Rosemary Stevens (10 page)

“Is there something wrong?” Miss Lavender asked.

“No, rather there is someone I must speak with,” I told Miss Lavender and Lionel.

Miss Lavender looked over to where Mrs. Roucliffe stood and then back to me.

I could not fathom what the expression on her face meant.

“I shall return in a moment,” I assured her.

I walked over to Mrs. Roucliffe. “I beg your pardon for addressing you without a proper introduction, Mrs. Roucliffe,” I began, knowing she would not care two straws for the proprieties.

She turned and smiled at me. I saw in that smile the charm she held for men. For it lit up her rather plain countenance and made the receiver feel as if she thought him the most special of men.

“But I know who you are, Mr. Brummell, so there is no need to apologise,” she said in a voice with a slight—false—French accent. I wondered what her real name was and where she came from. Probably Yorkshire or some other English town.

“You are very kind, Mrs. Roucliffe. I wonder if I might impose upon that very kindness and beg an interview with you?”

She tilted her head and studied me. “Why, I would be delighted. Come to my house tomorrow at two,” she said, extracting a peach-coloured card from her reticule and handing it to me. I looked down to see her name and a direction on Half Moon Street.

“Thank you, I shall be there,” I told her. I made her a little bow and turned back to the table where I had been sitting with Miss Lavender and Lionel, only to find it empty.

I looked around Gunter’s, but they were gone. I hoped Miss Lavender was not out of temper with me. I could not see why she would be, but, I confess, the ways of females are sometimes foreign to me.

Can you imagine that? But there you are. It is the truth. I am not infallible, you know.

As for Miss Lavender, I had asked her to excuse me for a moment. Very unlike her to simply leave without speaking to me.

Walking out the door into the street, I saw Mr. Lavender standing there waiting for me. Could he have had anything to do with his daughter’s abrupt departure?

“Well, laddie, explain yourself.”

“Explain myself? What can you mean? And what are you doing here? Spying on me? Where did Miss Lavender go?”

The Bow Street investigator remained indignant. “She’s gone back to the Haven of Hope, where she should be. I followed my daughter out of concern, concern I see was well-founded. There you were, exactly like a family eating the ices and smiling at my daughter.”

“She is lovely.”

“I know that! I’ve told you before to stay away from her.”

“I find I cannot.”

“Have you considered the consequences of your actions?” he asked, his voice rising.

“Miss Lavender is quite slim. I doubt partaking of sweets will put her figure in any danger,” I replied, deliberately misunderstanding him.

He pointed a finger at me, a mannerism he employs when he is angry at me. “Don’t play games with me. My daughter is a vulnerable lass. Have you thought that her affections might be engaged? Hard as it is to see why, but nevertheless, have you considered she might hold you in esteem?”

For some reason, I felt a glow at these words. During the length of my acquaintance with Miss Lavender, I had never considered that she might have finer feelings for me. The thought was not unpleasant. Not at all. Although, nor was it proper, I supposed. How could I ever hope to support a wife?

As if he could read my mind, Mr. Lavender looked like a stack of fireworks ready to explode up into the sky. “Keep away from my daughter, I’m warning you, Mr. Brummell.”

“Perhaps I might be distracted by investigating Mr. Jacombe’s murder since Bow Street is not,” I taunted him.

“Go right ahead, laddie. That’s just the sort of pointless thing you would do, when we have the murderer in custody.”

“Surely you do not believe Nevill is the type to commit such a cold-blooded act. He was to fight the man the next morning in an honourable way.”

“That’s exactly why he killed him. He knew he could never best Jacombe in that duel. Instead, he chose the cowardly way out.”

“You are wrong. The cowardly way out would have been to simply not show his face at the appointed time of the duel.”

“And not get his revenge for the slight on his lady and for the alleged cheating at cards? I don’t think so. No, the lieutenant shot Mr. Jacombe, pure and simple.”

“What about the person viewed running from the scene of the crime? What is your explanation for that? Have you tried to find him or her?”

“If there really was such a person, and we only have the lieutenant’s and Molly’s word for it, then likely it was someone who saw a murder take place and was frightened.”

“Or it was the real killer.”

“Ach! There is no sense talking to you. You have a way of twisting things around.”

“Looking for the truth.”

