Page 6 of A Lady’s Guide to Murder

CHAPTER 5

Rabble-Rousing Rubbish

That same afternoon, in a very different part of London …

Theo leant back, propping his wooden chair on two legs, and adopted an air of innocence as his editor’s face turned an alarming shade of red.

‘You look overheated, Mr Scripp,’ he said lazily. Since both windows of Scripp’s cluttered office were already open to the dingy court, he added, ‘As I cannot bring in more fresh air, shall I fetch you a pint from the Angel, instead?’

‘I’m overheated because of this , you rogue.’ Scripp frantically waved a copy of that morning’s Examiner . ‘What in the name of God’s bollocks inspired you to write … to write this rabble-rousing rubbish ?’

‘It’s not rubbish,’ Theo replied calmly. ‘The Duke of Severn was likely assassinated.’

‘ Shh !’ Scripp’s gaze shifted to his half-open door. Beyond it, a spacious room bustled with noise and activity as typesetters readied hundreds of plates. Within this knot of buildings near Newgate, dozens of periodicals were printed and bundled for distribution throughout the kingdom. ‘Dammit, Theo, do you wish to provoke riots?’

‘No. I simply wish to discover the truth. If the duke was murdered, the people deserve to know.’

‘And what makes you think he was murdered?’

Theo shrugged. ‘Call it a hunch.’

Mr Scripp slammed his beefy fist on his desk. ‘Parliament may well consider the publication of this article a criminal act, and you tell me it was based on a hunch ?’

Theo tilted his chair back further and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘In what way criminal?’

‘Your column could be in defiance of the Six Acts, especially if it incites violence against the government in a misguided attempt to avenge someone who by all accounts wasn’t murdered.’

‘By what accounts?’ Theo asked. ‘I’ve not heard any official report of Severn’s death, and he looked fit as a fiddle when I saw him leave Westminster in company with Viscount Marlow hours before he died.’

Scripp drew his bushy brows together. ‘Are you implying Marlow had a hand in the duke’s death?’

‘Marlow hated Severn, but if I had any grounds to believe he murdered him I would have said so in my column. I’m not exactly known for holding back.’

Scripp huffed. ‘You have yet to mention any of the grounds for your belief that the duke was murdered.’

Theo placed all four chair legs on the floor. ‘Very well. I’ll explain. Two weeks ago, I observed a palpable animosity between Perceval Percy, the new Duke of Severn, and the Duchess—’

‘Ah, we come to it already.’ Scripp rolled his eyes. ‘I should have known this has something to do with your obsession with that lady.’

Theo bristled. ‘I am not obsessed with the Duchess of Severn.’

Scripp snorted with a decidedly derisive air.

‘I’m not ,’ Theo said. ‘I admit I find her somewhat more enigmatic than most aristocrats, which intrigues me—’

‘Somewhat more enigmatic ?’ Scripp chuckled. ‘Which intrigues you? Ha! What you mean to say is that you find the cuckolding duchess ravishing and you wish she’d consider a Newgate-born journalist for her next fuck.’

Theo curled his fingers so tightly around his seat that his nails dug into the wood. It took all his self-control not to grab his editor by his limp cravat and shake him until his teeth rattled. Whatever one thought of Henrietta Percy, no man should speak of a woman in such a foul manner.

Scripp was despicably coarse and a bloody fool to boot. If Theo had felt that way about the duchess, he would have accepted her offer of a kiss five years ago and he would have given her such a kiss. At first gentle – but not too gentle, so that she could sense the passion of which he was capable – and then, if she’d responded with encouraging warmth, he would have incrementally increased the ardency until she flamed with desire.

But he didn’t . Because he didn’t fancy the woman.

He cast his editor a scathing glare. ‘If you can control your vulgar mind, old man, perhaps I might explain why I believe Severn was assassinated?’

That made Scripp sober down. ‘Yes, yes, get on with it.’

Theo resumed his interrupted story. ‘I investigated, primarily seeking to ascertain why the duchess and the new duke despise each other, but I soon discovered that everyone is suspiciously closed mouth – and obviously nervous – about Severn’s death. The chief magistrate is investigating, but only his two most trusted men are permitted to assist him. Even my most forthcoming sources at Bow Street reveal nothing other than that the servants have been extensively questioned, that Sir Robert Baker is acting peculiarly, and that the coroner is involved.’

