A Body in Berkeley Square

by Ashley Gardner

  Brandon had said much the same thing. The devil of it was, Louisa would likely turn to me for comfort were Brandon hanged--at first. Eventually, she would want to put all reminders of the sordid business behind her, including me, no matter how many years of friendship we'd shared.

  I realized that my compulsion to clear Colonel Brandon might have more significance than my trying to discover the truth. Perhaps I believed Brandon innocent because I needed him to be innocent. If I could not save him, I knew that I would lose Louisa's friendship--forever.

  Lady Breckenridge was wrong, however.

  "It is not solace I seek from you," I said. "I would not insult you so."

  "What do you seek, then?" She sounded curious, not offended.

  I touched her cheek with the backs of my fingers. "What you said you sought from me."

  She looked at me for a moment with her dark blue eyes, but she did not pull away from my touch.

  "You put me in a difficult place, you know," she said. "Your heart is already beyond reach. Any victory I have with you must be hollow. If I lose, you lose nothing. If I win, I will never win you completely."

  She stood. "Please go now, Captain. I am attending the theatre tonight, as well as an at-home, where I and the rest of London will talk incessantly of the murder. I need time to prepare myself."

  I rose, surprised to find myself shaking a little. "Donata."

  "Go, Lacey. While I can still cling to the shards of my dignity, please."

  I wanted to admonish her or take her into my arms and prove that she was wrong, but my common sense told me that, at this moment, neither course would be wise.

  I buttoned my coat, took up my walking stick, and crossed the room in silence.

  At the door, I turned back. "You are not completely correct as to where my heart is engaged." I bowed, while she watched me speculatively. "Good afternoon."

  Lady Breckenridge held herself stiffly, watching me go.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Eight

  The next afternoon, Grenville and I journeyed to Epsom to attend the funeral of Henry Turner.

  Grenville drove his phaeton, the weather being fine. His larger traveling coach followed us, bearing our servants and bags southward. The phaeton was light and fast, and we soon drew clear of the metropolis and headed across green downs for Epsom.

  Grenville's persona today was that of horse-mad dandy. He sat upright, his gloved hands competently holding a complex configuration of reins. He occasionally touched his whip to the horses, encouraging them to hold a smart pace. In his black suit, knee-high boots, and fine hat, he was the epitome of the fashionable gentleman. His horses were perfectly matched grays, the phaeton nearly new and shiny black, the wheels and points picked out in gold.

  Grenville navigated us swiftly through other vehicles and over the rutted roads. I held tightly to my hat with one hand and the seat with the other.

  Remembering his motion sickness inside carriages on previous journeys, I remarked, "The movement does not bother you when you drive?"

  "No." Grenville kept his gaze on the horses and the road beyond. "Don't honestly know why. Probably because I must concentrate on something other than my stomach."

  Grenville evidently liked to focus on obtaining the speediest journey possible. I braced my feet on the footboard and concentrated on holding on.

  When I'd mounted the phaeton this afternoon, Grenville's reaction to my bruised face was not as severe as could be, because Bartholomew had already told him the tale. He quizzed me on the particulars, however, as we rode south.

  "Are you certain the Frenchman had connection with the Turner murder?" Grenville asked. "Perhaps he was looking for something else entirely."

  "He had an inordinate interest in Mrs. Harper's letters," I said over the noise of our passage. "Why take them otherwise? No, depend upon it, he has something to do with Mrs. Harper, and probably with Turner."

  We rode silently a few minutes, the rattle of the wheels over the road and the thudding of the horses' hooves making talking impractical.

  "What I most wonder," Grenville said, when he slowed to drive through a village, "is why Marianne was there."

  "She'd come to talk with me," I said. "She happened to get in the way of the Frenchman's fists, which she would not have if she'd run away like a sensible woman."

  "She was hurt?" Grenville gave me a look of alarm. "Bartholomew did not tell me that."

  "She was not much hurt. I made certain. And Marianne gave back as good as she received."

