what you call recourse, miss. When a gentleman defaults of a debt, even the lowest Jew may call the bailiffs in and seize ‘is property. Or take the matter to court and send the fellow to a spunging house—all it takes is shillin’ for the warrant. But once the man’s dead, may be harder to collect. If you do see any of your money, it’s like to take far longer. Ideal-like, you want your debtor in the top of health and of a disposing mind. P’raps a gullgroper might send someone to roast your toes if you was late chronic-like, or break a bone or two. But killing —that’s not about debt.”
“Debts of honor—” Miss Tolerance began, half to herself.
“Oh, well, yes.” Glebb was disapproving. “Gentlemen and them, they’re all for blowing each other’s head off for a farthing. It’s not the way of good business.”
“It wasn’t a duel, in any case. The man was beaten to death in his own bed.”
Mr. Glebb nodded and tapped the side of his nose with one short finger. “In ’is own bed? Beat to death? That’s why the name’s familiar, then. That West End business. Look to the household, I say. A wife, a child, a servant. Who else’d have so easy a chance?”
Miss Tolerance opened her pocketbook, took out several coins and slid them across the table.
“I’m grateful for your help, Mr. Glebb.”
“Well, aye. Come find me any time. I’m always here.” Glebb pushed the coins off the edge of the table and into his hand. “And I’ll ask about for word the gent was deep in to the sharks,” he promised.
Miss Tolerance had gained the street when a thought occurred to her and she returned to the Wheat Sheaf’s tap-room again. Glebb, brushing crumbs from his coat, eyed her without comment.
“When you make your inquiries regarding the chevalier, Mr. Glebb, would you ask as well about the size of his debt to tradesmen and the like? Thank you!” She left with Glebb staring after her, clearly weighing the scope of the task she had set against the money he would be able to charge for it.
Shrugging her way out of the door into the sour fog which was, even at this hour, beginning to drift in the street, Miss Tolerance considered. The d’Aubigny household had shown all the signs of life lived chronically beyond means: the missing objects which had most likely been pawned or sold, the patchy condition of the servants’ livery, the house in a good neighborhood but with paint cracking and shutters askew. Miss Tolerance made a silent wager with herself that the Widow d’Aubigny was missing jewels which had come with her into the marriage and were now reposing in pawnshops. But if Glebb could find no indication that d’Aubigny had borrowed money from professionals accustomed to lend it, whence would the money to support that household come? It seemed impossible that the man hadn’t borrowed money from someone.
Miss Tolerance’s horse was still in the custody of the grubby child she had paid to watch it. She dodged a cart barreling by at a speed certain to throw the unspeakable contents of the gutter up in an odorous spray, then crossed the street to where horse and boy waited. She flipped the boy a coin, mounted the hack, and started west.
Perhaps the chevalier had borrowed money from a private source, a friend or business associate. Anne d’Aubigny had suggested that only a moneylender would have advanced her improvident husband money, but it was clear to Miss Tolerance that the widow had not been in her husband’s confidence. Perhaps d’Aubigny’s superior in the Home Office would know, although Miss Tolerance had little confidence that such a person would share the information with a Fallen Woman who appeared on his doorstep asking questions. Regretting that she would have to return home and change from the relatively warm breeches, coat and greatcoat that she wore into more feminine garb, Miss Tolerance turned the hack toward Manchester Square again, to render her costume and her self
“Debts of honor—” Miss Tolerance began, half to herself.
“Oh, well, yes.” Glebb was disapproving. “Gentlemen and them, they’re all for blowing each other’s head off for a farthing. It’s not the way of good business.”
“It wasn’t a duel, in any case. The man was beaten to death in his own bed.”
Mr. Glebb nodded and tapped the side of his nose with one short finger. “In ’is own bed? Beat to death? That’s why the name’s familiar, then. That West End business. Look to the household, I say. A wife, a child, a servant. Who else’d have so easy a chance?”
Miss Tolerance opened her pocketbook, took out several coins and slid them across the table.
“I’m grateful for your help, Mr. Glebb.”
“Well, aye. Come find me any time. I’m always here.” Glebb pushed the coins off the edge of the table and into his hand. “And I’ll ask about for word the gent was deep in to the sharks,” he promised.
Miss Tolerance had gained the street when a thought occurred to her and she returned to the Wheat Sheaf’s tap-room again. Glebb, brushing crumbs from his coat, eyed her without comment.
“When you make your inquiries regarding the chevalier, Mr. Glebb, would you ask as well about the size of his debt to tradesmen and the like? Thank you!” She left with Glebb staring after her, clearly weighing the scope of the task she had set against the money he would be able to charge for it.
Shrugging her way out of the door into the sour fog which was, even at this hour, beginning to drift in the street, Miss Tolerance considered. The d’Aubigny household had shown all the signs of life lived chronically beyond means: the missing objects which had most likely been pawned or sold, the patchy condition of the servants’ livery, the house in a good neighborhood but with paint cracking and shutters askew. Miss Tolerance made a silent wager with herself that the Widow d’Aubigny was missing jewels which had come with her into the marriage and were now reposing in pawnshops. But if Glebb could find no indication that d’Aubigny had borrowed money from professionals accustomed to lend it, whence would the money to support that household come? It seemed impossible that the man hadn’t borrowed money from someone.
Miss Tolerance’s horse was still in the custody of the grubby child she had paid to watch it. She dodged a cart barreling by at a speed certain to throw the unspeakable contents of the gutter up in an odorous spray, then crossed the street to where horse and boy waited. She flipped the boy a coin, mounted the hack, and started west.
Perhaps the chevalier had borrowed money from a private source, a friend or business associate. Anne d’Aubigny had suggested that only a moneylender would have advanced her improvident husband money, but it was clear to Miss Tolerance that the widow had not been in her husband’s confidence. Perhaps d’Aubigny’s superior in the Home Office would know, although Miss Tolerance had little confidence that such a person would share the information with a Fallen Woman who appeared on his doorstep asking questions. Regretting that she would have to return home and change from the relatively warm breeches, coat and greatcoat that she wore into more feminine garb, Miss Tolerance turned the hack toward Manchester Square again, to render her costume and her self
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