Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Bruton Mews
Dora surveyed her little room with satisfaction.
Two doors down from their office, she had taken lodgings with a retired wigmaker.
There was far less call for wigs – only judges, priests and footmen continued to wear them – so Mrs Jones had given up the trade and let out rooms instead.
Yarton, Lady Tolworth’s inestimable butler from the big house across the way, had arranged everything.
Dora’s bedroom was on the first floor and looked out onto the cobbled mews.
Right now, she could see Kir, their office boy, playing football with some off-duty servants from Lady Tolworth’s house.
He had free passage between both establishments – the investigative agency and the grand house the lady kept – and was taking to his new life as if born to it.
Rescued from life as a camp follower in the border town of Berwick, the orphaned Kir had even begun to develop a London accent, dropping his Scottish one.
Children, mused Dora, were like the chameleons on display at the Tower Menagerie, able to change their colour. They sensed when it was easier to fit in than stand out.
Moving away from the glass, she prowled her den.
‘A room of my own,’ she murmured. She touched each object she had unpacked: her small library of novels and plays, the commonplace book she had created with her late brother that contained samples of handwriting from many famous people, her grey great coat and scarlet redingote hanging on pegs along the wall.
They were joined by a few reluctant bonnets and a row of happier hats.
Bonnets were such stupid things, their only advantages being that they did not fly off so easily when chasing a villain and they were a good disguise as they hid the wearer’s features.
On the whole, she preferred hats and was gathering a selection between which she could alternate when tailing someone.
Luckily there was plenty of space for them.
She guessed the pegs had once been used to display the huge variety of wigs the previous generation had thought indispensable, puff balls like clouds with birdcages and boats as ornaments.
How tame the present generation was in comparison, wearing their own hair with nary a sniff of powder.
After a month of travelling in the north, it was good to be home.
The thought took her by surprise. When had London become her home?
She had been raised in Liverpool and, after quitting her father’s house, travelled with a troupe of players on the northern circuit, offering Shakespeare plays and Restoration comedies to agricultural labourers and the workers in the new manufactories.
She was still learning her way around the streets here, still finding the size of the city daunting.
She gazed over the slate roofs to the murky blue skies, cooking fires dulling the summer’s day.
Perhaps it wasn’t the city but the person who lived here that gave her a sense of being settled.
It had become home when she had thrown in her lot with Jacob Sandys, she acknowledged.
Also, thinking more practically, the capital was the best place to start an agency dealing with private enquiries, which meant she was unlikely to have to pack up and move on for some time.
That was a very pleasant prospect because her life for the last five years had been nothing but shifting from place to place.
Two sharp whistles came from the mews. That was Kir’s signal that a customer was approaching their office.
As Jacob was at his bank this morning dealing with the financial consequences of his father’s death, she was in charge of greeting new clients.
Quickly straightening her gown and checking her hair in the mottled mirror – it would do – she hurried downstairs.
Opening the door to their office, she found Kir had already done his job and seated the visitor in the chair opposite the desk.
The caller looked to be in his middle years, a handsome man with a long face and intelligent eyes under dark brows.
When he stood up on her entry, he revealed himself to be of above average height and with the lean build of a sportsman or soldier.
His clothing was impeccably cut, showing an almost French flair in the details on cuff and collar – an attractive man, used to female attention.
‘Ma’am.’ He bowed politely.
She approached, holding out a hand. This was business, not a ballroom, so he could greet her as a fellow professional. ‘I’m Miss Fitz-Pennington.’ He shook her hand with a bemused smile at her forthright ways. ‘Please do take a seat.’
Obediently, he sat. ‘Is Dr Sandys away, Miss Fitz-Pennington?’
‘He has business in the city. We are partners in the agency so speaking to me is like speaking to him.’
That made him smile more broadly. ‘I assure you, good lady, no gentleman would consider talking to you as akin to talking to a man. You are far prettier than your partner, I would wager.’
Her visitor was a gallant. That wasn’t a problem: she could deal with flattery as long as it didn’t become an affront.
‘You are too kind, sir. Might I trouble you for a name?’
‘Of course.’ He handed over his business card. ‘Henry Austen of Austen, Maunde he seemed too fashionable for such a sober occupation.
‘What can we do for you, Mr Austen?’ She was conscious of Kir coming to stand silently at her elbow.
Her colleagues in the agency made a point of not leaving her on her own with new male customers, an endearing if somewhat annoying state of affairs when even a boy of nine felt obliged to guard her.
Perhaps they were pandering to the sensibilities of men who would feel safer with a chaperone? That was an amusing thought.
‘My brother, Captain Austen, recommended Dr Sandys as a reliable man for a delicate matter.’
