The Spider's Touch (46 page)

Gideon wanted to offer her comfort, but there was nothing that he could say to ameliorate the truth. It was true that Oxford was the only one left of the former Tory ministry to have stayed to face trial. First Bolingbroke, and now Ormonde had fled. Lord Oxford’s only hope must have been that the rising would save him from the axe.

Gideon urged Anne to sit down in a chair, before he went to call her maid. By the time the woman arrived, the worst of Anne’s tantrum had played out. Then she cried until drained of all feeling, after which Little Fury, as she was also called, docilely accepted the concoction her maid gave her to drink.

She seemed no longer aware of Gideon’s presence, so after making certain that she was in better hands than his, he left, glad only that his disappointment had not been as painful as hers.

* * * *

He took a chair to Covent Garden. He would rather have walked, but after his confrontation with Anne, he would have found it hard to mince his steps, and disguise was crucial now.

Darkness had finally fallen, but he would need every advantage that surprise could bring to be able to approach Colonel Potter again. And he doubted his ability to maintain the character of a fop for very long. Acting had never been his talent.

Unfortunately, he learned that chairmen, who were often drunk and insolent, were worse than insolent to fops. From the beginning of the ride, these two made no effort to spare him bumps. They staggered and nearly dropped him twice. Then they set him down several streets short of the piazza and tipped him out, before trying to extort a greater fare than they had earned.

Gideon would not agree to be bullied, even to maintain his disguise. When the two drunken brutes tried to frighten the sum out of him, he dropped his affectation and gave them to understand that if they did not give up, he would relieve them of the few miserable teeth remaining in their heads. It cost him a few minutes and a brief scuffle before the change in his demeanour sank in, but once it did, he paid them their due and no more and watched them slink off.

They had deposited him in the Strand at the opening to a dismal alley, where they had obviously expected to find his courage low. The night was dark, and thick clouds obscured sky.

If not for a need for concealment, Gideon would have been very glad for the services of a linkboy. The visibility was so slight, that he could not even be certain of what he was treading on as he made his way to the corner of Southampton Street. The light from the cheap tallow candles in the taverns failed to penetrate the corners where harlots and pickpockets lurked. Gideon fended off the lures from the first group and guarded his pockets from the second, as he rounded the corner.

There were more pedestrians here, in groups of two, three and more, keeping together for security’s sake. Their linkboys’ torches threw beacons of light, which helped him keep to the footpath as far as Colonel Potter’s street.

He had decided not to leave their encounter to chance. If Mrs. Anne Oglethorpe had not known him beneath his paint, then Colonel Potter should not either.

Feigning his fop’s steps again, he climbed the pair of stairs, leading to the house where Colonel Potter resided, and knocked.

The Colonel’s landlady answered. She informed him that the Colonel had gone out to meet a friend. She did not know where.

As she closed the door, Gideon resigned himself to waiting all night if he had to. He was thirsty, though, and thought he might risk a few minutes to go for a mug of beer. He remembered the tavern in Little Russell Street, where he had watched for the Colonel to emerge from Mother Whyburn’s house and decided to head there again on the chance that he would find the Colonel in the same place.

He had rounded the corner into Southampton Street again and was heading towards the Piazza when a shout for the Watch grabbed his attention.

Up ahead, he saw a group of gentlemen bending over what appeared to be a heap of clothing, but their cries of “Fetch the Watch!” and “Murder!” told him that the mound they had discovered was a body.

Shy of the authorities, he almost turned away, but some pricking instinct drove him forward. He shouldered his way through the crowd that had formed and saw a gentleman lying dead in a pool of blood. Even before one of the others stooped to turn the figure over and shone a torch on his face, in its deflected beam Gideon had already caught sight of a freckled neck exposed by a part in his periwig.

Turned upon his back, Colonel Potter stared up at the crowd, as if his last living thought had been stunned surprise. His hands still groped for the knife, which must have been used to stab him through the ribs. The weapon had been withdrawn, but Gideon had no doubt that it had been wielded by the same person who had killed Sir Humphrey Cove.

