A Body in Berkeley Square (5 page)

"Did anyone else approach them?" I asked. "Or
Mr. Turner, for that matter?" I knew I needed to tamp down my anger
at Brandon in order to decide what had happened. Anyone near
Brandon might have stolen his knife, including Mrs. Harper
herself.

"Basil Stokes spoke to them. I saw him
laughing about something in that loud way of his. Colonel Brandon
and Mrs. Harper endeavored to be polite. Leland Derwent spoke to
them, but then, young Mr. Derwent is a stickler about making the
polite rounds. He is too shy to be much of a conversationalist, but
he knows to ask about one's mother or ailing sister and to remark
upon the weather." Lady Aline put her forefinger to the corner of
her mouth. "Let me think. Lady Gillis herself approached them. The
irritating Rafe Godwin. He is an annoying young man, tries to
imitate Grenville, but Grenville has nothing to do with him, and so
he should not."

"What about Mr. Turner? To whom did he
speak?"

"Oh, a good number of people. He circulated
the room, danced with a few debutantes--whose mothers ought to have
known better, but he is an earl's cousin, after all. He spent much
time with Leland Derwent. I believe they knew each other at school,
though I would not think that innocent Leland was much Henry
Turner's type. But Leland suffers from over-politeness and doesn't
have the bad manners to tell Turner to go to the devil."

I thought about the people Lady Aline had
named, some of whom I knew, some I did not. I would have to discuss
them with Grenville later, to obtain his opinion. One person, I
noted, Lady Aline had not mentioned. "What about Lady
Breckenridge?"

Lady Aline opened her mouth to answer, then
she closed it again and eyed me shrewdly. "Lacey, my boy, what is
exactly between you and Donata Breckenridge?"

I stopped. "Between?"

"I am not blind. I know you're not courting
her, and yet . . . "

She left it hanging. My face heated as I
touched the handle of the walking stick Lady Breckenridge had given
me. "We are friends," I said. But I had kissed her lips on more
than one occasion, and she had helped me when I'd needed it. I had
not liked her when I'd first met her, over a billiards game in a
sunny room in Kent. I'd found her abrupt, abrasive, and overly
forward. "Perhaps more than friends," I finished.

"She had a wretched marriage to
Breckenridge," Lady Aline said, a rather unnecessary statement. I
had met Lord Breckenridge and knew exactly what kind of man he'd
been. "Marriage to him would have killed a woman with a lesser
strength than Donata's."

"I have no desire to make her wretched," I
said.

That was the truth. On the other hand, I had
not the means to marry her, either. My own wife, I'd discovered,
was still alive, and in France, with my daughter. I had been given
her exact whereabouts a few weeks ago, and I had been contemplating
traveling across the Channel to find her.

I would go sooner or later, but I was having
difficulty steeling myself to meet her again. The only thing that
drove me to do it was the thought of seeing my daughter again.
Gabriella would now be seventeen.

Even if I came to some arrangement with my
wife, even if Grenville helped me with a divorce or annulment, I'd
have little to offer Lady Breckenridge. I was a poor man, though I
was a gentleman born. Lady Breckenridge marrying me would be a sad
misalliance for her.

"And
I
have no desire to see her wretched
either," Lady Aline said. "But you treat her kindly, and she is
grateful for that."

I raised my brows. "She said so?" I could not
imagine Lady Breckenridge expressing such a tender thought.

"Of course not," Lady Aline said. "She does
not need to. But I've known her since she was in leading strings.
Her mother is a great friend of mine."

"I am pleased she has such an ally in you.
But you haven't answered my question. To whom did Lady Breckenridge
speak this evening?"

Lady Aline gave me a smile. "Not to Colonel
Brandon and Imogene Harper. Donata spoke to me and to Lady
Gillis--although she does not like Lady Gillis very much. She finds
her too washed out and tiresome. She danced much, of course. She
always does. She even danced with Mr. Derwent, who asked her out of
painful politeness. She seemed most amused."

I imagined she had. Leland Derwent was the
epitome of innocence, and Lady Breckenridge had a rather worldly
outlook. I hoped she had not shocked Leland too much.

