The Bloodied Cravat (27 page)

She had another idea. When the Scotsman alighted from the vehicle, his daughter cried out, “Father!”

I am ashamed to admit that for the space of a second, I considered turning and making a mad dash down the street.

Instead, I remained where I was. Mr. Lavender had just begun examining the murdered man when he heard his daughter’s voice. He swung round and located her amongst the crowd. In her goddess attire. One shoulder exposed to public view. Her hand in mine.

Mr. Lavender’s eyes popped from his head as if on wires. “Lydia!” Motioning to the two constables to remain with the body, he began making his way towards us.

At that juncture, in order to keep all the curious present from knowing my identity, I thought it prudent to meet the Bow Street man halfway, out of the earshot of onlookers. So I walked Miss Lavender around the deadly scene into her father’s care.

When she reached him, Miss Lavender flung her arms around her father, leaving him eyeing me warily over her head. A faint air of cherry pipe smoke clung to him.

“Oh Father, I should never have come here. It’s only that when Mr. Brummell told me about the Grand Masquerade earlier today when I was at his house ....” she broke off on a sob.

Mr. Lavender took a knife from his pocket and filleted me from stem to stern. I saw it all happen in his eyes in that instant when he realised it was me there with his daughter, holding her hand—and that she had been to my house! Mentally I wondered who would take care of Chakkri after I was gone.

 “Mr. Brummell, I asked you a question,” the Scotsman growled in a low voice. “What are you doing with my daughter?”

Amazed to find myself still alive, I spoke. “It was the merest chance that we happened upon one another. Shall I see Miss Lavender safely back to Fetter Lane while you deal with this ... unpleasantness?”

I noticed that Mr. Lavender’s fists—balled at his sides—were quite large. “No,” he said, popping a toothpick into his mouth and grinding his teeth against it. “Lydia, get in the carriage and wait for me there. I’ll have a report on this killing and join you in a moment. Then you’ll tell me how you came to be here in Mr. Brummell’s company and why you went to his house.”

Miss Lavender obeyed him, which should tell you the depth of her distress at seeing the corpse.

“Well,” I said in a bright tone I was far from feeling. “I shall just let you go about your business, Mr. Lavender. Though I must say it makes one cross the way a fellow cannot travel the London streets without being shot at.” I looked pointedly at Neal’s body.

And froze.

For I could see a glint of silver. In death, Neal grasped something in his hands. My blue velvet book with its silver corners.

Mr. Lavender must have seen it at that exact moment. He pushed past me, promising that he would speak with me later. He bent down and turned the body over. Then the Bow Street man’s fingers closed around the blue velvet book.

I give you my word it felt like his thick fingers closed around my neck.

Sleep eluded me that night. Reason told me that even if Roger had kept Freddie’s letter in the blue velvet book before, when he killed Neal—and I did believe he was the murderer—he would have removed the letter from the blue velvet book. He would not want to lose his valuable piece of blackmail material, after all. I need not worry that Freddie’s letter was now in Mr. Lavender’s hands.

Yet I could not be certain. If Roger were inventive, might he not have had a copy of the letter written out and left in the book? That way, yours truly could be arrested, and Roger’s way would be clear to blackmail Freddie with no one to stop him.

But no, the scandal would be made public at that point. Roger would lose his hold over Freddie then. So what was Roger’s plan? Why had he left the book at the scene of the crime?

Ah, of course to implicate me in the death of a common thief. That made more sense. With me out of the way, busy defending myself to Bow Street, Roger’s path to blackmailing Freddie would be clear.

I paced my bedchamber, trying to form a strategy that would allow me to remain a step ahead of Bow Street and Roger Cranworth. Who had killed twice.

Around seven in the morning, I rang for Robinson. The valet made not a murmur of protest about the early hour. I tell you, I do not know which is worse, his complaining or this eagerness to make amends.

By nine I was seated in my book-room, clad in my Eton-blue coat over buff breeches. Chakkri, wise entity that he is, spent a restful night in the exact centre of my bed, dined this morning on Andre’s special scrambled eggs with cheese sauce, and was presently ready for his extended morning nap. The cat scanned the lined shelves of books, but chose to hop up onto the small revolving bookcase that sits on the other side of my desk near a chair. He entwined his fawn-coloured body around the finial, curled his tail into the letter “C” and promptly fell asleep.

