The Fugitive Colours (Genevieve Planché Book 2), page 25
Hervé Gaynard was a heartless criminal, but his murder will be much written about and his funeral well attended, no doubt. I can picture the elaborate grave marker.
My brooding comes to a halt when Oliver sticks his head into the room to tell me that Joshua Reynolds has just arrived. I jump to my feet, eager to play out my role.
Oliver leads me to the court chambers, where the only occupant is Sir John Fielding, sitting high above us in his magistrate’s station. I take a seat at a small table on the far side of Oliver.
“These official surroundings should assist us, don’t you think, Mrs. Sturbridge?” says Sir John. I swear I can detect a smile tightening the corners of his mouth. Investigating crime isn’t purely a duty of conscience. He enjoys this.
The door opens with a loud click. A red-vested man leads Joshua Reynolds in, who I note is wearing a coat and waistcoat in matching patterned material and a fine wig for the occasion. His cravat, though, is crooked. Ralph must have been rushed.
Reynolds does not see me or Oliver. He looks only at Sir John Fielding, openly fascinated by the magistrate.
“Mr. Reynolds?” says Sir John in an authoritative boom. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I cannot see you, for I have been blind since the age of nineteen. I can, however, hear you.”
Reynolds says, “I have long wanted to make your acquaintance, Sir John. I’m a supporter of your reforms here on Bow Street. And may I say that the novels written by your late brother are some of my favourites. I was at supper only last week with a few friends, and we were extolling the quality of Tom Jones.”
“Why, I thank you. Henry would be quite pleased to know this.” Sir John’s voice is softening. I know what it’s like when Reynolds exerts his personality. Even now, after he’s brought so much trouble to my life, I find it hard to dislike him. Why? Part of it is simple to understand – he is open and friendly, enthusiastic in his many artistic and literary interests. There is no denying his ambition drives him to try to befriend the titled and powerful, the beautiful and seductive, but he’s straightforward about it. There is no pretentiousness. And part of it is his West Country accent that he’s done nothing to shed. That reminds me of Sam Baldwin, who I suspect has made efforts to get rid of his accent. I hastily push him out of my mind.
“I knew Mr. Gaynard, though not terribly well,” Reynolds is saying. “He had an interest in the Drury Lane Theatre, and I have a number of good friends in the theatre. But of course, I will do anything to assist Bow Street in your inquiry.”
Sir John Fielding says, “That is good news, Mr. Reynolds. I’m afraid that the Hervé Gaynard investigation does concern you, and Mrs. Sturbridge as well.” He gestures in the direction of my table. Only then does Joshua look over and see me, and he visibly recoils. Now he’s worried.
Sir John moves straight to it.
“Mr. Gaynard made an offer to Mrs. Sturbridge several days before he was killed. He said he represented someone who would pay her husband, Thomas Sturbridge, eight thousand pounds to work with you in the business of your fugitive colours, but instead of helping you solve the problem of the colours in your paintings, he would create colours that would deteriorate faster and do greater damage.”
“What?” Reynolds shouts, his face turning bright red. “But that would destroy me – I’d be humiliated before all of England.” He whips around to point a finger at me. “Why in the name of heaven did you tell Gaynard about the fugitive colours?”
“I didn’t,” I say heatedly, trying not to shout back. “I told no one. My husband didn’t even want to help you with the colours, he was going to refuse you.”
The artist makes a scornful sound. “Oh, how could Gaynard find out if not from you?” Reynolds then glares at Oliver. “And what the hell is this man writing down? I won’t have anything about this made public.”
Sir John Fielding says in a thunderous voice, “Sir, there will be no profanity in my court and especially not in the presence of a lady. As to Mr. Oliver, he is my householder, performing a legal duty. You shall calm yourself. We require your assistance in this murder investigation. There is a belief that the murder of Hervé Gaynard could be connected to his scheme to recruit Thomas Sturbridge to ruin you. I have no intention at this point of informing the newspaper writers of your involvement, but I could change my mind.”
