Murder in Grosvenor Square (26 page)

The next thing I knew, Bartholomew and Brewster were stuffing me into a carriage under the strident tones of my wife. I fell against the seat, then my senses were bathed in the warmth and scent of Donata beside me.

I slept on her shoulder, vaguely aware she was speaking to me, but I have no idea what about. At the South Audley Street house, Bartholomew was joined by Barnstable to help me upstairs and to bed.

The sun was already rising, the streets filling with servants from the great houses, rushing to fulfill their masters’ wishes. The master of this house, such as he was, fell into a stupor and began to snore.

Donata woke me by sitting up on my bed, her legs folded under her. She clutched a lit cigarillo between her fingers, filling the bed with fragrant smoke. I coughed.

“Ah, you are awake at last,” she said. “This is a pretty pickle. What are you going to do?”

“Lie in bed.” I laced my hands behind my head, every limb heavy. “And enjoy looking at my wife. She is quite beautiful.”

“Flattery will not solve things,” Donata said, though she looked pleased. “I must admit, I was never fond of the Derwents before I met you. Too unworldly, holding themselves to higher morals than anyone else. At least, that is how they seemed to me, and to many others, I might add. Now I feel terribly sorry for them. They have no idea how to deal with what has been thrust upon them. Their predicament is very
Vicar of Wakefield,
is it not?”

The vicar’s family in that novel—good, upstanding, and kind but naïve people—suffered trouble after trouble that poured upon them. But like Job, the Vicar of Wakefield stood steadfast and patient, and eventually, he and his family were restored to some happiness.

“I hope the ending of the Derwents’ story is as satisfactory,” I said.

“At least no one has kidnapped Melissa into a bawdy house.” Donata shuddered. “But it could so easily be done. The Derwents believe that because they are good people, the rest of the world is good as well. How awful that they have discovered otherwise.”

I laid my hand on hers. “And we, the cynical, worldly, and embittered must help them back to the path of righteousness.”

My wife gave me the disparaging look the statement deserved. “Do not take the metaphor too far, Gabriel. But yes, I want to help them. While they once drove me to distraction, the Derwents now move me to pity.”

I had not had a chance to tell her about my adventures the previous night, so I related what Denis had revealed about Mackay and then my meeting with Marianne and Freddie Hilliard. “So I know Gareth and Leland were alive and well when they left the Bull and Hen,” I finished. “But not who they met between leaving there and finishing up in the passage.”

Donata lifted one shoulder in a shrug, holding the cigarillo negligently between her fingers. “You are a step further. Closer to the place they died.”

“True, but I am still not certain what to make of it. Did they meet with Mr. Mackay at all? Or were they waylaid by others before they could? Mr. Hilliard made mention of a book.” I remembered Gareth’s last conversation with me, when he’d explained that he’d found the means to ease himself from being dependent on Leland.
A windfall,
he’d said.
A fine one.
“Books of forbidden erotica, especially well-bound French tomes, can be quite costly,” I went on. Grenville collected first editions and historic books which fetched large prices. “Perhaps Gareth came into possession of such a book—somehow—and wanted to sell it to Mackay, or have Mackay sell it for him. This could explain Leland’s anger at Gareth’s method of obtaining money. Leland is not the sort who would approve of naughty books.”

“No, indeed,” Donata agreed. “He engages in what Mr. Spendlove would call unnatural behavior because he loved Gareth, not because he enjoys lewdness. He is a very proper lad.”

“Mr. Hilliard was disapproving of the clientele of the Bull and Hen as well,” I observed.

“I have made the acquaintance of Mr. Hilliard,” Donata said. “At racing meets and other country events. He is very sporting. Quite a gentleman, and not what one expects from a man happy to dress up in a frock.”

“Perhaps he disapproves of those in the Bull and Hen because he does not want to be arrested and hanged. The men I saw at the tavern were not at all discreet.”

“Hmm.” Donata’s eyes narrowed. “And we have no idea why Mr. Mackay went to the Derwents’ last night.”

