Murder in Grosvenor Square (22 page)

Donata knew quite well my connection to Louisa and our long history. “Yes,” I replied.

“Then I will say good night.” Donata rose on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek in return. “There, now we have shocked the entire
ton
by demonstrating affection. I must put in an appearance at Mrs. Gardiner’s supper ball, or all will say I cannot tear myself away from you, but I will return after that. At Mrs. Gardiner’s we will chatter about Lady Darymple’s coup at persuading Signora Carlotti here, and Grenville’s notable absence.”

She smiled, and I knew I had married the woman best for me. Whenever I fell into the haze of self-pity and doubt, her brutal clarity would pull me back, like a rope stopping a fall from a cliff.

“Thank you,” I said, pressing down on her hands.

The look in her eyes warmed me to the bone. She at last extricated herself from me and moved off to wave dismissively at the ice Mr. Berwick presented to her, and I went home.

There I let Barnstable put me to bed. Bartholomew was not there, and I knew I should wonder about his absence, but I was too tired. He might be with Grenville and his brother, and would come bounding in and proudly present some new snippet of information for me, which I would deal with in the morning.

I was still awake a few hours later when Donata returned, the scent of perfume, smoke, and the night following her. The hour was early for her, but I did not question as she entered my room alone, let her dressing gown fall, and slid into bed next to me.

I became thoroughly unfashionable with my wife then, because I was of course not to take delight in her. She took equal delight in me, and then we drowsed together under the blankets on this chilly spring night.

*

I was still half asleep and quite comfortable when Bartholomew did come home, right into the bedroom, bringing a draft of cold air with him.

Bartholomew and Donata’s abigail were the only ones allowed past our doors after we retired, and they never entered without good reason. Now Bartholomew halted just outside the curtains of my heavy tester bed and said, “Sir,” in agitation.

I reached for a dressing gown and got out of bed, not liking the note in his voice. I twisted my bad leg in the process of standing up, and Bartholomew ended up having to help me.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“Mrs. Brandon. She says for you to come at once.”

My heart squeezed with dread. “Leland?”

Bartholomew shook his head. “Mrs. Brandon said nothing about Mr. Derwent. She said to tell you that Bow Street is there. Someone got into Sir Gideon’s house, and now he’s dead.”

“Who is dead?” I asked in alarm. “Sir Gideon?”

“
No
, sir. I’m telling this all wrong. The man who came into the house is dead. Mrs. Brandon sent the message, but she didn’t write nothing down, and their footman was blithering like a fool. But Mrs. Brandon says
can you come
?”

“Yes, yes. Help me find some clothes.”

Bartholomew got me to my dressing room, and I sat down to put on my trousers while he bustled around shaking out a shirt and waistcoat. “Were you at the Derwents?” I asked as he snatched a frock coat from the wardrobe, his movements shaky.

“No, indeed, with Mr. Grenville,” Bartholomew answered. “When the Derwents’ footman ran to his house. Sorry, sir.”

“I am not unhappy, Bartholomew, just worried. We left you in Seven Dials.”

“You did, sir, but Matthias and me returned to Mr. Grenville’s as ordered. We had to wait for him there a long time.”

“He’s there now?”

“No, sir. He went out again, a bit ago. It was so late, I thought to sleep there and return this morning, knowing this house would already be shut. But then the Derwents’ footman came, and I hurried here and banged on the door until they let me in.”

“I am glad you did.” I pulled on my boots and opened the dressing room door to see Donata climbing out of the bed, her abigail at her side.

“Stay there,” I told Donata sternly.

“No, indeed.” Donata’s lithe body flashed as she took her dressing gown the abigail had retrieved and competently closed herself into it. “If you are rushing into the arms of Bow Street, I am coming with you. Someone must keep you from being arrested again.”

*

We were admitted to the Grosvenor Square house by the Derwents’ very agitated footman. The entire ground floor was alight, servants swarmed up and down the stairs, and foot patrollers from Bow Street walked into and out of the rooms as though they had a right to.

I caught sight of Mrs. Danbury, fully dressed, looking over the railing from a landing near the top of the house. She watched me and Donata come in, but she remained where she was and did not call out. I saw nothing of Lady Derwent and her daughter—I also did not see Louisa, and assumed her with the Derwent ladies.

Bow Street Runners had arrived in the form of both Pomeroy and Spendlove. Pomeroy came at me as I started to enter the drawing room, where I spied Sir Gideon, but it was Donata muffled in her large coat that he focused on.

