Rosemary Stevens (22 page)

At any rate, I soon moved into the bedchamber. Here, a curtained bed with a silk valance dominated the smaller room. My attention was caught by a tiny red candleholder with a small votive lit inside. The light rested on a walnut dressing-table beside a tall window, whose draperies had been shut tight.

I crossed the room swiftly and looked down, amazed by what I saw. The top of the dressing-table was a shrine of sorts to Mrs. Venetia Jacombe.

A miniature of her nestled in folds of gold velvet at the place of prominence. A small silver container revealed a lock of brown hair tied with a piece of silken string. A stack of folded papers revealed themselves to be notes from Mrs. Jacombe.

There was nothing of a romantic nature in them, only requests for his attention or thanks for services he had performed for her. A few faded party invitations, and a handkerchief with Mrs. Jacombe’s initials in one corner were among the other items.

Here, surely, was proof of an obsessional love on the physician’s part for Mrs. Jacombe. A man driven by such passion would very likely kill for the object of his affections.

I thought of all the years that Doctor Trusdale had attended Mrs. Jacombe and harboured this affection for her. The duel between Mr. Jacombe and the innocent young soldier must have been the catalyst that drove Doctor Trusdale to finally have the loathsome Mr. Jacombe out of the way.

I could imagine him going to Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens that night and luring Mr. Jacombe behind the Cascade. Perhaps the note Mr. Jacombe received while at supper was one from the physician, purportedly wishing to give disturbing news about Mrs. Jacombe’s health in private. That would explain Mr. Jacombe’s willingness to go to the darkened area alone.

I thought of the letters I had received from the killer, the handwriting a good match for that of Doctor Trusdale. Guilt, stemming from the fact that he had taken an oath to save lives, then had taken one himself, propelled him to write to me.

Yes, it all fit. Doctor Trusdale had killed Mr. Jacombe out of a love for the man’s wife.

And tonight I would force him to confess.

Just to be sure that Doctor Trusdale would be at the Jacombe residence that evening, I left a note wedged in the front door telling him that there was urgent news and to please meet me there.

I returned home to Bruton Street to change clothing for the evening and to meet Miss Lavender. I wish I could report that all was quiet on the Brummell domestic front, but, alas, I cannot.

When I walked in the door, it was to find Andre and Robinson quarrelling with Ned and Ted. Mrs. Ed’s cooking was the topic.

At my entrance, Andre swung toward me. “Monsieur Brummell, have I at any time given you the displeasure?” he asked in his heavy French accent.

“No,” I replied.

“Aha! You see,” he threw in Ned and Ted’s direction. “Monsieur Brummell likes my sauces. This talk of plain, boiled food is sacrilege! From now on, Mrs. Ed cannot come to Andre’s kitchen!”

Ned and Ted immediately jumped to their mother’s defense, prompting Andre to raise his voice again.

“Quiet!” I commanded.

All eyes turned to me.

“I shall not have this disruption in my household. “Andre, you are an excellent chef. Do not change anything of what you are doing. Ned and Ted, your mother’s cooking is fine in its own way, but Andre is right. The kitchen is his domain. Robinson, come upstairs and help me dress for the evening.”

A grumbling of voices continued as I ascended the stairs, but I paid no attention. Upon reaching the door to my bedchamber, the sounds of Mrs. Ed singing offkey—to Winifred, the piglet, no doubt—up in the attics assaulted my ears.

I opened the door to the bedchamber and saw Chakkri lying on the bed. Seeing me, the cat flung one brown velvet paw over his eyes.

“Dash it, not that performance again. What is wrong with you, Chakkri? Is it the piglet? Oh, never mind, I must dress. Robinson, fetch some warm water so I might refresh myself.”

“Yes, sir.”

I walked to the wardrobe. “Let us see, Chakkri. Or no, you do not wish to see, do you? I was about to ask you to help me select an appropriate coat. One to wear to confront a killer, but you remain with one paw covering your eyes.”

I suddenly stopped, gazing blankly at my coats. “What was I about, thinking you would help me? This case has made my wits go begging. Hmmm. I think the gentian-blue will be the thing. As for a waistcoat, I’ll wear the figured white one. Ah, Robinson, there you are. I shall need a shave, as well.”

For the next half hour I prepared for the evening, filling Robinson in on events in the Jacombe murder case, until it was time to create my cravat. That took my full attention and an extra quarter of an hour, because two of the lengths of linen were not starched properly.