“Not yet, no.” I let my hand rest on her silk-clad thigh. “Did he come to inquire after Leland’s health? Had he paid Gareth for the book already and assumed it was at the Derwents’? Or had he decided to help himself to it, whether money had exchanged hands or not? Books were scattered all over the drawing room, as though someone had rifled the bookshelves, so perhaps Mackay, or his killer, was looking for it.” I’d seen none that appeared to be very costly when I’d scanned them—all books were expensive, but I had not noted any that were extraordinary. The Derwents’ books, like their artwork, were acquired for the pleasure they gave, not their value as objects.

I moved on to another possibility. “Or did Mackey seek Sir Gideon to blackmail him about Leland’s proclivities? If so, Sir Gideon might very well have taken up the poker and struck him down. Though I do not like to think it.”

Donata considered. “You said yourself that Sir Gideon had no blood on him. And he did not. I would have seen it.”

“I know. But Spendlove is right that he could have rid himself of the clothes long before we arrived.” I absently stroked Donata’s leg, savoring the warmth beneath the silk. “The explanation I like more is that the killer gained the house through the kitchens, perhaps after seeing Mackay entering and noting the hungry lining the stairs to the scullery door. He waits until Mackay is alone and strikes him dead. Then our murderer exits through the busy kitchen or out the front door when the footman isn’t watching.” I let out a sigh, resting my gaze on the brocade hangings above me. “I have no idea what truly happened. I feel as ineffectual as ever.”

Donata gave me a wise nod and dropped the end of her cigarillo into a bowl on the bedside table. “You always do. And then a solution presents itself to you. The correct one.”

“I do hope it presents itself quickly. I would like to return to being a lazy, married man.”

I traced the curve of her leg through the fabric and turned my head to look at her. Donata regarded me calmly.

“Gareth’s funeral is today,” she said. “Lady Derwent told me. She also told me that they’d received a polite note from Mrs. Travers indicating that they should not bother to come. Far too difficult for Lady Derwent in her poor health, and Leland still not recovered. A pointed request for them to stay away.”

I drew my finger along the crease between thigh and calf of her folded leg. “Mrs. Travers is the only person I’ve ever encountered with severe dislike for the Derwent family,” I said. “Sir Gideon speculates it is because Gareth found more of a home there than his own house.” I let my hand slid away. “I will go and pay my respects. Gareth deserves that.”

“But I will not,” Donata said. “A dowager viscountess coming upon them suddenly would throw a vicarage in Bermondsey into disarray. Kinder if I stay home. The funeral should be for Gareth and his family, not a grand reception for me.” Donata unfolded herself and stretched out beside me, propping herself on her elbow. “Besides, your daughter arrives this evening, and I want to be certain all is ready.”

My heart rejoiced once more at the thought of seeing Gabriella again, with her sunny smiles and sensible forthrightness. Gabriella was still coming to terms with the fact that I had sired her, rather than the French major she’d grown up with, but she was making a great effort, and I loved her for it.

I wanted to thank Donata for accepting Gabriella and helping her, but words would not come. I ensnared my wife with one hand, pulled her down to me, and thanked her without words.

Passion might have come of our embrace, but Bartholomew entered just then with a tray heaped with breakfast.

Donata showed no shame about lounging about in bed with her husband, only pulled her dressing gown closed and sat up, reaching eagerly for coffee.

I pried myself up as well, my loose nightshirt falling from one shoulder. “What time is it?” I asked as Bartholomew set a tray heaped with enough breakfast for two across my lap.

“Eleven of the clock, sir. I shall lay out your black suit in the dressing room.”

Eleven. I had prided myself, since my marriage, on rising early, keeping at bay my fear of becoming a pampered, useless fool. But events this week had put paid to my usual habits.

“Thought you’d like to know, sir,” Bartholomew said. “My brother and I, and Mr. Grenville, we found Mr. Derwent’s clothes.”

I lifted my brows, nearly dropping the slice of toast I had picked up. “You did? Where? Why did you not tell me?”

“Didn’t have a chance until now,” Bartholomew answered reasonably. “What with Mr. Mackay getting himself killed, and Mr. Denis pulling you about, and you dropping over on your feet in weariness.”

Donata poured herself a cup of coffee and daintily lifted a square of toast. “Grenville might have sent word.”

“Don’t know about that, madam,” Bartholomew answered. “He went out again, as I said, sir, last night, and we’ve not seen him since. He didn’t leave any notes with us to deliver.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I waved my hand, scattering crumbs. “Where did you find the clothes?”

