Rosemary Stevens (13 page)

“I gave birth to her, yes,” she relented.

The words were spoken calmly, but I could feel a tension growing in the housekeeper. “I see you do not want that fact made public. I shall try to oblige you in the matter.”

“You will have to since you have no proof.”

“Are you saying that you would deny the fact in court?”

“If need be to protect Mrs. Jacombe. I owe her that.”

“Ah, I see. So I am correct in assuming that Mr. Jacombe was Molly’s father.”

“Of course. I have never been with another man.”

I looked at the cold, emotionless woman in front of me. “He kept you here.”

“He kept me here because I threatened to tell his new bride that he was the father of my child. I was desperate. Pregnant servants face living in the streets.”

“I know,” I said, forcing myself to adopt the same tone and economy of words as the housekeeper. “He paid for a couple to raise Molly.”

“That was part of our arrangement.”

“Did you remain lovers?”

“Certainly not. Once I determined what sort of man he was, I ended the affair immediately.”

“Why did you remain in his employ?”

“He paid me well.”

“And you kept this secret all these years. Did you keep up with your daughter’s life?”

“Not really. I knew she was being cared for, and that was all that mattered. I had to cut off any sentimental feelings where she was concerned.”

I wondered then if a mother ever could dissolve all feelings for a daughter. “But then Mr. Jacombe must have stopped paying for the girl’s upkeep.”

Mrs. Hargrove’s mouth tightened. “He used to watch her from a distance. Not out of any fatherly concern, but because he always had a lust for young female flesh. Once he saw she had grown beautiful, he stopped the payments. He said she could fend for herself.”

“That was about a year or so ago, was it not?”

“Yes. There was nothing I could do about it even had I wanted to. Which I did not.”

“I have a slight acquaintance with the girl. She now lives at a shelter for women, the Haven of Hope. Employers have found her too attractive in the past, and she makes herself useful while continuing her education at the shelter.”

This information was met with no apparent interest whatsoever.

“Mrs. Hargrove, were you not angry at Mr. Jacombe for what he did to you?”

“He seduced me, and I fell victim to his words of love. That was my mistake.”

“What of his treatment of Molly? Had he not stopped the payments to the couple raising her, she would still have a home.”

“She is alive and is in good health.”

“But her betrothed may very well end up in the gallows. Do you not care?”

“I cannot afford to care, as I have already intimated to you, Mr. Brummell. If that is all, I have to confer with Cook regarding the evening meal.”

“I have nothing else to ask at this time. I shall keep this conversation between us, since it is obvious you do not want Molly to know you are her mother.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Hargrove rose and exited the room quietly.

I sat motionless. My immediate thoughts were not of Mrs. Hargrove, but of my own father. She reminded me of him in many ways. He had been cold and unemotional as well. Except for when he was taking me to task for some misdemeanour. Then he could be quite fierce in his opinions.

 What, I wondered, could cause a parent to behave thus? Perhaps in the case of Mrs. Hargrove, she had no choice but to sever all ties to her baby. She could not afford to do otherwise, as she had said.

Regarding my own father, I suspected he would forever remain an enigma to me. I would do better to focus on the investigation.

I could easily think of two motives which would drive Mrs. Hargrove to shoot Mr. Jacombe at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. First, if she heard about the impending duel—and there was no doubt in my mind the news had travelled through all classes of Londoners quicker than thought—then she would not want her daughter’s betrothed wounded or possibly killed by the girl’s father. That, in and of itself, would have been motivation to stop Mr. Jacombe.

Secondly, though she denied any sort of bitterness toward Mr. Jacombe, accepting responsibility for her own actions, surely she had not forgiven him for getting her with child.

Then there was the fact that Mr. Jacombe had ceased paying for the girl’s upbringing when Molly had reached sixteen. Though she denied any feeling, Mrs. Hargrove must have had some lingering sense of anger about that. While too many years might have gone by for her to go to Mrs. Jacombe with her sordid story now, perhaps she saw another way to get her revenge.

It would have been simple enough for the efficient housekeeper to slip away to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens and put a period to Mr. Jacombe’s life. That way he could not hurt Molly or any other female again.

