Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Brooks’s Club
There was a familiarity to a gentleman’s club that Jacob knew many men found comforting.
It was a mixture of a donnish high table and college library with a whiff of a father’s study.
Many romped up the steps in delighted anticipation of membership as soon as they were of an age, believing it signalled their entry into adulthood.
No more being taken to task on the carpet before the parental desk; now they could sit behind it and opine, berating their own sons when the time came.
There were also no women to be seen, no petticoat government, as members disparagingly put it.
Jacob had always disliked such sentiments, but since meeting Dora and hearing her views on a woman’s place in society, he’d come heartily to despise the arrogance of his sex.
They would call him a radical but he thought it natural justice that the scales be rebalanced between the sexes one day, perhaps even allowing women to enter clubs like this, though they might have better things to do with their time.
He kept these thoughts private as he sat in the quiet Reading Room, flicking his way through the newspapers while on the lookout for a friend he could pump for information.
He needed someone who had a foot in wilder circles as well as the tame ones of court and Parliament – and he had the very person in mind.
The only issue was whether his old schoolfriend was still in the country, as so many were, or if he had returned to town.
He should check the society column to see who was coming and who was going.
Fortunately, his watch was rewarded before he turned to that column.
‘Knighton!’
Ben Knighton turned on hearing his name called.
He grinned at Jacob and hurried over. A stocky man who would’ve made a good docker had he been born working class, Knighton had married well and was enjoying the substantial income of his family’s manufactory in Derby.
Schoolmates since Eton, Jacob had last met him a few months ago when he was investigating the Hellfire Club.
Knighton had hung around on its edges for a while before coming to his senses, and had helped Jacob with some crucial information.
Knighton shook his hand vigorously. ‘Thank goodness there’s someone worth speaking to in London. The capital is dead – dead! Not a decent party to go to until Parliament returns in the autumn. Shall we have breakfast?’
They removed to the dining room where the waiter served them a full English breakfast and coffee made to Jacob’s taste – strong and black. Knighton grimaced and added three spoonfuls of sugar to his cup.
‘Sorry about the old pater. I’ll be at the memorial,’ Knighton said, taking a sip.
Jacob twitched the sleeve of his black jacket, conscious that his clothes advertised the loss and would continue to do so for the period of mourning.
His father had been buried in Westmoreland at their country seat with only local dignitaries present.
Arthur was planning a much bigger commemoration at Westminster Abbey once the ton returned to town. ‘Thank you.’
‘I heard he left you and your siblings well set? Looked after the family coffers so that the girls have dowries and you won’t be hard up?’
A nobleman didn’t talk specifics about how much money he had, though everyone knew, of course.
Being from trade, Knighton had fewer reservations about raising the subject.
‘I am some way from begging on a street corner.’ Then Jacob guiltily remembered the disabled serviceman to whom he’d tossed a coin the day before.
Now he thought about it, it struck him that it was possible he himself had done the amputation in some field station in Portugal that had left the man with only one leg.
He should’ve stopped to ask – it was no excuse that there were so many begging soldiers on the streets and highways.
It was wretchedly inconvenient to have a conscience sometimes.
‘And what was this about the Hellfire Club going up in smoke? Your name was mentioned.’ Knighton waggled his brows.
Jacob’s attention was drawn to the scar on Ben’s lip that he had given him when they were at school.
They had fought then over a schoolboy version of the club – Knighton had been in favour of naughty irreligious drinking parties where guests dressed up as lascivious monks and nuns; Jacob had found the tone cruel and crude so had been against. Boys being boys, this had led to a scrap behind the cricket pavilion.
‘I believe you’ve put paid to the club once and for all? ’
‘I had very little to do with it,’ he murmured.
Dora had been the one to set fire to the dangerous secrets held by the corrupt leaders of the club.
The Hellfire Club, if it still existed after that shock, had gone very quiet.
Jacob suspected it had just gone even further underground as you couldn’t stop people exploring their darker urges.
‘Hmm,’ said Knighton but he let the subject drop – he had so many more he wished to raise. ‘But have you really gone into business with an actress, private enquiries or some such? I have to say I was dubious when I heard the rumour.’
‘Her name is Miss Fitz-Pennington and yes, we are investigating private matters, discretion guaranteed.’
He could see Knighton filing away the information. He didn’t mind because it might drive new custom to their office. ‘Such as?’
‘Return of stolen items, infidelity, fraud.’ He could have added murder, treachery and spying, but Knighton didn’t need any more fuel to add to his speculations.
‘Very useful, if somewhat surprising. Then again, you surprised us all by going into medicine so perhaps I should always be prepared for the unexpected when I seek news of you.’
‘That would be wise.’
‘I must bear your agency in mind. Not that I suspect my dear wife of anything immoral – she’s rather Methodist in her tastes and will never give me cause to doubt her – but you can’t let the servants take advantage now, can you?’
‘Quite so.’ Jacob attacked his bacon, enjoying the salty taste in contrast to his coffee.
Knighton wasn’t finished. ‘I hear your brother is less than pleased by your choice of profession.’
‘He has made no secret of the fact, but I do not feel inclined to live my life to please the viscount. He has so many others to do that for him. My turn: what brings you to town at this time of year?’
Knighton grimaced. ‘I am in the cotton trade as you well know, so you can probably guess.’
‘Business?’
‘Exactly. We don’t take the summer off for parties and making a tour of the country like you blue bloods – present company excepted.
It’s very tedious really but I had to see our bankers to arrange credit for a new loom we are setting up.
’ He cut up his sausage into tiny circles, swiping them through the egg yolk before eating.
He chewed meditatively. ‘This steam power business is expensive. The mechanics are always claiming we need the new and improved version so here I am, trying to persuade the city that I know what I’m talking about. ’
‘You should’ve brought one of your mechanics with you.’
