The Painter's Widow by L.S. Johnson

Author:L.S. Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: L.S. Johnson
Published: 2020-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter X

Thwarted

“Gerald Vacher.” Mr. Morrow held up the paper to the window as our hackney-coach rattled through the streets. “Importer of spirits who believes the tariffs on French wine are a deliberate plot to keep Englishmen pickled in gin. That his father hailed from a family of French vintners has of course no bearing on his views.’” He snorted at the latter.

“And he supported Thomas Masterson’s plot?” I asked.

“Five hundred pounds’ worth of support,” Mr. Morrow confirmed. “Never proved, of course.”

“So you think this is all retribution of some kind?” Jo asked. “Justice being meted out to those who escaped charges?”

“That, or …” I trailed off as I realized Mr. Morrow had not seen the portrait in Lady Audley’s boudoir, nor did he understand the significance of the bay painting. If Loveless had been intimate with the Mastersons, he may have shared their fantastic beliefs—and infected his wife as well.

“I think,” Mr. Morrow said carefully, “it is a little early to ascribe motive.”

Jo frowned. “You know something that you’re not telling us.”

“And you know something you’re not telling me,” he replied.

“Come now—”

“I’m no dull-swift, Chase,” he said, then pointed at me. “And don’t ever let that one near a gaming table, unless you want to lose your shirt.”

“I hardly think that’s a concern,” I snapped. Though perhaps I was being rash. A year ago I would have sworn that I would never set foot in a brothel … or murder anyone.

Jo and Mr. Morrow were staring at each other, with equally narrowed eyes. Slowly, as if she were in a crosshairs, Jo leaned over to me. “Do we tell him?” she whispered.

“Not yet,” I whispered back, loud enough for him to hear. “Let him stew a while longer.”

My words earned me a decidedly rude gesture, and I was further irritated to find myself burying my hands in my cloak lest I respond in kind. Too long with him and I would be as uncouth as a soldier, and how much worse would Jo become?

But we were saved from further demonstrations of Mr. Morrow’s wit by the coach halting. We found ourselves outside an older house, timbered and sprawling. I could hear the river close by. “How convenient,” Jo said, “he can bring his wine right to his doorstep.”

“It has certainly been a motley assortment of conspirators,” I said as she disembarked, then helped me out.

“There are an astonishing number of professions who gain from warmongering,” Mr. Morrow said as he leapt out behind us. “I doubt they had to go far to find willing investors.”

At the door, I knocked while Jo looked around warily. “It seems unusually quiet,” she said. “Wasn’t Smith supposed to be alerting the remaining men?”

Mr. Morrow’s reply was cut off by the door opening, revealing a young man in his shirtsleeves, a pen still clutched in one hand. “Look,” he said as he opened the door, “I already told you—oh. Now what?”

“We would like to speak to Mister Vacher,” I said.

“You and everyone else this morning! He’s not available.

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