A Regimental Murder (16 page)

I spent the day thinking about what Pomeroy
had told me, and about the character of Colonel Westin. When
Bartholomew arrived later that afternoon, I was dressed and ready.
We arrived at the Grosvenor Street house just as clocks were
striking eight. As Bartholomew helped me descend and led me to the
house, I was very aware that Lydia Westin reposed only ten doors
down.

Grenville greeted me and informed me I was to
take supper with him. After we had enjoyed a few glasses of
excellent port, he led me to the dining room.

"Anton is experimenting again," he said as we
entered. "I have no idea what he will offer us, but please tell him
you like it, no matter what you truly think."

Anton was Grenville's celebrated French chef.
The man was an artist with food, as I had come to know to my
delight.

"He has been doing this all summer."
Grenville informed me in a low voice. "He spends the day creating a
dish then brings it to me to sample. If ever I say it is not his
best, he crumples into tears and refuses to cook for a week." He
put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "So praise him and swallow it,
even if it tastes like sawdust."

I assured him I would dissemble, though, as I
suspected, he needn't have worried. Anton brought us a delicate
mussel bisque, so smooth and light it flowed like silk on the
tongue. He followed this with grouse in a wild raspberry sauce,
then a salad of cool greens, and ended with a lemon tart, not too
sweet, and a rich chocolate soup.

I ate every bite and sang his praises without
compunction. He beamed at me and glided away, back to his sanctum
to no doubt create more delectable feasts.

Once left on our own with brandy, Matthias
entered the room bearing a tray stacked neatly with papers and two
ledgers. He set this down before his master, bowed, then
departed.

To the questioning look on my face, Grenville
said, "I did not invite you here simply to soothe Anton's
temperament. I managed to procure Colonel Westin's financial
papers, in hopes that they might tell us why Eggleston and
Breckenridge might have blackmailed him into confessing to
Spencer's murder."

I leaned forward, my interest quickening.
"How did you get them?"

He gave me a modest look. "I know people.
Some of whom owe me favors. Shall we begin?"

We divided the stack between us and sorted
things out across the dining room table. Matthias and Bartholomew
kept us in brandy and also brought in black coffee as rich as
chocolate.

For the next several hours, we leafed through
papers, passed ledgers back and forth, and discussed our findings.
The Colonel Westin I found here had been as meticulous as the one
I'd come to know in his private papers in Lydia's house. He or his
man of business had kept strict accounts for everything: for the
country house and the London house, for servants' wages and
clothing, for food, for fuel, for horses, for his wife's clothing
and jewelry.

My fingers felt a bit sticky as I turned over
the pages describing Lydia's personal finances. These were none of
my business, and yet, I desperately wanted to discover anything
that would point away from her and to Eggleston, Breckenridge, or
the elusive Connaught as her husband's murderers.

I found that Lydia was just as careful as her
husband in the matter of finances. Her bills for her dressmaker,
her glovemaker, her milliner, and her shoemaker were high, but not
extravagant, and well within Colonel Westin's means. Likewise her
household budget bore the marks of a woman who could spend wisely
and still manage to live in elegance.

The Westins appeared, by all accounts, to
have been a model couple of moderation, good taste, and financial
sense.

Grenville sat back as the clock struck one.
"Well," he said. "We have learned that Westin had no heavy debts,
gambling or otherwise. Pity."

"Yes," I answered, subdued. "It seems that he
led a blameless life."

Grenville sighed and tossed down the sheet
he'd been perusing. "So why would he suddenly sacrifice this
blameless life for Breckenridge, Eggleston, and Connaught?"

"He would sacrifice his family as well," I
remarked.

"Perhaps Breckenridge and Eggleston were
instrumental in persuading Allandale to propose to the daughter.
Then Allandale could look after both daughter and Mrs. Westin after
Westin had been tried and executed."

"Is Allandale such a catch?" I asked. The
opinion I'd formed upon meeting him in Lydia's house had not been
high.

Grenville thought a moment. "I would not have
chosen him for my own daughter, but yes, Geoffrey Allandale is,
from what I have heard of him, a catch. He has money and he has
connections and the beginnings of a political career. Everything a
father could want for his daughter."