“Best not, your ladyship,” Pomeroy said. “It’s a right mess.”

“Nonsense,” Donata replied briskly. “Sir Gideon is about to fall down. Let me go to him.” She walked past a frowning Pomeroy and strode to Sir Gideon’s side, catching him as he swayed.

The drawing room’s tranquility had been much disturbed. The room looked forlorn enough without the family in it, the pianoforte shut and quiet, the harp covered, sewing baskets closed. Now books lay everywhere, having been pulled off shelves and scattered about. An urn of flowers on a pedestal had been overturned, spreading broken blossoms and water across the patterns of the ivory and blue oriental carpet. The ivory of the carpet was marred, near the fireplace, with a large pool of blood.

A man lay in the middle of the blood, full length, on his back. Someone had closed his eyes, but his face was frozen in a twist of rage and fear. This gentleman was fully clothed, in an evening suit, and he’d been beaten again and again until he’d died.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I looked down at the man and drew a quick breath. “That’s Mackay.”

He was battered, but I recognized the dark hair, the soft face. A fireplace poker, coated with blood, lay next to him.

Spendlove came to stand next to me as Donata led Sir Gideon into the adjoining chamber, a smaller sitting room. She did not close the door, and I saw her bend over him as he collapsed onto a chair.

“Now why am I not surprised you know the deceased, Captain?” Spendlove asked, both of us peering down at Mackay’s lifeless body.

“I don’t
know
him,” I said. “I met him only once.”

“Did you?” Spendlove switched his gaze to me. “And who is he?”

I looked straight into his eyes, Spendlove ever ready to be suspicious. “I have no idea,” I said. “All I know is his name. Nelson Mackay.”

“Draws a blank with me,” Spendlove said. “Pomeroy?”

Pomeroy, still watching Donata and Sir Gideon, shook his head. “He’s a stranger to me, guv.”

“Tell me how you met him, Captain,” Spendlove said. “Every detail.”

Spendlove liked to gaze upon a man as though he knew all his thoughts and waited for him to blunder. His light blue eyes fixed on me, his red lashes fading into his freckled face.

I decided not to lie … very much. Mackay might have been a witness to the attack on Leland and Gareth—and now he was dead.

“He discovered Mr. Derwent and Mr. Travers in the passage in Seven Dials,” I said. “And he came to find me. Leland asked him to. Mackay arriving at my door in Grimpen Lane was the first time I’d even seen him.”

“Ah,” Spendlove said. “So this Mackay was a great friend of young Mr. Derwent?”

I shook my head. “Leland says no. He is not sure where Mackay came from, though he does not remember much about the night.”

“A well-dressed, soft-handed gent just happened to be wandering about Seven Dials?” Spendlove gave me a long look of disbelief. “How convenient for Mr. Derwent.”

“Not really,” I said, my voice cold. “He is sore hurt and may not recover, and his closest friend is dead. Whether Mr. Mackay was part of that or not, I suppose we’ll never know.” I folded my arms. “Question the ruffians at the Nines, where Leland objected to their fleecing.”

“Bow Street at the Nines?” Pomeroy boomed with a grin. “Off-limits for us. Mr. Forge sees to that, if you know what I mean.”

Spendlove looked pained. “We have been warned off, yes, but if a murder occurred there, Mr. Forge can whistle.”

I directed my next words at Pomeroy. “If you do find that Mr. Forge is responsible, please direct him a good kick with your large boot.”

Pomeroy laughed again. The room seemed to flinch at his boisterousness while a man lay dead not ten feet from him. “I’ll be sure to, sir. But what about who did for this bloke?” He jerked a thumb at Mackay. “The toughs at the Nines had nothing to do with
this
.”

“Servants say the doors and windows were closed and locked for the night,” Spendlove said. “No sign of anyone breaking in. What do you make of that, Captain?”

I studied Mackay on the floor, forlorn, so alone. “Had he come to see Sir Gideon? Or ask about Leland?”

Spendlove shrugged. “Seems to be a mystery. Footman says he never admitted the man. Sir Gideon claims he didn’t know him. So, if no one broke in, but no one came to visit, however did he come to be here?”

The spark in his eyes told me he believed someone in the house was lying. He suspected Sir Gideon, I was certain, who’d found the body and was the only one downstairs.

