Marianne had not gone. Just as I entered the piazza, Grenville yanked her out from behind a pillar. I heard him begin, "What the devil?"
I quickly stepped to them. "Do not begin an altercation in front of the theatre, I beg you," I said to Grenville. "It will be all over England by morning if you do. Take Marianne and have things out in my rooms. They are a short walk from here."
Grenville swung to me, his eyes narrowing in anger.
"Marianne has the key. Go, Grenville. You cannot be such a fool as to have a falling-out with your mistress in front of Covent Garden Theatre while Mrs. Bennington plays inside."
Grenville drew himself up, but the sense of my words penetrated his anger. He seized Marianne's hand. "Come along."
She tried to resist. "Go," I told her. "Shout all you want to once you get there. Mrs. Beltan has gone home. The house is quite empty."
Without waiting for them to depart, I turned on my heel and stalked back into the theatre.
By the time I entered the box, Mrs. Bennington had finished her scene and left the stage. The audience was talking loudly, laughing and gesturing, some, I saw to my alarm, at Grenville's box. They completely ignored the new scene and the actors desperately trying to say their lines over the noise.
"How strange," Mr. Bennington drawled as I resumed my seat. "I have never before observed anyone leave a theatre once my wife has taken the stage. And Mr. Grenville, no less. The event will be the talk of the town."
* * * * *
Chapter Eleven
Bennington looked amused, not angry. Basil Stokes boomed, "Yes, what happened? Did the fellow take ill?"
"He was not feeling his best," I said. "I am not certain he will return."
"Ah, well," said a gentleman I'd met at White's. "We must endeavor to endure the finest claret and best seats in the theatre without him."
Several men chuckled.
The play dragged on, a lackluster affair. I found little trouble turning the conversation with Mr. Bennington next to me to the events at the Gillises' ball. "Did you know Mr. Turner well?" I asked him.
"No," Bennington said, rolling his claret glass between long fingers. "I do not have much acquaintance in London, after living so long on the Continent. He was rather a rude fellow, and I had little interest in him."
"Did you see him enter the anteroom that night? Just before he was killed, I mean?"
"Oh, yes. He went in about a quarter to the hour. I told the Runner. The Runner is a friend of yours, I believe. He mentioned you."
"He was one of my sergeants in the army," I said. "So you saw Turner enter, but no one else?"
"Not really paying attention, I am afraid. I know you wish to get your colonel off, and I commend your loyalty, but I would not be surprised if Brandon really did peg the fellow. He was red-faced and angry with Turner the entire night."
I silently cursed Colonel Brandon, as I had many times since this business began, for being so obvious. "Any man might be angry with another, but murder is a bit extreme, do you not think?"
"Not in this case." Bennington took a sip of his claret and assumed a philosophical expression. "Turner was a boor. It was long past time that someone stuck a knife into him. I truly believe that a man should be hung for having appalling manners. They are as criminal in my opinion as a pickpocket. More so. Pickpockets can be pleasant fellows. So charming that you do not realize your handkerchief or purse has been lifted until too late."
"You believe Turner was murdered because he was rude?"
"He ought to have been. I believe our Mr. Turner died because he was obnoxious to a lady. Mrs. Harper, I mean. The colonel defended her. He should not be hanged for that."
As he said his last words, the audience began their cheering and stamping again as Mrs. Bennington returned for her next scene.
Interested, I turned to watch her. As before, she waited until the applause died down, and then she began her speeches.
I could not help but be entranced. Mrs. Bennington was young, with golden hair and a round, pretty face. But her girlish looks belied her voice, which was strong and rich. She spoke her lines with conviction, as if the soul of the person written on the page suddenly filled her. She was still Mrs. Bennington, and yet she flowed into her character at the same time. She had a voice of sublime sweetness and a delivery that made the listener's troubles fade and fall away.
Mr. Bennington poked me with his elbow. "I will procure an introduction if you like."
He was smirking. I knew he needled me, but at the same time, I did want the introduction. "Please," I said.
