Rosemary Stevens (15 page)

“Then I will go to your grandfather myself and make him retract his statement,” I finally said. “Come, Miss Lavender.”

The hour was after six when we left King’s Bench Prison and made our way through the crowded streets to Mr. Nevill’s rooms.

I used my dog’s head walking stick to knock on the door, but there was no reply.

“Mr. Nevill is a known recluse,” I explained to Miss Lavender. “I cannot believe he is out and about at this hour.”

“Perhaps he is sleeping. After all, he’s had a busy day, pointing the finger of guilt at an innocent girl.”

“Mr. Nevill!” I said, raising my voice and knocking again.

There was still no reply.

“Should we wait for him to return?” Miss Lavender asked.

I considered the question, a creeping sense of unease coming over me. “No. I have a feeling something is not right here. Mr. Nevill is old. The strain of today might have been too much for him. I, er, think you might want to turn your back.”

“Turn my back? Whatever for?”

“So that you cannot see me committing the crime of entering a man’s rooms without his permission.”

“Oh,” she said and turned around. “Do hurry.”

I am not an expert at picking locks, though I have had occasion to do so a time or two since turning my hand to criminal investigations. I regret to say that at least five minutes passed before the portal swung open under my touch.

I walked across the threshold and immediately swung back around. “Do not come in here, Miss Lavender.”

The intrepid Miss Lavender walked past me and gasped.

For there, in the centre of the sitting-room floor, was the dead body of Mr. Nevill.

He had been shot through the heart.

“Lydia! What are you doing here? And with Mr. Brummell to make matters worse.” These were Mr. Lavender’s first words when he arrived upon the scene.

I had paid a boy on the street to find a constable, who, in turn, notified Mr. Lavender of this latest murder.

Miss Lavender kept a level head despite the circumstances. I could only admire her strength. She said, “We had to come here after what you told me about Mr. Nevill’s accusations regarding Molly.”

“Did you see who did this?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “When we arrived, no one was about. The door was shut and locked.”

“Really, now? How did you get in then?” Mr. Lavender asked, dreaming, perhaps, of hauling me before the Bow Street magistrate on charges of breaking and entering.

“Er, the door gave way with a bit of pressure,” I dissembled. “Considering Mr. Nevill’s advanced age, we were concerned when he did not answer our knock. I merely fiddled with the door a bit.”

“Shot with his own gun, it looks like,” Mr. Lavender said. “You saw no one?”

“No, Father. Who could have done this? Might it be the same person who killed Mr. Jacombe? That way, you must see that Lieutenant Nevill is not responsible. He cannot have killed Mr. Nevill when he is sitting in King’s Bench Prison. And Mr. Nevill has been shot through the heart in exactly the same method the murderer used to kill Mr. Jacombe.”

Mr. Lavender eyed his daughter sternly. “Now, Lydia, I don’t want to argue with you, but it’s very obvious who did this.”

Miss Lavender’s green eyes rounded. “Who?”

I suddenly knew exactly where Mr. Lavender’s thoughts were headed. And I was right.

“Molly,” Mr. Lavender said.

Miss Lavender was immediately outraged. “Father, you can’t believe that! Besides, she’s been at the shelter all day lying down.”

“Molly is the one who had motive to kill both Mr. Jacombe and Mr. Nevill, actually,” Mr. Lavender mused.

“Father! You are never saying you believe Molly guilty of committing a double murder!” Miss Lavender cried. “She’s not capable of such a thing, I tell you.”

Mr. Lavender looked at his daughter. “It could be that she is. She might have killed Mr. Jacombe because he was going to fight the lieutenant in that duel and because he had insulted her. She’d want Mr. Nevill dead because he had witnessed her with a gun in her possession. And, now that I come to think of it, because with Mr. Nevill out of the way, I’m sure an inheritance will come into the young soldier’s hand. She might have come here to try to reason with the old man, then when she found she couldn’t, she picked up a gun and shot him.”

“That is all well and good,” I said. “But before we condemn a seventeen-year-old girl for all this plotting and murdering, let us go to the Haven of Hope and see if Molly is resting in her bed, shall we?”

“Aye, that is what we’ll do, all right,” Mr. Lavender said.

“Yes, we will. And you will see, Father, that Molly has been at the shelter all day long and could not have shot anyone,” Miss Lavender said.

