A Regimental Murder (4 page)

He only gave me an insolent look and said to
the air, "He is as rude as they say."

I advanced on him. His sneer turned to a look
of alarm as I caught him by the elbows and tossed him into the
street.

He landed on his feet, stumbled, then
scrambled out of the way of a rapidly moving curricle. Before he
could recover himself, I entered the Westin house and closed the
door.

Lydia Westin's house was like her, elegant
and understated. In a world of ornate gilding and faux Egyptian
furnishings, the Westin household had retained a more classical
feel. Ivory paneling framed delicate moire wallpaper hung with
landscapes. Tapered-legged tables stood in niches along the black
and white tile flooring, and fresh flowers filled vases hung on the
walls flanking mirrors.

A straight staircase spilled down into the
hall beyond the foyer, its dark polished rail ending in a graceful
spiral. At the foot of these stairs, Lydia Westin waited, supported
by a woman with iron gray hair. She was Lydia's lady's maid, I
guessed, by her fine dress and mobcap. She eyed me severely.

The footman, closing the door behind me,
hurried past and took Lydia's other arm. The worry in these
servants' faces reassured me somewhat. They would take care of
her.

Even so I hated to leave. I lingered, hoping
against hope that she would ask me to stay, to have breakfast, to
speak with her. She would not, of course. She was tired and
distressed and likely wished to see the last of me.

They were waiting for me to do something. I
made a half-bow. "Good morning, then," I said. "I see that I leave
you in good hands."

They turned her away, taking her upstairs. In
a moment, she would be gone from my sight.

Between one stair and the next, Mrs. Westin
stopped. She turned back, her hand on the railing. "William," she
said. "Please take Captain Lacey to my sitting room. Bring him
coffee. I should like to speak to him, at length, if he can spare
the time."

Of course I could spare the time. I had no
obligation, no one to go to. I could spend the entire morning and
all afternoon with her if need be.

"Indeed," I said.

The maid looked unhappy and the footman,
worried. They were ready to hustle their lady upstairs and out of
sight, protecting her from my gaze, like an Indian woman to her
purdah.

"But, madam, we must not-- " the footman
whispered.

Mrs. Westin interrupted. "I will speak to
him, William. He can help us."

William snapped his mouth shut. The maid
still looked reproving. Lydia gave her a cool nod and told her to
take her upstairs.

As the two ladies ascended in a swish of
silk, William returned to me. He had wide brown eyes and wisps of
brown hair that stuck out from under his footman's wig. His gloved
hands clenched and unclenched, as though he debated whether to obey
his mistress or toss me out onto the pavement.

At last he sighed. "This way, sir," he said,
and led me upstairs.

*** *** ***

I waited in a drawing room whose windows
faced a tiny patch of garden at the rear of the house. I sensed at
once that this was
her
room, one she had created as her own
sanctum. A small pianoforte stood in one corner, and the
cream-colored walls were adorned with portraits of the family. The
furniture had classical lines; its tapered-legged chairs matched
the furniture downstairs. The divan, chairs, and cornices over the
windows were decorated with gold studs laid out in simple scrolled
patterns.

An hour had passed. William now led Lydia
Westin in and seated her on a divan near the empty fireplace. He
draped a rug over her legs and a paisley shawl about her shoulders.
Her face was white, and the defiant sparkle that had shone in her
eyes that morning had given way to quiet resignation.

She gestured me to sit and dismissed
William.

"You were kind to stay, Captain," she said
after William had closed the doors. Her voice was a weary slur.

I remained standing. "Not at all."

She toyed with the fringe of her shawl, as
though gathering her strength to speak. Her portrait hung above
her, painted, I guessed, when she'd been at least ten years
younger. She had been extraordinarily beautiful then. Her painted
face was a bit softer than the one that faced me now, and her eyes
had lacked the pain I observed in them today.