I studied the head of my walking stick, which
was engraved with the inscription
Captain G. Lacey, 1817.
"Now, we come to the event of Turner's death. Take me to that and
tell me what happened, exactly."

"I remember very precisely that I was talking
to Lady Gillis. We both had seen a patterned silk at Madame
Mouchand's and admired it. I was explaining that it would look fine
on her, but not me, because I am too stout to carry it off. All at
once, we heard a horrible scream. It pierced the air, cutting over
the music. Everyone stopped, of course, even the musicians, as we
looked for the disturbance. And there was Imogene Harper, near the
stairs with the anteroom door open behind her, screaming
frantically."

"Did you see Colonel Brandon? Was he near
her?"

"No. At that moment, I saw him nowhere in the
room. He did reappear, however, when I made my way to Mrs. Harper.
The colonel came from behind me and shoved his way through. We
reached her at about the same time."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing very much. In general, men are
useless in a crisis. Except Grenville. He very sensibly took Mrs.
Harper by the hand and led her to a seat and called for brandy.
Then he entered the room with Lord Gillis. The rest of the guests
could only gape. I stayed with Louisa, who took it very well, until
Lord Gillis sent for Bow Street. Then she nearly swooned. Louisa
believes her husband truly did kill Mr. Turner, you see."

I recalled the resigned look in Louisa's
eyes. "Pomeroy obviously thinks he did also. But is there anything
that points concretely to Brandon having stabbed Turner? Two
gentlemen can exchange sharp words without one murdering the other.
Or if they do, they call each other out and make a formal show of
it."

"Ah, Lacey, the problem of it is, there were
so many people in the ballroom. Who knows who entered that room
with Mr. Turner, or who was there already when he entered it? Had
he slipped inside for peace and quiet, or did he mean to meet
someone? No one saw. We were concentrating and dancing and gossip
and disparaging other ladies' gowns, you see. The usual thing."

"One does not expect a member of the
ton
to be murdered at a ball," I agreed. "And yet, these are
violent times."

"The rioting, you mean?" Lady Aline
asked.

Since March, with the hanging of a seaman
called John Cashman for the crime of getting drunk and stealing a
few weapons, the people of London had rioted. Some protested the
unjust killing of Cashman, some the fact that British soldiers,
back from the war, often had no money, no employment, and no
prospect of payment for the blood they'd given in battle. Others
rioted simply because it focused their anger and disgust at
something other than the tediousness of their lives.

"Rioting, and the men who put down the
riots," I said. "Murder in general. It is as though the war allowed
us some measure of venting that side of man's nature, but now that
avenue is gone."

Lady Aline's plucked brows rose. "Surely the
threat of Napoleon's invasion and the loss of ten thousand men at
Waterloo is not better than a few riots."

"No, of course not. Never mind. I am
melancholy about this entire business."

"As am I. Poor Louisa."

She glanced at the closed door, behind which
Louisa rested.

"Is there anything more you can tell me?" I
asked. "Anything else you might have noticed?"

"I will think on it. I admit, Lacey, that I
am rather stunned by it all. When Mr. Pomeroy arrived, he was
inclined to believe that Mrs. Harper had killed the man. She may
have. I don't know. But then Colonel Brandon stepped forward to
protect her, and Pomeroy switched his attentions to him." She shook
her head. "This will be scandal. Vicious scandal."

"Perhaps Louisa would be better off somewhere
other than London," I said.

"Indeed. I could take her with me to Dorset.
That is sufficiently distant, for now, I think."

"She will refuse, of course."

"I will persuade her. If nothing else, I'll
feed her laudanum and drag her off while she sleeps."

I smiled at the thought, but I knew Lady
Aline was capable of doing just that.

Lady Aline sighed. "Tonight Louisa came face
to face with the idea that her husband might be in truth a very
dreadful man."

"Yes," I said. I was nagged by the feeling
that Brandon's vice in this was mere pigheadedness, not evil.
Something did not make sense. I, who should have been ready to
believe the worst of Brandon, could not now that it had come to
it.

Behind the door, Louisa cried out in her
sleep. I sprang to my feet, jolted by the heart-rending sound. She
must have awakened herself, because we heard a muffled moan, and
then the unmistakable sound of weeping.

I was halfway to the door before Lady Aline
stopped me. "Not you," she said sharply.