We rode together in a hackney-coach, the tension thicker than any fog.

“You know, Mr. Lavender, there are other suspects in the case of who killed Mr. Jacombe,” I said, while we rumbled along toward New Street.

“Like who, laddie?”

“What about his wife?”

“That’s possible,” Miss Lavender said, looking at me thoughtfully.

“No it is not possible,” Mr. Lavender replied stubbornly. “She loved the man.”

“That may be true. But I have discovered some unsavoury activities that Mr. Jacombe was involved in.” I reached over in the dim light of the coach and touched Miss Lavender’s hand. I wanted to convey to her that I would not betray her secret, and I wanted to offer her comfort. Fortunately for the safety of my person, Mr. Lavender did not see the action.

“Like what?” Mr. Lavender asked.

I suddenly realised that if I told Mr. Lavender that Mrs. Hargrove had a child by Mr. Jacombe and that child was Molly, I would just give him yet another motive for the girl to have murdered him. Instead, I said, “He tried to set up an expensive mistress, a Mrs. Roucliffe.”

Mr. Lavender glared at me as if I had bats in my attic. “Isn’t that common practice? Wives look the other way, if they even know. From what I’ve gathered about Mrs. Jacombe, she is a naive, innocent sort who wouldn’t even dream her husband would do wrong. No, laddie, it won’t do. Besides, Mrs. Jacombe was at home the night her husband was shot.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Because she told me,” he admitted.

“Did you ask for people to back up her story?”

“No, because we already have the killer,” the Bow Street man said, his voice raising an octave.

“Which one? Molly or the lieutenant?” I replied smoothly.

It was fortunate that at this juncture we arrived at the Haven of Hope. Alighting from the coach, I offered Miss Lavender my hand to assist her down, under her father’s scowling gaze.

We entered the building and at once perceived Lionel and Miss Ashton, Miss Lavender’s assistant, seated in the front sitting-room which served as a classroom. Miss Ashton, a pretty blonde-haired girl, was working with Lionel on his reading. Some of the other girls sat about sewing. Molly was nowhere in sight.

Miss Ashton rose at our entrance and came into the hall.

Mr. Lavender took command. “Miss Ashton, I must ask you a question. Has Molly been at the shelter all day today?”

Miss Ashton looked to each of us, a confused expression on her face. “Why, I expect so.”

“You expect so?” Mr. Lavender said. “I’m afraid I need a more definite answer. Either you know for a certainty that she was here, or you don’t.”

Growing more uncomfortable by the minute, Miss Ashton’s words came out in a rush. “She went to bed earlier in the day, she was so upset over that old Mr. Nevill’s nasty actions. I’ve been busy teaching all afternoon and assume she’s still in bed.”

“What about you, Lionel?” I said. “Can you say for sure that Molly has been upstairs all day?”

The boy shifted his feet. “I can say that I ‘aven’t seen ‘er go out. I been in ‘ere with these silly girls, learning my readin’ so’s I can better myself for when I become a Runner.”

“Bring her downstairs,” Mr. Lavender said with finality.

Miss Ashton hurried to obey.

Miss Lavender turned to her father. “You aren’t going to take that poor girl into custody.”

“I have to, Lydia,” Mr. Lavender said.

I felt powerless. I could see exactly where the Bow Street man’s thoughts were going. Molly could easily have slipped out while Miss Ashton was otherwise occupied, shot Mr. Nevill, and returned without anyone being the wiser.

Molly came downstairs clad in a dress with small flowers printed on it. Her dark curls were disheveled, and she yawned. But when her gaze met Mr. Lavender’s, her brown eyes betrayed her fear.

Mr. Lavender was at his most official. “Molly, have you been upstairs in your room all afternoon?”

“Y-yes, why?”

“Do you have anyone who can bear witness that you’ve not left the Haven of Hope all day?”

“Well, everyone’s likely been busy. It’s not like anyone has been watching over me. Why are you asking these questions?”

“Father, please,” Miss Lavender said.

“Molly, you’ll need to come with me to Bow Street,” Mr. Lavender said.

“Bow Street! Then you think Mr. Nevill is telling the truth? That I had a gun? I never did, I swear it!”

“Mr. Nevill is dead,” Mr. Lavender said bluntly. “He was shot through the heart exactly like Mr. Jacombe.”

