‘Seraphim?’
‘That’s it!’ She was hugely impressed that Sandman had found the name. ‘The Seraphim Club.’
‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘It’s meant to be real private,’ Sally said, ‘I mean really private! It ain’t far. In St James’s Square, so they’ve got to have money. Too rich for me, though.’
‘You know about it?’
‘Not much,’ she said, ‘but I was asked to go there once, only I wouldn’t ’cos I’m not that sort of actress.’
‘But why would the Seraphim Club want the Countess’s portrait?’ Sandman asked.
‘God knows,’ Sally said.
‘I shall have to ask them.’
She looked alarmed. ‘Don’t tell them I told you! Sir George will kill me! And I need the work, don’t I?’
‘I won’t say you told me,’ he promised her, ‘and anyway, I don’t suppose they killed her.’
‘So how do you find out who did?’ Sally asked.
It was a good question, Sandman thought, and he gave it an honest answer. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted ruefully. ‘I thought when the Home Secretary asked me to investigate that all I had to do was go to Newgate and ask some questions. Rather like questioning one of my soldiers. But it isn’t like that. I have to find the truth and I’m not even sure where to begin. I’ve never done anything like it before. In fact I don’t know anyone who has. So I suppose I ask questions, don’t I? I talk to everyone, ask them whatever I can think of, and hope I can find the servant girl.’
‘What servant girl?’
So Sandman told her about Meg and how he had gone to the house on Mount Street and been told that all the servants had been discharged. ‘They might have gone to the Earl’s house in the country,’ he said, ‘or maybe they were just discharged.’
‘Ask the servants,’ Sally said. ‘Ask the other servants in the street and all the other streets nearby. One of them will know. Servants’ gossip tells you everything. Oh my gawd, is that the time?’ A clock in the tavern had just chimed twice. Sally snatched up her coat, grabbed the last of the bread and ran.
And Sandman sat and read the broadsheet again. It told him very little, but it gave him time to think.
And time to wonder why a private club, a very private club with an angelic name, wanted a lady painted naked.
It was time, he thought, to find out. It was time to visit the seraphim.
3
It had stopped raining, though the air felt greasy and the stones of St James’s Street glistened as though they had been given a coat of varnish. Smoke from countless chimneys gusted low on the chill wind, whirling smuts and ash like dark snow. Two smart carriages rattled up the hill past a third that had lost a wheel. A score of men were offering advice about the canted vehicle while the horses, a lively team of matching bays, were walked up and down by a coachman. Two drunks, fashionably dressed, supported each other as they bowed to a woman who, as elegantly dressed as her admirers, sauntered down the pavement with a furled parasol. She ignored the drunks, just as she took no note of the obscene suggestions shouted at her from the windows of the gentlemen’s clubs. She was no lady, Sandman guessed, for no respectable woman would ever walk in St James’s Street. She gave him a bold stare as he neared her and Sandman politely touched a hand to his hat, but gave her the wall and walked on. ‘Too hot for you, is she?’ a man shouted at Sandman from a window.
Sandman ignored the jibe. Think straight, he told himself, think straight, and to help himself do that he stopped on the corner of King Street and gazed towards St James’s Palace as though its ancient bricks could give him inspiration.
Why, he asked himself, was he going to the Seraphim Club? Because, if Sally was right, they had commissioned the portrait of the murdered countess, but so what? Sandman was beginning to suspect that the painting had nothing whatever to do with the murder. If Corday was telling the truth then the murderer was almost certainly the person who had interrupted the painter when they knocked on the door from the back stairs, but who that had been Sandman had not the slightest idea. So why was he going to the Seraphim Club? Because, he decided, the mysterious club had evidently known the dead woman and they had lavished money on a portrait of her, and the portrait, unknown to her ladyship, was to show her naked, which suggested that a member of the club had either been her lover or that she had refused to be his lover, and love, like rejection, was a route to hatred and hatred led to murder and that chain of thought spurred Sandman to wonder whether the painting was connected with the murder after all. It was all confusing, so very confusing, and he was getting nowhere by trying to think straight about it and so he began walking again.
