Mr. Chizzlewit obliged me, and commenced his tale.
“I keep a suite of rooms in Ryder Street, near St. James, and it was there I had engaged to dine with Malverley. He arrived at half-past six o’clock, and at seven we sat down to the meal my man had prepared; beefsteaks and Yorkshire pudding, with a couple of roasted fowls. I took care to see Malverley amply supplied with claret — which you must know my grandfather himself laid down years since, when our family’s intercourse with France was customary, and not subject to the Monster’s embargoes. I intended that he should be pretty well to liveby the conclusion of dinner, when the decanters of port and brandy were set out; and he did not disappoint me. He set aside the air of reserve acquired so lately in Berkeley Square, and talked with a freedom more characteristic of the Malverley I recalled from Oxford days.”
“So you thought him altered, then, from when you last knew him?”
“Much altered. The Malverley of memory was a rackety fellow enough, full of high living and dash; the sighing object of every maiden’s heart; not the sort to set up as a statesman’s clerk, bowing and scraping to a man whose bloodlines he may best by a full five centuries. I confess I was astonished to learn of his accepting such a position of Lord Castlereagh — I should rather have expected him to follow a rake’s progress, dicing in the clubs and embarrassing his father the Earl with his obligations; wagering on horses that always fail to place; pursuing an heiress when nothing else served to tow him from the River Tick.[25] But I collect that in his final year at Oxford he overstepped the line too rashly — and committed a sin so unpardonable he was banished for a time to the Continent — or that part of it unfettered by the Monster’s chains. I do not know the whole, but must conclude that he returned a reformed character, ready to earn his bread by honourable means, in the service of his country. His father the Earl of Tanborough being a notable Tory in Lords, the position of secretary to Lord Castlereagh was readily obtained — my friend’s return to England coinciding with Lord Castlereagh’s resignation from office, some eighteen months since.”
“How convenient. And has Malverley enjoyed his honest labour?”
Sylvester Chizzlewit hesitated. His gaze turned inward, as tho’ in consideration of the evening’s talk. “I should not describe his feelings in those terms,” he concluded. “The reserve descends once more, in speaking of his lordship. Perhaps the events of recent months — the publication of the letters — the estimation of the Regent — the possibility of high office — the Princess Tscholikova’s death—”
“Perhaps he does not like his employer.”
“I have thought that too,” the solicitor admitted. “I noticed that Malverley could not meet my gaze when he spoke of Castlereagh, tho’ his words were entirely correct — such phrases of admiration as one might expect to fall from the lips of a grateful follower.”
“Could Lady Castlereagh be the cause? The idea of an improper liaison was pregnant in the air at the inquest.”
“Lady Castlereagh!” Mr. Chizzlewit’s countenance broke in amusement. “I wish you might hear the way Malverley speaks of her! If it were not so callous, I should repeat his endearments in this room — but that my good manners forbid it! She is a creature of caprice, and malice, and self-consequence, to hear him tell it — a lady who dearly loves to sway Society, and influence politics, but whose use for her husband ended at the altar!”
“I see. And her use for Malverley—?”
“From the bitterness with which he refers to her ladyship, I should judge that she treats him as a lackey — attractive in company, and caressingly addressed before the Great, in tribute to his style and beauty and breeding; but sent about his business as soon as they are shut into the carriage together.”
“Deplorable! And is his heart bestowed on another?”
Again, Mr. Chizzlewit hesitated. “I cannot undertake to say. I collect that he is in the habit of patronising the Muslin Company — but has resisted the respectable lures thrown out to him by enterprising mammas. In truth, I should wonder that any such lures are thrown — for he is but a third son, after all, with limited expectations. If Castlereagh’s star should rise again, he may go far in politics—”
“—But if scandal and suicide dim the star to the point of extinction, friend Malverley shall be forced to desert the ship,” I concluded, with a lamentable mixing of metaphors.
“Exactly. Hence the restraint I detect when he speaks of his lordship. He does not wish to commit his loyalties too far. In fact, at one point—” He broke off, biting his lip. “Malverley was in his cups. He burst out, as tho’ in the grip of passion, By God, there are some things no gentleman will do, even for hire.”
“And you took this to refer to Castlereagh?” “I did. I collect the demand his lordship made was of a personal nature, and repugnant to Malverley.”
“How intriguing. And what of your friend’s loyalties on the night in question? Were you able to divine anything of Malverley’s real movements during the early hours of Tuesday morning?”
“If I failed, it was not for lack of trying.” Mr. Chizzlewit smiled. “We are now come to the latter part of the evening I spent, in trespassing on the trust of an old friend — when we sat down, rather more foxed than not, to play at picquet.[26] Malverley was bosky enough to throw caution to the winds, and suggest pound points; but I had not so far shot the cat as to render me agreeable to such folly, and insisted upon shillings. It was after the third hand that he began to talk of the horror of that night.”
My interest quickened. “He felt it to be so?” “Horrible? It was the very word he used. I cannot tell you what he found to do in Castlereagh’s office for so many hours before dawn — I cannot believe that a man whose present pursuit is the raising of merino sheep on his country estate, may be deluged with letters requiring immediate reply — but in any case, Malverley’s dismay at finding the Princess’s body at the door was real enough. He broke down when he spoke of it, choking with sobs over his hand of cards — and every attempt at play had to be abandoned.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“God, her throat! is what I chiefly recall; and, the poor creature, to use herself so vilely! He shuddered like a child in the grip of nightmare — and seemed deeply affected by the memory. It was all I could do to calm him.”
“Then I collect, in such a fit of hysteria, you could get little more of sense from him?”
Mr. Chizzlewit grimaced. “Very little. But I would swear to it that Malverley was astonished to discover the corpse in Berkeley Square. His aspect last evening was not that of guilt, but of misery and regret. The death was perhaps more deeply felt, for having burst upon him like a shell.”
“I see. You explain it very well. What did you then?”
“I called for ale and coffee, a judicious mixture of which will invariably set the brandy-drinker to rights; and a little after three o’clock, he toddled home towards the Albany. He would have walked, but that I insisted on putting him into a hackney.”
“The Albany?” I repeated, much struck.
“Yes. Any number of single gentlemen lodge there — you must know it: the old Duke of Albany’s pile, converted to some seventy apartments, just off Piccadilly.”
“Indeed I do! My brother Henry kept a branch of his bank there some years ago, before moving to Henrietta Street. It is possible Malverley referred to his rooms at the inquest. But the Albany! It is just—” I stopped short, considering.
“Go on,” he said.
“I, too, dined out last evening — and one of the party was the young Comte d’Entraigues, Monsieur Julien. He professes to have seen the Princess Tscholikova some hours before her death, standing alone in the middle of the Albany’s courtyard. He lodges there himself, and says he witnessed the lady’s arrival from an upper storey window.”