The Seven Dials Affair, page 19
"Quite. But it's difficult to see how any of that could connect to Allegra Roth's murder."
Malcolm considered for a moment, then decided to risk it. No particular need to keep it secret. "Allegra was an agent for Hubert."
Simon let out a whistle. "When—"
"Since before her marriage. Hubert claims he wasn't getting information on Roth. Of course, that was before I knew Roth was a Leveller."
"The Levellers didn't exist when Allegra married Roth."
"But Jeremy's politics were the same."
"You already knew Jeremy's politics. The question is if Hubert did." Simon braced his hands on the stepladder. "Am I going to have to deal with David's father being accused of murder? Again?"
"This is nothing like Miranda Spencer." In that case, Hubert had been found in the murdered woman's room and had been arrested. "If Hubert was involved, he'll be too far away from it to be implicated."
"That's cold comfort."
"We don't have any evidence to tie him to it."
"You don't have any evidence to tie anyone to it."
"Not yet."
Simon turned his head to the side. The rehearsal lamp caught his grimace. "I like him, you know. That's the hell of it. I'm not sure when I started to, but I'm quite fond of him. The last thing I want is to see him accused of something like this. Though I know he's perfectly capable of doing it."
"I don't want to see him accused either."
Simon turned back and pinned Malcolm with his gaze. "But you may find yourself doing the accusing."
"I may."
Colin, Jessica, and Emily raced up the stairs of the Berkeley Square portico. They were very proud of their ability to let themselves in, so they tumbled into the entrance hall without ringing for Valentin.
"What is it, Uncle Julien?" Mélanie heard Colin ask as she followed them through the door.
Julien was in the hall, by the console table for calling cards, frowning at a slip of paper he held in his hand. Bet Trenor stood near him, arms folded, gaze fixed on Julien with concern.
Mélanie closed the door behind her. "What is it?"
Julien looked up, flashed a grin at the children, and then met her gaze. "I called back here to see if anyone had updates to share and found a message from Robby. He sent it to Carfax House and Kitty sent it on here when she went back to Carfax House to look through Ashford's papers. Bet and I are a bit worried."
Robby, Bet's brother, had grown up in near Seven Dials himself and gone to work for Julien, first as an agent, then as a groom.
"No cause for panic, though," Julien added, as the three children fastened anxious gazes on him.
Bet held out a hand to the children. "Let's go in the library. Mrs. Erskine made scones and I put a plate in there."
The promise of the scones, and the smell when they opened the library door, distracted the children to a degree. They settled on the hearth rug with the scones and Berowne and Bet, though Colin looked at Mélanie over his shoulder.
"Robby Simcox traced a hired carriage driver who drove Allegra the day before she was killed," Julien said to Mélanie as they stood by the library table, pretending to nibble scones. "He took her to an address outside the city and waited half an hour for her."
"How far outside the city?" Mélanie asked.
"Richmond." Julien held out a slip of paper, brows uncharacteristically drawn.
Pelham Lodge.
Mélanie stared at the letters in Robby Simcox's careful, recently learned lettering. "But that's—" She let the words dangle. Such an obvious reaction. But for a moment she was robbed of speech.
"Yes," Julien said.
A villa belonging to Malcolm's cousin Judith. Since her marriage to the recently deceased Viscount Pelham, they'd divided their time between Pelham Lodge and his larger estate in Kent. In a family of agents, they were all used to finding connections to family and friends in investigations. Judith's mother Frances had married a former agent, who also happened to be Harry's uncle. Judith's elder sister Aline had helped them break codes in more than one investigation. But Judith, a happy diamond of the first water in her season, a happy bride and mother soon after, had never been more than on the very fringe of spy intrigues. And while her family history wouldn't have made it surprising for her to be drawn into the intrigues of the Elsinore League, there was nothing that should connect her to Allegra Roth, who had been born in Radical circles, become an opera singer, married a Bow Street runner, and then run off to the Argentine.
Julien took in her reaction. "I know."
