Chapter 28
The Death of an Admiral
“… but I have never been satisfied. I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared.”
Jane Austen, Persuasion
Adam did not wait for carriage or horse to take him from the Kinsdales’ house to the City police station.
He walked, almost ran, shoving his way through the morning crowds.
The whole way, he cursed himself for not having asked any questions when Layng said there’d been a second death.
Some part of him tried to insist that Bath was a lively city, and he’d had no reason to suspect that two deaths could possibly be related.
Indeed, Rosalind would ever-so-gently laugh at him for his self-deprecation. But he felt it all the same.
“He was found in the small hours by another lodger at the private hotel where he stayed,” Casselmaine had said. “It’s a place much favored by sailors staying in Bath.”
Casselmaine had had no other details. His only thought had been to get back to the Kinsdales before they could hear of the murder by some other means. Adam could not truly fault him for such a response, but he was immensely frustrated all the same.
When Adam had been an officer with Bow Street, he had spent a good amount of time in Bath. It was one of the watering places of the haut ton, and the royals, after all, which meant that every so often officers were sent in an attempt to clear out the worst of the pickpockets and cut purses.
Policing in Bath, like in London, was a patchwork affair.
There were essentially three separate police forces—the Walcot police, the City police, and the Bathwick police.
Each patch of ground was practically the personal fiefdom of the station’s commissioner.
Mr. Layng worked from the offices of the City police, Adam knew, and frequently held the inquests in the public house across the street.
Adam was so lost in his own thoughts and the flood of questions that he wasn’t watching where he was going, and crashed into the large, Black man coming the other way.
Adam looked up, his mouth open to apologize, but froze dead.
“Goutier!” he cried.
“Harkness!”
The men clasped hands eagerly.
Sampson Goutier was the newest of Bow Street’s tiny cadre of principle officers.
He had, in fact, been promoted to replace Adam when Adam walked away from the office and the station.
He was a towering Black man whose parents had come to London via the Caribbean and Paris.
When Adam was still with Bow Street, they had worked together closely and the two had remained friends since.
“What brings you to Bath?” Adam asked.
Goutier laughed. “The races, what else would it be? Some of the royal dukes are planning to come for the week, and we’re meant to have the pickpockets cleared out before they do. But what of you?” He slapped Adam’s arm. “When’s the wedding?”
“September, we think. You and Sal will come to the wedding breakfast?”
“Nothing could keep us away. Send word when the date is settled.”
“How are things at the station?”
Goutier shook his head. “Mr. Townsend is … distracted, let’s say. With the various outbursts of unrest around the country, he’s becoming convinced that we are due for some sort of dangerous uprising in London. Between you and me, I’m concerned it’s coloring his thinking.”
Adam nodded. John Townsend was the head of the Bow Street Police Station.
For the most part, he was a sound and experienced man, but he believed very firmly in established order, and distrusted those who questioned it.
Especially those who might give public voice to their dissatisfaction.
This tendency, and his willingness to ignore the law to enforce it, were among the reasons that Adam had resigned from Bow Street.
“But never mind that,” Goutier was saying.
“I’m on my way to meet Tauton. He’ll be glad to see you, too.
” Sam Tauton was one of Bow Street’s most senior officers.
He was legendary for his memory for faces and his creative, and sometimes brutal, ways to deal with pickpockets. “Will you walk with me?”
“I need to speak with Layng,” said Adam. “There’s been a shooting.”
“Walsingham. Yes. We’ve heard.”
“What has he said?”
“Inquest is tomorrow, along with this other fellow—”
“Sir Anthony Kinsdale,” supplied Adam.
Goutier narrowed his eyes. “You’re not involved in that?”
“Up to my hips,” answered Adam. “Miss Thorne as well.”
“Well, well. But why ask after the admiral?”
“He was Sir Anthony’s tenant. The admiral and his wife rented the Kinsdales’ country house.”
“Did they, b’ghad?” breathed Goutier. “Does Layng know that?”
“If he doesn’t, I mean to tell him.” Adam hesitated. “What’s he said to you about the admiral?”
Goutier looked over his shoulder briefly.
“He said it was likely an attempted robbery gone wrong. Probably some hooligan made the mistake of brandishing a pistol at a navy man, and it ended in tragedy. He’s going to send an express rider to the widow, and he wants the body ready to go home with her before she arrives in Bath. ”
“Has he been to the man’s lodgings? Talked to anyone?”
Goutier shrugged irritably. “He talked to the landlady at the hotel, and the fellow who all but tripped over him, but nothing more.”
Adam let all this sink in. “Goutier, I need a favor, and it’s got to be quick.”
“What is it?”
“Can you get me a look at the admiral?” If Layng was in a hurry to have the matter tidied away, he might or might not be willing to give Adam the time he’d need to ask extra questions.
Goutier stared at him and then shook his head. “God’s legs, man, you never let up.”
Adam raised his brows and Goutier chuckled.
“All right. Body’s in the station’s cellar, but when you’re done, you’re meeting me and Tauton over at the King’s Swan across the way and telling us the whole story.”
“There’s a bargain.” Adam clasped Goutier’s hand.
“Cellar door’s off the alley,” Goutier told him.
“I’m in your debt.”
“Again.” Goutier smiled.
“Again,” agreed Adam.
Adam left his friend and strode out into the street.
He kept his gait purposeful, but not hurrying.
