"You are Mr. Grenville?" He stuck out his hand. "I am honored, sir, truly honored. You won't forget the name of Gower, will you? In case you need assistance prosecuting in a court of law some day."
Grenville bowed and said he wouldn't forget.
"Perhaps you could adjourn to that tavern you mentioned before?" I asked. "For a celebratory ale?"
Gower shook his head. "I cannot, Captain. Sir William has me on a close tether. No more nipping out to the tavern or onto the green for a cheroot." He grinned. "Everything has its price."
I chuckled with him then a thought struck me. "You didn't happen to nip out to smoke a cheroot on Monday evening last, did you? When you were supposed to be dining in the hall?"
He stopped, then blushed. "Perhaps. I have been known to do so from time to time."
"While you were enjoying your smoke, did you notice anyone coming up the Temple Stairs, as we did just now? A man, perhaps?"