“Dear God! And you think I killed two people!” Molly exclaimed. She burst into tears. Miss Lavender quickly put an arm around her.

I turned to the Bow Street man. “Cannot you see this girl is incapable of killing one person, no less two?”

“I am not in the business of judging people by their looks, Mr. Brummell. Come along now, Molly.”

Mr. Lavender led the girl away, but not before his daughter pressed money into his hand with instructions that if Molly were taken to King’s Bench Prison, she was to have a clean, private cell.

The four of us stood miserably after Molly and Mr. Lavender left. Miss Ashton took Lionel into the kitchen to fix some tea. The other girls went upstairs, no doubt to gossip about what had happened. Miss Lavender and I were alone in the classroom.

“What is our next move, Mr. Brummell?” Miss Lavender asked.

“I think we must go to Mrs. Hargrove.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I am thinking that Mrs. Hargrove is someone who would have motive to kill both Mr. Jacombe and Mr. Nevill. Mr. Jacombe is Molly’s father and the one responsible for Molly ending up without a place to live. He denies parentage, stops payments, and then is to fight a duel with the girl’s betrothed.”

“There’s reason enough.”

“Right. Then Mr. Nevill makes himself a target by going to Bow Street and planting the seed that Molly is the killer, not the lieutenant.”

“Would Mrs. Hargrove have heard about that?”

“Oh, yes. Never, ever, underestimate the speed with which gossip travels through London, Miss Lavender. I could proclaim the newest shade of cloth to be unfashionable, and ten minutes later, tailors across Town would be grinding their teeth in frustration.”

“So Mrs. Hargrove could have killed them both.”

“Indeed. What we need to do is find out where Mrs. Hargrove was when Mr. Nevill was shot. Come to think of it, where was she the night Mr. Jacombe was shot? Can she provide an alibi for both herself and Mrs. Jacombe?”

“Let us go tomorrow and find out.”

“Er, I cannot take you, Miss Lavender. Think, now, before you become insulted. What excuse would I give for having you with me?”

“True. It’s not as if I were of the same station in life as you are, so we could pay a call together.”

“Look, I have another idea. The killer has been sending me letters—”

“What!”

“Yes, another arrived today. Perhaps you could go to the back door of the Jacombe house and try to get a sample of Mrs. Hargrove’s handwriting.”

“I could say that I want her signature on a petition of some nature.”

“Excellent. Then we could meet at my house and discuss what we have found out. Say around three?”

“All right,” Miss Lavender said.

“Try not to worry overmuch about Molly,” I said, taking Miss Lavender’s hand. It felt small and warm in mine. Very agreeable.

She looked down at our joined hands, then into my eyes. “I have confidence that together we can find the killer.”

I raised her hand and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. I wondered if she would go out that night and bury another piece of the dress, another piece of her past.

I hoped she would.

Tuesday, I was once again admitted to the Jacombe house and shown to the green-and-ivory sitting-room after requesting to speak with Mrs. Hargrove.

“I thought you would want to know that Molly has been taken into custody by Bow Street,” I said to the housekeeper in a solemn tone.

“I heard. Did she kill Mr. Nevill?”

“I do not believe she did. Do you, Mrs. Hargrove?”

“How should I know?”

“You are her mother.”

“I gave birth to her, nothing more.”

“So you care not whether she is in gaol.”

“I cannot afford to care. I severed that tie long ago.”

“Did you? I wonder. I wonder how a woman could know her daughter is in gaol under suspicion of killing two men—for you know that Mr. Nevill said he saw Molly with a gun that night at Vauxhall—and remain unaffected.”

Mrs. Hargrove’s impassive face was my answer.

“Where were you yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Hargrove?”

“Here at the house, overseeing the servants.”

“The servants will vouch for your words?”

“Of course they will. I employ honest servants.”

Was there nothing I could say that would draw an emotional response from the woman?

“What of the night Mr. Jacombe was killed? Where were you then?”

“Again, I was here at the house.”

“You did not go to Vauxhall?”

“No. Mrs. Jacombe gave the servants the evening off so they could enjoy the gala evening at the Pleasure Gardens, but I remained here.”

“Why?”

“In case Mrs. Jacombe needed anything.”

“And did she?”

“No. I went to bed early with an improving book. She never rang for me. She is a courteous woman and knew I was here alone.”