“Bloke had them.” Bartholomew stood easily next to the bed, unembarrassed about speaking to his master and mistress while they were en dishabille. “A man local to Seven Dials. I spied him walking around after you and Mr. Grenville left us there. I thought, good Lord, there’s a shabby man in a coat far too fine for the likes of him. Matthias and I gave chase, and we ran him down. He was terrified of us, two large lads as we are. We asked him where he’d gotten the clothes. He tried to put us off with a tale of finding them in the river—he thought at first we were the Watch or foot patrol with the Runners. When we got him calmed down, he admitted he found them on the ground in a street one away from where Mr. Travers got himself killed. Nothing in them, no watch or money, but he could have been lying and already sold them.”

Very quickly, I had no doubt. “Had he seen who discarded them?” I asked hopefully.

“No, sir. But I’m not surprised. He was terrified of his shadow. A poor specimen, shivering and gaunt.” Bartholomew hesitated. “I let him keep the clothes. I hope I did right.”

Donata answered for me. “Leland would have done such a thing. Reasoned he had many others. I trust you took his name so that the captain may quiz him again if necessary.”

“I did, your ladyship.” Bartholomew took a scrap of paper from his pocket. “Wrote it out plain.”

He handed me the paper. On it Bartholomew had written in block capitals,
Mr. John Olmstead
,
Number 17,
Shorts Gardens
.

“He lives with half a dozen other blokes there,” Bartholomew went on, “He says you’ll mostly find him at home.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

I went to the funeral of Gareth Travers with only Brewster to accompany me. We took a hackney from Mayfair, leaving Donata’s carriage free for her use.

Gareth was to be buried in the churchyard at Bermondsey, beside the small church his father presided over. The Reverend Travers did not perform the service—another vicar, whose jowls nearly obscured his dog collar, did so. I’d never met Gareth’s father, and when I saw him, sagging against his wife’s shoulder, I knew he’d never have been able to say the words over his son’s coffin.

Whether Reverend Travers was drunk or simply bowed with grief I could not tell. His young wife stood straight next to him, her lips pursed in disapproval. The rest of the small turnout consisted of men and women from the parish, plus a few straight-backed ladies who appeared to be friends of Mrs. Travers.

Rolling up at the last minute, his carriage stark black against the gray buildings and gray skies, was Grenville.

His arrival caused a stir. I could not tell if anyone there knew who he was, or simply wondered why a toff had turned up for the funeral of an impoverished vicar’s son. Grenville came to stand next to Brewster and me at the edge of the gathering as the second vicar began to read the burial service.

I had heard the words far too often, and I never liked them. The phrases about how man is born to misery and suffering did not match the Gareth Travers I’d known. He’d been happy with his life, not worrying about much beyond his pride, embraced by a kind family who’d treated him as one of their own.

The part about man having only a short time to live and being cut down like a flower was true, however. Someone had cut off Gareth’s life far too soon. Though he’d not lived an entirely blameless existence, he had not deserved that.

Once the casket had been lowered into the muddy hole, I moved forward and tossed in a clump of earth as well as the flower I’d purchased. Leland could not be here to send off the man he’d loved best in life, and so I said his good-byes for him.

“Sleep well, my friend,” I whispered, and then the damp soil hit the wooden coffin with a melancholy sound.

*

Grenville waited for me, and we walked together to the Traverses, who lingered in the circle of their friends. Mrs. Travers gave me an unfriendly look, but the Reverend Travers took my offered hand.

His bloodshot eyes confirmed he was both grieving and far gone in drink, using one to relieve the pain of the other. “You knew my son well?” he asked. He was about ten years my senior, but already stooped and gray, his hands trembling.

“Not as well as I would have liked,” I said. “I am a friend of Leland Derwent.”

Mrs. Travers snorted in derision, but Reverend Travers paid no attention to her. “Young Leland is a good lad. Gareth’s letters were always filled with him and the Derwents. Kind people.” He squeezed my hand. “A point of fact, sir, if you are such friends with them …”

“Yes?” I asked as he trailed off.

Reverend Travers tugged me closer, as though wanting to whisper to me, out of his wife’s hearing. Grenville took the cue and became his most charming, turning Mrs. Travers away and gesturing to the church, asking about its history.