"Allegra didn't know us," Mélanie said. "She shouldn't have known we were connected to Jeremy. So how on earth she'd have got to Judith, who would have been a child when Allegra left London—We need to talk to Judith. She came up to London this morning. Fanny sent me a note. Better for Malcolm to talk to her, but we shouldn't wait. Come with me?"
Julien nodded.
CHAPTER 24
"I know I can't ask what you've learnt," Roth said. "But have you learnt anything?"
"A number of things." Malcolm dug his hands into his greatcoat pockets against the chill. They had walked to the terrace off Somerset Place, where they were accustomed to go to talk. They had paced this worn stone during other investigations, discussing someone else's nightmare. "Some of which I can share. For instance, I had no idea you were one of the Levellers."
Roth's head lifted. His gaze caught and settled on Malcolm's own. "Ah. I should have known that might come out, I suppose."
"William Beardsley is a friend of Esquivel's. He mentioned it."
"Good god."
"You didn't know?"
"How could I have known? Esquivel's name would have meant nothing to me even if Beardsley had mentioned him. Which he didn't. I like Beardsley, but I can't claim to know him well. There's quite a gap between an MP and a Bow Street runner."
"I'm an MP."
"Yes, you are."
"It didn't occur to you to—"
"What? Tell you I was part of an organization you do your best to know as little about as possible?"
Malcolm glanced at the roiling gray of the river. "I wouldn't say that. I talk about them with Simon. With Kit. With Roger Smythe, more recently."
"But you're clear there are things you don't want to know."
"If the law is being broken, it's better for me not to know it. I would imagine that's something we share."
"It's a challenge for a Bow Street runner," Roth admitted. "But at a certain point I get tired of being quiet. And unlike you, I can't speak out in Parliament. I knew I was taking a risk. I didn't want to involve my friends."
"You were worried about me?"
"I didn't want to put you in an awkward situation. We both have enough to contend with."
The wind tugged Malcolm's greatcoat. He caught the folds to still them. "We're on the same side."
"We believe in the same things. But we come from different worlds. We'll never work for change in the same way. We'll never face the same challenges."
That sounded like something Mélanie might have once said, though he couldn't say as much to Roth. Talking of secrets that hung between them. "That's true of most of my friends. God knows there's a lot about Julien that's very different from me."
"But you still come from the same world."
"You seem far more focused on different worlds than the rest of us."
"Perhaps because the impact is greater. An aristocrat can go out for an evening in Seven Dials with little consequence, so long as he takes care of his purse."
"And so long as he is a not a lady."
"Fair enough. But someone at my level risks more in Mayfair than you do in Seven Dials. Unless I'm there as part of my employment. If I'm not there for work, I'm more aware of the sidelong glances. I've seen them when I call in Berkeley Square."
The flat statement hit like a shock of river water. "God, Roth. I don't—"
"Think about it? No, of course you don't. You don't get the looks. There's no reason for you to notice. You're broadminded and benevolent for crossing class lines. We're social climbers."
"No one who knows you could possibly—"
"That's just the problem. They don't know me. Or Harriet or the boys. They just know people who were born in Somers Town and live in Covent Garden are dining in Berkeley Square."
"I'm sorry."
"You needn't be. You're good friends to all of us. It's not your job to fix the situation."
"If not, then whose? What else should someone born to privilege do? Especially someone with a seat in the House of Commons."
"Which keeps you from getting too close to the Levellers."
"You're the one who said you couldn't confide things in me."
"Given your position, yes."
"Are you saying being in Parliament blinds me to the real issues facing the country?"
"Nothing of the sort. There's a lot of good you can do. But we've chosen different ways to fight. We have to, given where we started in life. I'd never say one is more valid than the other. In fact, there's probably a great deal you can accomplish that I can't."
Malcolm stopped, one hand on the crumbling balustrade. "The House of Commons can be a bubble. One can get so focused on the debate with the opposition that one loses track of the real arguments going on outside Westminster. Being a Radical in the House doesn't mean being a Radical in the real world."