I did not think Sir Gideon had it in him to commit murder, especially not to so young and fit a man like Mackay. But then, if Mackay had angered him, or Sir Gideon had thought he was defending ones he loved …

I needed to divert Spendlove’s attention from him, but I had no plausible suggestions, wouldn’t until I asked questions of the household myself. They’d be less likely to close ranks against me, a friend of the family, than two hearty Bow Street Runners who made their living on rewards for convictions. I praised the foresight of the Fielding brothers for not paying their Runners per arrest. Half of London would be in the Bow Street nick by now.

Pomeroy rendered his opinion. “Could be this Mr. Mackay slipped in with someone else who was admitted, maybe when the footman’s back was turned. Mrs. Brandon came here tonight. Maybe while the footman was taking Mrs. Brandon’s wraps, Mr. Mackay dashed inside.”

Spendlove did not look convinced. “Damned unobservant footman then. Why should Mrs. Brandon call so late, Captain? Surely she has a husband to go home to.”

His words and knowing look made me bristle. “Mrs. Brandon is a good friend to the family. She called to minister to Lady Derwent and Leland.”

Spendlove’s eyes glinted, seeing he’d found a weak spot in me. “Seems the only ones in the house while Mr. Mackay was being killed were the Derwent family, Mrs. Danbury, and Mrs. Brandon. No break-ins, and most of the servants in their beds. An interesting puzzle.”

“There is nothing to say when Mackay arrived, is there?” I asked, irritated. “He could have come in at any time during the day and hidden somewhere. This is a large house.”

“So I’d noticed. Sir Gideon is a very wealthy man.” Spendlove ran a practiced eye around the room, noting the multitude of books, the silver vases, porcelain figurines, and gilded candelabra, stopping his gaze at the dead man. “Why would he bother to hide in here? So he could rob the place? He doesn’t look the sort. A City clerk or some such. And he brought no large bag to carry off the swag.”

Pomeroy chuckled. “
He’d
never carry off all the silver. Soft gent like that? I’d wager he never lifts anything heavier than his pocket watch. Unless he planned to pass it to a confederate.”

A rustling of skirts and a firm step announced that Donata had returned to the room. “Gentlemen, your loudness and laughter are upsetting Sir Gideon. Please cease it.” She fixed Spendlove with her dark blue gaze, her head at its most haughty angle. “I and his valet are taking him upstairs. Do finish and go as soon as you can. And take Mr. Mackay somewhere,
not
in this house.”

Delivering her commands in a tone that didn’t expect to be disobeyed, her ladyship swept back into the smaller sitting room.

“That is a point,” Pomeroy said to Spendlove. “These people ain’t the criminal classes. Depend upon it, this bloke sneaked in here when someone else was admitted, maybe followed by an accomplice, who crashed him over the head and ran off. Maybe they disputed about what to steal and how to split it up.”

“A neat and simple explanation,” Spendlove said, his skepticism apparent. “Not the right one, but simple enough. Depend upon it, Pomeroy, this household had something to do with it.”

“Maybe so,” Pomeroy said. He tapped the side of his nose. “But Sir Gideon has friends in very high places.”

Spendlove did not like Pomeroy’s insinuation one bit, but he shrugged. I could almost read his thoughts—Spendlove would continue needling everyone in the house until he convinced himself he had enough evidence to arrest Sir Gideon.

“As a point of fact,” Spendlove said, turning to me, “where were
you
tonight, Captain?”

“At a musicale in Upper Brook Street,” I answered readily. “Then to bed.” I let him decide what I’d been doing there.

“Upper Brook Street is just around the corner from here,” Spendlove said. “So is South Audley Street. And where is that tame pugilist who follows you about?”

“At home, I imagine,” I said. “He cannot stay awake all the time.”

But I wondered. Whether culprit or witness, Mackay had known something about the attack on Gareth and Leland. Brewster
could
have followed Mackay here to question him, perhaps threaten him, perhaps started to rough him up if he wouldn’t answer questions. Brewster was a strong man and a bully. He could easily have killed a weaker man like Mackay.

But Brewster was also a professional, I’d come to understand. I doubted he would have left Mackay lying in a pool of blood in the Derwents’ drawing room. He’d have gotten the body out of the house and disposed of and the room cleaned up, erasing all trace that anything had occurred there, and he wouldn’t have let the man bleed all over the rug. Or Brewster would have taken him out of the house altogether before beginning violence. If Brewster had killed Mackay, it would likely have been a long time before anyone discovered he’d died.