The Glass House by Ashley Gardner Page A
Authors: Ashley Gardner
Tags: Suspense, Mystery, Regency, England, London, Murder, law courts, english law, barristers, middle temple
Ads: Link
well,
then I took a hackney through the City to have a look at the
infamous Glass House.
I rode in the rain through Fleet Street to
Ludgate Hill, St. Paul's to Cheapside, Cornhill to Leadenhall
Street. St. Charles Row proved to be just off Aldgate, east of
Houndsditch. The street looked respectable, if rundown. These
houses accommodated the lesser clerks and bankers of the City not
far away, and none looked as though they would hold a fashionable
hell.
Despite the chill, peddlers strolled up and
down the street. Some carried boxes strapped about their necks from
which they sold an assorted jumble of things, some toted baskets
that held jeweled colors of fruit, some pushed carts that carried
fragrant hot chestnuts. A knife grinder wandered about, calling his
trade.
These peddlers, like most Londoners, dealt
with the weather with a stoicism I admired. I had spent twenty
years in warmer climes and had become unused to the chill of my
homeland. In India, the hot ball of sun had blazed down upon us
most of the time, and in Spain and Portugal, the summers had been
roasting.
I’d toyed with the idea of retiring to Spain
when the war ended, to live in a sunny room over a quiet plaza, but
circumstance had brought me back to London to shiver in the rain.
My agreement with Colonel Brandon had forced me to give up many of
my dreams.
The door of number 12, St. Charles Row looked
no different from the doors of numbers 11 and 13. Number 12 had
been painted dark green, but scratches here and there revealed that
the original paint had been black. The knocker was tarnished and
less than clean. Indeed, number 12, St. Charles Row did not seem a
particularly prosperous address.
I lifted the knocker and listened to the
hollow sound within. Almost immediately, the door was wrenched open
by a man, not very tall, who had a sharp nose and belligerent brown
eyes. I held out my card.
The man glanced at it once, but did not reach
for it. "You were not invited," he said.
I remained standing with my card thrust at
him, then I unbent my arm and tucked the card back into my
pocket.
"I took a chance," I said. "Mr. Grenville and
I were curious."
For once, the magic name of Grenville made no
difference.
"You were not invited," the man repeated, and
slammed the door in my face. My hair stirred with the draft.
Knocking again produced no result. I turned
away, more curious about The Glass House than ever.
*** *** ***
"Shall I lay out the black coat, sir?"
Bartholomew asked me later that afternoon.
"Since it is the only one," I answered dryly,
"I suppose you should."
Bartholomew took no notice of my sarcasm. He
solemnly brought out my black frock coat, a fine thing that
Grenville had persuaded me to purchase the previous year, and
proceeded to brush it with an air of concentration. I had brushed
it only the day before but forbore to say so.
Bartholomew helped me into the coat then
proceeded to flick it all over with another brush. He'd polished my
boots until they were supple and shiny and had even scraped every
bit of mud from the soles. I do not know why he bothered; I would
simply tramp through the mud in them again.
As he worked, Bartholomew told me that
Grenville had not brought Marianne to his house. But his master had
been cross and touchy, and Bartholomew had not dared ask any
questions. I thanked him for the information and told him to take a
brief holiday while I went to Inglethorpe's.
Another hackney got me to Curzon Street in
Mayfair at a few minutes past four.
Inglethorpe's door was much different than
the one that had nearly banged my nose in St. Charles Row. Its
brass knocker was bright and polished, the black-painted door clean
and free of scratches.
At the far end of this street, at number 45,
James Denis lived. During my last adventure, Denis had given me
information that I needed and told me that, in return, he expected
me to attend him whenever he whistled. I had retorted predictably.
I’d heard nothing but silence from him
then I took a hackney through the City to have a look at the
infamous Glass House.
I rode in the rain through Fleet Street to
Ludgate Hill, St. Paul's to Cheapside, Cornhill to Leadenhall
Street. St. Charles Row proved to be just off Aldgate, east of
Houndsditch. The street looked respectable, if rundown. These
houses accommodated the lesser clerks and bankers of the City not
far away, and none looked as though they would hold a fashionable
hell.
Despite the chill, peddlers strolled up and
down the street. Some carried boxes strapped about their necks from
which they sold an assorted jumble of things, some toted baskets
that held jeweled colors of fruit, some pushed carts that carried
fragrant hot chestnuts. A knife grinder wandered about, calling his
trade.
These peddlers, like most Londoners, dealt
with the weather with a stoicism I admired. I had spent twenty
years in warmer climes and had become unused to the chill of my
homeland. In India, the hot ball of sun had blazed down upon us
most of the time, and in Spain and Portugal, the summers had been
roasting.
I’d toyed with the idea of retiring to Spain
when the war ended, to live in a sunny room over a quiet plaza, but
circumstance had brought me back to London to shiver in the rain.
My agreement with Colonel Brandon had forced me to give up many of
my dreams.
The door of number 12, St. Charles Row looked
no different from the doors of numbers 11 and 13. Number 12 had
been painted dark green, but scratches here and there revealed that
the original paint had been black. The knocker was tarnished and
less than clean. Indeed, number 12, St. Charles Row did not seem a
particularly prosperous address.
I lifted the knocker and listened to the
hollow sound within. Almost immediately, the door was wrenched open
by a man, not very tall, who had a sharp nose and belligerent brown
eyes. I held out my card.
The man glanced at it once, but did not reach
for it. "You were not invited," he said.
I remained standing with my card thrust at
him, then I unbent my arm and tucked the card back into my
pocket.
"I took a chance," I said. "Mr. Grenville and
I were curious."
For once, the magic name of Grenville made no
difference.
"You were not invited," the man repeated, and
slammed the door in my face. My hair stirred with the draft.
Knocking again produced no result. I turned
away, more curious about The Glass House than ever.
*** *** ***
"Shall I lay out the black coat, sir?"
Bartholomew asked me later that afternoon.
"Since it is the only one," I answered dryly,
"I suppose you should."
Bartholomew took no notice of my sarcasm. He
solemnly brought out my black frock coat, a fine thing that
Grenville had persuaded me to purchase the previous year, and
proceeded to brush it with an air of concentration. I had brushed
it only the day before but forbore to say so.
Bartholomew helped me into the coat then
proceeded to flick it all over with another brush. He'd polished my
boots until they were supple and shiny and had even scraped every
bit of mud from the soles. I do not know why he bothered; I would
simply tramp through the mud in them again.
As he worked, Bartholomew told me that
Grenville had not brought Marianne to his house. But his master had
been cross and touchy, and Bartholomew had not dared ask any
questions. I thanked him for the information and told him to take a
brief holiday while I went to Inglethorpe's.
Another hackney got me to Curzon Street in
Mayfair at a few minutes past four.
Inglethorpe's door was much different than
the one that had nearly banged my nose in St. Charles Row. Its
brass knocker was bright and polished, the black-painted door clean
and free of scratches.
At the far end of this street, at number 45,
James Denis lived. During my last adventure, Denis had given me
information that I needed and told me that, in return, he expected
me to attend him whenever he whistled. I had retorted predictably.
I’d heard nothing but silence from him
Similar Books