Ten years ago, we had both been thirty. She
had been an elegant Mayfair hostess, and I had been training
cavalry in Sussex, preparing them, though I did not know it, to die
on the battlefields of Spain. From what I knew of her, Lydia
Westin, unlike my own wife, had not followed her husband to the
Peninsula. She'd remained here in this fine house, attending the
opera, hosting gatherings, keeping her skin soft and her slippers
clean. She had lived the life my wife had longed for, the one I had
not been able to afford to give her.

At last Lydia looked up at me. Her maid had
combed out her dark hair, but had not dressed it, letting it lie
loose about her shoulders. The girl-like style did not soften the
brittle woman who watched me.

"Captain," she began. "I have decided to
confide in you a matter which . . ." She sighed. "I hope I am not
wrong. But you have proved to be kind. You had no need to help me,
and you continued to, even when I . . ." She flushed. "Even when I
threw myself at you. Please forgive me. I can imagine what you must
have thought of me."

"I thought you hurt and in need of rest."

"I was. Quite a lot. What I had decided to do
last night . . ." She stopped again. "I cannot speak of it. I am
only grateful you were there to stop it. You have proved yourself a
gentleman, and so, I have decided to trust you."

"I hope I will prove worthy of it."

"My servants disagree with me. They believe
me foolish, but will stand with me." She gestured. "Please sit,
Captain. This will be long in telling."

I obeyed, settling myself on a damask chair
next to the divan.

"My husband is dead," she said. "I remember
babbling that to you in your rooms, after you gave me so much
brandy. I told you other things as well. They were all true." She
paused. "What I am about to tell you must go no farther than this
room. You must swear this to me, upon your honor."

"Of course you have my word," I said, my
curiosity growing by the minute. "You told me that your husband had
been murdered."

"I did. And he was."

Puzzled, I said, "But he fell down the
stairs, at least the newspapers reported that he did."

"No." She stared into the middle distance, as
though something there told her what to say. "My husband never fell
down a staircase. Someone stabbed him, with a small, sharp knife
through the base of his neck. Then they put him to bed. Or he was
already there when they stabbed him, I do not know."

I stared at her, astounded. "Then why did the
stories say--"

"Because we told them that." She switched her
gaze to me. "Understand me, Captain. I and William, and my maid,
and Millar--he is Roe's valet--told the journalists and Bow Street
that my husband had fallen down the stairs. William and Millar lied
themselves blue in the coroner's court, saying that they both saw
him slip and fall. And so, the verdict was death by accident."

I frowned. "Why the devil should you try to
hide the fact that your husband had been murdered?"

To my surprise, she smiled. "To save him the
embarrassment of it, of course." The smile quickly faded. "I know
you must think me mad, but I was afraid and so confused. This
course seemed best."

"Afraid of whom?" Disquiet touched me. "Is it
that you are protecting the murderer?"

"No, Captain, it is that I am protecting my
daughter." She leaned forward. "You must understand. We had been so
raked through the newspapers until Chloe was ill with it. When I
found my husband, I was of course ready to send for a constable.
Then I stopped myself. I thought, why should he be murdered? Let
the world think him dead by accident--a happy relief for his
family. If the newspapers began crying murder, we would never know
peace again. So you see, this is why I beg your silence. I want no
newspapers, no constables, no Bow Street. I have sent my daughter
away to her uncle in Surrey, but I want nothing of this to touch
her--ever."

I traced the carved gold pattern on the arm
of my chair. The lady of despair and fear I had saved last night
had vanished, to be replaced by a cool-headed woman who had
dispatched her daughter and sworn her servants to secrecy when her
own husband had been killed. "I can imagine your feelings. But I
still do not understand why you have taken this step. Why would you
not want to find your husband's murderer?"

"I do want to find them. I do indeed. And
make them pay."

"They?" I repeated. "Last night, you said you
knew
they
had murdered him. You called them the
triumvirate."

"Yes, that is how I think of them, the three
most devious and horrible men in existence. I am not afraid to name
them. They are Lord Richard Eggleston, Viscount Breckenridge, and
Major Sir Edward Connaught. The three of them murdered my husband,
depend upon it."

"Why should they?" I asked. "Who are
they?"

