‘I met them only once,’ demurred Miss Austen.
‘If not from performing or teaching, does anyone know where their money came from?’ asked Dora.
Mr Dignum shrugged. ‘I always assumed they had family money or jewels, enough to set them up in style when they fled the revolution.’
There were only so many gemstones one could sew into a hem or smuggle in a packing case. The family estates would have been confiscated and Dora doubted they would have been able to retrieve their wealth if, when Napoleon’s regime allowed some nobles back in favour, they had stayed away in London.
Incledon opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut.
‘Dear sir, anything you tell us will be in confidence,’ said Miss Austen, doing Dora’s job for her.
‘Perhaps I should not say this as the gentleman is dead, but I would not be the first to notice that thecomtehad many friends,’ said Incledon. ‘He was known to tip well for any gossip about the goings on in the government or in the households of people of influence.’
That did not look good for Henry Austen’s hopes that they could separate the double murder from any treasonous activities.
‘We saw him often at the Glee Club. My impression– myfirstimpression’, Dignum made a bow towards Miss Austen, ‘was that he was a rackety gentleman, used to living on a lavish scale and determined to continue to do so even without the family estate to supply his spending. He was keen on entertainmentand parties. It was always something of a wonder that he and thecomtessecould afford to move in such exalted circles.’
‘Put it like this, if he was short to cover a round, neither of us would’ve lent him any money,’ said Mr Incledon.
‘Lord, no,’ chuckled Mr Dignum. ‘You’d never see that money again.’
They were helpfully creating a picture of an aristocratic couple who got by on the fumes of reputation long after the oil in their lamp had been exhausted.
‘We all like gossip, but were you ever worried that he was making enemies by collecting so much?’ said Dora.
‘You are asking if anyone would kill him over it?’ said Mr Incledon.
‘That was one of my questions, yes.’
‘Not to my knowledge. He collected gossip but I never heard that he passed it on indiscreetly. You wouldn’t kill someone for what they knew about you, would you, only for what they repeated.’
You’d be surprised, thought Dora.
Chapter Eight
Brooks’sClub
There was a familiarity to a gentleman’s club that Jacob knew many men found comforting. It was a mixture of a donnish high table and college library with a whiff of a father’s study. Many romped up the steps in delighted anticipation of membership as soon as they were of an age, believing it signalled their entry into adulthood. No more being taken to task on the carpet before the parental desk; now they could sit behind it and opine, berating their own sons when the time came. There were also no women to be seen, no petticoat government, as members disparagingly put it. Jacob had always disliked such sentiments, but since meeting Dora and hearing her views on a woman’s place in society, he’d come heartily to despise the arrogance of his sex. They would call him a radical but he thought it natural justice that the scales be rebalanced between the sexes one day, perhaps even allowing women to enter clubs like this, though they might have better things to do with their time.
He kept these thoughts private as he sat in the quiet Reading Room, flicking his way through the newspapers while on thelookout for a friend he could pump for information. He needed someone who had a foot in wilder circles as well as the tame ones of court and Parliament– and he had the very person in mind. The only issue was whether his old schoolfriend was still in the country, as so many were, or if he had returned to town. He should check the society column to see who was coming and who was going.
Fortunately, his watch was rewarded before he turned to that column.
‘Knighton!’
Ben Knighton turned on hearing his name called. He grinned at Jacob and hurried over. A stocky man who would’ve made a good docker had he been born working class, Knighton had married well and was enjoying the substantial income of his family’s manufactory in Derby. Schoolmates since Eton, Jacob had last met him a few months ago when he was investigating the Hellfire Club. Knighton had hung around on its edges for a while before coming to his senses, and had helped Jacob with some crucial information.
Knighton shook his hand vigorously. ‘Thank goodness there’s someone worth speaking to in London. The capital is dead– dead! Not a decent party to go to until Parliament returns in the autumn. Shall we have breakfast?’
They removed to the dining room where the waiter served them a full English breakfast and coffee made to Jacob’s taste– strong and black. Knighton grimaced and added three spoonfuls of sugar to his cup.
‘Sorry about the old pater. I’ll be at the memorial,’ Knighton said, taking a sip.
Jacob twitched the sleeve of his black jacket, conscious that his clothes advertised the loss and would continue to do so for the period of mourning. His father had been buried in Westmoreland at their country seat with only local dignitariespresent. Arthur was planning a much bigger commemoration at Westminster Abbey once the ton returned to town. ‘Thank you.’
‘I heard he left you and your siblings well set? Looked after the family coffers so that the girls have dowries and you won’t be hard up?’
A nobleman didn’t talk specifics about how much money he had, though everyone knew, of course. Being from trade, Knighton had fewer reservations about raising the subject. ‘I am some way from begging on a street corner.’ Then Jacob guiltily remembered the disabled serviceman to whom he’d tossed a coin the day before. Now he thought about it, it struck him that it was possible he himself had done the amputation in some field station in Portugal that had left the man with only one leg. He should’ve stopped to ask– it was no excuse that there were so many begging soldiers on the streets and highways.