When he reached the corner he turned, and turned again, heading up the next street, until he got to the back of the station house.
Adam trotted down the area stairs. The cellar door was closed.
He pushed the handle experimentally, and it swung open reluctantly on rusted hinges.
Goutier had evidently already nicked down, unbolted the door, and nicked out again. Adam grinned and said a quick prayer of thanks to the fates for letting him run into his old friend.
Admiral Walsingham’s corpse lay uncovered on a trestle table made from planks that had been laid across a pile of packing crates. His clothing was all askew, showing that Mr. Layng had indeed conducted some examination.
The light was dim. Adam didn’t dare take the time to light one of the lanterns that stood nearby.
But once his eyes adjusted, he was able to take in the details.
A gun shot did abominable things to a man.
From the sheer size of the wound, the person who fired the shot had been close.
The shooter had either been lucky, or steady about his business, because the hole was in the exact center of the admiral’s broad chest. The man would have been dead before his body fell.
But something’s wrong.
Adam steeled himself, and looked more closely at the wound. He frowned. He searched the corpse for other wounds or bruises, but found none.
Adam found a piece of sacking and wiped his hands. Then, he left by the same door he’d entered through, circled the block once again, and walked back into the station through the narrow front entrance.
A constable directed Adam to a cramped office on the second floor. The windows had been thrown open to catch the morning air and Mr. Layng sat at his desk, writing in a great ledger.
“Ah, Harkness.” Layng glanced up when Adam walked in. “Do you have those statements on the Kinsdale matter?”
“No, sir. But—”
“No, sir?” Layng cocked a skeptical eye at him. “Then you’ve found your missing lady?”
“Not yet, sir, but—”
“But what?” Layng made an impatient gesture with two fingers.
“I’ve come to ask about Admiral Walsingham.”
“Eh?” Layng dropped his pen into the inkwell and rubbed his eyes.
“Oh, yes. Bad business, that. Can see why you’d want to know.
Well, fortunately it’s nothing to do with Sir Anthony.
Fellow was shot dead in an alley. Purse and pocketbook stolen.
So, we’ve a hooligan out there someplace who’d better hope his fence doesn’t peach on him, or he’s for the gallows.
” Layng dipped his pen in the inkpot and made another note in his ledger.
“But there’s some complications,” said Adam. “The admiral was Sir Anthony’s tenant, and Sir Anthony was planning to evict him and his wife.”
“Poor fellow!” said Layng. “Come on business and got himself in the way of some fool with a pistol and no sense at all. Perhaps wherever he’s gone he can gain some satisfaction in the fact that Sir Anthony’s been foiled in his plan to displace the family.” Layng chuckled at his own grim joke.
“Surely, we have to ask if their deaths are related.”
“Why?” For the first time since Adam walked in, Layng looked directly at him. “Do you think your Mrs. Lynn pushed Sir Anthony out his window, and then went out and shot the admiral?”
“I don’t know,” said Adam. “But it may be.”
Now Layng was staring at him. “It may be?” he echoed.
“And I suppose it may also be that Walsingham crept into the house, knocked Sir Anthony on the head, and shoved him out the window, and then got himself shot on the way home from that particular murderous deed.” He paused, waiting for Adam’s answer with theatrical patience.
“I don’t suppose you have a witness that could speak to this possibility? One of the servants perhaps?”
“The servants have left the house,” Adam told him. “They’d not been paid and decided they wanted nothing more to do with the place, or the family.”
“And the daughters? What do they say? Did they see or hear anything?”
“They witnessed the quarrel between Admiral Walsingham and Sir Anthony. As did I,” said Adam. “As did Mrs. Lynn. And they heard the admiral accuse Sir Anthony of playing some game when it came to the horse races. Possibly, he thought Sir Anthony was cheating.”
Layng sighed. “Harkness, I know your reputation. You’re a good man. Sir David says it, and even old Townsend admits it, despite the fact that you tweaked his nose with your resignation. But I won’t have any man come to me and start spinning stories when he’s got no witness to back up what he says!”
“I’ve had no time to find witnesses yet,” said Adam.
“Well, both inquests are tomorrow,” said Layng. “Three o’clock sharp. Bring me your witnesses before then and we’ll hear what they have to say.”
Adam was hard pressed not to gape at him. Layng saw his surprise, and gave out another great, loud sigh.
“This isn’t London, Mr. Harkness. Bath is a simpler place and things here tend to be exactly what they look like.
Men get drunk and fall because they get drunk and fall.
Other men make the mistake of being out late while wearing gold braid and gold buttons and find themselves waylaid by robbers.
Just now, I have the sad duty of presiding over the inquest of a young fool who threw himself off a bridge because his lady love chose a rival over him, and I’ve got to talk the jury into death by misadventure rather than suicide so the church will agree to a decent burial and give his mother a bit of peace.
So.” Layng heaved himself to his feet and planted both hands on his desk.
“Unless you find me a witness who will swear otherwise, your Sir Anthony died of a fall and the admiral died of a gunshot and that’s all there is to it. ”
He met Adam’s gaze and waited. There was nothing for Adam to do but bow and take his leave.
But his problem still remained. Adam had begun his career with the horse patrol.
That patrol was specifically charged with clearing out the highwaymen that plagued the roads and pikes crisscrossing Britain.
He’d seen what happened to men who failed to stand and deliver.
They were shot. But they were shot from the front.
Admiral Walsingham had been shot from the back.