This last observation caused my thoughts to abruptly veer in another direction.

Mrs. Hargrove said that Mr. Jacombe had always lusted after young females.

Suddenly Miss Lavender’s expression of shock at Mr. Jacombe’s death, her interest in the investigation, the scene last night at Mr. Jacombe’s grave, all flashed through my mind in rapid succession.

Miss Lavender and Mr. Jacombe.

Oh, no. Let it not be true.

I went to the Haven of Hope first, though I had little reason to think Miss Lavender would be there on a Sunday afternoon. She normally spent the Sabbath with her father in their snug rooms in Fetter Lane.

Perhaps it was the desire not to exchange volleys with Mr. Lavender that caused me to stop by the shelter on the chance Miss Lavender might be there. As I had surmised, though, she was not.

I directed the hackney-coach to take me to Fetter Lane. I had left Ned and Ted and my sedan-chair at home. My plan was to take Miss Lavender to Hyde Park where I might find a quiet place to talk with her privately.

The sun shone and the day was warm. I let down the glass of the coach so that a breeze might come through and freshen the air. I heard the cries of street vendors and directed the coachman to stop the vehicle.

I alighted and purchased a small bunch of violets for Miss Lavender. Once the coach lumbered along again, I looked down at the flowers in my hand and thought of Miss Lavender with her porcelain-like skin and fascinating green eyes.

Part of me did not want to hear what had happened between her and Mr. Jacombe, but the wheels of the coach rolled on, taking me closer to Fetter Lane.

When we stopped in front of Kint’s Chop House, I paid the coachman to wait for me. Around back, a set of steps led to the Lavenders’ rooms. I climbed them, holding the flowers.

At my knock, Mr. Lavender came to the door. He was in his shirtsleeves and his usual corduroy pants tucked into scratched boots. A crumb of what I thought was oatcake rested in his mustache. He held one of his collection of pipes in his hand.

“Good afternoon,” I said cheerfully. “Lovely day, is it not? I thought at once of your daughter. I have come to take Miss Lavender to Hyde Park, if she would care for it.”

Mr. Lavender scowled. “What did I tell you just the other day outside Gunter’s?”

I tilted my head as if to consider the matter. “That you have the wrong man in gaol for the murder of Mr. Jacombe?”

He used the pipe to gesture at me. “I have the right man in gaol and the wrong man on my doorstep.”

“Well, naturally, I did not kill Mr. Jacombe,” I said, taking an unholy glee in confounding the Bow Street man.

“Would that I could pin that on you, more’s the pity. But sure as the sun is shining, Lieutenant Nevill will face the Lord Chief Justice. There’s no doubt in my mind what will happen next.”

“An innocent man will be convicted for a crime while the murderer goes free?”

Mr. Lavender’s brows came together. “A guilty man, the one we have in custody, will be hanged, but you run around amusing yourself trying to prove me wrong in the meantime. Just leave my daughter out of it.”

“Father, is that Mr. Brummell at the door?” Miss Lavender’s voice called. She appeared in the doorway behind her frowning father. She is near-sighted and squinted at me. I wondered why she did not have on the spectacle-glasses I had had made for her. Perhaps she did not have to use them all the time.

Clad in a simple pale blue gown, her dark red hair pinned loosely at the crown of her head, she made me draw in my breath at her beauty.

“Miss Lavender, forgive me for calling without prior agreement, but the day is so fine, I thought you might enjoy a walk in Hyde Park. These are for you, by the way,” I said, handing her the violets around her father’s beefy shoulder.

I could almost see thoughts in his head of snatching the flowers away from her and slamming the door in my face. I smiled at him strictly to annoy him.

“Why, these are pretty, Mr. Brummell. Thank you. I’ll put them in water and get my shawl.”

“Oh, you will not need to cover up, Miss Lavender. The day is quite warm, I assure you,” I called after her.

“Take the shawl if you must go, Lydia,” her father instructed. He did not invite me inside.

Miss Lavender was back in a moment, sans shawl. She kissed her father on his outraged cheek. “I’ll be home in time to fix your supper, Father.”

“Take care, Lydia,” Mr. Lavender advised, glaring at me.