  Grenville rarely grew angry, but he grew angry now. "Why the devil was she there to get in his way at all? If she wanted to speak to you, why not send for you to visit her?"

  "She still feels a bit confined."

  His mouth set. "I have told her she can come and go as she pleases. She can do what the devil she likes. I have ceased trying to hold her."

  "Constrained, I should have said. Your servants would no doubt mention a visit from me to you, possibly telling you what they heard us discuss."

  "Dear God," Grenville shouted at the countryside in general. "The woman will drive me mad. It is my own fault; I remember you warning me against her. I wish I had listened."

  "You wanted to help her. It was kind of you."

  He gave me a sideways glance. "Helping her was not my only reason, and you know it. Well, I suppose I have paid the price for my folly."

  If Grenville had imagined that Marianne would be forever grateful for his charity and fall into his arms, he had certainly read her character wrong.

  I wanted to ask him about Mrs. Bennington, and Marianne's speculations, but we exited the village and picked up speed, and I did not fancy bellowing such questions to him on the road. Time enough for that later.

  I did tell him, when we slowed again near Epsom, about my encounter with Imogene Harper in Turner's rooms and the rest of my investigation until this point.

  I had imagined we'd put up at an inn at Epsom and journey to Turner's father's home for the funeral the next day, but to my surprise, Grenville drove to a red-brick, Tudor-style manor a little outside the town.

  When the phaeton finally rattled to a halt, a groom came out to greet us and hold the horses. Grenville said, "When I wrote to Mr. Turner to express my condolences, he invited me to stay at the house. You are welcome, as well."

  A footman appeared at the front door and led us inside into a narrow, dark-paneled hall lined with doors. At the end of this hall, a staircase, its wood black with age, wound upward to a gallery.

  We did not meet Mr. Turner, but were taken upstairs to bedchambers that were low-ceilinged and dark, though warm and comfortable. The footman brought us hot coffee and hock and left us alone.

  "I've stayed here several times," Grenville said. "Turner does fine house parties for the Derby. They are quite popular, and Turner is a good host."

  I looked out the window across green hills toward the dusty road on which the Derby race was held. I had no doubt that house parties here were filled with gaiety and excitement. Sad that such a place would now have to be the site of so dismal a scene as a young man's funeral.

  Not long later, our host sent for us, and Grenville and I descended to meet Mr. Turner in his study.

  Large windows here overlooked a lush back garden where spring flowers pushed themselves up in the beds. The sun shone hard, rendering it a lovely landscape. On any other occasion, I would have stopped to enjoy the sight.

  Henry Turner's father, Mr. Allen Turner, looked much like his son. His hair was straight and close cropped, but he had the same rather soft features as Henry and had probably been quite handsome in his youth. Mr. Turner was not very tall, standing only about as high as Grenville, and he had to look up at me. He shook my hand politely, showing no resentment of my intrusion.

  "You are the captain who sometimes works with the magistrates, are you not?" he asked.

  I admitted that I was. "My condolences on the loss of your son, sir."

  Turner nodded in a
resigned manner. "It came as a bit of the shock. When your only son dies, it is as if you lived your life for nothing. All this . . ." He gestured to the room, and I took him to mean the entire house and the estate as well. "Henry will not have any of it now. It will go to my second cousin and his son, and that will be the end of it."

  His eyes were sad, but his back was straight, as though Mr. Turner determined to face the future, no matter how bleak it was. I remembered the frustration Brandon sometimes expressed that he had no son to carry on his name and his line, no one to inherit his money and his houses. I personally was happy not to bestow the ruin of the Lacey house in Norfolk on a son, but Brandon and Mr. Turner had much more to lose. An Englishman without a son was almost like a man without an appendage.

  Brandon had been disappointed at Louisa's failed attempts to produce his hoped-for heir, but I believe Turner suffered worse. He'd had a healthy and robust son, who'd been cut down in the prime of his life. No matter what Henry Turner's character had been, he might have lived a long time and produced many children so that his father might see his line stretching to eternity. Now that possibility was gone.