He had turned to go, but swung back to face me at those words. “I have the truth in the Jacombe murder. Go and meddle around if you like to stave off your boredom, but keep away from my daughter while you’re doing it.”

The Bow Street man stomped across the square, leaving me to my thoughts. I turned my steps toward Bruton Street, considering what Lionel had told me about Mr. Jacombe’s involvement with bear-baiting.

It was not just that I considered the practice obscene and another chink in Mr. Jacombe’s armour, it was the fact that Mr. Jacombe had some sort of business partnership with the physician. I was sure it had to be Doctor Trusdale. Tomorrow I would call again at the Jacombes’ house and see if I could speak with the widow. If not, perhaps her physician would be in attendance, and I could question him.

I arrived home to find the house quiet.

Robinson appeared and greeted me. “Good afternoon, sir. Will you be changing for the evening soon?”

“In a few moments. I want to read my letters and invitations. How is everything, or should I ask?”

Robinson’s lips pursed. “Ned and Ted took Mrs. Ed to the greengrocers at Covent Garden. She is going to cook us mutton the way it should be prepared.”

“I shall look forward to it,” I lied.

Robinson handed me a small silver tray containing a stack of folded vellum. And a piece of straw.

I picked up the straw and held it between two fingers. “What is this?”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Robinson said. “Mrs. Ed brought straw into the house for her piglet. I do not know how in the world that piece found its way onto this tray. I shall take it and dispose of it for you, sir.”

Mentally, I heaved a weary sigh. Robinson had reached new heights with his Martyr Act. “I shall be in my bookroom for the next half hour, then we will begin the evening’s Dressing Hour.”

“Very well, sir.”

I poured myself a glass of wine and sat behind my desk. Immediately, Chakkri presented himself. He enjoys sitting on my desk, swishing his tail from side to side and generally creating havoc. His goal seems to be to knock the inkstand to the carpet. I opened an invitation to a merchant’s party and scanned the lines with one hand while stroking Chakkri with the other.

“Well, old boy, it never ceases to amaze me that people I do not even know ask my attendance at their daughter’s coming-out parties. Am I really so powerful? Do they think a nod from me will set their daughter on a course of marrying into the peerage?”

Chakkri muttered something unintelligible. It was almost a snort. I removed my hand from his back and reached for the rest of the mail. I flipped through various other cards of invitation and letters from friends.

Then I came to a letter that made me sit up in my chair and stare at the words on the fine paper. In a carefully printed hand were the following lines:
Find a way to free Lieutenant Nevill. He did not kill Mr. Jacombe. I know because I did.

The words in the message from the killer haunted me throughout an otherwise pleasant—if you did not count all the talk of Mr. Jacombe’s murder—dinner party at Lord Perry’s Grosvenor Square Town house. The very idea that the killer himself knew I was looking into the murder chilled me.

I could not decide whether to show the letter to Mr. Lavender. Would he confiscate it? Scoff at it, saying it was of my own invention?

I judged the latter to be the more likely scenario. Therefore, I would keep it to myself. A plan formed in my mind of trying to get samples of handwriting from the suspects in the case and hope one matched the writing on the letter. The problem was, I only had one real suspect, other than the lieutenant, and that was his grandfather.

Thus far, the old man was the only person I considered who might have the motive and opportunity to put a period to Mr. Jacombe’s life.

Not only did he have the history of that disastrous banking deal, but another thought occurred to me. Perhaps the harsh exteriour Mr. Nevill presented did not run all the way through the man. Perhaps he had been the one to kill Mr. Jacombe, fearing the man would slaughter his grandson in the upcoming duel. Perhaps in his mind, Nevill’s having to spend some time in gaol was a small price to pay for his life.

These thoughts were interrupted when I perceived that Freddie had entered the room on the arm of Victor Tallarico, who was clad in his usual choice of pink waistcoat.

Here was a surprise. I thought Freddie had told me she would not be attending the Perrys this evening. The Italian must have changed her mind. How vexing that he would have that sort of influence over her, do you not agree?

I bowed low to her. “Good evening, your Royal Highness. I am happy you are here. I dared not hope to see you after your words this afternoon.”

“Good evening, George.”

Tallarico flashed me his grin, the one that charms females of any age. “The
bellina duchessa
needed an evening among friends.”

