A Body in Berkeley Square (2 page)

Lord Gillis looked surprised. "Not at all.
Henry Turner was the friend of a friend of my wife's. So she tells
me. But murder is a grim business, Captain. It was a gruesome
sight."

Death in battle was far more gruesome. I
recalled piles of bodies before the walls at Badajoz, young men
torn in half by blasts, some ripped open but still alive, screaming
in pain and fear. Henry Turner had looked peaceful, hardly
touched.

Grenville volunteered to show me the room.
His face, which was rather pointed, revealed no emotion, and his
dark eyes did not glitter with as much curiosity as I'd thought
they would.

Tonight, Grenville wore the finest clothes
I'd ever seen on him. His coat was black superfine, cut in a style
likely invented this morning and which would be all the rage by
tomorrow. Next week, Grenville would return to his tailor and
invent yet another fashion, and this week's coat would be discarded
by one and all.

Black pantaloons hugged muscular legs that
ladies liked to admire. I'd seen caricatures and cartoons in
newspapers about his legs and the way ladies ogled them. The
diamond stickpin in his cravat was large and elegant, though not so
large as to be vulgar.

"It was not pleasant, I must tell you,"
Grenville said as we crossed the inlaid floor toward the stairs. We
walked alone; Lord Gillis stayed behind to speak to Pomeroy. "Mrs.
Harper found him a little past midnight. She began screaming in a
horrible way, half mad with it. She had blood on her hand and it
seemed to make her crazed."

"Blood?" Turner's wound had been small and
nearly clean.

"I saw it on her glove. The poor woman was
horrified. The ladies near her seemed more inclined to recoil from
her than to help her. I was able to take her aside to pour brandy
into her."

"Where is Mrs. Harper now?"

"Home. Her servants rallied round and got her
away."

I was becoming more and more intrigued by
this Imogene Harper. Why had she gone into the room where she'd
found Turner? How had she gotten the blood on her glove without
putting her hand on the knife or the wound itself? And why the
devil did Brandon agree to Pomeroy's accusation that Mrs. Harper
was his mistress?

"I must meet this woman," I said.

Grenville gave me an odd look. "I'd never
seen her before tonight. You did not know her?"

"No."

"Hmm."

He opened a door with panels picked out in
gold. The room behind the door was small, a retiring room for the
convenience of the guests.

Scarlet damask covered the upper walls which
were framed by gold-painted panels. The wainscoting was pale gray,
also framed in gold leaf. The ceiling, much lower than that of the
ballroom, had been painted with a gaudy scene of Apollo and his
chariot chasing nymphs across an arch of sky.

The only furniture in the room was a
slim-legged Sheraton writing table and a small Sheraton chair with
two carved slats on its back. The tastefully austere table and
chair contrasted sharply with the ornamentation of the walls and
ceiling.

"He was found here." Grenville pointed to the
chair. "Slumped forward, as though he'd fallen asleep or was foxed.
Lord Gillis himself lifted him, and then we saw the knife in his
chest. His eyes were open, but he was quite dead."

I studied the chair and writing table. Both
pieces of furniture were innocuous, betraying nothing of Turner's
sudden and violent death. The desk presented a smooth, golden
satinwood surface with an inlaid design on its edges. Nothing
rested on its top.

The chair faced the desk, away from the door.
I circled chair and desk once then stopped.

"Grenville, would you mind?"

"Show you how he looked, you mean?" Grenville
gave his usual cool shrug, but his face was white. He strolled to
the chair and sat down. "Slumped over the desk, as I said." He
arranged himself in an untidy hunch, resting his head and one arm
on the desk and letting the other arm hang to the floor. "Like
this, I think." His voice was muffled.

I moved to the doorway and looked in.
"Interesting."

Grenville sat up. "I found it rather
appalling, myself. Are you finished?"

I started to tell him to stay a moment
longer, then I realized that he found sitting in the dead man's
chair distasteful. "Of course. I beg your pardon."

Grenville stood, removed a handkerchief from
his pocket, and dabbed his lips. "I know you must have seen worse
sights than a man dead in a chair, but the entire business gave me
a turn. It was so quick-- "

He broke off and patted his lips again.