“Mrs. Ed does not approve of starch, you know,” Robinson said trying to bait me.

“Enough. I have a murder investigation that might be resolved this evening if all goes as planned. I count on you to see to the domestic aspects of this household, Robinson.”

“Yes, sir. Though I do wish my powers extended to having Mrs. Ed return to Dorset.”

“How is the piglet?”

“Mrs. Ed says there has been no improvement in the rash, though the animal eats as though it were healthy as a horse.”

“Well then, there is nothing to be worried about. Now Robinson, Miss Lavender will be here at any minute.”

Robinson’s lips pursed.

“I want you to show her every courtesy, mind you.”

“When have I ever not done so, sir?”

A knocking on the front door saved me from answering. Making a final adjustment to my cravat, which rose from my white figured waistcoat like a meringue, I followed Robinson down the stairs.

But it was not Miss Lavender who was revealed when Robinson opened the door. Instead, Mrs. Roucliffe, in all the glory of a blood-red evening gown, stood in the portal. Her face was covered in white lead paint, and she had been liberal in the use of rouge on her cheeks and lamp-black on her eyelashes.

Robinson stood at his most contemptuous. “May I help you, madam?”

“Beau, there you are,” she said, perceiving me. She swept past Robinson as if he did not exist, securing a place in Robinson’s black book forever.

“Good evening, Mrs. Roucliffe. This is a surprise. I am afraid you find me on the point of going out.”

“That’s all right. I won’t stay but a minute. Have you heard the news about Angelica—or Arabella, I should say.”

“I do know she killed Mr. Nevill.”

“I believe her only to have been defending herself, but still, to know someone who has killed another. Quite shocking.”

“Indeed.”

“I came to return your handkerchief,” she said, pulling that cleaned article from her reticule. “Now, if only that nasty business with Mr. Jacombe’s murderer would be cleared up. I can’t think for a moment that good-looking young lieutenant had anything to do with it. Though it’s just as well someone did away with nasty Mr. Jacombe. I tried to warn his wife about him, you know, but—”

She was interrupted by the arrival of Miss Lavender, who saw me with Mrs. Roucliffe, the latter lady handing me my handkerchief and leaning toward me and confiding in me in a most personal way.

Devil take it.

Mrs. Roucliffe raised one penciled eyebrow at Miss Lavender. “Who is this, Beau?”

Miss Lavender bristled.

I stood speechless for a moment—was it really proper to introduce Miss Lavender to a member of the demimonde?—then found my tongue.

“This is Miss Lavender,” I said. “Miss Lavender, Mrs. Roucliffe.”

The two women nodded at one another, Mrs. Roucliffe inclining her head merely an inch.

I took control. “Mrs. Roucliffe, I am certain you will excuse me.”

The courtesan straightened her shoulders. “Call on me, Beau. You know I always like to see you in my house.”

She swept out of the hall after making this lethal statement.

Miss Lavender stood like a statue. She wore an emerald-green coloured net material with chenille edging over a light-green silk gown. The sleeves were short and gathered into a narrow, tight band. Her glorious dark-red hair was curled and framed her face.

“Miss Lavender, you look breathtakingly beautiful this evening,” I said.

“Thank you.”

I tried again. “She was only here to return a handkerchief and talk about Arabella. Nothing more.”

“You do not have to explain to me.”

I thought I did. I wanted to continue to hold Miss Lavender’s confidence, and I knew how hard it was for her to have given me her trust. “I feel inclined to explain so that there is no misunderstanding.”

“Very well,” she said and finally smiled.

“Come now, let us see if together we can catch a killer.”

The butler answered the door at the Jacombe house, and informed me Mrs. Jacombe was not receiving. I asked to see Mrs. Hargrove instead.

The efficient housekeeper, dressed neatly in another somber black gown, entered the hall. “I am sorry, Mr. Brummell, but Mrs. Jacombe cannot have visitors. Her condition has worsened, and Doctor Trusdale has had to resort to more laudanum to calm her nerves.”

“Then the physician is with her?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Hargrove,” I continued, “it is imperative that I see not only Mrs. Jacombe, but you and Doctor Trusdale. I have news regarding Mr. Jacombe’s murder and must share it with all of you.”

“It will have to wait. I have my orders,” Mrs. Hargrove insisted in her calm way.