What about a mother? I wondered. Lydia
disliked Mr. Allandale. I read that in her tone when she spoke of
him and in her face when she'd looked at him. And yet, she'd not
opposed the match. Or perhaps she had, and had been overruled. I
wondered if the daughter, Chloe, had been happy with the
choice.

"Providing an excellent marriage for the
daughter would fit," Grenville speculated. "Westin let his friends
set up the marriage knowing he would go to the gallows. His
daughter and wife would simply be absorbed into Allandale's
family."

I could sincerely hope not. Perhaps another
reason Lydia had expressed relief at her husband's death was that
she would no longer be at the mercy of Allandale. Westin had died
technically a free and innocent man, and she would come into
whatever money and property he had left her absolutely. His sudden
death had saved her from the fate of living in Allandale's
household.

"We should find a copy of the marriage
settlement," I said, "before we draw a conclusion."

"Agreed. But I cannot imagine what else it
could be. Westin certainly was a man without vices . . ." He broke
off, his dark eyes riveting to an entry on a ledger page. "A
moment. I spoke too soon. This is interesting."

Nothing else had been all night. I waited
impatiently.

"I am not certain whether this counts as a
vice," Grenville said. "But at one time in his life, our Colonel
Westin was in the habit of purchasing
cantharides
." He sat
back and looked at me.

"Spanish fly?" I asked, surprised.

"On more than one occasion. But this was a
long time ago. 1798, to be precise." He turned back a page. "No,
wait, a few years before that as well."

"Anything more recent?"

Grenville flipped forward through the book. I
took up the other ledger and gently turned its pages. We had been
looking for things of recent memory, but perhaps we ought to
examine the man's deep past as well.

"I looks as though he gave it up," Grenville
said presently.

I frowned. "Why on earth would a man married
to Lydia Westin need an aphrodisiac?"

Grenville shot me a thoughtful look. "Some
take it for the stimulation. It adds a spice, shall we say, to the
performance. Though one must have a care not to poison oneself with
it."

I leafed through the ledger, baffled. Westin
did not seem the type of man to try something as dangerous as
Spanish fly simply for the adventure of it. Especially in light of
Lydia's assertion that her husband had disliked pleasures of the
flesh. Were I married to Lydia Westin, I certainly would not need a
dose of Spanish fly to convince myself to take her to bed.

I searched for another explanation. "I have
heard that it is sometimes used for the skin, as well." I touched
an entry. "This ledger shows he was seeing a doctor for an unnamed
affliction in the past. Perhaps he used the
cantharides
for
that."

"Possibly. But I hardly believe B and E would
convince Westin to go to the gallows to keep the secret of a skin
condition."

I did not either, but I needed something. "He
made payments to this Dr. Barton for a number of years."

Grenville suddenly came alert. "Barton? Jules
Barton? Of Bedford Square?"

"Yes. Why?"

He gave me a curious look. "There is only one
reason a gentleman consults Dr. Barton of Bedford Square." He
watched me as though I should know damn well why without being
told.

"I have never heard of the man."

His eyes flickered. "Hmm. Well, I doubt any
gentleman would confide to you he'd made a visit to Dr. Barton. At
least not in another's hearing."

"Why? Who the devil is he?"

Grenville pressed his fingertips together.
"One consults Dr. Barton when . . . Well, to put it delicately, one
consults him--discreetly--when one cannot make one's soldier stand
to attention."

My brows rose. Lydia's faint smile, her
rueful look when she explained why she doubted her husband had a
mistress, became suddenly clear. "So," I said, "you believe Westin
was not so much unattracted by pleasures of the flesh as unable to
enjoy them."

"That would explain the Spanish fly,"
Grenville said. "Perhaps Dr. Barton suggested it. Poor beggar. To
be married to such a lovely woman, and not be able to-- "

"They had a child," I pointed out. "Miss
Westin is of marriageable age now, so could well have been
conceived near to 1798. Perhaps he was cured."