"Fair enough," Roth said. "But you can accomplish more with one victory on a watered-down bill that the Levellers excoriate as a hopeless comprise than those of us on the outside can with the most eloquent and succinct articles." His gaze narrowed. "You must have realized that yourself. You used to write those same articles."
"Yes." When he'd scribbled pamphlets in Oxford coffeehouses with Simon and David and Oliver. "And then I decided the whole thing was hopeless and went to work for Hubert Mallinson, for which I'll never forgive myself. But I did somewhat recover my senses."
"You care about Hubert Mallinson."
"I—"
"Don't deny it, Malcolm. I'd think less well of you. I can respect the fact that you care about him. So does Julien. So does your father."
Malcolm drew in and released his breath. The damp wind freshened the air but the stench from the river was still there. "I don't trust Hubert. I question everything he says and does, as I'm sure Julien and Raoul do. But yes. I do have some affection for him."
"I'm impressed. By the admission."
Malcolm looked out at the boats on the river. Smaller vessels ferried goods down the Thames. Goods that had come from across the sea. "It seemed simpler," Malcolm said. "When we were all at Oxford, dreaming in coffeehouses and scribbling pamphlets. And it sounds as though it was the same for Esquivel and his friends."
"Beardsley?"
"And Rowley. And Bobby Derwent."
"Judith's husband?"
Malcolm forgot sometimes that Roth had got to know Judith at countless family parties at their house. "Yes. I didn't realize they'd known each other until today. I don't suppose Bobby ever came to Leveller events?"
"Not to my knowledge. He and Judith appeared to move in very different circles. Even from yours in Berkeley Square."
"Well, yes. They weren't agents."
Roth nodded. "A difference indeed."
Justine Lambton emerged from the carriage Harry and Cordelia had sent to Cambridge for her, bonnet bouncing back on her shoulders, strands of brown hair tumbling down about her ears, cobalt blue pelisse creased from travel. All of which might be owed to the large, brown paper–wrapped parcel clutched in her arms, Harry thought, observing from the steps with Cordelia and their daughters. Justine stepped carefully down onto the cobblestones and flashed a smile of gratitude at the footman as he steadied her.
"Justine!" Livia and Drusilla tumbled down the steps to greet the new arrival, who had become a firm friend on her previous visit, their new puppy Cleo running after them.
Justine bent to hug them, one armed, keeping control of the paper-wrapped parcel. "Do you mind?" she asked, surrendering it to Harry. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to it. I so need your opinion."
"Of course." Harry took the parcel and knew at once what he held. Marble. Old marble, if his instincts were at all right. Carved.
"It was sent to Papa." Justine looked up from hugging Livia and Drusilla. "I'll tell you more when we're inside. Oh, what a sweet dog!" She bent to pet Cleo, who was jumping up on her pelisse.
"We got her for Christmas," Drusilla said. "She sleeps in my bed. Well, sometimes in Livia's."
Harry followed Justine and the girls and puppy up the steps, cradling the parcel much as he would one of his daughters. Justine hugged Cordelia, then stopped short at the sight of Gerry, who was standing in the shadows just behind Cordy.
"I saw Schofield at the Classicists' Society today," Harry said. "Thought you'd like to see each other."
"Of course." Justine smiled with both friendship and determination. "I'm so glad. And I'd like your opinion about my discovery too."
"Didn't want to intrude." Gerry shifted his weight from one booted foot to another. "But it's good to see you."
"You couldn't intrude. And I'm so glad you're still in London. I need all the classical minds I can get."
Gerry grinned. It said a lot about his devotion to classical studies that he wasn't disappointed it was his opinion as a scholar that Justine wanted.
It was a quarter hour or so before they were settled in the library with refreshments and Livia and Drusilla playing with Cleo by the fire. Justine tossed down a swallow of tea, then got to her feet and tugged loose the brown paper wrapping on her parcel, which sat in state on the library table. It fell away to reveal the bust of a woman. Small, first century, head turned to one side. The marble shimmered in the light from the windows. The shadows left her eyes cloaked in mystery.