When Mrs. Bennington finished her scene and left the stage, the magic faded. Apparently, that was to be her last appearance, because the audience began to drift away, uninterested in the rest of the play.
Mr. Bennington rose. "Shall we greet her backstage and tell her how splendid she was?"
I had wanted to stay and become better acquainted with Basil Stokes, but Bennington seemed ready to fly to his wife's side. Before I could say anything, Stokes broke in.
"I hear you are all agog for pugilism, Lacey," he bellowed in my ear. "Come to Gentleman Jackson's tomorrow, and I'll show you some boxing." He grinned and winked.
I accepted. I had, with Grenville, attended Gentleman Jackson's on occasion and had even gone a few practice rounds in my shirtsleeves, but to tell the truth, I could take or leave the sport. However, the prospect of questioning Stokes was not to be missed.
I agreed then let Mr. Bennington escort me out.
"He is so terribly hearty, is he not?" Bennington asked. He had to raise his voice over the other theatregoers who poured out of boxes. "So appallingly English. So John Bull. He is what I went to Italy to escape."
He rolled his eyes, oblivious of the disapproving stares he received from the John Bulls around us.
As we walked, I wondered why, if Bennington had gone to Italy to escape utterly English Englishmen, had he returned?
I followed Bennington down a flight of stairs into the bowels of the theatre, then through a short corridor to the green room. Mrs. Bennington was there, surrounded by flowers and young dandies.
The gentlemen present could have been cast from the same mold as Henry Turner. They wore intricately tied cravats, high-pointed collars, long-tailed frock coats, black trousers or pantaloons, and polished slippers. They varied only in the type of cravat pin they sported--diamond, emerald, gold--and in the color of their hair. Brown, black, golden, or very fair hair was curled and draped in similar fashion from head to head.
I did not miss the flash of annoyance in Mrs. Bennington's eyes as she beheld her husband. She obviously wanted to bask in the attention of these lads who brought her bouquets and kissed her hand. Bennington ruined the mood.
From the twitch of Bennington's lips, he knew precisely what he'd done.
"My dear," he said, drawing out the words as he took her hands. "You were too wonderful this evening. Mr. Grenville was so overset with emotion that he had to flee. He left Captain Lacey behind as his emissary. Captain, may I present my wife, Claire Bennington. Claire, Captain Lacey, a very dear friend of Lucius Grenville."
Mrs. Bennington had been looking at me in a rather vacant fashion, but at the announcement that I was Grenville's friend, her expression changed to one of trepidation.
She had hazel eyes, an indeterminate shade between brown and green. Her lips were full and red, and they parted slightly while she gazed at me. As I bowed over her hand, I realized what Louisa and Lady Aline had meant when they said she was an empty vessel. Except for that flash of trepidation, she seemed a rather vacuous creature.
Her hand was soft and not strong, the flesh yielding to the press of my fingers. Her hair was artificially curled; close to, it looked frizzled from too many times with a crimping iron, the color dulled with dye.
"Greet the good captain, my dear," Mr. Bennington prodded.
Mrs. Bennington jerked, as though she were an automaton needing a push to begin its trick. "How do you do?" s
he said. Her voice, too, was rather breathy, holding none of the quality she'd had on stage. "Grady," she said to an older woman who was tidying the room, seemingly the only person with anything to do. "Bring the captain some port."
"None for your husband, eh?" Bennington said. He gave his wife a deprecating look and strolled away.
Mrs. Bennington had not let go of my hand. Now she pressed it tighter, her nails sinking into my skin. "Captain, I am glad you have come. I must speak with you."
"I am all attentive, madam," I said.
Mrs. Bennington shot a furtive glance at the dandies, who were eyeing me with jealous dislike. "Not here. Later. Alone. In my rooms. Grady will tell you." She released me abruptly as her maid approached with a glass of port carefully balanced on a tray. Grady stopped in front of me, and Mrs. Bennington turned away and seized the arm of the nearest dandy.
