Friends in High Places

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  The Liberty Lane Series From Caro Peacock

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Liberty Lane Series from Caro Peacock

  DEATH AT DAWN

  (USA: A FOREIGN AFFAIR)

  DEATH OF A DANCER

  (USA: A DANGEROUS AFFAIR)

  A CORPSE IN SHINING ARMOUR

  (USA: A FAMILY AFFAIR)

  WHEN THE DEVIL DRIVES *

  KEEPING BAD COMPANY *

  THE PATH OF THE WICKED *

  FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES *

  * available from Severn House

  FRIENDS IN HIGH PLACES

  A Liberty Lane Mystery

  Caro Peacock

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2015

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2015 by Caro Peacock.

  The right of Caro Peacock to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Peacock, Caro author.

  Friends in high places.

  1. Lane, Liberty (Fictitious character)–Fiction.

  2. Women private investigators–Fiction. 3. Murder–

  Investigation–England–London–Fiction. 4. London (England)–Social conditions–19th century–Fiction. 5. Blessington, Marguerite, Countess of, 1789-1849–Fiction.

  6. Detective and mystery stories.

  I. Title

  823.9’2-dc23

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8505-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-609-1 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-660-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  London, 1840

  It was the first day of September, a Tuesday. I’d been away on a case in the country and, after the clean Cotswold air, the smell of the Thames seemed even worse than usual, the streets thinly coated with horse dung, trees starting to shed leaves more from sheer weariness than the nearness of autumn. Since the summer season was over and parliament was not sitting there was nobody in town, apart from the two million or so of us who had to scrape a living there and did not own a grouse moor. In spite of that, I’d returned to find a dozen or so missed invitations to musical evenings, tea parties and ‘at homes’, carefully laid out on my work table by my housekeeper, Mrs Martley, along with three bills, various advertisements from tradesmen seeking my valuable custom, two letters from people wanting to consult me about their problems and the latest unsatisfactory note from my landlord about the cesspit. Every sort of letter except the one I wanted, with my name in that familiar eager handwriting, sent from Switzerland, Italy or goodness knows where by now. I tried not to think about it and to turn my attention to business – necessary in view of the bills – but my mind felt as jaded as the yellowing grass in Hyde Park across the road. Perhaps the case in the country had taken more from me than I’d realized. I was asking myself a question: did I want this life forever? I was twenty-five years old, living from hand to mouth doing work that most people would hardly recognize as respectable. True, there were people I’d helped as a private investigator. Equally true, there were men in high government positions who raised their hats to me when we met, knowing I’d done the state some service, though I was rarely invited to their dinner tables. It was all very well now – sometimes much better than very well – but what would I be in, say, ten years’ time? An ageing woman living in a few rooms above a yard at the back of Park Lane, with a crotchety housekeeper and an elderly cat for company, a keeper of old scandals and gossip nobody cared about any more. Intolerable. I’d half resolved to go travelling. I’d been able to put a little money aside from my more profitable cases and acquired a few jewels and trinkets I could sell. It might amount to enough to go out and see my brother in India. If not, I might go to France or Italy. With the prospect of a London winter I yearned for sun, blue sea, lemon trees. For the present, only one thing from the collection on my table gave any prospect of entertainment – a note on fine ivory paper wafting Lady Blessington’s favourite scent of carnations.

  Gore House,

  Kensington.

  28 August.

  My dear Miss Lane,

  Where have you been? We’ve missed you. I do very much need to speak to you. I take it you’ve heard about the misfortunes of our poor friend LNB. I shall be at home from two o’clock every day for the coming week and should be very pleased to see you.

  Marguerite Blessington

  Then a postscript: Mr D will not be present.

  So she’d heard that I’d quarrelled with Mr Benjamin Disraeli, MP. Not surprising as he was a close friend of hers and would probably have told her about it himself, at goodness knows what disadvantage to me. Still, it was kind of her to reassure me. As for the unfortunate friend, that was no mystery since even in rural Gloucestershire the newspapers had covered his latest piece of buccaneering. LNB was Prince Louis Napoleon Bonaparte, favourite nephew and political heir of his uncle, the late Emperor Napoleon. Recent resident of No. 1 Carlton Gardens, London, thirty-two years old, reasonably good looking, especially when seen on horseback which made up for his short legs, possessed of a moderate though over-strained fortune, a fine stable of horses, the best cook in London and an unshakeable belief that France was waiting for him to become its next emperor. It was this last quality that accounted for his current place of residence being a prison in Boulogne. I didn’t know the details, but if the newspaper reports could be believed he’d attempted a coup against the French king by landing at Boulogne on – of all things – a Thames steamer with fifty men of assorted nationalities equipped with Birmingham rifles and a tame eagle as mascot, marched on the garrison and tried to rouse the soldiers to join his cause. Unsuccessfully. He was a good friend of Lady Blessington and her son-in-law, Count D’Orsay, so it wasn’t surprising she was worried. I could claim him as no more than an acquaintance, though I quite liked him. It was Lady Blessington who had introduced us, at a ball given by a grateful client of mine.

