"Your cousin, Charlotte, knew who killed her," I said.
Beauchamp began to stammer. "Matilda wasn't murdered. It was an accident. She fell and hit her head."
"Or perhaps Charlotte did not know; I cannot say. But your attentions must have frightened Charlotte. So much so that she fled you, in a manner that makes it impossible for you to pursue her and bring her back."
Beauchamp gave me a pleading look. "We took Charlotte in, we gave her a home. How could she have done this? We were her family."
His bleating was pathetic, but I hardened my heart. "I imagine your wife's pretty young cousin was a great temptation for you. An intelligent and beautiful girl would be much more satisfying than a silly maid. And close at hand, under your own roof. You'd need no secret trysts in hedgerows. Did you seduce Charlotte? Or threaten her if she did not comply?"
Beauchamp sucked in his breath. "How do you know this? Charlotte must have told you."
"Your wife gave me her letters. You sent a boy after me to steal and destroy them. You feared that Charlotte might have written some hint, left some clue of what you had done to her."
Beauchamp clasped his hands against his ample belly. "You must not tell my wife. She is a gentle creature. It will break her heart. Please, I beg of you."
I went on ruthlessly. "What happened in the woods that night? Did you tell Matilda you'd found better? Perhaps Matilda did not want to leave so quietly. Perhaps she threatened to make a fuss. And you grew alarmed, and struck out."
Tears trickled down his cheeks. "No, it truly was an accident, I swear it. Matilda wanted me to run away with her. She started to screech and cry. I tried to make her stop. She started to run away, but she stumbled and fell. I heard her head crack on a rock. I tried to help her, but her head was covered with blood, and she had stopped breathing. I could not take her home; could not explain."
I thrust the parcel back into his hands. "Explain it to Lord Sommerville. He is a reasonable man."
Beauchamp wiped his eyes. "Will I ever see Charlotte again?"
"I rather doubt it. Tell your wife the truth, all of it. She will understand why Charlotte isn't coming back."
I turned away from him. Grenville, his face white, waited while I climbed back into the carriage.
"Please, gentlemen."
Grenville ascended behind me, and his footman, shocked and trying to hide it, shut the door. I looked out of the window at Beauchamp, weeping beneath me.
"Go home," I said.
Grenville rapped on the roof of the carriage, and the coachman drove on.
"Are you going to tell Sommerville?" Grenville eyed me sternly. "If you don't, I will."
I leaned back against the sumptuous cushions, suddenly exhausted and wanting to be done with it. "I'll write Sommerville tonight and post it in the morning. I want to give Beauchamp time to confess. If he has an ounce of honor, he will take the blame and leave his wife out of it."
"If he has any honor at all, he will already be dead," Grenville said.
I wondered if the man with the rabbity eyes would have the courage to put a pistol to his own head and save his wife the pain of his trial and the public knowledge of his betrayal. "I wish I knew if he had. It is up to him now."
As we made our way back to London, my tiredness lifted somewhat, and I told Grenville about my second visit to Denis and what I'd decided about his involvement in Jane Thornton's abduction. I did not much want to talk about it, but I'd learned my lesson. If I hadn't written Grenville that rude and angry letter, and if he hadn't been magnanimous enough to forgive my idiotic pride and come looking for me, I'd probably be resting at the bottom of the Thames, Black Nancy with me.
Grenville was eager to interview Jemmy with me, but I told him I needed to run another errand, one I'd rather do alone. He did not ask me what, but he regarded me sharply as I descended the carriage.
What I had to face next pained me beyond thought. I left home shortly after dark and traveled to the house near St. Paul's Churchyard. As before, I was shown to an upstairs parlor, and Josette Martin met me there.
She came forward and took my hand, lamplight shining on the thick braids of her nearly black hair.
"Captain Lacey. I am pleased to see you again. Will you sit?"
I remained standing, holding her hand. "When do you leave for France?"
She looked at me in surprise. "A week today. Why?"
"Can you leave tomorrow? Will Aimee be well enough to travel?"
"Tomorrow? I am not certain."
"Even if she isn't, I advise you to take Aimee and start for France immediately."
"Why, Captain? I do not understand."
I led Josette toward the worn divan and drew her to sit facing me. The room smelled faintly of old flowers, overlaid with the slightly stuffy scent of a room whose windows had long been closed.
"Because I know who killed Josiah Horne," I said. "In all conscience, and following duty, I ought to tell someone everything I know."
Josette's face drained of color. "Please explain what you mean."
"The Runners arrested Bremer, the butler. He went to Newgate, but he died before he came to trial. They are satisfied. But Bremer didn't kill Mr. Horne."
Her beautiful eyes shied from mine. "You cannot know that. How can you?"
I held her hands gently. "Alice must have told you that she believed Aimee was a captive in Horne's house. She had no proof, but you did not let that stop you, did you? Going to the front door would not help the Thorntons and Alice, so you decided to approach through the kitchens. You began making deliveries to the Horne household, possibly offering a greengrocer or seamstress your services."
"I did nothing, sir," she said weakly.
"I'd been so concerned about who'd entered Horne's house through the front door that day, that it never occurred to me to worry about who went in through the scullery. But the lad who lives next door to Horne saw you. You'd started making deliveries, he said, about four weeks earlier-right after Alice and Mr. Thornton discovered that Jane was living with Horne.
"The lad next door spent the day of the murder looking out of the window, waiting for his tutor, who never arrived. He told me that two delivery men and a woman with a basket had gone down the kitchen stairs and entered the house. I thought nothing of it, and neither did he. That day, at last, you must have been able to go from the kitchens to the study upstairs. I imagine no one noticed you in that chaotic household. Am I right?"
Josette pressed her hands to her face, tears leaking from her beautiful eyes. "She did not mean to do it. Aimee was so frightened. And so desperate. She just struck out. She did not even know."
Chapter Twenty-Five
I waited, my heart heavy, until Josette's weeping quieted. When she looked up at me, her black lashes were wet with tears.
I said quietly, "You found Aimee in the study when you entered it."
She nodded. "He was on the carpet, with the knife in his chest, and Aimee lay in a swoon beside him. It had happened only moments before I arrived. Aimee did not even realize what she'd done. He'd taken her from the wardrobe where he'd locked her that day. The knife had been lying on the desk-I suppose he used it for opening letters or cutting open books. She simply picked it up and struck him with it. There was very little blood. A little on her hand; that was all."
"If it is done correctly, a blow like that does not bleed much."
"But I knew that if Aimee was found there, she would hang. No matter what the man Horne had done to her, it would be Aimee who paid." Fire burned in the depths of her beautiful eyes. "I could not let that happen."
"No," I agreed. "You could not. So you wiped off her hands, renewed the bonds on her wrists, and locked her back into the wardrobe. Aimee was frightened enough and confused enough to obey you. You knew that she would likely be found after the murder was discovered, and of course no one would suspect her, when her hands were tied so tightly and the wardrobe was locked from the outside. If they didn't find her, you would return to the house as the concerned aunt, looking for her. It must have been difficult to leave her."