The young man gave me a triumphant look and led her off. Grady, who had far less vacant eyes than her mistress, handed me the port. As I drank, she gave me instructions. I was to appear at number 23, Cavendish Square, at half-past three and be admitted to her mistress. I was to come alone, no followers, excepting, if I wanted, a servant.
Grady marched away, leaving me with the port and nothing to do but watch the dandies fall all over Mrs. Bennington. Mr. Bennington joined the throng and made cutting remarks to his wife's face, looking amused when she did not notice.
I realized, listening to him, that Bennington severely disliked his wife. It was clear in his drawling comments, in the looks he shot her when her attention was elsewhere. He viewed her as contemptible, and he despised her.
Why then had he married the woman? He might have stayed on the Continent, happily avoiding hearty Englishmen as long as he liked. But he had married Claire Bennington and then returned to England with her. It was a puzzle among the other puzzles I needed to solve.
I stayed in the room until I could politely take my leave. When I told Mrs. Bennington good night, she shot me a meaningful look that was plain for all to see. Her husband saw it. He gave me a beatific smile and shook my hand.
"I hope I have made your visit to the theatre worthwhile," he said, his teeth gleaming.
I responded with some polite phrase and departed.
As I walked home through the rain, I let the vivid picture of Bennington killing Henry Turner fill my mind. Bennington had made no bones about the fact that he thought Turner had deserved to be murdered. The look Bennington had given me as I'd departed his wife's dressing room had been filled of self-deprecating amusement, but also of anger. He knew bloody well that later I'd be visiting Mrs. Bennington and that he would be expected to keep out of the way.
I longed to tell Bennington that I had no intention of cuckolding him, but I didn't think he'd believe me. I would have refused Mrs. Bennington's invitation altogether, but she intrigued me with the worry in her eyes, and also, she'd been at the Gillises' ball.
As I turned to Russel Street, making my way to Grimpen Lane, a few game girls called to me from the shadows. They laughed when I merely tipped my hat and did not respond.
They knew by now that I treated street girls with kindness and did not turn them over to the watch or to the reformers. But they saw no reason not to capitalize on that kindness.
"Come, now, Captain," one called. "I'll only ask a shilling. No better bargain in London."
"Tuppence," another girl insisted. Her voice was hoarse, her throat raw from coughing. "Only tuppence fer you. 'Cause it wouldn't be work for me."
The girls bantered with me often, but I was never tempted by them. The poor things were always wracked with some illness or other, a few of them with syphilis. It was not simply pity and caution of disease that kept me from them, however. Most of them were younger than my daughter, and all were accomplished thieves. Their flats, as they called the gentlemen who hired them, never paid enough, and the girls saw no reason why they should not lift the handkerchief of anyone passing to sell for an extra bob or two.
A year or so ago, I'd helped one of their number, Black Nancy, by taking her to Louisa Brandon. Louisa, used to taking in strays, had found the girl a place as a maid at an inn near Islington.
I distributed a shilling to each of them and told them to go get themselves warm.
"A fine gentleman yer are," one said. She reached out to stroke my arm, and I backed quickly out of reach. I wanted to keep the contents of my pockets. They laughed, and I tipped my hat again and walked away.
When I entered Grimpen Lane, I half expected to hear the altercation between Marianne and Grenville filling the street. All was quiet, however, even when I opened the door that led up to my rooms.
In the past, the staircase had been painted with a mural of shepherds and shepherdesses frolicking across green fields. Now the paint had mostly faded except for the occasional shepherdess peering out of the gloom. Mrs. Beltan didn't bother painting the staircase because it would be an extra expense, and no one saw it but her boarders.
I climbed the stairs slowly, my knee stiff from the weather. At the top of the stairs, my door, once ivory and gold, now gray, stood ajar.
I eyed it in irritation. If Marianne and Grenville had departed for more comfortable surroundings, they might have at least closed the door and kept out the cold.
I heard a quiet step on the stairs above me. I looked up to see Bartholomew descending from the attics, his tread surprisingly soft for so large a young man. When I opened my mouth to speak, he thrust a finger over his lips, urging me to silence.
