Page 30 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Audrey Sinclair had been right. Belladora Lovejoy’s patron had not been the duke. That didn’t rule out the possibility that she had been sleeping with him, but Fournier had not been funding her—at least not by any official agreement.
Men—especially aristocrats—tended to keep their mistresses in lavish homes or apartments. No mistress living on Yarrow Street in comfortable and fashionable accommodations would ever lower herself to entertaining a lover in a place such as Jewell House. So that left a troubling question: What in hell had she been doing there?
There were a number of possibilities Hugh had been mulling over and dissecting since the records clerk at the Tower had answered a note Hugh had sent off the previous afternoon, after leaving the Yarrow Street residence. An old mate, Billy Grott, worked the records room, and while the information wasn’t exactly public, Billy could be persuaded to check into things now and again so long as Hugh covered a tavern tab or two. As for the house at 47 Yarrow, it appeared to be one of Lord Wimbly’s holdings, acquired some ten years ago. What he now needed to determine was how long Miss Lovejoy had been living under the marquess’s protection, and where the devil her house staff had run off to so quickly after her death. Hugh wanted to question them, which meant he needed names. Until then, he could only speculate.
Had Miss Lovejoy entered into an agreement with Wimbly, only to take on another secret lover? Had Wimbly become aware of it and followed her to Jewell House? Had he been boiling with jealous rage? Or perhaps alternately, Fournier had been begging Miss Lovejoy to cut ties with Wimbly, and when she refused, he lost his temper.
Hugh ground his molars as he opened the door to the vestry house, the first drops of rain striking his shoulders and neck. Thanks to the duchess’s meddling, he no longer had a nicely sewn-up case, and it pricked like nettles under his skin.
“There you are, Marsden,” a voice said as Hugh stepped inside and yanked off his hat. Lord Thornton stood just outside the closed doors to the vestry’s ante room, where Miss Lovejoy’s body would be currently laid out, awaiting the inquest.
Thornton grimaced as he held out his arms in a show of incredulity. “What in Prinny’s ballocks am I doing here?”
His oldest friend had a colorful way of speaking, though by some measure of magic it never landed as crass as it did whenever Hugh spoke in such a manner. Born and bred a gentleman, Grant Thornton had known Hugh since boyhood. It wasn’t until after Hugh was no longer held in the good graces of the ton, however, that they had grown closer. Born the fourth son of a marquess, and with little chance of inheriting his father’s title, Thornton had been free to do as he pleased with his life. Much to his father’s displeasure, he’d chosen medicine.
However, seeing as Thornton’s aim was to be a family physician and not a lowly surgeon or apothecary, Lord Lindstrom had assented to his schooling. Several years later, Thornton had emerged as a respected physician, attending to a number of families within London society.
“Language, Thornton. This is a house of the Lord, after all,” Hugh said, unable to mask his amusement. His friend answered it with a scowl.
“It’s an inquest, Marsden, one in which I have no role to play. Why send for me?”
“If you have more pressing matters to attend to, you are free to leave, and I’ll call on you later,” Hugh said. “However, if you can spare the time, I’d like you to see the victim of this case.”
Thornton did as Hugh expected: He sighed heavily and assented, opening the door to the antechamber. “They’re nearly gathered,” he muttered.
It wasn’t uncommon for his friend to sink into such surly moods. It had only been a few years since he’d lost his beloved wife in childbirth, as well as the infant daughter who’d not lived to draw a single breath, and Thornton still mourned them. He threw himself into his work to keep the memories and feelings at arm’s length, but it wasn’t always successful.
“Ah, Officer Marsden and Lord Thornton,” Dr. Oppler, the coroner, said brightly. “My lord, I believe you are the final juror to arrive. Do have a seat. Shall we begin?”
Oppler was a rotund man with spectacles and two tufts of dark black hair just above and behind each ear on his otherwise smooth scalp. Hugh had been to many inquests conducted by Oppler, and the two of them had always gotten on. So, when he’d sent the doctor a request that Thornton be included as a juror, he had not anticipated a refusal.
Most inquests Hugh attended called together a jury of several men, as well as witnesses and others able to give testimony regarding the death at hand. Thornton was not involved in any way, but he was a respected man, educated, and notoriously even-tempered and rational. His opinion would not go unappreciated by the others gathered, not to mention that Hugh needed to speak to him on another matter after the inquest concluded.
Thornton sent him another skeptical glance before taking his seat among the other jurors, already seated in hard wooden chairs along a wall of windows. As Dr. Oppler read out the particulars about the victim, including her legal name (Mary Hoffman), her age (twenty-six), and her profession (operatic actress), Hugh took note of the witnesses gathered. The first to catch his eye was none other than Sir Gabriel Poston, the chief magistrate at Bow Street.
Sir Gabriel, who held the rank of knight, had been determined to attend the inquest, if only because of the status of the man currently within his official custody for the crime. Had it been any other crime or any other suspect, Sir Gabriel would have never dreamed of attending. However, as he was upholding the arrest of a duke of the realm, it behooved him to keep track of every detail of the case, especially as there were residents of the parish in attendance. Sir Gabriel nodded at Hugh in greeting, his firmly set square jaw as ominous as the thunderclouds outside.
Next, Hugh spotted the night watchman who’d been standing guard inside Fournier’s rented rooms when Hugh had first arrived. Hugh had summoned him as well as a rag tag man who claimed to have been the first to find the body. And lastly, in the corner of the antechamber stood Mr. Bernadetto, the manager at Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. A sheen of sweat coated his pale skin. His eyes repeatedly drifted toward Miss Lovejoy’s covered corpse before blinking and looking away again.
The air in the room held a note of sourness that Hugh concluded was emanating from the deceased. He’d traced the odor many times before; it never became easier to stomach. A few men among the jurors held handkerchiefs to their noses and one had pinned dried lavender to his lapel to help mask the odor.
Dr. Oppler proceeded without any more preamble. “The victim was stabbed thirteen times, the deepest wounds being directed to the victim’s throat and chest, with superficial slices along the arms and hands.”
He stepped forward to peel back the covering. Out of respect, the sheet remained in place over her breasts, exposing only her upper chest, neck, and face. Bluish, near purple bruising mottled her ashen skin. Her wounds, though now sewn, were still garish. Hugh’s mind went back to that night, to the sheer amount of blood and gore on the bedstead.
“As you can plainly see, the neck received the largest of lacerations.” Dr. Oppler indicated the long gash Hugh remembered observing with revulsion; the one that had been jaggedly done.
Mr. Bernadetto hunched over in his seat, gagged, and then vomited into the bowl of his hat. There was a moment of silence as the other men in the room shifted awkwardly, waiting for the man to stop heaving.
“Sir,” Dr. Oppler said, not unkindly, “if you would prefer to wait in the adjoining room, we can fetch you when it comes time for questions.”
The theatre manager did not delay in exiting the antechamber.
“There’s no saving that hat,” Thornton whispered as the door closed behind him.
“Pity. It was a fine hat,” Hugh replied.
Sir Gabriel sent Hugh a direct glare as if to reprimand him, and then redirected his focus to the coroner.