I thought I understood. The month before,
Grenville had received a deep knife wound in his chest, one that
had barely missed killing him. The sight of the knife and the fact
that it had killed Turner instantly must have given him pause.

Grenville tucked his handkerchief back into
his pocket and assumed his usual air of calm. If I hadn't come to
know him well, I would think he'd found the whole thing a dead
bore. But he betrayed himself with the twitching of his fingers and
the tight lines about his mouth.

"If Imogene Harper entered and saw Turner
sitting here, she might have thought him drunk or asleep," I said.
"But as soon as she touched him . . ." I moved to the chair and
laid my hand on an imaginary Turner's shoulder. "She would have
noticed he was dead. How, then, did she get the blood on her
glove?"

I saw Grenville's interest stir. "Yes, I see
what you mean. He bled very little. If she'd merely shaken his
shoulder, where would she have picked up the blood? She would have
had to reach down to grasp the knife or press her fingers to the
wound."

"And why should she?"

Grenville looked grim. "Unless she did the
deed herself."

"Then why scream and draw attention to
herself and the blood on her glove? Why not quietly walk away and
dispose of the glove somewhere?"

"Perhaps she never meant to kill him. Perhaps
there was a quarrel, she shoved the knife in, then realized what
she'd done in her anger. Horrified, she began screaming."

I wandered around the desk again. "He was
sitting down when he was killed, or the killer took the time to
arrange his body so. He was a healthy young man. Would he not be
able to deflect a blow from a woman? Even one crazed with
anger?"

"Not if he were taken by surprise."

"As you were," I finished for him. "This is
different. It was pitch dark when you were stabbed. You did not
have a chance to defend yourself."

"No, I didn't."

I remembered fighting to save Grenville's
life, remembered him lying in the dark on cold stone cobbles, his
breath so very shallow. I had watched him, fearing every breath he
drew would be his last. But Grenville's constitution was strong,
and he'd recovered.

The incident had happened over a month ago,
but the wound still pained him, I knew. It had made him a bit more
nervous as well, though he strove to hide it.

"The circumstances here are entirely
different," I said. "A brightly lit room, a hundred guests outside,
a strong man facing his attacker. In addition, if Imogene Harper
indeed killed him, how did she obtain Brandon's knife? I refuse to
believe Brandon handed it to her and told her to kill Turner with
it."

"She might have stolen it," Grenville
suggested. "Or Brandon might have left it lying somewhere. Or it
might be her knife, and Brandon lied to protect her."

"No, I do believe the knife belonged to
Colonel Brandon. Such knives were common in the army--they are
utilitarian and handy to have."

For a time we both looked at the desk and its
herringbone inlay. I imagined Turner lying there, his curled brown
hair, nearly the same color as the satinwood, splayed over the
desk.

"Lacey," Grenville said in a quiet voice, "we
can speculate all night, but the fact is, it looks pretty damning
for your colonel. Brandon tried to place himself next to Imogene
Harper from the moment he arrived. He was seen speaking sharply
with Turner by more than one person--myself included. He even
followed Turner into this room, although, admittedly, they emerged
together not a few minutes later. An overheard quarrel, the knife,
and Brandon seen chasing Turner from Mrs. Harper earlier, all point
to one conclusion."

"I know that." I closed my fists. "And yet,
it is the wrong conclusion. It feels wrong."

"Your Sergeant Pomeroy does not much care
about how a thing feels."

"He is a practical man, is Pomeroy. It makes
him a good sergeant, but not a good investigator."

"No?" Pomeroy boomed behind me.

He filled the doorway, the tall bulk of him
crowned with pomaded yellow hair. His face was red, his right
cheekbone creased by a scar from a cut he'd recently received from
a thief reluctant to be caught. Pomeroy grinned at me, his stalwart
good humor in place.

"No," I said. "You see much and see nothing
at the same time."

"Now that, Captain, is why you are the
captain and I am the sergeant. You do the plotting and the planning
and the inspiring, and I do the drilling and the fighting. We get
it done in the end. You should have seen him on the Peninsula, Mr.
Grenville. His men would have followed him to the mouth of hell
itself. A fine sight."