Dora sighed internally. She had initially rather liked this man, but ‘delicate matter’ was usually code for some kind of marital intrigue. ‘We promise our clients discretion.’
He studied her for a moment, as if pausing to make up his own mind about her. ‘Very well. It’s about my wife’s friends.’
Oh, dear – that tired old story. ‘You don’t approve of them?’ She flipped to a new page in the notebook they kept for open investigations.
‘What?’ He looked bewildered by the remark. ‘No, no, nothing like that. You see, they’ve been murdered. Mrs Austen and I want to see justice done.’
Dora’s pulse leaped, jolted out of the expectation that this would be some tawdry marital affair. ‘Murdered? I assume the authorities are involved?’
Henry crossed his leg over one knee and flicked off a thread that clung to his thigh.
‘Indeed. The murderer killed himself on the scene so they do not think any further action is required. An inquest was held the following day – there were witnesses so they had no doubt that they had the right man.’
Dora spread out her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Mr Austen, I’m struggling to understand what we can do to help.’
He sighed. ‘I’m sure your partner would comprehend my situation.’
She held his gaze. She couldn’t conjure up Jacob so Mr Austen would have to do with her ‘slowness’ to grasp his issue. She rather thought the fault was with him for failing to explain. ‘I’m sure he would. Please put it in plain terms that a mere female can understand.’
He gave a grimace of apology. ‘I’m sorry.
Let me start again. You are aware, I presume, that people in my station live and die on the breath of scandal?
Ladies who stray from the marriage bed are sent to a country cottage to serve a life sentence of disgrace; gentlemen are challenged to duels for a difference of opinion and sometimes die of their injuries, but businesses such as mine rise and fall as faith in their operations waxes and wanes. ’
Dora was beginning to see the outlines of his problem.
Mr Austen was a banker. The last thing a bank wanted was a run on its funds, everyone demanding their money at the same time.
That always resulted in bankruptcy. ‘You believe your own credit with the ton might suffer if this matter is not resolved?’
He gave her a wintry smile. ‘Exactly.’
‘But if the magistrate declared the case closed, why reopen it?’
‘The authorities might be done with the matter, having given their verdict of insanity on the part of the perpetrator—’
‘Like they did with the man who shot the Prime Minister,’ murmured Dora, who with Jacob had witnessed both the crime and the punishment that befell John Bellingham three months ago.
‘Indeed. But the gossipers have been hard at work adding two and two and making five thousand. My family were frequent visitors at the comte’s house in Barnes Terrace, as well as the one in Queen Anne Street.’
‘They kept two houses in the capital?’ Dora picked up her pen again.
‘The one in Barnes is more of a rural retreat, on the Thames near Richmond.’
To afford houses in two such prized locations the Frenchman must have had money coming from somewhere. ‘Your reputation is entwined with that of the late comte and his wife?’
‘Just so, particularly in view of the fact that my wife is the widow of the Comte de Feuillide.’ Dora raised a brow.
How had an ordinary Mr Austen managed to land so exotic a bird for his wife?
‘We are well known to be intimates of the French émigrés who have settled here,’ he continued.
‘They come to our social gatherings and we go to theirs. Few members of society cross the divide as we do.’
Dora pieced together what he was not saying.
‘The inquest gave its verdict, but rumour refuses to accept it. In the absence of a full investigation giving a more satisfying motive than insanity, speculation has spun out of control and is threatening to suck you into the whirlpool. Do I have that right?’
‘Correct. The summer has given us a respite, but come the autumn when society returns to the capital, there will be a reckoning. The future of my bank and the good name of the Austen family is at stake.’
‘And you would like Dr Sandys and me to investigate—’
‘Quietly investigate.’
‘But of course – quietly investigate why your friends were murdered and provide a motive that will shut down the gossipers and keep the Austen name out of the scandal before the month is out?’
Henry nodded. ‘It would be better for us if it was found to be a crime of passion – the servant struck by unrequited love for his mistress or something of that nature. That would be counted as eminently French and romantic and the story would settle there, far from any dealings in the city.’
‘We won’t make anything up to please a client,’ Dora warned. ‘We don’t spread fictions.’
He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Do not be concerned: I have a sister to do that.’
‘I’m sorry – I’m not following you.’
‘Never mind – a family joke.’
Dora was beginning to find him a little annoying. ‘You won’t help our investigation if you continue to talk in this enigmatic fashion. We need to know what you know at the very least.’
Henry got up and replaced his hat, tapping the crown to settle it on his head. ‘Speak to Dr Sandys to see if he agrees to take the case then send the contract for your services. Once that is signed, I will tell you what I know.’
‘Everything?’ asked Dora, accompanying him to the door.
‘Everything,’ he agreed. ‘Good day.’