A gentleman in the crowd said that he thought he recognized the corpse. Space was made for him, and he looked closely before pronouncing the Colonel’s name, just as Gideon pulled away. Someone else protested the outrage. He said that it could only be attributed to Mohawks or Jacobites. If Mr. Walpole was not even safe from their violence at his house in Arlington Street, then how could any English Christian be safe?

Gideon turned away, distressed by the sight of his quarry’s staring eyes and the blood oozing from his coat. He did not believe that the Colonel’s death was the result of some random violence, but for the moment he couldn’t think.

His mind lingered dumbly on the last words he had heard. Something about the violence in Arlington Street. That must have been the riot into which Tom and Katy had stumbled. Arlington Street had no outlet at its southern end, but Bennet Street, where Tom had reported meeting the rioters, led directly from St. James’s into Arlington Street.

Mrs. Kean had mentioned Walpole’s fear of the mob before his house, but she had not told him the name of Walpole’s street. And Gideon, who had barely heard of Sir Robert Walpole before the appointment of the Committee of Secrecy, had not known where the gentleman lived.

He shook his head in an effort to come out of his daze, annoyed that he should waste his time on these thoughts. Colonel Potter had been murdered and, unless an unbelievable coincidence had occurred, he had been stabbed by the same person who had killed Sir Humphrey.

Which of their suspects was left? Mr. Dudley Mayfield, of course. He would have to ask Mrs. Kean if Mayfield had been out this evening.

Then, there was John Menzies, alias Mr. Blackwell, but Gideon doubted that Menzies had returned from France.

Finally, there was Lord Lovett, who, as Mrs. Kean believed, did not have the character of a murderer. But why had Potter been killed? Gideon’s instincts told him that it was to keep the Colonel from giving information which might have pointed to Sir Humphrey’s killer. But why now and not before, when it must appear now that the authorities had given up on the case?

Then, he recalled that Mrs. Kean had discussed the murder with Lord Lovett. What if she had told him that she believed Potter had seen the person who had made Mayfield spill wine on his coat? No one knew that Gideon was coming to ask Potter about it, but if Lord Lovett believed that the answer would pose a danger to himself, wouldn’t he take steps to silence the Colonel before someone else did? Or might not Colonel Potter have begun to question the significance of the spill himself?

Worry knawed at Gideon’s stomach. If Lord Lovett was the murderer and had felt it necessary to kill Colonel Potter, then wouldn’t he go after Mrs. Kean?

But why would Lord Lovett kill his friend? The only possible reason was a fear of exposure, yet he had done almost nothing to hide his Jacobite sentiments.

Then, in a moment Gideon saw it. As the significance of Arlington Street snapped into place.

Lovett
had
feared exposure, but not of the fact that he was a Jacobite. Rather of the truth, that he had betrayed the cause.

Gideon had recalled something Mrs. Kean had said in one of their conversations. She had met John Menzies at Lady Oglethorpe’s house, where Isabella had taken her in the hope of entertainment. After seeing Isabella and Lord Lovett together at Vauxhall Gardens, Gideon had guessed that Isabella’s current notion of entertainment included Lord Lovett. But Lovett had not come, and later Sir Humphrey had mentioned seeing him in Arlington Street that evening. She said that Lovett had looked annoyed to have his whereabouts divulged, but Mrs. Kean and everyone else had assumed that he had gone to visit a different lady in that street.

But what if he had been visiting Walpole’s house instead? Sir Humphrey had seen him, and later, he had begun to suspect his friend of treachery. That could have been the worry that had disturbed Sir Humphrey until the night of the opera. And fearing that Sir Humphrey would give him away to the Jacobites, who would certainly seek revenge, Lovett had killed his old friend.

It was only a theory. But Gideon knew that it fit. He would have to warn Mrs. Kean to be on her guard against Lord Lovett.

 Then, somehow, he would have to come up with proof.

* * * *

The next morning, though, when Katy walked to Hawkhurst House with her basket of strawberries and a note for Mrs. Kean, she was told that all the ladies of the house had just stepped out. They had gone to Court to see the Princess and would not return until dinner. Rufus told her that she might leave her strawberries with one of the maids and come back later to be paid.