Nothing marked the Seraphim Club’s premises, but a crossing sweeper pointed Sandman to a house with shuttered windows on the square’s eastern side. Sandman walked across the square and, as he came close, saw a carriage drawn by four horses standing at the kerb outside the club. The carriage was painted dark blue and on its doors were red shields blazoned with golden-robed angels in full flight. The carriage had evidently just collected a passenger for it pulled away as Sandman went to the door that was painted a glossy blue and bore no brass plate. A gilded chain hung in the shallow porch and when it was pulled a bell sounded deep within the building. Sandman was about to tug the chain a second time when he noticed a wink of light in the door’s centre and he saw that a spyhole had been drilled through the blue-painted timber. Someone, he reckoned, was peering at him and so he stared back until he heard a bolt being drawn. A second bolt scraped, then a lock turned and at last the door was reluctantly swung open by a servant dressed in a waspish livery of black and yellow. The servant inspected Sandman. ‘Are you sure, sir,’ he asked after a pause, ‘that you have the right house?’ The ‘sir’ had no respect in it, but was a mere formality.
‘This is the Seraphim Club?’
The servant hesitated. He was a tall man, probably within a year or two of Sandman’s own age, and had a face darkened by the sun, scarred by violence and hardened by experience. A brutal but good-looking man, Sandman thought, with an air of competence. ‘This is a private house, sir,’ the servant said firmly.
‘Belonging, I believe, to the Seraphim Club,’ Sandman said brusquely, ‘with whom I have business.’ He waved the Home Secretary’s letter. ‘Government business,’ he added and, without waiting for any answer, he stepped past the servant into a hall that was high, elegant and expensive. The floor was a chess board of gleaming black and white marble squares, and more marble framed the hearth, in which a small fire burnt and above which an overmantel was framed with a gilded riot of cherubs, flower sprays and acanthus leaves. A chandelier hung in the well of a staircase and its branches must have held at least a hundred unlit candles. Dark paintings hung on white walls. A cursory glance showed Sandman they were landscapes and seascapes with not a single naked lady in view.
‘The government, sir, has no business here, no business at all,’ the tall servant said. He seemed surprised that Sandman had dared to walk past him and, as if in reproof, was pointedly holding the front door open as an invitation for Sandman to leave. Two more servants, both big and both in the same black and yellow livery, had come from a side room to encourage the unwanted visitor’s departure.
Sandman looked from the two newcomers to the taller servant holding the door and he noticed the man’s good looks were marred by tiny black scars on his right cheek. Most people would hardly have noticed the scars, which were little more than dark flecks under the skin, but Sandman had acquired the habit of looking for the powder burns. ‘Which regiment?’ he asked the man.
The servant’s face twitched in a half-smile. ‘First Foot Guards, sir.’
‘I fought beside you at Waterloo,’ Sandman said. He pushed the letter into his jacket pocket, then stripped off his wet greatcoat which, with his hat, he tossed onto a gilded chair. ‘You’re probably right,’ he told the man, ‘the government almost certainly doesn’t have any business here,
but I suspect I need to be told that by an officer of the club. There is a secretary? A presiding officer? A committee?’ Sandman shrugged. ‘I apologise, but the government is like French dragoons. If you don’t beat the hell out of them the first time then they only come back twice as strong the next.’
The tall servant was trapped between his duty to the club and his fellow-feeling for another soldier, but his loyalty to the Seraphim won. He let go of the front door and flexed his hands as if readying for a fight. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he insisted, ‘but they’ll only tell you to make an appointment.’
‘Then I’ll wait here till they do tell me that,’ Sandman said. He went to the small fire and stretched his hands towards its warmth. ‘My name’s Sandman, by the way, and I’m here on behalf of Lord Sidmouth.’
‘Sir, they don’t permit waiting,’ the servant said, ‘but if you’d like to leave a card, sir, in the bowl on the table?’
‘Don’t have a card,’ Sandman said cheerfully.
‘Time to go,’ the servant said, and this time he did not call Sandman ‘sir’, but instead approached the visitor with a chilling confidence.
‘It’s all right, Sergeant Berrigan,’ a smooth voice cut in from behind Sandman, ‘Mister Sandman will be tolerated.’
‘Captain Sandman,’ Sandman said, turning.
