Page 37 of Dead Beside the Thames
“Excellent.” She took his arm. “Thank you for remembering to ask.”
“Not at all. Now”—Charlie met her gaze—“as you won’t be able to accompany me into Boodle’s, I think we’d better hail another hackney so you can wait inside it while I go into the club and see what I can learn from Fitzwilliam and Satchwell.”
Claudia would much rather have gone with him and listened to the interrogation, but… She nodded. “Very well. I’ll wait outside with what patience I can muster.”
One glance at Claudia’s face had been enough to warn Charlie that she wouldn’t consent to return home and wait for him to see Fitzwilliam and Satchwell and then report. The concern in her eyes was evident. She was so determined to clear at least one of her brothers that he was grateful she’d consented to wait in the hackney.
Picking his battles was a knack he’d learned long ago.
The hackney rattled onto St. James Street and drew up outside Boodle’s. Having recollected that eyebrows would be raised at the sight of a lady on that street, even one waiting inside a hackney, Charlie climbed down and directed the jarvey to turn down nearby Ryder Street. To Claudia, Charlie said, “Better you wait there.”
Although her lips tightened, to his relief, she merely nodded. He shut the door, and the carriage rumbled on and turned left at the next corner.
Charlie didn’t want to think of what her brothers—let alone her father—might say if any gossip touched Claudia’s name over something she did while with him. In his care, so to speak. Deeming himself to have dodged a bullet, he climbed the single step to Boodle’s door, and the doorman, recognizing him, bowed him in.
Luck was with him, and he found Fitzwilliam in one of the front rooms, chatting with a group of friends. Fitzwilliam was a few years younger than Charlie, but was friends with two of the Cavanaughs, and he and Charlie had met at several ofthat family’s events. Consequently, it wasn’t difficult for Charlie to hail Fitzwilliam and, while exchanging the usual trivialities, mention hearing of the dinner Fitzwilliam had hosted the previous Saturday.
Nothing more was needed to induce Fitzwilliam, who was a naturally garrulous sort, to launch into a happy recollection of the event—who had attended, the venue, the menu, and the good time had by all. Without specifically asking, Charlie confirmed that Jonathon Hale had been one of Fitzwilliam’s guests and that the gathering had dispersed just before midnight, with everyone going their separate ways.
Accepting, therefore, that Fitzwilliam’s event would not furnish Jonathon with an alibi for a murder that was committed sometime after midnight, Charlie congratulated Fitzwilliam on his acumen in organizing such a successful dinner and asked after the venue as if that had been the aim of his inquiry. After appearing to take due note of the place—a room above one of Fleet Street’s public houses—Charlie parted from Fitzwilliam and his cronies and went in search of Satchwell.
He found that gentleman—also a few years Charlie’s junior—in the smoking room, reading a news sheet. Charlie knew Satchwell as a decent sort, and as Satchwell’s family estate was also in Surrey, not far from the Hastingses’ property, despite the disparity in age, he and Satchwell had been acquainted for years.
Satchwell hadn’t yet married, and although Charlie knew Satchwell had a shrewd brain, he also had a penchant for hosting parties for his bachelor friends that might best be described as quietly wild.
Even elegantly wild.
Charlie claimed the armchair to Satchwell’s right and waited until the other man—well aware of his approach—lowered the news sheet.
Satchwell fixed him with a faintly curious eye and nodded. “Hastings.”
Charlie nodded back. “Satchwell.”
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I understand you held a card party last Saturday night—or more correctly, through the early hours of Sunday morning.”
Almost warily, Satchwell nodded.
Charlie went on, “I need you to tell me who was there, where it was, and when it broke up.”
Satchwell regarded Charlie for several silent seconds, then said, “If I ask the obvious question—why—you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
Charlie smiled. “No. It’s not my place to divulge the reason. Suffice it to say that I’m asking on behalf of others who have an interest in your answers.”
Satchwell knew enough of Charlie’s association with Barnaby and Penelope and, through them, Stokes to interpret that reply as meaning that the police might well have questions about his event. The calculation that Satchwell would prefer to speak to Charlie rather than to some policeman wasn’t a difficult one, and Satchwell reached the expected conclusion in a blink.
“Oh, that makes it so much better!” Satchwell shook his head resignedly and folded the news sheet. “I don’t know why I should humor you, but as we’ve nothing to hide, the party was held in a room above the Racy Lady in Haymarket.”
The Racy Lady was one of the premier brothels in London. “I see,” Charlie said.
Satchwell nodded. “I’m sure you do. A part of the arrangement was that guests could—at their own expense—avail themselves of the offerings provided below and, of course, many did.”
Charlie frowned. “How many guests were there?”
“Somewhere north of fifty. At least, that was the number of invitations I sent out, and everyone accepted, but many brought friends as well.” Satchwell arched his brows at Charlie. “It was a very convivial night.”
Charlie could imagine the scene all too well. He sighed and said, “This stays between you and me, but the person whose whereabouts we’re trying to confirm is Jonathon Hale. Do you recall seeing him at the party?”