Chastened, Joshua Reynolds stumbles into a chair, mopping his face with a handkerchief. But he does not apologise to Sir John for his outburst or to me for his insults, and with that, I am freed from my lingering admiration for the man. And I can speak out.
I say, slowly and clearly, “Mr. Reynolds, it was Miss Kitty Fisher who told Hervé Gaynard about you asking my husband to help you with the fugitive colours. It is she who shared your secret with a criminal and a blackmailer.”
As he stares at me, the colour drains from his face.
“Is this true, Mr. Reynolds?” demands Sir John Fielding. “A known courtesan is your confidante?”
Joshua takes at least a minute to gather himself. “Not any longer,” he says, his voice thick.
Sir John presses him, asking for his theories on who could have approached Hervé Gaynard with the idea to turn the fugitive colours into a weapon against him.
“There is absolutely no one I can think of who would do such a terrible thing,” he says, sounding offended, if not pained.
Sir John Fielding turns his head in my direction. It’s my turn. I have to prove my usefulness in this investigation or else there’s no reason for Sir Humphrey to protect me.
I say, “But Mr. Reynolds, haven’t you said that there are rival artists who would like to take your place?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says through gritted teeth.
Sir John Fielding says, “So you do not intend to offer my office any assistance in this matter, am I correct?”
Joshua Reynolds sits up straighter in his chair, peering anxiously at Sir John as if he doubts the man’s blindness.
“I will endeavour to assist you, Sir John,” he says.
“Then please answer Mrs. Sturbridge’s question.”
Looking at Sir John, not me, Reynolds says, “Portrait painting is a competitive business. There are other artists who may wish to receive more commissions. But I can’t imagine any of them taking such an extreme step. No, I can’t think of a single one.”
I clear my throat. “Perhaps if I mention some of the names of the other artists? Others whom you have brought up to me?”
“I really don’t think—”
I interrupt, saying, “Mr. Allan Ramsay, court painter to King George and his family.”
Reynolds snorts. “The man is more than fifty years old! He has become quite selective about his portrait commissions. Why would someone who is choosing to slow down his output wish to replace a painter whose studio is overwhelmed with subjects?”
Reynolds makes a convincing case. I push on to the next name.
“George Romney,” I say.
He shakes his head. “The thought of that fragile soul executing such an audacious attack? Ridiculous. Even if I thought he had the strength of nerve – which I assure you he does not – he’s nearly penniless from what I hear. He can barely pay for a London studio. Eight thousand pounds? Even more ridiculous.”
Another theory demolished. But now I come to the name of the man I anticipate Joshua Reynolds will most hate to hear: Thomas Gainsborough.
Sure enough, Joshua Reynolds flinches slightly. “The man from Bath would no doubt like to rise in everyone’s estimation, although I really can’t see him going to these lengths,” he says. “And once again, where would that sort of money come from? I’m not privy to his finances, but I believe he is largely dependent on his wife’s income of two hundred pounds a year, as she is the natural daughter of the Duke of Beaufort.”
Oliver speaks for the first time. “Excuse me, sir? Bath, you said?”
“Yes, Gainsborough lives there through every season. He has no London residence.”
Oliver shakes his head. “Bath is a hundred miles from here. For someone to travel there with word of Mr. Reynolds’ offer to Mr. Sturbridge, tell this Gainsborough fellow, then have to send someone hotfoot to London to cook the deal with Gaynard and try to force Mrs. Sturbridge to agree? There’s not enough time. It’s not possible, not even by fast post.”
Impressed, I nudge Mr. Oliver and nod. He’s made a convincing case. He ducks his head, embarrassed. I suppose praise is rarely ladled out at number four, Bow Street.
“Are there no other artists who come to mind?” asks Sir John Fielding. The magistrate may think we’ve a great many more to consider, but I fear we have reached the end of the list of plausible candidates.
