The Glass House Read Online Free PDF Page A

Barbury had in no way convinced me that
he had not himself murdered the woman called Peaches. He might have
quarreled with her, he might have tried to end the affair and she
resisted, or she might have threatened him. His grief seemed
genuine, but I had met men before who could portray grief and be
perfectly sanguine a moment later. It would be easy enough,
however, to discover Barbury’s whereabouts between four and five
o'clock that afternoon, though that was not to say that a man of
his standing couldn’t hire others to do his dirty deeds.
    Barbary was looking at the ring again. His
arrogance had crumpled, a man trying very hard to not believe the
worst.
    I said, "I will see what I can do."
    "Please do," Barbury glared at me. His grief
made him abrupt, but I sensed that even in the happiest of times,
he was a man of impatience and who brooked no fools. "I want to
find whoever hurt Peaches, and I want to watch him dance from the
gallows."
    Whatever I thought about Barbury, I shared
his wish. No matter what Peaches had done in life, I vowed that the
man who had hurt that helpless and frail young woman would feel my
wrath.
    *** *** ***
    Grenville and I learned as much as we could
from Lord Barbury before he departed the house, sunk in grief. The
next morning, I visited Thompson to return the ring and tell him
the story.
    Peaches, Lord Barbury had told us, was in
truth a lady called Mrs. Chapman. She had a husband, a barrister,
and significantly, his chambers were in Middle Temple. Born Amelia
Leary, Peaches had been an actress, moving from company to company
in search of better roles, rather like Marianne did. Her sweet
charm on the stage soon attracted Lord Barbury, and they’d become
lovers.
    Then, about five years ago, Peaches had left
the theatre, married Mr. Chapman, and ceased to be Barbury’s lover.
Barbury had spoken of this in clipped, dry tones. Peaches, it
seemed, had had ambition. She must have realized fairly soon that
Barbury would never marry her, she being beneath his station, so
she'd turned her sights to another mark, the barrister called
Chapman.
    I wondered why Chapman, a respectable
barrister, had taken a wife with Peaches' background. But perhaps
he'd been flattered by her attention, perhaps the pretty Peaches
had charmed him, perhaps Chapman hadn't known much about what went
on in the world of the theatre. In any case, they’d married, and
Peaches dropped from sight.
    A year ago, Lord Barbury, still unmarried
himself, had met Peaches again by chance. They'd discovered that
their mutual attraction still was strong, and they'd begun another
affair. They'd enjoyed a sweet reunion, Barbury said, his grief
breaking his voice. They’d met regularly in two places--at the
gatherings of a man called Inglethorpe in Mayfair and at The Glass
House.
    Thompson looked interested when I mentioned
The Glass House. We sat in his office at Wapping on the Thames, a
bare room with desk and chair and a stool for guests. I had come
alone, Grenville having had an appointment to view a famous private
collection of porcelain. He’d made the appointment weeks ago and
had been vastly disappointed that he couldn’t traipse the back
lanes of the East End with me this morning.
    "The Glass House," Thompson said. "A name
that has no good attached to it. Whenever magistrates or reformers
try to close it, their intentions are blocked. Have you ever been
there, Captain?"
    I had not. I'd heard of The Glass House, a
name spoken by many an upper-class gentlemen as a place to go for
vices more exotic than those offered in the hells of St. James's.
Grenville had never suggested taking me--never spoke of it,
actually, from which I surmised he disdained it. Grenville’s tacit
disapproval did not stop wealthy gentlemen going in droves,
however, from what I’d heard. But I had neither the wealth,
connections, or the interest to seek out The Glass House on my
own.
    "Nasty goings on there," Thompson said. "I
believe a man must be deep in