Knighton looked at Jacob with shocked surprise. ‘You know, that’s a dashed good idea. Why didn’t I think of that? If they discombobulate me with the engineering talk, then why can’t they do the same to my manager, Brighouse, at the bank?’
The waiter topped up the coffee pot. ‘Will there be anything else, sirs?’
‘Not at the moment. Thank you,’ Jacob waited for the waiter to retreat. ‘Knighton, there’s something I want to—’
‘Uh-oh, it seems this isn’t just a chance meeting.’ Knighton helped himself to a slice of toast which he slathered with butter and marmalade. ‘I require fortification against whatever it is you want to ask.’ He took a bite. ‘Go on.’
Jacob smiled, remembering he’d always liked Knighton, even when he was an idiot at school for admiring secret societies and hellfire antics. Jacob wouldn’t have bothered to fight him if he had cared less. ‘The Comte and Comtesse D’Antraigues.’
Knighton swallowed with difficultly. ‘Lord, Sandys, you do know how to put a man off his breakfast. Messy business. Stabbings, weren’t they?
Gushing blood all over the pavement like an awful Jacobean revenge tragedy.
I heard that a crazed servant went after them with a knife.
Must say I looked askance at my man for a few days after that – asked him if he ever felt driven to slit my throat while he’s shaving me. ’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He said “Frequently, sir, but never to the point of taking action.”’ Knighton mimicked the low voice of his valet.
‘How extraordinary – a truthful servant.’
‘He’s been with me since I was a boy. I made sure I gave him an extra day off and a rise in his wages after that.’
Jacob sensed Knighton and his valet enjoyed this kind of banter frequently. ‘It is a shame the comte did not have such a faithful retainer.’
‘Indeed.’
‘What have you heard about the murder?’
‘You mean why it was done?’
Jacob nodded. The details of how it happened would be available in the account of the inquest and Dora was following that up.
He wanted to know what people were saying was the motive, because it was this aspect that worried Henry Austen.
If Knighton, a man with his ear to the ground, was linking the banker to the crime then it might be too late to keep their name out of it.
‘On the surface of it, it looks like a disgruntled man who quarrelled with his employer,’ said Knighton. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’ He glanced at Jacob for confirmation.
‘On the surface, yes.’
‘But to kill two people – the wife as well, a lady with whom the manservant had far fewer dealings – that is strange.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Was it a fit of madness? I believe the coroner concluded something to that effect.’
‘That is what he ruled.’
‘Then why not go after the onlookers – there were several, according to the newspapers, other members of the household. And the son survives.’
‘True.’
‘Instead, your red-handed murderer quietly goes upstairs and shoots himself. Peculiar.’
‘I agree. It was a showy murder. Why not take yourself out in front of the aghast audience?’
Knighton pointed his triangle of toast at Jacob in agreement.
‘Yes! I’ve heard people wondering if it was a crime of passion – he loved the comtesse but knew his affection was hopeless.
Killed the man who had her, killed her so no one else would enjoy her charms, then killed himself when all hope was over. ’
That was exactly what Henry was hoping people would believe. ‘That is a possibility.’
Knighton snorted. ‘Hardly! The comtesse was old – fifty-five at least! She was a charmer in her youth. Word is that she was the comte’s mistress before being his wife and neither was very loyal to each other in the bedroom.
But fifty-five! I think she was well past her season of inspiring such jealousy.
No, I don’t believe that for one second. ’
Henry Austen’s hopes of deterring society’s interest from his bank’s involvement vanished like a popped soap bubble.
‘What do you think happened?’ asked Jacob.
A knowing glint entered Knighton’s eyes. ‘If you are asking, then there is more to it than madness.’
Dammit. Henry Austen was reigniting a fire that had begun to go out.
By asking these questions – and how could he do his job without raising the subject?
– Jacob could not help but spark interest in the minds of men like Knighton – well-connected, gossiping gentlemen. He’d gone too far to back away now.
‘I honestly don’t know. I’ve been asked to find out what happened and that’s what I’m doing.’
‘What do you think you know?’ asked Knighton astutely.
Jacob shook his head and laughed softly. ‘I thought I was the one asking the questions. I don’t know much about him, other than what is generally known, that he was an émigré and his wife a former opera star.’
Knighton looked grave. ‘That was the flash and glitter that was meant to distract the eye. Did you know that they had two houses? Two! One in town and another at Barnes. You don’t get to have two houses without money coming from somewhere.’
‘And you know where the money came from?’
Knighton nodded, leaning closer. ‘I have a friend in the Foreign Office. For all his aristocratic airs and graces, D’Antraigues only survived with a roof over his head because he had a generous government pension.
We Brits were keeping him in luxury. Can’t say I’m in favour of that kind of thing, giving money to a Froggy foreigner. ’
‘And what did he do to earn that favour?’
‘What indeed?’ He sat back. ‘I’ll leave you to work that one out.’
Jacob had been entertaining the theory that the comte might have been feeding information to the French, acting out that he disliked Napoleon to disguise the fact that he was spying for the old country.
He and Dora had met a Frenchman like that very recently in the Elgin investigation, and Monsieur Percy would not be the only one in the émigré community.
Yet if the money was coming from British government coffers, it suggested the comte had been trusted by the administration or provided a service they thought valuable.
‘Do you know how much he was worth to them?’
Knighton smiled, delighted to be asked. ‘One thousand a year. My friend in the FO was outraged when he compared it to his salary.’
The amount shocked Jacob. ‘Well, that explains at least one of the houses, doesn’t it?’ he said dryly.
‘Small change for a Sandys, I’ve no doubt,’ said Knighton with a wink, ‘but yes, his fine words must have buttered a few parsnips.’