An exquisite, a fop, a beau faced him. He was a tall and extraordinarily handsome young man in a brass-buttoned black coat, white breeches so tight that they could have been shrunk onto his thighs, and glistening black top boots. A stiff white cravat billowed from a plain white shirt which was framed by his coat collar that stood so high that it half covered the man’s ears. His hair was black and cut very short, framing a pale face that had been shaved so close that the white skin seemed to gleam. It was an amused and clever face, and the man was carrying a quizzing-glass, a slender gold wand supporting a single lens through which he gave Sandman a brief inspection before offering a slight and courteous bow. ‘Captain Sandman,’ he said, putting a gentle stress on the first word, ‘I do apologise. And I should have recognised you. I saw you knock fifty runs off Martingale and Bennett last year. Such a pity that your prowess has not entertained us at any London ground this season. My name, by the way, is Skavadale, Lord Skavadale. Do come into the library, please,’ he gestured to the room behind him. ‘Sergeant, would you be so kind as to hang up the Captain’s coat? By the porter’s fire, I think, don’t you? And what would you like as a warming collation, Captain? Coffee? Tea? Mulled wine? Smuggled brandy?’
‘Coffee,’ Sandman said. He smelt lavender water as he went past Lord Skavadale.
‘It’s a perfectly horrid day, is it not?’ Skavadale asked as he followed Sandman into the library. ‘And yesterday was so very fine. I ordered fires, as you can see, not so much for warmth as to drive out the damp.’ The library was a large, well-proportioned room where a generous fire burnt in a wide hearth between the high bookshelves. A dozen armchairs were scattered across the floor, but Skavadale and Sandman were the only occupants. ‘Most of the members are in the country at this time of year,’ Skavadale explained the room’s emptiness, ‘but I had to drive up to town on business. Rather dull business, I fear.’ He smiled. ‘And what is your business, Captain?’
‘An odd name,’ Sandman ignored the question, ‘the Seraphim Club?’ He looked about the library, but there was nothing untoward about it. The only painting was a life-size, full-length portrait that hung above the mantel. It showed a thin man with a rakish good-looking face and lavishly curled hair that hung past his shoulders. He was wearing a tight-waisted coat made of floral silk with lace at its cuffs and neck, while across his chest was a broad sash from which hung a basket-hilted sword.
‘John Wilmot, second Earl of Rochester,’ Lord Skavadale identified the man. ‘You know his work?’
‘I know he was a poet,’ Sandman said, ‘and a libertine.’
‘Lucky man to be either,’ Skavadale said with a smile. ‘He was indeed a poet, a poet of the highest wit and rarest talent, and we think of him, Captain, as our exemplar. The seraphim are higher beings, the highest, indeed, of all the angels. It is a small conceit of ours.’
‘Higher than mere mortals like the rest of us?’ Sandman asked sourly. Lord Skavadale was so courteous, so perfect and so poised that it annoyed Sandman.
‘We merely try to excel,’ Skavadale said pleasantly, ‘as I am sure you do, Captain, in cricket and whatever else it is that you do, and I am being remiss in not giving you an opportunity to tell me what that might be.’
That opportunity had to wait a few moments, for a servant came with a silver tray on which were porcelain cups and a silver pot of coffee. Neither Lord Skavadale nor Sandman spoke as the coffee was poured and, in the silence, Sandman heard a strange intermittent squeaking that sounded from a nearby room. Then he detected the clash of metal and realised that men were fencing and the squeaks were the sound of their shoes on a chalked floor. ‘Sit, please,’ Skavadale said when the servant had fed the fire and gone from the room, ‘and tell me what you think of our coffee.’
‘Charles Corday,’ Sandman said, taking a chair.
Lord Skavadale looked bemused, then smiled. ‘You had me confused for a second, Captain. Charles Corday, of course, the young man convicted of the Countess of Avebury’s murder. You are indeed a man of mystery. Please do tell me why you raise his name?’
Sandman sipped the coffee. The saucer was blazoned with a badge showing a golden angel flying on a red shield. It was just like the escutcheon Sandman had seen painted on the carriage door, except that this angel was quite naked. ‘The Home Secretary,’ Sandman said, ‘has charged me with investigating the facts of Corday’s conviction.’