Katy made up a quick story, saying that she did not dare, for her ladyship might decide that she had no need for strawberries today. Or, as happened all too often to the likes of her, the ladies might keep them until they were bad and then refuse to pay. She told him that she would come back in the afternoon.

Gideon, who had been waiting in Westminster Abbey in the hope of seeing Mrs. Kean, received Katy’s news and had to stifle a curse. He had barely slept an hour last night and had risen early to put on his disguise. And now he must wait more hours before he could feel certain that Mrs. Kean would be safe. He saw no solution, however, but to return in the afternoon and send Katy with the message again.

* * * *

Hester had gone with her cousin and her aunt to take leave of the Princess before they set out for Rotherham Abbey in two days time. Tomorrow would be Sunday, so they would wait for Monday to go.

After dinner, Harrowby headed for St. James’s Coffee House for the latest gossip. Dudley rode into the City in search of a beaver hat, and Isabella and her mother took the coach to pay their farewell visits. Mrs. Mayfield instructed Hester to supervise the packing of their clothes.

Isabella’s maid was perfectly capable of doing her job without supervision, so Hester only watched her make a start, before going to her chamber to start on her own packing. She had far more clothes now than she had when arriving at Hawkhurst House, so planning would be required.

She saw no reason to take the dress that had been made for the King’s birthday. It should remain here for the next time she went to Court. She had no idea whether her second best gown would be required, but Mrs. Mayfield had hinted that Isabella might entertain guests if they remained at Rotherham Abbey long, and Hester did not doubt that boredom would soon push her aunt to urge the idea.

She took two gowns out of her chest, the one she had worn to see St. Mars at Spring Gardens and the dress she had worn to Mr. Handel’s opera. She would not be able to wear either without experiencing powerful memories—happy in one and sad in the other. If she could afford it, she would have given the opera gown away, but she was not in a position to be fastidious about her clothes.

Gazing at the two laid across her bed, she decided that if she had to overcome her revulsion of the one, the sooner she did it, the better. She carefully folded the pink, embroidered silk and put it back. Then, with a determined sigh, she began to fold the other.

She had no sooner taken hold of the bodice than she noticed a stain on its left shoulder. Frowning, she put it down and leaned closer to see what it was.

The colour of dried blood made her gasp—not only with horror when she thought of poor Sir Humphrey but also with anger, for the laundry maid should have spared her this unpleasant surprise. Hester looked at the hem of the skirt, but the blood that had been there was gone. Then she remembered that she had only mentioned the blood on her hem to the maid. She had trailed her skirts past Sir Humphrey’s corpse as she had handed Isabella from the box.

But that had been her only contact with Sir Humphrey’s blood, so where had this other stain come from?

With shaking fingers, she held the bodice up to the window. Immediately she could see an imprint with a shape like the heel of someone’s hand. There were two patches, with a space between that could correspond to a crease in the palm. She lay her own hand on the imprint and saw that the person’s hand was larger than hers.

With a sickening blow to her stomach, she recalled that Lord Lovett had discovered blood on his hand. He said that he had got it when helping to lift Sir Humphrey onto the litter.

But he had not touched her after that. He had wiped the blood off of his hand. She recalled his expression when he had discovered it. He had looked shaken. She had seen him shudder, for he had surely felt revulsion, but he had also been afraid that she would guess the truth.

And now it all came rushing back to her on a wave of self-disgust. Lord Lovett had put his hand on her shoulder when he had urged her to remove Isabella and her mother from the opera house. That was before he had any reason to touch Sir Humphrey’s corpse.

Hester felt so angry with horror that her knees gave way. She sank to the floor and rested her head against the bed. What a fool she had been! She had let Lord Lovett’s flattery keep her from seeing the truth. She had been so exalted by his attention that she had refused even to consider him as a suspect. She still did not know why he had killed Sir Humphrey, but this stain was proof enough, even for a magistrate.

Ashamed of her weakness, she marshaled her anger and used it to drag herself to her feet. She threw the gown with its evidence on her bed and thought of what she must do.