A Regimental Murder (5 page)

I wondered briefly if she had loved her
husband. Society marriages could be contracted with gain alone in
mind--an heiress married an impoverished lord; a lady of a titled
family married to lend connections to a wealthy nobody. My own
marriage had been made for neither of these reasons, hence the
complete rage of my father.

I shook my head slowly. "What you ask is--
"

She flung back the blanket and got to her
feet. Her maid had dressed her in a dark gray gown, against which
her white skin seemed even paler. She began pacing unsteadily
through the blocks of sunlight that poured through the windows.

"He did not kill that captain, I know it.
Those three spoiled aristocrats did not want an ounce of shame to
touch them, so they forced my husband to confess to something he
did not do. He was willing to go to trial, ready to admit that he'd
killed that officer in Spain rather than let others in his regiment
be disgraced. That was the kind of gentleman he was. But he was
wronged. Utterly wronged."

I thought again of the newspaper accounts,
the stories, and Pomeroy's impartations on the affair. Westin, by
all accounts, had been contrite and apologetic in the face of
Spencer's sons’ accusations. Lydia was now insisting that he had
bowed his head so that the honor of others would not be tarnished,
that his fellow officers would not be stained.

I found it all a bit odd. Would a man truly
give up his life for the honor of others? And were those others so
lacking in honor that they would allow him to do it?

"He was ready to admit to it," I said as
gently as I could. "And he was the ranking officer."

She turned on me in fury. "Those three
gentlemen cared nothing for rank," she snapped. "It was they who
murdered Captain Spencer, you can be certain of it."

"Your husband told you this?"

"No. Nor would he. The honor of the regiment
must be preserved at all costs, even when speaking of it to your
own wife." Her mouth turned down. "But imagine it--three pampered,
inebriated aristocrats let loose on the streets of a conquered
town. They must have been delighted. Then when Captain Spencer
tried to spoil their amusement, they killed him. I know it in my
heart. My husband would have tried to prevent it, but they would
not have listened." Her eyes sparkled, defiant, bitter.

"But Colonel Westin never confided in
you."

She glared at me. I was a toad, waiting to be
stepped on.

I did not tell her that I'd be honored to be
trampled by her elegant foot.

"My husband was a moral man, Captain. Moral
in the real sense of the word, not in the manner in which some
preach morality while beating their servants black and blue with
the other hand! He no more would have shot Captain Spencer than the
Thames would flow backward. He abhorred violence and violent
acts."

I was puzzled. "If he abhorred violence, why
did he purchase a commission in the cavalry?"

One of the most violent professions I could
think of. Cavalry charged, breakneck and reckless, down the throats
of the enemy, chopping apart lines and boiling up dust and chaos
while musket fire rained around them. Light Dragoons technically
were not used to charge lines--that was the job of the heavy
cavalry--but in practice, if any cavalry were at hand, they were
thrown at everything. Some officers led their men so far through
enemy lines that they were too winded to get back and were cut down
one by one. At the beginning of the campaign, I had been just as
reckless, but time had taught me the value of prudence.

Even so, after each battle, I had always been
surprised to find myself still upright and walking.

Lydia Westin would not be cowed. "My husband
was a colonel because his father was a colonel. The honor of the
regiment again. Following in his father's footsteps. Roe was like
that. He would sacrifice his happiness, his peace of
mind--everything--for honor."

"Many do," I said dryly. "We live in
honorable times."

"My husband's honor was true. It was the most
important thing in the world to him."

Her eyes flashed. I could not tell if she had
admired or despised her husband. Both, probably.

"He was prepared to admit to the murder," I
pointed out.

"Oh, yes. How could he stand by and let those
with great names be sullied? They asked it of him. When they heard
that John Spencer was near to discovering the truth, they visited
him. Here. Upstairs in his chamber for hours and hours. They played
upon his sense of honor, knowing he'd agree. And he did it. He was
willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. For them."