Skavadale raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘Because there are doubts about his guilt,’ Sandman said, careful not to say that the Home Secretary did not share those doubts.
‘It is reassuring to know that our government goes to such lengths to protect its subjects,’ Skavadale said piously, ‘but why would that bring you to our door, Captain?’
‘Because we know that the portrait of the Countess of Avebury was commissioned by the Seraphim Club,’ Sandman said.
‘Was it, now?’ Skavadale asked mildly. ‘I do find that remarkable.’ He lowered himself to perch on the leather-topped fender, taking exquisite care not to crease his coat or breeches. ‘The coffee comes from Java,’ he said, ‘and is, we think, rather good. Don’t you?’
‘What makes the matter more interesting,’ Sandman went on, ‘is that the commission for the portrait demanded that the lady be depicted naked.’
Skavadale half smiled. ‘That sounds very sporting of the Countess, don’t you think?’
‘Though she was not to know,’ Sandman said.
‘Well, I never,’ Skavadale mouthed the vulgarity with careful articulation, but despite the mockery his dark eyes were very shrewd and he did not look surprised at all. He laid the quizzing-glass down on a table, then sipped his coffee. ‘Might I ask, Captain, how you learnt all these remarkable facts?’
‘A man facing the gallows can be very forthcoming,’ Sandman said, evading the question.
‘You’re informing me that Corday told you this?’
‘I saw him yesterday.’
‘Let us hope that the imminence of death makes him truthful,’ Skavadale said. He smiled. ‘I confess I know nothing of this. It is possible that one of our members commissioned the portrait, but alas, they did not confide in me. But, I am forced to wonder, does it matter? How does it affect the young man’s guilt?’
‘You speak for the Seraphim Club, do you?’ Sandman asked, again evading the question. ‘Are you the secretary? Or an officer?’
‘We have nothing so vulgar as officers, Captain. We members are few in number and count ourselves as friends. We do employ a man to keep the books, but he makes no decisions. Those are made by all of us together, as friends and as equals.’
‘So if the Seraphim Club were to
commission a portrait,’ Sandman persisted, ‘then you would know.’
‘I would indeed,’ Skavadale said forcefully, ‘and no such portrait was commissioned by the club. But, as I say, it is possible that one of the members commissioned it privately.’
‘Is the Earl of Avebury a member?’ Sandman asked.
Skavadale hesitated. ‘I really cannot divulge who our members are, Captain. This is a private club. But I think it is safe for me to tell you that we do not have the honour of the Earl’s company.’
‘Did you know the Countess?’ Sandman asked.
Skavadale smiled. ‘Indeed I did, Captain. Many of us worshipped at her shrine for she was a lady of divine beauty and we regret her death exceedingly. Exceedingly.’ He put his half-drunk coffee on a table and stood up. ‘I fear your visit to us has been wasted, Captain. The Seraphim Club, I do assure you, commissioned no portraits and Mister Corday, I fear, has misinformed you. Can I see you to the front door?’
Sandman stood. He had learnt nothing and been made to feel foolish, but just then a door crashed open behind him and he turned to see that one of the bookcases had a false front of leather spines glued to a door, and a young man in breeches and shirt was standing there with a fencing foil in his hand and an antagonistic expression on his face. ‘I thought you’d seen the culley off, Johnny,’ he said to Skavadale, ‘but you ain’t.’
Skavadale, smooth as honey, smiled. ‘Allow me to name Captain Sandman, the celebrated cricketer. This is Lord Robin Holloway.’
‘Cricketer?’ Lord Robin Holloway was momentarily confused. ‘I thought he was Sidmouth’s lackey.’
‘I’m that too,’ Sandman said.
Lord Robin heard the belligerence in Sandman’s voice and the foil in his hand twitched. He had none of Skavadale’s courtesy. He was in his early twenties, Sandman judged, and was as tall and handsome as his friend, but where Skavadale was dark, Holloway was golden. His hair was gold, there was gold on his fingers and a gold chain about his neck. He licked his lips and half raised the sword. ‘So what does Sidmouth want of us?’ he demanded.