Page 8 of Nature of the Crime
At last, the rock and sway of the coach eased off, and Hugh sat forward, ready to spring from the conveyance at the first opportunity. The air had grown close and warm, and he needed to get out. He had tugged at his cravat, raked his hands through his hair, and shifted impatiently on the bench seat for all the near eighty miles of road from London to Dover.
“Thank Christ, we’re here. I’ve been tempted to knock you out cold if only to stop your fidgeting,” the Duke of Fournier muttered from the opposite seat.
Through the window, Hugh caught sight of Dover Castle’s stark fortress towers. If he found Audrey locked up in one of the keep’s prison cells, the magistrates and constables who’d put her there will have wished Fournier had followed through with his threat.
She’d been detained in Dover by the local authorities, the footman Travers had informed Fournier when he’d arrived at the duke’s Grosvenor Square residence past midnight. A man had been killed aboard the packet ship they’d been taking across the Channel, and there was reason for the captain to believe Audrey had committed the crime. Something about a note found on the body.
Fournier had started to prepare right away for a departure to the coast, and he’d sent another footman across Town to Bedford Street to wake Hugh. Having the viscount with him would be beneficial, considering Hugh’s standing with Bow Street and his connection to Sir Gabriel Poston, the chief magistrate there. Fournier also presumed his sister-in-law would wish for Hugh’s presence.
When the duke had explained all this around two o’clock in the morning, once he’d arrived with his coach and driver, outfitted for the chilly drive down the Dover Road, Hugh had merely nodded. At a loss for words, he’d been unable to divulge to the duke that Audrey mightnotwish for his presence. The fact that she had sent for her brother-in-law, and not him, stung. More than that, it filled him with a simmering anger. Her silence, her dismissal, was unfounded. Did she nottrusthim? With something like this, especially?
The torrent of questions plaguing him also extended to the crime. Travers had no notion of the dead man’s identity or how he had been killed. It did not matter if Audrey had spurned him. Hugh could not have stayed in London waiting for word, and so he’d forced another cup of Basil’s bitter coffee down his throat while the harried valet packed him a valise.
Fournier sat motionless as his driver, Peters, brought them toward the castle. The square-shaped fortress sat high on a rise of land, overlooking the bustling port town. The duke had been mostly silent, and Sir, who’d also packed a small bag and insisted on going with them, had been taciturn as well. He’d been making his way through Basil’s collection of Shakespeare and had brought along a well-worn copy ofMacbeth.
Sir had progressed by leaps and bounds over the last several months with his tutor, Mr. Fines. So startling was his improvement that Hugh had begun to wonder if the boy had already known how to read and write and had merely kept theskill guarded. He’d always been that way; reticent and cautious. Sir had spent most of the ride to Dover absorbed in the pages of his book, but as their coach turned up the lane toward the castle, he set it down.
“Baz would tell you to fix your cravat.”
Hugh eyed his assistant curiously as he adjusted his neckcloth as much as could be managed. “He’ll be delighted to know you’ve memorized his habits and edicts.”
Sir pulled a grimace but held his tongue. He’d been doing that more often since his voice had started to warble. Hugh missed the boy’s verbal strikes, but with any hope, once his voice changed over permanently, he was sure to be back at it.
The coach came to a stop, and within moments, they were descending onto paving stones just outside a turreted gateway onto the castle grounds.
“Stay here,” Hugh told Sir, who seemed happy enough to remain within the warmth of the carriage.
Outside, a frigid, salty wind buffeted the flag of England perched on the stone turret. A pair of uniformed military guards met them at the arched entrance, and after Fournier announced himself and Hugh, and explained why they had come, one of the guards instructed them to follow.
“Lord Burton is expecting you,” the guard added. Hugh and Fournier exchanged a glance.
“Do you know this Lord Burton?” Hugh asked the duke as they followed the red-wool coated guard. They walked swiftly along the path, which ran parallel to the fortress tower’s imposing curtain wall, formed of rough stone.
Fournier shook his head. Hugh had not heard of the man either. The guard stopped at a collection of stone outbuildings, then opened one door and stood aside. Hugh and Fournier entered a spare front room only minimally warmer than the outdoors. There were no chairs, only a rug, a hearth with a weakcoal fire kindling in the grate, and a few paintings of military sea battles.
The guard knocked upon another door, and then at a reply from inside, opened it.
“My lord, the Duke of Fournier and the Viscount Neatham,” the young man announced before stepping aside and allowing them to enter.
The office within was as spare as the anteroom, but the man who stood from behind his desk to greet them was not spare in the least. He stood at least six foot and had a jaw like a block. His age could have been anywhere between forty and fifty, as he had creases around his eyes but appeared hearty and fit.
“Your Grace, my lord,” he said with a sharp and military trained bow. “Baron Burton, at your service. I hope your journey here was not overly taxing. The roads this time of year can be dreadful.”
They had, in fact, been slowed during the night when the snowfall increased, and the driver had feared for the horses’ welfare. It had tacked a few hours onto their traveling time, but the delay was better than being stranded on the side of the road with a lame horse.
“Lord Burton, let us dispense with pleasantries. My sister and sister-in-law—where are they being held?” Fournier’s tone brooked no argument, and yet the baron did just that. Not verbally, but with silence.
He pressed his lips thinly and stared at the duke. Slowly, he came around his desk to stand before them. He had a few inches on them both, and he used them to give the appearance of looking down his nose. The man ranked well below them, but his bearing said he held himself in higher regard. It was a surprising and curious show of insolence.
Hugh was certain he would not like this man. However, he also understood what it was to feel the weight of a peer’s rankpressing down upon him. As a Bow Street officer himself, it had occurred a time or two. One such time had been with Fournier, in fact. Back then, he had been Lord Herrick, using one of the Duke of Fournier’s courtesy titles, and Hugh had just arrested his older brother, Philip, the then duke.
“The ladies are being kept at Mrs. Plimpton’s inn on Liverpool Street.”
“A public inn?” Hugh asked, only partially relieved that he would not find Audrey in some cold prison cell. Who knew what sort of inn this was?
“I have guards posted around the clock, to make certain they are kept safe.” Lord Burton’s reply omitted that he was also keeping guards posted to make certain the prisoners did not attempt to escape.
Hugh smiled thinly. “What a relief. Perhaps now you can explain why the dowager duchess has been detained at all. Who is she accused of killing, and what evidence do you have against her?”