He paused to observe Scripp. Gratified to see the editor was hanging on to his every word, he disclosed his most damning discovery. ‘Within hours of Severn’s death, his body was autopsied, which is highly unusual, given his rank and status.’ Then Theo leant forward and emphasised each word dramatically as he continued, the better to captivate Scripp’s thirst for sensationalism. Taking a salacious angle was the only way he’d ever got the man to print anything of importance. ‘Furthermore, this autopsy was performed by none other than the esteemed Dr Grimsley, Britain’s foremost expert on forensic medicine . And lastly’ – Theo pointed a triumphant finger at Scripp – ‘you know damned well that my hunches are seldom, if ever, wrong.’

‘And what the devil is forensic medicine?’ Scripp scowled.

Theo should have known better than to use big words. ‘The application of medical science to provide evidence in criminal trials.’ Since his adolescence, he’d followed cases at the Old Bailey.

‘By God.’ Scripp’s eyes gleamed at last. ‘But why then no coroner’s inquest? Why no declaration of cause of death?’

Theo lifted his hands, palms up. ‘The coroner must not yet be ready for public disclosure. Perhaps he waited for the duke to be laid to rest? Perhaps there are political reasons why he refrains? Or perhaps’ – he added more dramatic flair, giving his voice an eerie edge – ‘or perhaps the magistrate hopes the assassin or murderer will grow careless, thinking he has succeeded in concealing his crime, make a mistake, and reveal himself?’

Scripp shuddered in delight. ‘If so, your article could ruin the magistrate’s plans. It may well force him into action.’

Theo winked. ‘Precisely, Mr Scripp. Precisely.’

But then Scripp’s enthusiasm waned and he looked at the crumpled paper with stooped shoulders. ‘Hang it, Theo, even if all you say is correct—’

‘Which it is.’

Scripp held up a hand. ‘Even if all you say is correct, this sort of devilry is dangerous to print. You should’ve asked first.’

Theo cocked an eyebrow. ‘One might say that as editor, you should have read it before sending it to press.’

Scripp tugged at his collar. ‘You know I haven’t the time to read everything that crosses my desk. It hurts me to my core that you would abuse my trust in this way, when you know how dearly I care for you.’

‘Leave off, old man.’ Theo laughed, accustomed as he was to his editor’s wheedling ways. At one time, he had owed Scripp for discovering him when he was a wiry but strong eight-year-old crossing-sweeper, and first giving him a job in the packing rooms, bundling papers and tossing them into delivery carts alongside grown men, and then later offering him the opportunity to use his wiles and cunning to spy on the elite. But Theo had repaid his debts with years of servitude – often thirteen, fifteen hours a day, doing whatever Scripp asked of him. There was no tenderness on the editor’s part. ‘You care about me as a tool. A particularly useful one, since I am the only writer you employ who is also willing to work the packing rooms.’

Theo packed newspapers many mornings, sometimes arriving directly from observing late-night society events to join the packers in the early hours before dawn, when the papers rolled fresh off the printing press. In fact, ink currently tinged his close-clipped fingernails and smudged his forearms below his rolled-up shirtsleeves because he’d been bundling and loading papers since four in the morning, though in today’s case he’d done so as an excuse to ensure that Scripp hadn’t changed a word of his column before the Mayfair Examiner had been carted out.

‘I never thought to see the day when Theo Hawke turned into an ungrateful scoundrel.’ Scripp put a hand to his heart, as if mortally wounded. ‘But that is what you are, young man. You know I cannot afford to draw the attention of the law. No one cares when we print salacious little rumours … who cuckolds whom … who wagered too heavily at the card table … that sort of thing, carefully worded, with names obscured – that I can print. But this … this could destroy me. A hefty fine, or worse. Prison , even, Theo. And if I go down, everyone who works for me will lose their livelihood. What have you to say to that?’

Theo tapped his foot and considered. His editor was probably playing him, but Theo had once been a half-starved orphan, making his way in the streets, and some things, like memories of the gnawing pains of poverty, never left a person. He certainly wouldn’t want to be the cause of someone else’s hunger, however indirectly.