“Lucky devil,” I muttered. Drawing a sheet of vellum from the desk drawer, I put pen to paper and began answering correspondence. My mind was only half on what I wrote, though. I was really waiting for Mr. Lavender. Once he comprehended the book was mine, he would be on my doorstep.

I did not write to Freddie. Better to wait until later in the day when I might know more. Then there was the chance she might take pity on me if she knew I was writing from jail.

The knocker sounded a scant twenty minutes later. I continued my writing, not even glancing up when Robinson announced Mr. Lavender. “Send him in.”

“Yes, sir.”

I resumed writing, my demeanor unconcerned.

The Scotsman entered the room with my blue velvet book in hand.

I tried to bluff. “Good God, however did you find that? Sit down, Mr. Lavender. I shall take that book from you. Have you got my stolen clothing as well?”

Mr. Lavender let the book drop with a loud thud on top of the desk right under my nose. My hands itched with the desire to flip through the pages and see if, by some miracle, the letter was there.

The Scotsman never took his eyes off me as he lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk. “That is your book, then, Mr. Brummell?”

As if I could deny ownership when right on the first page my name was engraved in gold. I forced myself to casually go through the pages, tsking occasionally. “Of course it is mine. Dear me, that drawing Lady Perry gave me of Perry playing the pianoforte is missing.”

“Stop your playacting, Mr. Brummell. You knew exactly where the book was. Neal had it.” Mr. Lavender, minus his toothpick today, his face hard as granite, was all business.

I assumed my best foolish dandy expression, all the while continuing to examine the book. Freddie’s letter was not there, dash it. “Er, yes, I knew the highwayman—Neal I believe Lionel said his name was—had the book unless he had sold it for the price of these silver corners.”

Mr. Lavender glared at me in complete disbelief. “You can’t think I’d believe you hadn’t found that ugly customer, Neal, and talked with him, tried to buy your things back.”

“Why? I avoid ugly customers, as you say, as a rule.”

“That was Neal Snure’s body on the street last night outside the King’s Theatre.”

I sighed. “That alters the case amazingly. I shall never find my clothes now. At least I have my book.”

Mr. Lavender shot to his feet and used both hands to brace himself against the desk. “Had you spoken to Neal Snure about your clothes and this book?”

“Why should I? Once I knew your daughter had told you his name, I assumed you would handle the matter.”

Mr. Lavender glared at me. “Last night when I found this book and saw your name in it, I had a bad feeling. In fact, Mr. Brummell, most times I hear your name or see your face I have a bad feeling.”

“I say!” I protested. “That is a touch harsh.”

“When the body was identified as that of Neal, that bad feeling grew into some mighty strong suspicions. You hunted him down, didn’t you?”

I made a steeple of my fingers and smiled amiably. “Do you really think me so clever, then? I am flattered.”

The Scotsman pointed a finger at me. “I won’t address that remark. What I want to know, laddie, and you’ll be telling me this instant, is
why
. Why is that book in front of you so important?”

“This book? What makes you think I care about it? Here, you can have it back if you need it as evidence. It holds only sentimental value for me as you must know. No doubt you have been through it. Mind, I shall want it returned to me when you are done.”

“Don’t think you can trick me and wheedle your way around the subject,” the Bow Street man said, his voice rising. Then, in a normal, but no less menacing tone he said, “You wouldn’t have raised one of your finely manicured hands to locate those clothes. It was that book you were after. Now the thief is dead.”

“The lives of thieves are seldom long are they?”

“I find it all mortal curious. You’re not
that
sentimental a man. Here’s something else that’s curious, Mr. Brummell. You leave London to attend a party at Oatlands. Your clothes and that book are stolen along the way, then—”

“We have already established that a highwayman had been plaguing the area.”