  ‘Miss Lane, I don’t think you’ve met the prince.’

  She’d handled the introduction with her usual tact because it presented difficulties. If he’d been a British prince, it would have been, ‘Your Highness, may I present Miss Lane.’ But Prince Louis was a different thing altogether. Here he was in England, living in exile, because in the peace treaty after the Battle of Waterloo, one thing all the European powers agreed on was that none of Napoleon’s large family should ever be allowed to set foot in France. As far as most political commentators were concerned, he had as much chance of becoming Emperor Napoleon III as a cab horse has of winning the gold cup. But racing and politics both throw up surprises, so British diplomacy and society mostly danced careful circles round him, not including him entirely but not cutting him out. He was aware of this. When we were introduced he gave me a polite bow, as any gentleman would, then waited for a split second to see whether I’d curtsey. A deep court curtsey would imply devotion to the house of Bonaparte, a polite bob a discreet compromise. As it was, I only dipped my head briefly, as any lady would. My father, a committed republican, had practically worshipped Napoleon as a revolutionary leader then changed his mind entirely when he’d declared himself emperor. My father’s daughter didn’t care for curtseying but I can’t deny that my heart was beating faster for being close to a man who’d called the terror of Europe ‘uncle’. The band was playing. He asked me if I’d care to dance. He smiled, but mostly had a pale and serious look as if the sense of destiny never left him and he waltzed like a man determined to leave
nobody standing on the dance floor. He spun in circles like a skater, almost whisking me off my feet, avoiding collisions with the other dancers by no more than a slither of satin or swirl of silk. He asked me for another dance, a mazurka. I’ve had cross-country gallops on my mare Rancie that didn’t leave me so nearly breathless.

  Rather than deal with the dispiriting correspondence I decided to ride over to Kensington that very afternoon. I changed into riding costume and told Mrs Martley I might be late back. Down in the yard, I lingered for a moment in case there was any sign of my apprentice Tabby but there was nobody except Mr Grindley at his forge by the gate, repairing the brakes on a carriage. Tabby, no lover of the country, had fidgeted in the Cotswolds and would probably be absent now for days, catching up with the news of her street urchin friends. She was in funds too. I’d given her half a guinea from the fee from our country case and when she had money she spent it, mostly on treating her friends. In the past, I’d tried to convince her of the advantages of saving but I might as well have saved my breath. ‘If I had money, I’d only worry about people taking it so I might as well spend it,’ she said. Secretly, I more than half agreed with her. What to do about Tabby was one of my problems if I decided to go travelling. Taking her away from London, where she knew every kerb stone and back alley, would be like prising a crab from its shell – but I couldn’t abandon her. I thought about it as I walked across the park to the livery stables on the other side of the Bayswater Road where my friend Amos Legge worked as head groom. He was out with some ladies, so a stable boy helped me groom and tack up Rancie. I had no hesitation about riding on my own to Kensington. Rancie is the best-tempered mare in the world, as long as you’re light-handed. We walked for a while alongside the Serpentine, enjoying the sparkle of the sun on the water and the sight of people skimming across it in rowing boats, then turned towards the Kensington Road. By fashionable standards Kensington Gore was far enough from Parliament and St James to count as out in the country, although a few large houses had been built there in the previous century. The sinister-sounding name had nothing to do with blood but came from the triangular shape of the plot of land beside Kensington Road. Lady Blessington had moved out there for the sake of economy although you wouldn’t have guessed that from her style of living. I knew from experience that her ‘at homes’ were usually more than tête-à-têtes over the teacups. It would probably be a salon, with a dozen people there at least. Lady Blessington’s occasions were invariably entertaining, often surprising, sometimes blessed with a breath of scandal, just like the lady herself. Because of that, half the fashionable world was prepared to make the pilgrimage out to Gore House to enjoy her company – the male half, that is. Owing to some events in her past and gossip about things that might or might not be happening in her present, ladies who considered themselves respectable rarely visited. But respectable gentlemen, along with artists, writers, wits and cabinet ministers, were regulars at her salon, where behaviour was every bit as polite and conversation a lot livelier than in the circles that bowed and curtseyed at court. She’d been a friend of Lord Byron, which was enough to make me like her from the start. We’d become acquainted when I did some small service for a relation by marriage of hers and she was kind enough to count me as a friend, perhaps because my strange way of earning a living and the fact that sometimes people gossiped about me too made for fellow feeling.