Nonetheless, he stood by his theory. ‘I won’t write a retraction, but, since you’re this concerned about criminal repercussions, I’ll investigate until I uncover irrefutable evidence.’

Scripp sat back heavily in his chair, folding his thick hands over his thick middle. ‘Be quick with it, Theo,’ he said, all traces of his mortal wound vanished. ‘And I still expect your regular column for next week.’

Theo rose, retrieving the coat he’d discarded earlier and extracting a folded paper from its pocket. He tossed the paper on Scripp’s desk. ‘How about this instead?’

As Scripp scanned the neatly written lines, his scarlet face turned purple. ‘This is more radical politics!’

‘It’s not.’ Theo defended the article he’d laboured over for days. ‘It’s a path forward in turbulent times. A call for the people to unify behind the vision of a less exclusive Britain, presented in a way that hopefully will allow some aristocrats to come alongside.’

Scripp ripped the paper down the middle. ‘No one wants to read political opinions from a gossip columnist.’

Theo ground his teeth as his editor crumpled up the torn scraps. He wasn’t surprised, for it wasn’t the first time Scripp had dismissed his serious journalism, but he was annoyed, both by the insult and by the destruction of his article. Thankfully, he’d written out a second copy, safely on his desk at his lodgings, but it was the principle of the matter. For many years, he’d worked tirelessly for Scripp – would the editor truly never take him seriously?

‘In dark times, people don’t want to think about the state of the world, my boy.’ There was a consolatory note in Scripp’s voice. ‘They want to read about their neighbours’ intrigues and follies, and no one is better than you at sniffing out filth. So, once you find that proof, keep politics out of your work.’

But Theo wasn’t about to give up on his ambitions. He bolstered his confidence as he left the newspaper offices and headed towards his lodgings at Newgate Market. Hooking his coat over his shoulder due to the warmth of the June day, he passed under the shadow of the prison where he’d first entered the world and reminded himself that he’d been successfully fighting adversity from the moment of his birth. He wouldn’t stop now. One day, he’d make a valuable contribution to the betterment of Britain, but he’d need to work for a more reputable newspaper than the Mayfair Examiner to make that happen. The trouble was, better newspapers didn’t hire street-urchins-cum-journalists, no matter how much they’d scrambled and toiled to learn to read, write and make something of themselves.

He needed to write something big. An article that would score such a success against rival newspapers that everyone would take notice of Theodore Hawke, not as a gossipmongering nuisance, but as a serious journalist.

Perhaps investigating the murder of Severn was his chance.

Newgate Market, one of London’s biggest meat markets, was bustling with activity when Theo entered. In the mid-afternoon, the vendors sold the last of the day’s stock at a discounted rate to kerchiefed goodwives and serving women. Despite the flies attracted to the sun-warmed carcasses, Theo’s stomach growled as he passed the stalls. He hadn’t eaten anything other than a bit of sausage and bread shortly after dawn, hastily grabbed between packing and loading papers.

The first thing he’d do upon arriving at home, he decided, would be to charm his landlady into giving him a hearty dinner. That was easily enough done, for Mrs Ford had a soft spot for him. She claimed he was like the son she never had, but Theo doubted mothers usually found so very many opportunities to pat their grown sons’ bottoms. Fortunately, Mrs Ford’s cooking and cleaning compensated for her wandering hands.

Halfway across the market square, he reached into his pocket, grasped his keys, and planned the remainder of his day. After his meal, he’d wash and change into one of his good suits of clothes. Then he’d dedicate the evening and night to scouring for information on the Duke of Severn’s death, starting with yet another visit to the public house frequented by the Bow Street Runners, amongst whom Theo had several mates. Hardly bosom friends, but burly men who were good for a laugh over pints, who on occasion scratched Theo’s back in return for his scratching theirs. A wily spy was useful to a thief-taker and on Theo’s part, he liked to know the true intricacies of Bow Street and the Old Bailey.

As he approached the brick terrace where he leased two rooms, Mrs Ford appeared at an open upstairs window, leaning so far forward that her mountainous bosom spilled over the ledge. Theo raised a hand in greeting, but she didn’t throw her customary kisses in return.