“None of the other artists in England have the talent to hope to ever replace me,” says Joshua Reynolds dismissively. Once more, Sam Baldwin leaps to mind before I can squash the thought. He has never ever boasted about his talent. But he wouldn’t relish hearing this. Still, Reynolds is right. Sam would never think he could replace Reynolds; he has no motive.
“Perhaps it’s not a matter of trying to replace you as a successful artist but wishing to see you ruined,” says Sir John Fielding as if he were trying to decide on cake or crumpets to be served with tea today.
Again, Joshua Reynolds sits up taller in his chair and says, “I don’t see why your first order of business is to try to determine who would wish to see me ruined. I believe that whoever murdered Hervé Gaynard might have been trying to stop his plan from going forward. That is the motivation of the man you seek.”
Reynolds’ comment leaves me feeling unsettled, an emotion that only intensifies after our questioning of Joshua Reynolds ends and Sir Humphrey returns to Bow Street. I’d thought that confronting the Chevalier d’Eon, the infamous missing diplomat and perhaps secret spy of King Louis, would leave him exultant. But such is not the case.
“His countrymen are trying to poison him, kidnap him, defame him, and yet he made it clear that the lowliest Frenchman, even scum like Hervé Gaynard, are preferred to representatives of King George’s government,” he says, disgusted.
“Didn’t he tell you anything useful?” I ask.
“He did.”
Sir Humphrey stares at me as if he thought he’d been talking to someone else. “Any information I gain must be kept in strict confidence,” he says severely.
“I do not pry for the sake of gossip! I am endeavouring to assist you, Sir Humphrey.”
“If only we could say the same for your husband.”
I feel a rush of protective fear.
“What do you mean by that?”
“This morning, one of Sir John’s senior men went to Chiswick to talk to your husband and confirm what you’ve told us and find out his whereabouts the night of the murder, and he was refused permission. First by some officious carriage driver and then by John Montagu, Earl of Sandwich, himself. ‘Mr. Sturbridge is too busy with his work to be disturbed,’ Montagu says. The earl himself vouched for his tutor, said Sturbridge never left the house the day or night of the murder.”
Stunned, I repeat, “The Earl of Sandwich spoke to Sir John’s man, but Thomas did not?”
Sir Humphrey takes a step closer and says, “If this is some plot between you and your husband, I’ll show not a fleck of mercy.”
“It isn’t! I swear before God!”
He sighs. “Then go home, Genevieve. You were of use today to Sir John Fielding, that will be taken into account.”
“And my name won’t be mentioned or put into public record at the coroner’s inquest?”
“Everything you’ve done will be taken into account,” he repeats.
“That’s not a promise, Sir Humphrey.”
His temper flares. “I don’t owe you a promise, Genevieve. If you hadn’t been stashing French knives up your sleeve like some kind of assassin, you wouldn’t be in this fix.” He points at me, though we’re but inches away from each other. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about your husband. Something’s not right there. I can smell it. A murder’s been committed, he’s involved in the scheme leading to it, the whole affair put his wife through a dangerous ordeal – and he does not bother to come home?”
My face flushing, I say, “I don’t think the death has been written about in the better newspapers, and I haven’t had a moment to send word. There are always good reasons for what Thomas does.”
“You can tell yourself that if you want to. I know from experience that Thomas Sturbridge does not always display the best judgement.”
I open my mouth to launch into a passionate defence of my husband, but Sir Humphrey Willoughby waves his hand rudely.
“Enough. I am busy with what is turning into a devilishly complicated investigation. Moreover, you of all people shouldn’t be privy to these conversations. I don’t wish to offend, but I need you out of here.”
“Very well,” I say, straining to hold onto my dignity as I go to search for my long cloak.
Before stepping out of the building, Sir Humphrey has one last thing to say.
“Now that he has, without question, been informed of Hervé Gaynard’s murder, your husband’s place is by your side. I hope he returns to Spitalfields soon for your sake – and his.”
As I march out of number four, Bow Street, ignoring the shouts of the newspaper writers, I ponder Sir Humphrey’s admonishments and threats. The most ominous was, “You of all people shouldn’t be privy to these conversations.” Who has given Sir Humphrey and the Bow Street investigators information that needs to be concealed from me?