I halted, my heart pounding. The need to
comfort Louisa struck me hard.

Lady Aline shook her head at me. Then,
gathering her skirts, she strode past me to the door of Louisa's
bedchamber and let herself inside.

*** *** ***

I quit the house. I could not bear to stay
any longer, listening to Louisa cry and knowing I could not help
her. I took a hackney coach across rainy London and arrived at my
lodgings in Grimpen Lane, near Covent Garden, just as dawn broke
the sky.

Bartholomew waited in my rooms for me, awake
and as fresh as though he'd slept all night, which he hadn't. He
had warmed the sitting room and bedchamber, and he helped me to
bed.

I closed my eyes, but I could only see
Louisa, pale and drawn, her gray eyes full of conviction that her
husband had committed murder and adultery. More than that, I could
feel Louisa's soft body against mine as she clung to me, needing
me. I was not quite certain how I felt about that.

I did doze a few times only to dream of Henry
Turner's still, dead body and the sound of Imogene Harper's
screams.

Bartholomew woke me at ten that morning.
Pomeroy had told me last night that Brandon would be examined by
the Bow Street magistrate at eleven o'clock, and I intended to be
there. I bathed my face and let Bartholomew shave me.

"Do you think the colonel did it, sir?"
Bartholomew asked as he scraped soap and whiskers from my chin.

"I do not know, Bartholomew. He certainly was
not very helpful."

"Want me to come along, sir?"

"No. I have the feeling that trying to keep
Colonel Brandon out of Newgate will take much time. No need for you
to waste your day in the magistrate's office."

"Mind if I poke around a bit? Get chummy with
Lord Gillis's servants, I mean. See if they witnessed the
event?"

He sounded eager, ready to begin the game of
investigation.

I told him to enjoy himself. Bartholomew
could be a mine of information on what went on not only below
stairs, but above stairs as well. He had certainly helped me solve
crimes before, even getting himself shot during one adventure. The
incident had not dampened his enthusiasm the slightest bit.

Before I left my rooms, I wrote a short
letter to Sir Montague Harris, the magistrate of the Whitehall
Public Office, informing him of my thoughts on the death of
Turner.

Bartholomew agreed to post the letter for me,
and I walked from the narrow cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane to Russel
Street. I turned left onto Russel Street and traversed the short
distance to Bow Street, my knee barely bothering me this
morning.

The spring day was warm, and people thronged
the lanes. Women with baskets over their arms and shawls against
the damp threaded their way among the vendors, working men hurried
about with deliveries or on errands, and middle-class women
strolled arm-in-arm with their daughters looking into shops.

Bow Street was crowded. Rumor of a murder in
elegant Mayfair had reached the populace, and many waited for a
glimpse of the murderer that Bow Street had apprehended. I had not
looked at a newspaper yet, but I imagined their stories would be
lurid. As time went on, every snippet of Brandon's life would be
splashed across the pages of the
Morning Herald.

I let myself into the magistrate's house and
asked one of the clerks for Pomeroy.

"Ah, there you are, Captain," Pomeroy
bellowed across the length of the house. He shouldered his way down
the corridor, pressing aside the assorted pickpockets and
prostitutes who'd been arrested during the night. "Come to see the
colonel committed, have you?"

* * * * *

Chapter Four

I became aware that every person in the
vicinity turned to watch us. "He must be examined, first," I
said.

"Oh, aye, him and the witnesses. I called in
Lord Gillis and Mr. Grenville. Lord Gillis because it was his house
and he'd likely know what went on in it, and Mr. Grenville because
he makes a decent witness. And he was first on the spot when it
happened. I wanted to call Mrs. Harper, but the magistrate said
wait until she's a bit less distressed." He shrugged. "He's the
magistrate."

I wanted very much to meet Mrs. Harper
myself, but I agreed that traveling to Bow Street and enduring the
scrutiny of last night's crop of prostitutes might be beyond her.
"Lord Gillis is coming?" I asked.

"Not the thing for an earl to come to the
magistrate, Sir Nathaniel says," Pomeroy said, naming Bow Street's
chief magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant. "Sir Nathaniel will go to
him later today. But Mr. Grenville should be arriving at any
time."