"But if he were willing to do so," I pointed
out, "why do you believe they murdered him? Surely they would want
him to go on to be arrested and tried."

"I thought of that." Her brow puckered. "It
is one thing to agree to take the blame for a crime. But another
when one actually stands in the dock. Who knows what he might have
said? Would he have told the truth about what happened to Captain
Spencer? Perhaps he would not have been believed, but then, some
magistrates are quite canny. They might have asked awkward
questions." Her eyes dared me to tell her she was wrong.

I sat silently. Again I was struck by the
incongruity of this woman traveling to the dark bridge in the rain.
She believed her husband's innocence, would fight like a lion to
preserve the honor he'd held so precious. This was a woman who
would glare down her enemies and dare them to stop her.

So would she, in despair, decide to walk to
an unfinished bridge and fling herself from it? Or had she gone for
another purpose? Either action simply did not fit.

"Find these gentlemen," she said. "And make
them admit that they murdered Captain Spencer."

I began to grow exasperated. While I'd
listened, I'd allowed my senses to bathe in her beauty, but her
vehemence was becoming unreasonable. "Not an easy thing to do. And
you cannot tell me for certain that they did kill your husband." I
held up my hand as she drew a breath for angry protest. "Think,
Mrs. Westin. If they did not kill him, and you pursue them, the
true murderer gets away with it."

She stared at me, startled, and I saw she had
not thought of that. "But they must have done it."

I tried another tack. "What time did your
husband go to bed that night? The usual?"

"Yes. Millar undressed him and left him in
bed at half-past eleven, his usual time to retire."

"And no one saw him until ten the next
morning, when you entered his bedchamber, and no visitors came to
the house and were shown up to see him."

"No." She said the word reluctantly.

"But that implies, does it not, that someone
inside the house could have killed him. Such as one of your
servants."

"No!" The cry rang sharply against the
portraits. "They would not. They were devoted to him, and to
me."

Perhaps. But once upon a time, my
acquaintance Lucius Grenville had hired a well-trained, efficient
butler who had come with glowing recommendations from the Duke of
Merton, to whom said butler had been most devoted. The butler had,
three months later, organized a gang of thieves to rob Grenville
blind. This had happened during a huge gathering at New Year's at
his house, which I had happened to attend. Grenville and I had
caught the robbers together, and thus we'd begun our odd
friendship.

"What about this Mr. Allandale, your
daughter's fiance?"

She shook her head, but with less fervor than
she had when defending her servants. "He was not staying in the
house. He hired a house in Mount Street."

A house in Mount Street must be ruinously
expensive, I mused, even now that the Season was over. I wondered
if the good Mr. Allandale had asked to marry the Westin daughter
because of her parents' obvious wealth.

"Did it not occur to you," I said, "that the
newspapers would remark upon the convenient timing of his accident?
Sparing you the disgrace of an arrest, trial, and conviction?
Please do not be offended, but did none of them speculate that it
was your hand that pushed your husband to his death?"

She smiled a fey, feral smile. "William and I
thought of that. We contrived it so that Millar and William claimed
to see him fall when I and Chloe were well out of the house. Chloe
was on her way to Surrey, to her uncle, and I had dressed and gone
out to attend a morning garden party given by Lady Featherstone in
Kensington. Everyone who had not yet scattered to the countryside
was there. They all saw me. While I was gone, William and Millar
arranged my husband's body at the bottom of the stairs and ran for
a constable. They also brought back a doctor, an elderly man. The
wound was tiny and Millar cleaned it so it could barely be seen. No
one else found it."

Clever. No doubt she had chosen a garden
party full of gossips who would all clamor that Mrs. Westin had
been with them when news of her husband's accident was brought to
her. I imagined them describing her emotion, her paling face, her
tear-filled eyes.

I said, "Does Mr. Allandale know the truth?
Would he not ask why you had suddenly sent your daughter away?"

She shook her head. "I explained to him that
Chloe was ill and needed to take the country air. He asked no
questions, and said it was a mercy she had not been here to witness
her father's death."