I reach Fournier Street before sunset. There’s no sign of the Montagu carriage outside, but it’s still fairly early, I tell myself. The carriage traffic in London on a Saturday would make the eastward drive slow going. Inside, I find only Pierre and Daphne. Apparently, Jean came to work this morning but left after two hours because I hadn’t returned. Caroline never appeared at all. There seems little doubt that my silk design business is in danger of collapse. If my name is not mentioned in the coroner’s inquest – and that’s an enormous “if” – I must work hard to rehabilitate it.
The experience of the next two hours, taking care of Pierre on top of many necessary chores, puts this future to the question, though. Without Sophie or George in the house and Daphne unable to cope with stairs, the household responsibilities must fall to me. I will have to hire at least one other servant, even though I can’t face that right now. I’m also uneasy about money. After meeting with Nicolas Carteret and confirming the work contract, I will need to prepare a plan.
“Lay a third place at supper for Mr. Sturbridge,” I tell Daphne.
I know my husband better than anyone else in the world. It’s impossible that Thomas would not come to me tonight.
Pierre is delighted to hear Papa will be back. I play a game with him in the parlour before supper, but both of us are distracted, listening for the turn of the key in the door, followed by Thomas’ cheerful shout and quick, light step. The street is noisy tonight, even more than usual, and several times I turn, thinking, “Here he is at last,” as a surge of relief courses through me.
But it’s never him.
With reluctance, Pierre and I start supper. I’ve hardly eaten today, and Daphne’s meat pie is delicious, yet I possess little appetite. After doing my best to force some down, I give up.
When it’s past ten o’clock, I change into my nightclothes with heavy limbs, forced to accept the fact that all my excuses for his being late to Spitalfields are just that – excuses.
My husband has abandoned me.
Chapter Twenty-One
After a fitful night, I wake to a Sunday morning of freezing rain rattling the windows. If it were a bit colder, snowflakes would silently caress the glass, a much-preferred experience. My nerves are so strained, it feels like someone is attacking my house.
Mercifully, Caroline comes to work. She looks as if she’s lost weight and slept not at all since I last saw her, but I suspect I am her mirror image. Jean does not appear at his usual time. I know he was in the workshop briefly yesterday. I expect him to show himself soon. He knows we must work through the weekend to make the schedule.
In the meantime, Caroline and I lay out sketching paper, dishes of water, brushes and watercolour cakes. I’m deeply grateful for her silence. I don’t know what’s going to happen with the investigation into Hervé Gaynard’s murder. My husband doesn’t seem to wish to live with me anymore. Two of my servants are in jail. Any hope of developing a painting career under the sponsorship of Joshua Reynolds has vanished. All that I have is my son, my house and my silk design business.
The rain subsides as we settle into the work. Just as it does so, a group of people on Fournier Street make loud noises. Not eager tradesmen hawking wares, no, it’s much more chaotic, even angry.
“It’s Sunday and too early for public drunkenness, or is it?” I say with a sigh.
Caroline shrugs uneasily.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Someone pounds on my front door. I hurry to the staircase and call down to Daphne, “What’s happening? Do they declare themselves?”
“No, Madame Genevieve,” she shouts up the stairs. “But they’re calling for you.”
“Is it the constable? Someone from Bow Street?”
“I don’t think so.”
I fight to think clearly. This could not be Londoners outraged by my role in Gaynard’s murder. Mr. Oliver told me the coroner’s inquest was scheduled for one o’clock in the afternoon the following day. Nor could it be a reaction to newspapers. Unless something has gone horribly wrong, no one on Grub Street knows about me.
George would have been useful just about now. He was foolish and fearful, but that was rarely obvious from looking at him. He was a young, fit man, and just his standing in the doorway would make troublemakers think twice. Three women and a small boy are not able to launch a defence against a group of angry men. The only course of action is to keep the door closed and locked.