Much to my surprise, we made it into the coach without Mr. Lavender charging after us. Miss Lavender sat on the seat opposite me. As soon as we were under way, she turned the force of her green gaze on me. “I assume you wished to speak to me about Lieutenant Nevill.”

“In part. I confess I simply want to be with you.”

“You didn’t last Thursday at Gunter’s. You left me so you could speak with that brunette.”

“That had to do with the investigation.”

“Faith, you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I expect you to believe what I tell you because I am truthful with you.”

She bit her lip and said nothing.

We travelled in silence to the gates of Hyde Park. I paid the driver, adding a generous tip.

The fashionable hour to be seen in Hyde Park is generally around five in the afternoon in the spring and summer. Though it was only three, the Park was full of people of all classes. Children rolled hoops, ladies walked in the company of gentlemen, couples rode slowly in open carriages, and all around us the Park was green, but dotted with the colours of various flowers.

I took Miss Lavender’s hand and slipped it through my arm, enjoying the feel of her small hand on me. Past the Serpentine River we walked while I chatted to her about the dress or behaviour of various people we saw.

At last I spied a bench nearly hidden by the leaves of a great oak tree.

“Come, let us sit down in the shade,” I said.

She took her hand from my arm. Instantly I missed it.

We sat down on the bench, her skirts touching my leather breeches.

“Do you have news regarding Jacombe’s death?” she asked.

“I have someone whom I think had the motive to kill him.”

She leaned toward me. “Who?”

“Mrs. Hargrove, the housekeeper at the Jacombe house,” I said, looking into her eyes. I did not want to break contact with her gaze. I wanted to see her reaction, to let her know that, while I did not necessarily want to know her secret, that I did indeed know, and I would be strong for her.

“Why would this Mrs. Hargrove want to kill her employer?” she asked, but I could see the answer growing in the back of her mind.

“It could have been one of several reasons. You see, and I say this to you in confidence, Mr. Jacombe got Mrs. Hargrove with child soon after she came into his employ some eighteen years ago.”

Miss Lavender looked away. “I see.”

“She is Molly’s mother.”

Miss Lavender jumped up from the bench.

I rose immediately.

“Molly’s mother?” she said, her hand going to her throat. “Molly’s mother—and then that means that—that—Jacombe is Molly’s father!”

“Yes, though Molly need not ever know.” I reached out and took her hand, which I noticed was trembling. I held it in a firm, but reassuring grip. “Mrs. Hargrove might have murdered Mr. Jacombe, trying to protect Molly’s betrothed. Or, it could have been revenge. Revenge could have eaten away at her and culminated when Jacombe stopped paying the people who were caring for Molly when she was sixteen, leaving her to the streets.”

Miss Lavender looked at me then. “He did not throw Mrs. Hargrove out of the house when she was with child. Did they remain lovers?”

“No. She threatened to expose him to his wife if he made her leave.”

“Oh, he would not have wanted so much as a hint of impropriety to touch his name,” Miss Lavender said with bitterness. “Always the principled man, the honourable man, was Mr. Jacombe.”

“Mrs. Hargrove loathed him. She said that he lusted for young females. I imagine he took advantage of them whenever he could.”

Miss Lavender’s face, more translucent than my finest Sevres porcelain, went entirely white.

Still holding her hand, I eased her back down to the bench, fearing she might faint. I had to get her to tell me what had transpired between them, even though I felt I already knew. I could not help but believe she needed to share the burden with someone for her own sake, if nothing else, just as I was certain she had never done so before.

Her gaze was turned away from me. I knew she was remembering whatever had happened, and I hated Mr. Jacombe. “Tell me, Miss Lavender.”

She turned to me. “Tell you what?”

“Have I not earned your trust in the years we have known one another? Have I ever given you cause to doubt my loyalty to you as my friend?”

“No,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “You are different than any man I’ve ever known other than Father.”

“I shall take that as a compliment. Now listen to me. Out of concern, I followed you last night. I saw you go to Jacombe’s grave.” I pulled yesterday’s handkerchief out and unwrapped the scrap of blue material within.

Her tears flowed freely at the sight of it, down her porcelain cheeks to splash on her dress.