"This Mr. Allandale seems to be quite
understanding," I remarked. "He stood by you and your family, even
through the scandal of Captain Spencer?" A lesser man might have
cried off, saved himself from being touched by the shame.

"Oh yes, he has stuck by us," Lydia said.
"Like a cocklebur! He is most devoted." The derision in her tone
was unmistakable.

I puzzled on this, but went back to the main
problem. "But you believe that these three gentlemen, or at least
someone hired by them to do the deed, entered your house sometime
in the night and killed your husband."

"I do." She gave me a cold look, then
relented. "I am sorry, Captain. I know it sounds ridiculous. But
equally I know they must be responsible. I ask you--I am begging
you--to help me."

I absently traced my forefinger. "I wonder
that you would trust me. My own colonel was ready to swear that
your husband was drunk enough to have committed the crime at
Badajoz. Why do you believe I do not agree with him?"

She gave me a tight smile. "Because you would
have already said so. And Mrs. Brandon told me that you had helped
a young woman escape from her tormentor earlier this year. And that
you brought a murderer to justice."

I wondered what edited version of the tale
Louisa had imparted. True, I had helped a girl return to her aunt
after she had been used by her purchaser for his amusement, but
Louisa and I were the only two who knew the entire truth of the
matter.

"Mrs. Brandon is too quick to sing my
praises."

Again, the white smile. "She did not praise
you. She claims you are highly exasperating. But that you are
honest, and more interested in truth than in pleasing lies."

I was not certain whether to be flattered or
annoyed.

"Make them tell the truth, Captain," Lydia
Westin said. She caught and held my gaze. "Make them clear my
husband's name and pay for all they have done."

I found myself agreeing. The story stirred my
hazardous curiosity. They had known, Louisa and Lydia between them,
that I could not have refused.

* * * * *

Chapter Four

I asked Lydia leave to speak to her servants.
I hoped that the valet, who had been with Colonel Westin throughout
the war, might be able to impart something about the incident in
Badajoz. Also, I wanted to know what the servants could tell me
about the night of Colonel Westin's death. Lydia might be convinced
of who murdered her husband, but I was not so sanguine. The quicker
I ferreted out the truth, the better.

She agreed to let me ask questions, though
limited me to the three servants already in on the secret. I also
mentioned Grenville. If I were to investigate the gentlemen she'd
named, I would need an introduction to them. Grenville, beloved of
society, whose acquaintance was much sought after, could smooth my
way in that regard.

She was reluctant to let me enlist his help.
I assured her that Grenville could hold his tongue, but I
understood her hesitation. It was one thing to confide in a nobody
like me, yet another to tell your secrets to the gentleman at the
top of society.

At last she conceded, but made me promise to
tell him nothing about the death of her husband beyond what was in
the newspapers. I disliked to lie to him, but I agreed.

I spoke to William, Mrs. Montague, and Millar
in the servants’ hall. I explained that I had agreed to help Mrs.
Westin as much as I could. They eyed me doubtfully, and I did not
blame them their reluctance. She had literally plucked me off the
street and asked for my assistance. I could sell them out to the
journalists as easily as breathing for all they knew.

They answered my questions politely enough,
but the stony light in their eyes told me that they had decided it
their duty to answer me only because their mistress wished it.

I recalled asking similar questions of
servants in a house in Hanover Square not long ago. My experience
here was much different. Those servants had been inefficient,
impudent, and lazy. They had stayed employed only by virtue of the
fact that they would look the other way at their master's
disgusting proclivities. The three facing me now had been hired by
Lydia Westin. Their manners were impeccable, and they spoke
correctly, deferentially, and coolly.

Only the valet, Millar, a Frenchman with a
round face, betrayed emotion. He dabbed at his eyes with a
handkerchief while he spoke, blinking back tears that would not
completely cease. One person in this household, I thought, had
looked upon Colonel Westin with true affection.