Her fine blue eyes glittered in anger and
defiance. "They are officers of the Forty-Third Light Dragoons.
They murdered an officer called Algernon Spencer at Badajoz and
forced my wretched husband to take the blame for it."

Her words rang with conviction. The Spartan
room echoed with it.

She smiled faintly. "Possibly you think me a
madwoman, Captain. I cannot blame you after my behavior last
night."

"Not mad," I said slowly. "You must have some
reason for believing they killed him."

"No one else would have been wicked enough.
And they feared him. He knew the truth, and who knows what he may
have said in the dock or on the gallows? Safer to have him
dead."

"Do you have proof of this? What I mean is,
did they visit him the day of his death, did anyone see them commit
this act?"

She sighed. "No. Millar and William say he
had no visitors at all that morning, but that must be a
mistake."

"If they were not here," I began.

She glared at me, a fine lady gazing with
scorn upon a disobedient servant. "I know they did this, Captain. I
need no proof."

But a magistrate might, I forbore to point
out. "Please tell me what happened that day--who discovered him,
how you knew he'd been killed."

She was silent a long moment, then her gaze
went remote again. "I found him. I wanted to speak to him. I wanted
to tell him . . ." She paused, and I saw her rearrange her words.
"I had a topic of importance to discuss with him. I wanted to tell
him everything, the entire truth. It was ten; Roe was usually awake
then, and waiting for Millar to bring his breakfast tray. I went to
his bedchamber. He was still in bed; I thought him asleep. But when
I reached his bed, I saw that he was dead."

"I am sorry," I said.

"He looked so peaceful. I thought he had died
in his sleep. And do you know, I was glad." She looked up at me,
her eyes glittering. "Glad for
him
. I thought, now no one
can ever hurt him again. Not me, nor anyone else. And then I . . ."
She paused, spots of color appearing in her cheeks. "I embraced
him. I told him how sorry I was, how stupid I'd been."

I wondered very much about what. "Why did it
occur to you that he'd been murdered?"

She pressed her palms together. "When I
straightened from the bed, I noticed that I had a stain on the
sleeve of my gown. It was not very large, and it looked black. I
knew the gown had been cleaned before my maid dressed me, so I must
have come by the mark recently. I could not get it out of my head
that it must be blood, my husband's blood. So I leaned down and
embraced him again, and then I knew where I'd obtained the
stain.

"I sent for William, my footman. He is a
trusty lad, and I wanted to spare Millar as long as I could.
William was shocked when he saw my husband, of course, but he is
remarkably well trained and resourceful." She smiled a little. "If
ever I asked him to move a pet elephant into my upstairs chamber, I
believe he would only say, 'Yes, my lady,' and fall to it."

I thought of the besotted look in William's
eyes and agreed with her.

"He raised Roe's head," she said. "And I
found it. A small mark on the back of his neck." She touched a spot
just below her own ear. "Someone had stabbed him, Captain. Straight
through the neck and up under the skull."

Such a wound could kill a man outright. I
imagined he'd died quite quickly, and the absence of much blood
bore out that theory.

"What did you do then?" I asked.

"My first instinct was to have William run
for the constable. But something stopped me. I realized that if he
ran out like the house was on fire, the journalists who hung about
waiting for my husband to emerge every day would latch themselves
on to him. They would know everything, and write every word. I just
could not bear for Roe to die in the flame of notoriety. I wanted
his death to be given some respect. So I called Millar and
Montague, my lady's maid, and told them what I wanted to do. They
were as angry as I at his death, and they also hate the newspapers.
They agreed to keep silent how he had died, even from my daughter
and Mr. Allandale, her fiance."

She subsided. Her lips trembled and she
pulled the shawl closer about her.

"And now you have told me," I said.
"Why?"

"Because I need help. Roe died in shame and
disgrace, and he did not deserve that. I want that to change."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked. "Prove
that these three men killed your husband?"

Her eyes held anger and determination. "No.
Prove that they murdered Captain Spencer at Badajoz. Make the world
know my husband had nothing to do with it. And when they die on the
gallows for that murder, they will equally pay for my
husband's."