“Your Royal Highness, you know I would have escorted you,” I said, ignoring the Italian.

“George, Victor just persuaded me to join him a short time ago. I did not like to leave Lady Venetia, but Mrs. Hargrove assured me she would take care of her.”

“Mrs. Hargrove reminds me of someone I know,” I mused.

 “I cannot think who,” Freddie said.

Neither could I. “Do you think Mrs. Jacombe would be willing to receive me tomorrow? I would like to question her about her husband.”

“Oh, George, only if you are very careful. She is so fragile, you know.”

“I promise.”

“Then come in the late morning or early afternoon. She is at her best then, before the day grows long and her thoughts become more agitated.”

After agreeing that I would present myself at the Jacombe house no later than one, I was forced to go in with the rest of the party to the dining room.

I frowned when I found out I was seated too far away from Freddie—who was already sitting next to Tallarico—to converse with her. Soon after the uneventful dinner was over, I took my leave.

A quick look-in at White’s, and later at Watier’s, confirmed what I already knew: All of London wanted to see Nevill hanged for the murder of Mr. Jacombe. Not only did they want this to happen, but they were, in fact, growing more and more impatient for it. The words I heard chilled me.

“What’s taking Bow Street so long?”

“They should turn the matter over to the Lord Chief Justice and be done with it.”

“He’ll see that the cowardly soldier meets his end. At the end of a rope!”

All this was the talk in the clubs, repeated in various forms throughout the evening. Bets were even recorded at White’s Club as to the length of time the lieutenant would breathe after the hangman’s noose broke his neck.

How long would it be before the young soldier was tried and convicted and the inevitable sentence carried out? I found myself filled with a sense of urgency to find the author of that note and make him or her held accountable for Mr. Jacombe’s murder so Lieutenant Nevill could be freed.

* * * *

True to my word, I presented myself at the Jacombe house the next day at one. This time, the butler showed me directly upstairs to a darkened sitting room.

On a blue-and-silver-striped sofa, Mrs. Jacombe’s small frame rested. Within easy reach stood a round table of Chippendale’s making, littered with bottles of medicines. Her greyhound lay curled at her feet. Mrs. Jacombe wore a black silk dress with a high neck. Her beauty was marred by dark circles under her eyes and, again, that air of sadness hung over her like a cloud of gloom.

Freddie sat nearby in a blue chair, her lovely features fixed in an expression of concern for her friend. She rose when I entered the room, the skirts of her lavender dress rustling, and performed the introductions.

“Thank you for receiving me, Mrs. Jacombe,” I said, making her a small bow.

“You are most welcome, Mr. Brummell. Frederica speaks highly of you.” She extended a hand to the table, her eyes scanning the bottles of medicine. Finally, she selected one. Removing the stopper from the bottle, she placed three drops of the potion into a glass of wine and began sipping the contents. “I am sorry. Where are my manners? Let me ring for Mrs. Hargrove to bring you some wine. Or would you prefer tea?”

“Wine would be delightful,” I said, sitting in the chair she indicated next to Freddie.

Mrs. Jacombe rang a small bell placed on the table. Mrs. Hargrove entered the room silently. The request for refreshment was put to her, and before the space of two minutes went by, I found a glass in my hand.

I smiled my thanks at Mrs. Hargrove, but she did not return the smile. Instead, her usual unemotional mask was in place. My brain worked trying to remember where I had seen her before, for I could not shake the feeling that I knew her.

We chatted of the weather for a few minutes, then I said, “Mrs. Jacombe, you are fortunate to have such an efficient housekeeper.”

“She is a treasure,” Mrs. Jacombe sighed. “Of course, there was that sorrow long ago. I do not believe Mrs. Hargrove ever quite recovered from it.”

About to open my mouth and question what it was she meant, I was pleased when Freddie did the asking for me. “What was that, Lady Venetia?”

“A terrible thing, really, but Mr. Jacombe handled it all so well.” Mrs. Jacombe took another sip of her medicated wine. Then, “A child. Mrs. Hargrove found herself with child not long after we employed her. I thought certainly we must dismiss her, but Mr. Jacombe insisted we should not. Naturally, after the baby was born, arrangements were made for it to be taken care of by a couple, and Mrs. Hargrove resumed her duties.”