  Mr. Turner placed his hands behind his back. "I've offered a large reward for the conviction of the felon who killed my son. I understand from Grenville that you believe there is doubt that the colonel who's been arrested actually committed the murder."

  "I'm trying to ascertain whether he did, but I am skeptical," I answered. "This might seem a strange question, sir, but could you tell me if there is anyone who could have been angry enough at your son to want him dead?"

  Turner shook his head. "If Henry had been called out and died in a duel, I would understand it. This--the senseless killing--while he sat in a chair, at a society ball of all places, confounds me. No, Captain, I do not know whether he angered anyone in particular. My son had a wide circle of acquaintances, and he was not always the most polite young man, unfortunately. The young seem to find extreme rudeness to be fashionable."

  He glanced once at Grenville, as though debating whether Grenville's famous disdain were to blame for the rudeness of young people today.

  "Did he speak of anyone with particular emphasis?" I asked. "Or did he fear anyone? What I mean is, he must have known the person who killed him. He died without much struggle. The only comfort I can offer you is that he died almost instantly. It took him by surprise. He certainly would not have had time to feel fear or pain."

  Mr. Turner's eyes were moist, but his mouth was tight. "I am afraid that Henry did not speak much to me about his acquaintance. His friends will attend his burial, tomorrow. Perhaps they will know whether Henry was afraid of anyone."

  Mr. Turner excused himself before long, and Grenville tactfully suggested that he and I walk in the garden since it was such a fine day. We strolled along the flower beds, and the head gardener, who looked as morose as his master, pointed out the garden's more unique characteristics. The entire landscape had been laid out by Capability Brown, the brilliant garden designer from a century ago.

  By the time we'd walked to the folly at the end of the grounds and back again, the dinner hour had arrived. Mr. Turner joined us for the meal, although his wife did not appear. Tuner was still quiet and apologized for his lack of conversation, and Grenville and I assured him that we understood.

  It was not until Grenville and I had returned to Grenville's bedchamber to drink brandy alone that I could mention Mrs. Bennington.

  When I ventured surprise that Grenville had told me he would be visiting Marianne when in fact he had gone to see Mrs. Bennington, his dark brows furrowed. "Does it matter?"

  "It mattered a great deal to Marianne."

  "My visit to Mrs. Bennington is my own business, Lacey."

  I knew he resented my intrusion, but I did agree with Marianne on one point. Grenville had far more wealth and power than either of us, and if he chose to use us ill, there was not much we could do to stop him. However, I intended to prevent him from using Marianne ill if I could.

  "I doubt it meant anything to Marianne," Grenville said, trying to sound offhand. "She was simply trying to plague you. I suspect she does not care whether I live or die."

  "Not true. She was quite distressed when you were hurt in Sudbury."

  He scoffed, an inelegant noise.

  I tried another tack. "I remember when you took me to Covent Garden to see Mrs. Bennington perform. You did not sing her praises as everyone else in the theatre seemed to."

  "What are you talking about? I said much that was complimentary."

  "No, you simply did not disagree with what others said. That is a different thing."

  Grenville gave me a tense glance. "Why this sudden interest in my opinion of Mrs. Bennington?"

  "I am merely curious. She was at the Gillises' ball, and afterward, you sought her company. At her house?"

  "Very well, Lacey, if you must know the entire story, no. I fully intended to visit Clarges Street, but as I journeyed home, I happened upon Mrs. Bennington's carriage--it had broken an axle, and she was wild to get home. I let her ride to her house in my carriage, and I stayed with her until she'd calmed down. Then I went home. That is all."

  I drank brandy in silence, while he grew red in the face. He was annoyed, and trying to stifle it.

  "I would like to meet Mrs. Bennington," I said.

  "What the devil for?"

  "If nothing else, to ask her what she observed at the Gillises' ball. If she saw something that would point to solving Turner's murder, I certainly want to hear it."

  "I tried to ask her," Grenville said in a more even tone. "She noticed very little. She believes she saw her husband speak to Turner, but she cannot be certain."