Again the finger pointed at me. “Don’t be interrupting,” he said, burring his “r.” “Lord Kendrick is murdered at Oatlands for a reason I have yet to determine, though I have some ideas. While I am at Oatlands, The Royal Duchess confesses to me that she has been upset for two days. When I question her as to why
two
days when the murder on her property had only occurred that morning, she faints. You come back to London and immediately hunt down the
highwayman
rather than poking your quizzing glass round trying to figure out who murdered Lord Kendrick. The thief ends up murdered outside the very place you’re passing the evening.”

“I thought you did not wish me involved in murder cases. I thought you would be singing Scottish songs of cheer that I have not investigated the murder. I fail to comprehend—”

“Then let me say it plain,” Mr. Lavender volunteered. “Here are the facts. That book is stolen. Two people are murdered.”

“One does not have anything to do with the other,” I said.

Mr. Lavender’s eyes flashed a warning. “Let me be the judge of that. I’ve been looking into the murder of the marquess.  He wasn’t well liked. His cousin was afraid of him, why I don’t know. He was a bully to her, but there’s something more.”

Should I tell him about Lord Kendrick’s threats to have Lady Ariana put into a lunatic asylum? No, I could never do that to the girl as much as I wanted to divert Mr. Lavender’s attention from myself. I cleared my throat. “I believe Lady Ariana to have had a difficult life.”

The Scotsman’s eyes narrowed. “She’s got an odd kick in her gallop, that’s the truth. If you know anything, you’d better not be holding back from me, laddie.”

“Me? Hold something back from you? Why would I do that?”

He drew a deep breath. “Then we have Cecily Cranworth, the marquess’s childhood love, angry because Lord Kendrick wouldn’t wed her.”

“Hmmm.”

“Most interesting of all, neither you nor her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York liked the marquess. Now what reason could the two of you have to dislike him? See, this is where things get interesting. You were observed in an angry confrontation with the marquess the day before he was murdered. You were overheard saying that the marquess’s smirk would be something few people would miss. Why?”

I rose to my feet. Fairingdale had been talking again. Mr. Lavender was stumbling too close to the truth. His path must be redirected. “While I have previously eased the boredom of my days by sparring with you, Mr. Lavender, I see I cannot allow you to labour under any misconceptions in this case.”

“Good.” The Scotsman stood up straight.

“As to this riddle of Lord Kendrick’s murder, if you find you need my help, why, I shall consider offering you my assistance on the condition that you cease throwing out innuendo that I might have killed him. Or this Neal person.”

“It’s all somehow to do with that book isn’t it, and you’re the owner of the book!”

“Actually, if you want to know the truth,” I said in the manner of one careless of anything but his own pleasure, “it is all to do with your lovely daughter. I find that I shall use any excuse to call upon her. I am not above telling her that I desire the names and locations of the rag-merchants, when what I really desire is to gaze upon her—”

Quicker than thought, the Bow Street man was round the desk. He has the disadvantage of being a few inches shorter than me, but he was about to toast my ears and nothing could stop him. I did not even try, leaning as I did against the desk and taking a moment to eradicate a piece of lint from my glossy Hessian boots.

“You’ll leave my daughter out of this!” he barked.

I put my head to one side. “But you wanted to know about the book. I just told you. I cannot resist your daughter’s dark red hair, so I called on her and asked for her help in getting my stolen possessions returned to me.”

My ploy to distract the Bow Street man was working. “How did you get Lydia to put on that disgraceful gown last night? My own flesh and blood half naked in the middle of London!” he seethed.

“Oh the fancy-dress was her idea. I think she told me she rented it at a place in Fleet Street. Quite fetching.”

“That’s not what I meant!” he shouted. “And just what was Lydia doing at your house earlier yesterday? Answer me that.”

I shrugged. “It was a private matter. Why not ask her yourself?”

“I did and she told me it was not my concern.”

“There you are, then,” I said reasonably.

“I will not have you flirting with my daughter!”

“Flirting?” My brows came together as I gave the appearance of one giving the subject deep consideration. “At the King’s Theatre, we were merely dancing the new
valse
. Some, I expect, would call that flirting, I grant you.”

Mr. Lavender’s face mottled red. “The
valse
! That shameless dance from Germany? The one where couples are squeezing and hugging each another?”