Frustrated, I asked to see Freddie, only realising at the last moment that her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York and Miss Lavender had never met.

We waited in the hall for a few minutes until Freddie, clad in a pale yellow gown, came downstairs.

“George, how delighted I am to see you,” she said and looked inquiringly at Miss Lavender.

“Your Royal Highness, may I present Miss Lydia Lavender?”

Miss Lavender dropped into a deep curtsey.

“You must be John Lavender’s daughter,” Freddie said.

“Yes, your Royal Highness, I am,” Miss Lavender said in surprise.

So much for Miss Lavender of the Lincolnshire Lavenders.

“I am pleased to meet you. George, Mrs. Hargrove tells me you wish to see Lady Venetia. I tell you she is not well.”

“I understand. But this is critical. Can she not be moved into the drawing-room for a short time? I must have everyone gathered together to deliver some news.”

Freddie considered this a moment. “If you feel this strongly about it, I shall see what I can do. You and Miss Lavender can wait here or in the green sitting-room.”

“We shall be fine right here, your Royal Highness. Do try to convince her. The physician, as well.”

“Very well.”

Freddie disappeared up the stairs, and Miss Lavender turned to me. “The Royal Duchess is a beautiful woman.”

“She is, and she does quite a bit of charity work in her county. She has been staying with Mrs. Jacombe since Mr. Jacombe’s death trying to console her on her loss.”

There followed an awkward silence. I supposed that Miss Lavender wondered at my relationship with Freddie. I know she had in previous cases. Or perhaps she was just going over in her mind what would happen if we could not assemble the company. I confess once again that the workings of the female mind are mostly a mystery to me.

Thankfully, Mrs. Hargrove reappeared a few minutes later and said that Mrs. Jacombe had agreed to see us in the blue drawing room.

We followed her up the stairs. My brain worked furiously over the plan I had come up with on the way over. So much was at stake.

We entered the drawing-room, and I introduced Miss Lavender. I did not mention that she was John Lavender’s daughter. The less said on that score, the better.

Mrs. Jacombe was indeed paler than I had ever seen her. She must not have been eating, as her face appeared almost gaunt. Her brown eyes seemed huge in her face, and they were glassy-looking from the laudanum, I surmised. She reclined on the blue-and-silver-striped sofa, the greyhound at her feet.

Freddie sat in the chair closest to her friend.

Doctor Trusdale, who had risen at our entrance, was on the other side of Mrs. Jacombe.

Mrs. Hargrove, knowing that I wished her to remain, had pulled other chairs over so that everyone could be together.

At Mrs. Jacombe’s invitation, we all sat down, and I began. “Mrs. Jacombe, it is kind, indeed, of you to see me and Miss Lavender. I assure you I would not have asked you to come from your bed if it were not important.”

Doctor Trusdale glared at me and hovered near his patient.

“That is all right, Mr. Brummell,” Mrs. Jacombe said in a low, sad voice. “What news have you?”

“First, I thought you would want to know that the killer of Mr. Elsworth Nevill has been apprehended. It turns out his daughter-in-law, Arabella Nevill, shot him during an argument between the two.”

“Oh dear,” she said.

“The good news is that Bow Street has released Molly, Lieutenant Nevill’s betrothed, from prison,” I said, taking in the look on Mrs. Hargrove’s face. She remained as impassive as ever.

“But what of the lieutenant?” Freddie asked. “Have they found out who really killed Mr. Jacombe?”

All eyes were on me. Including the physician’s.

“I am afraid that the person who killed Mr. Jacombe is sitting in this room as we speak,” I said.

Mrs. Jacombe let out a little cry. The doctor handed her a glass of wine.

“Mr. Brummell,” Doctor Trusdale said, “If you have come here to make wild accusations, I shall have to advise Mrs. Jacombe to return to her bed immediately.”

“Why, I have not accused anyone yet, Doctor Trusdale,” I said, raising my right eyebrow. “But I will now. It is time all the secrets came out, would not you say so, Mrs. Hargrove?”

“I do not know what you mean,” the housekeeper said. She looked at Mrs. Jacombe and then back to me. “I agree with Doctor Trusdale that Mrs. Jacombe should not be further upset.”

I fixed my gaze on the housekeeper. “Then in that case, perhaps you would like to confess to pulling the trigger right now and spare her any more pain.”