  I pushed my feet closer to the fire. "Who is this Mr. Bennington? Is he known for anything but marrying a famous actress?"

  Grenville seemed to relax. "Bennington is one of those Englishmen who enjoy living most of the time on the Continent. Both she and Bennington are a little vague about how they met, but from what I understand, Bennington saw Claire perform one night in Milan and asked her to marry him the next day."

  "A love match?"

  "No, I do not think so," Grenville said. "The marriage was sudden, but I cannot believe love had anything to do with it. Bennington is sardonic about Claire if he speaks about her at all, and Claire never mentions her husband or even notices when he's in the room with her. I imagine that they came together for mutual convenience."

  "Money?" I asked.

  "That is the usual reason, but who knows? Bennington seems well off. Perhaps she needed money, and he wanted something pretty to look at." Grenville's mouth twisted in distaste. "Although he does not dance attendance on Claire, nor does he seem inclined to be possessive of her."

  "Is it an open marriage, then?"

  "I do not know why you should think so," Grenville began, then he caught himself. "Admittedly, they live almost separate lives. I imagine that they appeared at the Gillises' ball at the same time entirely by accident."

  I had begun to construct a scenario in which Mr. Bennington killed Turner in a fit of jealousy when Turner had made up to his young wife, but at Grenville's answer, I discarded the idea. If they'd married for convenience and lived separate lives, Bennington might simply look the other way at his wife's affairs, and she at his.

  "Did Mrs. Bennington know Henry Turner?" I asked.

  "She says not," Grenville answered. "She has no reason to lie about that."

  "But he was found murdered, and she is an actress. Perhaps her first instinct would be to lie."

  Grenville gave me an unfriendly glance. "I know what you are doing, Lacey. You need a suspect other than Brandon. Do you plan to suspect everyone at the ball?"

  "Every person in that house had the opportunity to murder Henry Turner. Including you."

  "True. I was close to the room when he was found. I could have slipped in and out without anyone noticing. Although most people notice what I do. Some person usually has their eye on me,
which makes things dashed difficult at times. I cannot take a private walk across a remote country meadow without it being reported in full in every London newspaper the next day."

  "The curse of fame," I said.

  "You wonder why I travel to the corners of the earth. Escaping newspapermen is one motive. But you are correct, I could have killed Turner. I had no reason to murder him, however, except that his cravat knot was appalling. But I am reasonable enough to simply look away and swallow when I see such abuse of a cravat."

  He spoke lightly, but I sensed his tension. I also noted that he'd turned the conversation neatly away from discussion of Claire Bennington.

  "Who else would have reason to murder him?" I asked. "Either because of his cravat, or something else?"

  Grenville at last began to show interest. He dropped his dandy persona and went to the writing desk to search for paper and pen and ink.

  "Suppose I make a list of all present at the ball who knew Turner and who might have reason to dislike him?" He began writing, his pen scratching softly. "The most obvious person, of course, is Imogene Harper. She found Turner, she admitted that she searched his pockets for her love letter to Colonel Brandon, and Lady Breckenridge confirms that she saw Mrs. Harper doing so. Turner was apparently blackmailing Mrs. Harper about the letter, which gives her quite a strong motive."

  "Yes, but why kill him in so public a place as a ballroom?"

  Grenville waited, pen poised. "Because she was angry and frightened, and in such a crush, there would be a chance someone else would be accused of the crime. As indeed, happened."

  "Yes," I said. "Who besides Mrs. Harper?"

  "Lady Breckenridge?"

  I raised my brows. "She did not know Turner well."

  "So she says. And she was quite close to the room when Mrs. Harper went in. I remember seeing her standing very near the door. Not speaking to anyone, just looking about."

  "Donata is an unlikely murderess. If a gentleman angered her, she would dress him down, in no uncertain terms, no matter who listened."

  Grenville chuckled. "The lady has a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. I include her only because she was so near the room. And she told you she'd seen Mrs. Harper bend over Turner--Lady Breckenridge might have invented the story to make you more suspicious of Mrs. Harper. However, I admit that such a thing seems unlikely."