Ashley Gardner - The Glass House

The affair of The Glass House began quietly enough one evening in late January, 1817. I passed the afternoon drinking ale at The Rearing Pony, a tavern in Maiden Lane near Covent Garden, in a common room that was noisy, crowded, and overheated. Sweating men swapped stories and laughter, and a barmaid called Anne Tolliver filled glasses and winked at me as she passed.

I first learned of anything amiss when I left the tavern to make my way home. It was eight o'clock, the winter night outside was black and brutally cold, and rain came down. A hackney waited at a stand, white vapor streaming from the horse's nostrils while the coachman warmed himself with a nip from a flask.

I walked as quickly as I could on the slick cobbles, trying to retain the warmth of ale and fire I’d left behind in the public house. My rooms in Grimpen Lane would be dark and lonely, and Bartholomew would not be there.

Since Christmas, Bartholomew, the tall, blond, Teutonic-looking footman to Lucius Grenville, had become my makeshift manservant, but tonight he had returned to Grenville's house to help prepare for a soiree. That soiree would be one of the finest of the Season, and everyone who was anyone would be there.

I too had an invitation, and I would attend, though I much preferred to visit Grenville when he was not playing host. Grenville was the most sought-after gentleman in society, being the foremost authority on art, music, horses, ladies, and every other entertainment embraced by the London ton. He was also vastly wealthy and well-connected, having plenty of peers of the realm in his ancestry. His manners, his dress, his tastes were carefully copied. In public, he played his role of man-about-town to the hilt, employing cool sangfroid and a quizzing glass, one glance through which could humble the most impudent aristocrat.

I had come to know the man behind the facade, a gentleman of intelligence and good sense, who was well read and well traveled and possessed a lively curiosity that matched my own. People wondered why Grenville had shown interest in me, a half-pay cavalry officer who had passed his fortieth year. Though I had good lineage, I had no wealth, no connections, no prospects.

I knew Grenville was kind to me because I interested him, and I relieved the ennui into which he, one of the most wealthy men in England often lapsed. He enjoyed hearing tales of my adventures, and he'd helped me investigate several murders and mysterious events in the past year.

I could not fault Grenville his generosity, but I could not repay it either. His charity often grated on my pride, but in the last year, I had come to regard him as a friend. If he wished me to attend the crush at his home, I would oblige him and go, though I would have to endure a night of rude stares at me and my fading regimentals.

Hence, I enjoyed myself sitting in the friendly, noisy tavern before I had to venture to Mayfair and face London's elite.

At least my lodgings had become something less than dismal since Bartholomew's arrival. Grenville had lent him to me and paid for his keep, because the lad wanted to train to be a valet, the pinnacle of the servant class. Therefore, I now had someone to mix my shaving soap, brush my suits, keep my boots polished, and talk to me while we chewed through the beefsteak and boiled potatoes he fetched from the nearby public house.

I suspected Grenville's purpose in sending Bartholomew to me was twofold-first, because Grenville felt sorry for me, and second, because he wanted to keep an eye on me. With Bartholomew reporting to him, Grenville would be certain not to miss any intriguing situation into which I might land myself.

Bad fortune for him that Grenville had chosen to call Bartholomew home to help him tonight.

My rooms lay above a bakeshop in the tiny cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane, which ran behind Bow Street. The bakeshop was a jovial place of warm, yeasty breads, coffee, and banter when it was open. Mrs. Beltan let the rooms above it cheap, and I'd found her to be a fair landlady. The shop was closed now, Mrs. Beltan home with her sister, the windows dark and empty.

As I reached to unlock the outer door that led to the stairs, a voice boomed at me out of the darkness.

"Happily met, Captain."

I recognized the strident tones of Milton Pomeroy, once my sergeant, now one of the famous Bow Street Runners. The light from windows in the house opposite shone on his pale blond hair and battered hat, the dark suit on his broad shoulders, and his round and healthy face.

In the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons during the Peninsular War, Pomeroy had been my sergeant. In civilian life, he'd retained his booming sergeant's voice, his brisk sergeant's attitude, and his utter ruthlessness in pursuit of the enemy. The enemy now were not the French, but the pickpockets, housebreakers, murderers, prostitutes, and other denizens of London.

"A piss of an evening," he said jovially. "Not like the Peninsula, eh?"

Weather in Iberia had been both hot and cold, but usually dry, and the summers could be fine. Tonight especially, I longed for those summer days under the sweltering sun. "Indeed, Sergeant," I said.

"Well, I've not come to jaw about the weather. I've come to ask you about that little actress what lives upstairs from you."

I regarded him in surprise. "Miss Simmons?"

"Aye, that's the one. Seen her about?"

"Not for a week or so."

Marianne Simmons, a blond young woman with a deceptively childlike face and large blue eyes, eked out a living playing small parts at Drury Lane theatre. She lived in the rooms above mine and stretched her meager income by helping herself to my candles, coal, snuff, and other commodities. I let her, knowing she might go without otherwise.

Marianne often disappeared for long stretches at a time. I had once tried to inquire where she went on her sojourns, but she only fixed me with a cold stare and told me it was none of my business. I assumed Marianne found a protector during these absences, temporarily at least. In the past, she'd always returned within a month, proclaiming her general disgust at men and asking whether she could share my supper.

"Well, then, sir," Pomeroy went on. "Can you come along with me and look at a corpse from the river? It might very well be hers."

I stopped in shock. "What? Good God."

"Pulled out of the Thames not half hour ago by a waterman," Pomeroy said. "She looked like your actress, so I thought I'd fetch you to make sure."

My blood went cold. Marianne and I had our differences, but I certainly didn’t wish so terrible a death on her. "There's nothing to tell you who she is?"

"Not a thing, so the Thames River gent says. She's not been dead long. A few hours or more, I should say. Officer of the Thames River patrol sent for the magistrate, who sent for me."

So explaining, Pomeroy led me out of Grimpen Lane and Russel Street and down to the Strand. My walking stick rang on the cobbles as I strove to match Pomeroy's long stride and tried to stem my rising worry.

I doubted Marianne would try to do away with herself; she had a brisk attitude toward life, no matter that it had not dealt her very high cards. She was not a brilliant actress, but the gentlemen of her audience liked her bright hair, pointed face, and round blue eyes.

But accidents happened, and people fell into the river and drowned all too often. I wondered, if the dead woman proved to be Marianne, how on earth I would break the news to Grenville.

We walked east on the Strand and entered Fleet Street through one of the pedestrian arches of Temple Bar. The road curved with the river that flowed a few streets away, though the high buildings hid any aspect of it.

Fleet Street was the haunt of barristers and journalists, the latter of which were never my favorite sort of people. We fortunately saw none of them tonight. I supposed they had retreated to pubs like the one I'd just left, their day's work finished. Still I kept a wary eye out for one starved-looking journalist called Billings, who last summer had taken to roasting me in the newspapers for my involvement in the affair of Colonel Westin.