I peered through the half-open door and saw Marianne and Grenville close together in the middle of the room. Marianne's arms hung at her sides, but she looked up at Grenville as he cradled her face in his hands. As I watched, he leaned to kiss her.
I shot Bartholomew a surprised glance. He shrugged. I signaled for him to follow me, and he tiptoed down the stairs and past the doorway to me, then we both descended quietly to the street.
"The argument seems to be over," I said.
"I hope so, sir. They shouted for the longest time."
"Well, let us hope they have come to some accordance. Are you hungry?"
"Famished, sir."
I suggested the Rearing Pony, a tavern in Maiden Lane, and Bartholomew readily agreed. We walked through Covent Garden square to Southampton Street and so to Maiden Lane, where we ate beefsteak and drank ale like every good John Bull.
It was there that James Denis found me.
Denis was still a relatively young man, being all of thirty. But his dark blue eyes were cold and held the shrewdness of a born trader or dictator. If Emperor Bonaparte had met James Denis over a negotiating table, Bonaparte would have ceded everything and fled, and considered himself lucky to get away so easily.
I was surprised to see Denis in such a lowly place as a tavern. He kept a wardrobe as costly and fashionable as Grenville's and lived in a fine house in Curzon Street. He did not often venture out to see others; he had others brought to him.
Two burly gentlemen flanked him to the right and left, former pugilists that he employed to keep him safe. He studied me for a moment or two, his eyes as enigmatic as ever, then he gestured to the seat next to me.
"May I?" Denis wasn't asking my permission. He simply said the polite words for benefit of those around us.
"Of course," I said, also for benefit of those around us.
Bartholomew moved off the bench, swiping up his ale as he went. He sauntered across the room, where he smiled at the barmaid, Anne Tolliver, who gave him a large-hearted smile in return.
James Denis seated himself. His men took up places on nearby benches, which magically cleared of patrons. Anne approached with tankards of ale. The lackeys gladly took them, but Denis waved his away. He laid his hat on the table and folded his gloved hands over his walking stick.
"I've come about your Frenchman," he said.
I had assumed so, although, with Denis, one should never assume anything.
"I have not much more to tell you
about him than what I wrote in my message," I said.
He lifted one perfectly groomed brow. "No need for more of a description. I have already found him."
"Truly? I only wrote you of it this morning."
"I heard of the incident before you journeyed to Epsom," he said. "One of my men saw the Frenchman fleeing your rooms. My man followed him across the river, but lost him in Lambeth. That at least gave me a place to begin. We found him tonight, and he is waiting at my house. He is from Paris and answers to the name of Colonel Naveau."
I had never heard of him. But my idea that he'd had a military bearing seemed to be correct.
"You could have written this information to me," I said. "And fixed an appointment for me to meet him."
"I thought you might be anxious to interview him," Denis answered without expression. "I began to call at your rooms, but my man said he'd seen you walking toward Maiden Lane."
And he'd know that I liked to come to the tavern here. I wished I could meet this "man" of his, who watched all my movements and reported them to his master.
"I have an appointment tonight," I said. "As much as I wish to interview Colonel Naveau, I will have to leave it until morning."
"I will accompany you to your appointment."
I wondered why the devil Denis was so anxious for me to see this colonel right away. "It is with a lady," I said.
His eyes flickered in surprise, then slight distaste, as though speaking with a lady should never come between a man and his business. I had never bothered to wonder why there was no Mrs. Denis. James Denis was cold all the way through.
"Very well, then," he said, his expression still neutral. "We will fix an appointment for breakfast tomorrow. Nine o'clock. I will tell Colonel Naveau that he is welcome to spend the night with me."
I was certain that Colonel Naveau would not like that arrangement one bit. I was equally certain that Denis would give him no choice.
I took a casual sip of ale, as though his turning up at one of my haunts did not unnerve me. "You could not tell me, while you are here, who murdered Henry Turner?"
A Body in Berkeley Square Page 14