"You flatter me," I said dryly.

My men had followed me because they knew I'd
make damn sure they'd come back. I'd seen no reason for us all to
die in a heroic charge to satisfy a general's lust for glory. The
generals had often disagreed with me, and I'd told them exactly
what I'd thought. Shouting back at those above me, many of them
aristocrats, had earned me the reputation as a hothead and made
certain I never progressed to the rank of major. Colonel Brandon
had, many times, had to intervene between myself and a superior I'd
insulted, thus, if only temporarily, saving my future.

"He did not do it, Sergeant," I said.

Pomeroy shrugged. "That's as may be. But it's
my duty to take in a man to face the magistrate. If you believe you
can get him off, then I leave you to it. I won't hinder you."

He would not. Pomeroy liked getting
convictions, because he would receive the reward money, but if a
man were proved innocent, well then, the gent had had a bit of
luck, and who was Pomeroy to rob him of it?

"I will certainly try," I said.

"Best to you," Pomeroy said cheerfully. "I'll
be off then. Done all I can do here."

"What about Turner?" I asked. "If the
coroner's been and gone, what is to become of his body? You cannot
leave him in Lord Gillis's spare bedroom."

"Already taken care of, sir. Lord Gillis sent
for Turner's man, who will trundle it back to Turner's ma and pa."
He tugged his forelock. "'Night, sir. Mr. Grenville."

Grenville murmured his good-night, and
Pomeroy trudged out, whistling a tune.

"Who is Turner's father?" I asked
Grenville.

"Retired MP, lives in Epsom. Cousin to the
Earl of Deptford."

As always, Grenville had everyone's pedigree
in his pocket. "I would like to speak to him."

"I would, as well," Grenville said. "I will
fix an appointment. But what about tonight? Will you speak to this
Mrs. Harper?"

"Not yet," I said. I did need to visit
her--she was key to this matter, but I had an even greater need to
see someone else. "I must go to Louisa."

Grenville shot me a look. "She is with Lady
Aline."

"I know. But I want to reassure her."

I broke off, uncertain of how I could
reassure her. I wanted Louisa to know that I would pursue this
inquiry and find out what had truly happened. Brandon might well be
guilty, and, if so, I had to make that shock easier for her. If he
were not guilty, I would work to get him free. I had to.

"Do you want me along?" Grenville asked.

I shook my head, and he cleared his throat.
"Very well then, I'll leave you to it. I need to look in at Clarges
Street."

He meant that he would visit Marianne
Simmons, an actress who had lived upstairs from me in Grimpen Lane
until recently. Grenville, whether wisely or not, had taken her to
live in luxury in a house he owned in Clarges Street. Their
relationship thus far had been stormy, any progress made usually
followed by a painful regression.

"Greet Marianne for me," I said. "And send me
word when you've obtained an appointment with Mr. Turner's father.
It might be decent of us to attend the funeral."

"I will," Grenville agreed, and we
parted.

Lord Gillis's quiet and efficient footmen let
me out of the house. Berkeley Square was wet with rain, but the
bitter chill of winter had gone, and my breath did not hang in the
air.

I had expected to have to hike a long way to
find a hackney, but another carriage already waited at the door,
and a footman I recognized as Brandon's hopped down and approached
me.

"Good evening, Captain," he said. "Mrs.
Brandon said we was to have the town coach to fetch you to her.
Will you get in, sir?"

* * * * *

Chapter Two

The Brandon house in Brook Street was a pale
brick edifice inside which I'd endured many an evening with the
hostile Colonel Brandon. When we'd returned from the war, Louisa
had seemed to think we could resume our easy companionship in
suppers and chatter, but the days of laughing in the Brandon tent
late into the night had gone.

I missed that life. I missed it sharply. Even
with the ever-present danger of battle and death lurking over us,
my existence in the king's army had been good. I had been a whole
man, fit and vigorous, enjoying my friends and comrades.

The footman assisted me from the coach and
opened the door to the house. He took my greatcoat and hat and
gloves but left me my walking stick.

"She's upstairs, sir," he told me.