Grenville seemed determined to throw cold
water on everything. "One child. A girl. Most gentlemen would keep
trying until his wife produced a son. Did he continue to see the
doctor after her birth?"

I examined the page of payments to Dr.
Barton. Several were dated a mere nine years previously, shortly
before the Peninsular campaign began. "Yes," I answered.

"A lucky shot, then. Or . . ." Grenville
paused. "This is not a nice speculation, but perhaps . . ." Again
he hesitated. "Perhaps Miss Westin is not Westin's daughter at
all."

Silence fell. I traced a pattern on the
ledger page. My finger shook once. "What are you suggesting?"

"Something sordid and vulgar, I am sorry to
say. But we are looking for reasons that Breckenridge, Eggleston,
and Connaught might have blackmailed Colonel Westin."

"If we were speaking of Lady Breckenridge," I
said, keeping my voice quiet, "I might agree with you. But Mrs.
Westin does not seem the type to have a sordid affair and then
force her husband to accept her child. I do not believe it is in
her character."

"I know." He studied me for a time. "But
perhaps when she was young, and wanted a child, and her husband
could not give it to her . . ."

"She sought it elsewhere?" My fingers
tightened on the ledger. "Colonel Westin's letters are filled with
great affection for his daughter," I pointed out. "Would he have
doted on her if she were another man's child?"

Grenville shrugged. "We live in odd times,
Lacey. I know men who grew up in nurseries with half-brothers and
-sisters and the illegitimate by-blows of either parent. Lady
Oxford is rumored to have borne children by a number of different
fathers, and yet her husband keeps the pretense that they are his
own, and no one says a word. Hell, my own father brought home a
little girl he called my cousin, and we both discovered much later
he had fathered her with his mistress. It happens. Mrs. Westin may
simply have wanted a child too desperately."

I looked at him. "This line of speculation is
distasteful."

"I know. It is a distasteful business, all of
it. But such a secret might be enough for Westin. Breckenridge
could have threatened to reveal that shame to the world."

I let out my breath. "Such a predicament
would certainly give Breckenridge, Eggleston, or Connaught hold
over Colonel Westin." I took a draught of my now-cold coffee. "But
dear God, Grenville, I do not want it to be true. I pray we find a
better explanation."

I pictured Eggleston's glee at knowing a
sordid secret about the impeccable Colonel Westin. But would they
have loosed that hold by murdering him?

Grenville rested his elbows on the table.
"Even if what we have speculated is true, that still does not prove
who killed Captain Spencer at Badajoz. This is a most baffling
problem you have become tangled in, Lacey."

Well I knew it. Lydia Westin had asked me to
clear her husband's name. So far, I was only succeeding in
tarnishing it.

As much as we tried, we could find nothing
else that night to explain why Colonel Westin might have offered to
die on the gallows. Defeated, we closed the ledgers, and Grenville
called his carriage to take me the long way back home.

*** *** ***

Grenville had asked leave to accompany me to
my meeting with the Spencer brothers and I had agreed. He had an
uncanny knack for asking the right questions, and his head was a
bit clearer on the entire Westin affair than was mine. The next
afternoon I met him at Pall Mall and we made our way to the
appointment together.

The façade of the tavern had been refurbished
to complement the modern buildings surrounding it, but the interior
remained dark with age. The paneled walls and spindle-legged tables
were nearly black, the beamed ceiling bowed, and the floorboards
creaked. A blurred sign in one corner proclaimed that the house had
stood since 1673. I felt surprised that it had not burned down at
least once during that time, but perhaps it had, and the sign
reposted to reassure patrons that it was as traditional as any
other tavern.

Only a few men sat about sipping thick coffee
or eating beefsteak this afternoon. We were in St. James's, where
clubs had become far more the fashion than taverns or coffeehouses.
But political liaisons were still cultivated here and old friends
still met. I was pleased to see, however, that no journalists
lingered here today.

As we halted just inside the doorway,
blinking to adjust to the dim interior, two gentlemen rose and
advanced upon us. One was slight of build and had a thin brown
hair, a fringe of which hung limply on his forehead. The second man
looked much like him, but larger, and his hair was thicker.