Instead, she gestured frantically towards a slender gentleman standing below her, just outside the front door. Clad in expensive clothes with his gloved hands behind his back, the man’s head was lowered, concealing his features beneath a tall-crowned hat. ‘Look, look,’ the landlady silently mouthed to Theo. ‘Look who is here!’

The visitor glanced up then, revealing the haughty, pink face of the new Duke of Severn, a man for whom Theo held no good opinion. Some years ago, Perceval Percy had belonged to a riotous band of wealthy scions called the Scourers, who’d smashed windows and gas lamps, picked fights with vagrants, tormented flower girls, stole from street merchants, and in general had made themselves a nuisance because they’d had nothing better to do. Although Percy had distanced himself from those troublemakers perhaps five years earlier, he remained an idle, frivolous peacock, prone to lavish spending on horses and a succession of exceptionally crass mistresses.

Nevertheless, Theo was intrigued – there must be the very devil of a reason for a newly minted duke to call upon a gossip journalist. Was Percy objecting to the fortnight-old report about his encounter with his opera dancer? Or today’s column about the late Severn? Was there to be parliamentary action against Theo?

Percy greeted him with a supercilious sneer. ‘Mr Hawke of the Mayfair Examiner , I presume?’

Meeting arrogance with arrogance, Theo cracked a grin. ‘What an unexpected pleasure, Your Grace. Allow me to extend my condolences upon your loss … or, rather, my congratulations upon your gains. I suppose now that the lovely Miss Babcock gets a coronet, she’ll be more willing to share your favours with Désirée du Pont? Or perhaps now that you’re a duke, you’ve set your sights higher than a rich bishop’s daughter?’

Percy deepened his sneer. ‘In some sunlit field, Mr Hawke, there’s hemp growing tall and strong, destined to become a fine necklace for you.’

That made Theo laugh heartily, for it wasn’t the first time a swell had told him he was heading for a hanging. They appeared to think the idea should terrify him into some sort of deference, perhaps accompanied by tugging his forelock, but the gallows had loomed over Theo’s entire life and he didn’t fear it any more than he feared any death. The grave was inevitable and no one knew that like a London street brat. In Theo’s opinion, there was nothing for it but to embrace every day one got, and to try to leave the world a better place.

‘Is that what you came to say?’ he asked, wiping away a tear of laughter. ‘Because if so, now that you’ve said it, shift your stuck-up arse out of my sight before I do it for you.’

Percy looked appalled, then drew his shoulders up, as if attempting to regain his authority. ‘Mr Hawke, I happen to believe that somewhere under your boorish and ill-bred crust, there’s a man of some intelligence. And a man who, despite obvious disdain for his betters, admired my late cousin. In ten years, you never printed an ill word about him – which leads me to suspect you’d want swift justice brought to the murderer of the People’s Duke.’

That sobered Theo instantly, but the definite confirmation that his hunch was correct brought him no satisfaction. The late Duke of Severn had been more than just a good man. He’d been a brilliant strategist, a caring politician and a beacon of hope. Many Britons had believed that if ever the Whigs regained control of Parliament, it would be with Severn as prime minister, and of late he’d certainly seemed to be gathering support and building his leadership platform, one of parliamentary reform, male suffrage and amendment of the Corn Laws.

Someone had stolen that from the people by killing the man before he’d even reached his prime. Death might be inevitable, but murder was still the most heinous of crimes.

‘Who did it?’ Theo spat out the words, narrowing his gaze to meet Percy’s icy blue stare, and wondering if he were looking into the eyes of a murderer. The new duke was a scoundrel, after all. ‘What blackhearted villain deprived the world of Severn?’ he asked, curious how Percy would reply. ‘I will use my pen to destroy the man.’

‘As it happens, Mr Hawke,’ Percy replied slowly, ‘it might be that the villain isn’t a man at all.’

Theo’s breath caught short. What game was Percy playing? Why had the man come to him with this tale? And if the killer were a woman, who could he possibly mean? There was only one woman whose name was ever connected with the late Duke of Severn, and that was …

… the duchess.

Into Theo’s mind flashed a vision of Henrietta Percy’s stately figure in widow weeds, silhouetted in a golden rectangle of light before a crowd mourning the death of her husband.

His blood ran cold. ‘What do you mean, the villain mightn’t be a man?’

The new duke’s lips curved into a frigid smile. ‘Invite me in and we can talk.’