"It's Agrippina," Justine said. "The first one, Caligula's mother, not his sister who married Claudius and was Nero's mother."
"I thought so," Harry said. "I've seen other likenesses of her."
"It was lost when Napoleon went into Rome," Justine said. "Father had tried to trace it because it was one he had studied particularly when he was in Italy before the wars. Then it suddenly showed up in a crate of things in Cambridge last week."
"Not wholly surprising," Harry said. "A lot of art treasures disappeared during the wars—into government and private hands."
"Yes, but this crate had come from the Argentine."
Harry's teacup tilted in his fingers. "You're sure?"
"Oh, yes. I know who sent it. He used to be a student of Papa's. Marco Esquivel."
CHAPTER 25
Justine looked from Harry to Cordelia as they both struggled not to send their teacups clattering to the carpet. "What is it? Do you know Marco Esquivel?"
"We haven't met Mr. Esquivel," Cordy said. "But we've heard a good deal about him since last night. We were called into an investigation, and sadly the victim was his mistress."
"Good heavens," Justine said. "How horrible. I did know Mr. Esquivel was in London. I was hoping to see him. Did his mistress come with him?"
"Yes," Harry said, "but she was British, as it happens. We learned Esquivel went to Cambridge, but we hadn't heard he read classics."
"Oh yes. There was a whole group of them who came to Papa for tutoring and who were all friends. Mr. Esquivel, Martin Rowley, William Beardsley, and Bobby Derwent. Sometimes they'd all come together and stay afterwards and talk in our parlor or kitchen. I liked to sit in because they had quite intelligent things to say."
"Unlike some of us," Gerry said.
"No!" Justine gave him a quick smile. "Well, not like you. But they were an interesting group. They'd talk about politics as well. Especially Mr. Beardsley and Mr. Esquivel. About how they wanted to change both their countries. Mostly I have my head so deep in the past I don't think about the present. They were good about bringing out the parallels. That the past can be a guide to the present, in a way."
"So it can," Harry said. "In some ways, that's my reason for studying it."
Justine flashed a smile at him. "Mr. Rowley was always sketching some scientific invention. Mr. Derwent—Lord Pelham later—liked to say outrageous things, but he often seemed more interested in gossip. It was so tragic he died so young. Mr. Esquivel taught me some Spanish. After he went back to the Argentine, we followed his career closely."
"Did he write to your father?" Harry asked.
"Occasionally. I remember poring over those letters because the Argentine seemed so intriguing, and then tracing the path he'd sailed on the globe in Papa's study."
"What did he say when he sent your father the bust?" Cordelia asked.
"Simply that he knew it would be safe in Papa's hands. He said he'd be in London and would come down to Cambridge and explain more. As I was coming to see you, I wanted to show you the bust and to get an answer from Mr. Esquivel in person. But in the circumstances—"
"In the circumstances," Harry said, "we most definitely need to ask him about the bust."
Justine's eyes widened. "But surely you can't think a bust that's almost two thousand years old has anything to do with Mr. Esquivel's mistress being murdered."
"It's difficult to see how it might," Harry agreed. "But at the moment, anything to do with Esquivel and his mistress Alejandra Vargas and their life in the Argentine is of interest."
Justine set down her teacup. "Mr. Esquivel was—he is—married."
"Yes," Cordelia said. "Had you met his wife?"
"He brought her to see us once, just after they married. I was quite young. She was very kind. She complimented me on our parlor, though it must have looked so shabby compared to what she was used to. I can still see her and Mr. Esquivel sitting together on the settee. They seemed so happy."
"I imagine they were, then," Harry said.
"They'd been living apart, of course, since he went back to the Argentine. I did notice he didn't mention her as much in his letters, or when he visited us when he was in England after Waterlo. Sometimes he'd talk about the children." Justine looked at Harry. "Have you seen him? Since his mistress was killed?"