  Gore House was a neat three-storey Georgian mansion surrounded by three or so acres of gardens and orchard, with a porch in the classical style that looked as if it were waiting for somebody in a toga to come and make a speech between the pillars on the balcony. A porter opened the gates as soon as we set hoof on the gravel and a boy appeared to take Rancie to the stables. A footman in powdered wig and green and gold livery opened the front door before I knocked and a maid showed me into a side room where I might tidy up – very necessary after the dust of the journey. Then the same footman led me not into the drawing room as I expected but the library, where he said her ladyship was working. It was a spacious room the full width of the house, with looking glasses in between the book cases that reflected carved marble fireplaces, Italian statuettes and towering arrangements of fresh flowers from the garden on a dozen small tables, white-and-gold chairs, curtains and couches in apple green damask. I caught reflections of myself from several different angles and wished I’d taken longer to tidy my hair.

  Lady Blessington was as immaculate as ever, in an ivory silk afternoon dress. She got up from her chair at the long library table and came towards me, stretching out her hands to clasp both of mine. Her favourite dog, a white poodle the size of a Shetland pony, paced beside her and looked up at me with eyes the colour of amber.

  ‘Miss Lane, how very kind of you to come.’

  Her voice still had the soft accents of southern Ireland, although it was a long time since she’d lived in her native country. Twenty years before she’d been a famous beauty. Now a widow of fifty or so she was still pleasant to look at, with clear, pale skin, grey eyes and a lissom way of moving. But plumpness had become a settled fact rather than a tendency and the silk scarf she wore round her head and throat, like the wimple of a worldly nun, probably concealed a double chin. She told the footman to bring tea and sat me down beside her at the table, alongside piles of manuscript and page proofs.

  ‘Please excuse the mess. Deadlines, as usual. It’s like doors in a nightmare. You run with every breath in your body to get to one before it slams in your face, then there’s always another door and another, ad infinitum.’

  Her hands were pale and soft, but the insides of the first two fingers of her right hand were black with ground-in ink that no pumice stone would remove. That was one of the other things that made me like her. Her late husband had left her with a title and a taste for rich living, but no money to support them. So she worked hard for her luxury, turning out novels, magazine articles and a fashionable annual called The Book of Beauty – the sort of thing that people who don’t like books give people who don’t read books for Christmas. Everything from the footman’s gold braid to the poodle’s meat came from her pen. The tea arrived. As we drank she asked if I’d enjoyed my trip to the country. It was easier to say yes than talk about the complicated case that had taken me there. Mostly she did the talking, about things I’d missed in my absence – a quarrel at the opera, engagements made and broken, a political scandal just avoided – carefully not mentioning anything to do with Disraeli. It was only when a maid had taken away the tea things and we were alone apart from the poodle that we came to her reason for wanting to see me.

  ‘No company today then?’ I said.

  ‘I’m simply too busy. And we’re too worried about poor Prince Louis.’

  I decided not to point out that poor Prince Louis had been the author of his own misfortunes. ‘What will happen to him?’ I said. ‘America again?’ As it happened, Prince Louis had made a similar attempt at Strasbourg a few years earlier and suffered temporary exile to the United States.

  ‘Worse than America. They may shoot him. Poor Alfred is almost frantic, as you may imagine.’ Another misplaced ‘poor’, in my opinion. Alfred was Count D’Orsay, her son-in-law, who had contrived to lead a spoiled and petted life simply by being beautiful – admittedly a privilege more common with women than men. In his youth people compared him to the god Apollo. The cut of his coat was imitated by every fashionable young man in London, and parfumiers, boot makers and glove makers competed to load gifts on him for the cachet of his custom. I’d met him several times at Lady Blessington’s and liked him well enough. He was affable, well read, a good conversationalist. But he’d done nothing with his life except paint an amateur picture or two. He was also as completely dependent on Lady Blessington for his living as the white poodle lying by our feet under the table. That was one of the reasons why people still gossiped about her. Count D’Orsay’s marriage to Lady Blessington’s daughter had broken down some years ago and he now lived as a close friend in his mother-in-law’s house. Some people said much more than mother-in-law. As far as my opinion is of worth, I think not. People gossip about me too and get it wrong more often than not.