The Glass House by Ashley Gardner

were alone on the stairs. "If he
were sitting at dinner, falling asleep, he couldn’t have done
her."
    "Not necessarily." The Temple Gardens were an
idyllic place, with trees and green and the river below. It was
here, if Thompson had been correct, that Peaches had met her death,
or at least had been put into the river.
    I walked halfway down the water steps and
watched the gray river flowing obliviously past us. "Middle Temple
Hall opens onto the garden. Chapman could easily have come out, met
his wife, and gone back. It was nearly dark, and almost everyone in
the Temples were dining. No doubt others in the hall nod off as
well, and the students spend the time debating and arguing, not
watching their elders."
    "That's possible, sir."
    "Anything is possible," I said, growing
impatient. "That is the trouble. What's more, it is probable. So is
Lord Barbury bringing her here after she was killed to throw
suspicion on her husband, who was dining conveniently nearby." I
blew out my breath. "I very much want to speak to someone who saw
Peaches alive that day. We know where she was to have gone, and
where she should have gone, but not where she did go."
    "'Tis puzzling, sir." Bartholomew dropped his
deferential nephew pose and folded his arms over his chest.
    We prowled about looking for signs that
Peaches had been killed here, although Thompson had told me the Bow
Street foot patrol had searched the area, under Pomeroy's
supervision. We found no stones with blood on them, nor had the
murderer conveniently left behind a bloody handkerchief with his
initials embroidered on it. Of course, anything incriminating could
simply have been dropped into the silent Thames.
    Rain began to patter down on us. It had
poured rain on Monday, which likely had disguised any sign of
violence. Bartholomew and I looked about until we were drenched
then gave up and returned home.
    Once in Grimpen Lane, I went to my bedchamber
to change into dry clothes and told Bartholomew to do the same.
When I emerged, my landlady, Mrs. Beltan, was knocking at my
door.
    "Your friend Mr. Grenville's been," she said
when I answered. Rain still pattered outside, and the hall was cold
and clammy. Mrs. Beltan handed me a folded square of paper. "Been
and gone. And he's taken Miss Simmons away with him."
     
     
    * * * * *

Chapter Five
     
    I stared. "Taken her where?"
    Mrs. Beltan’s plump mouth pursed in
disapproval. "I couldn't say, sir. But she had on her best bonnet
and a bundle under her arm. He fair dragged her away. He looked
that angry."
    Grenville had seemed fascinated by Marianne
from the day he'd met her, an interest he'd never denied. He'd
given her a good handful of money, though it seemed to disappear
with nothing to show for it. I wondered what Marianne had said or
done to anger him, and where on earth he'd taken her.
    "I will speak to him," I told Mrs. Beltan.
"If it's a question of the rent . . ."
    "Rent’s been paid to the end of the quarter.
Your Mr. Grenville gave me a large note for it."
    For that I could only wonder. I had known
Grenville for a year or more now, but I could neither understand
nor explain his actions.
    The piece of paper he'd left instructed me to
present myself at number 21, Curzon Street at four o'clock this
afternoon. It was just going on twelve. I told the worried Mrs.
Beltan I would look into the matter, fetched Bartholomew, and set
off on my next errand.
    *** *** ***
    I did not seriously think Marianne in any
danger from Grenville, but I had no idea where he could have taken
her. Certainly not to his own house; at least, I did not believe
so. A few lads in Russel Street told me they'd seen Grenville's
carriage but added nothing more helpful than it had turned toward
Covent Garden and King Street.
    I let it go. I doubted Grenville would
appreciate me prying, and I was not quite certain who I was more
worried for, Marianne or Grenville. However, I told Bartholomew to
return to Grenville’s house in Mayfair and make sure all was