A Body in Berkeley Square

by Ashley Gardner

  "If it is not where I think it is, then it has been destroyed."

  "You believe Louisa Brandon has it," Lady Breckenridge said with sharp perception. "You believe that she came to retrieve it on her husband's orders. Perhaps she raved over the cakes and demanded the recipe in order to slip down to the ballroom and find the paper."

  "I imagine she truly liked the cakes. Louisa is fond of lemon."

  She gave me a steady gaze. "Mrs. Brandon must love her husband very much."

  "She does."

  Lady Breckenridge laid her hand on my arm and did not speak further.

  We rattled through the streets of London against a breeze that held the promising warmth of spring. Still it was chilly enough that I was grateful for the warm interior of the coach. When we reached Bow Street, I told Lady Breckenridge to stay inside the carriage. The rooms of the magistrate's house were no place for a lady.

  Pomeroy, luckily, was in. I asked him what he had done with the things he took from Turner's coat. For a moment, as he paused in thought, I feared he had rid himself of them, or perhaps sent them to Turner's father.

  "I still have 'em," he said, to my relief. "Upstairs. Was saving them for the trial, in case they could tell us anything about how Mr. Turner got himself stuck."

  He took me to a small room on the second floor and removed a wooden box from a cupboard. Pomeroy emptied the contents onto the table and separated what he said were Henry Turner's belongings. They consisted of a snuffbox, a few silver coins, and the scrap of lace that Mrs. Harper had mentioned.

  I picked up the lace. As I'd suspected, the ends were blunt, not raveled. It had been cut. The lace was stiff, because, I saw when I examined it, strands of real gold had been woven through the silk thread.

  I closed my hand around it. I knew which lady at the ball had worn this lace, because I had seen her in the gown after the ball was over. "May I take this?" I asked Pomeroy.

  "It ain't much use to me," he said. "Mr. Turner didn't pull it off the coat or dress of his killer. It was tucked, nice and safe, inside his waistcoat pocket. Can't imagine what for."

  "Thank you."

  "The trial is in four days, Captain," Pomeroy said. His usually jovial face was grim.

  "I know. But Brandon did not murder Mr. Turner. He is only guilty of misplaced honor."

  "Best you come up with a way to prove it, sir, or the colonel will swing."

  "I am proving it now, Sergeant. Good afternoon."

  I descended through the house and outside to the carriage. "Did you find it?" Lady Breckenridge asked, her eyes animated with interest.

  I climbed in next to her, took her gloved hand, and laid the scrap of lace into it.

  She stared at it. "Good Lord." Her face lost color. "You said this was found in Mr. Turner's pocket? How on earth did it get there?"

  "I hoped that you would tell me," I said. "This lace is from the ball gown you wore to the Gillises' last week, is it not? I remember seeing you in it that night when I arrived at Mrs. Brandon's."

  * * * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lady Breckenridge looked up at me, bewildered. "Yes, this is from my gown. But I never gave this lace to Henry Turner. I confess to be amazed."

  "I would be less surprised if it looked to be torn," I said. "Anyone might have found a bit of lace that had fallen from your gown while you danced. But this was deliberately cut-- "

  "I know," Lady Breckenridge broke in impatiently. "I cut it myself. For Mrs. Bennington."

  It was my turn to be amazed. "Mrs. Bennington?"

  "Yes. We were in a withdrawing room--my maid was helping me into my dancing slippers, and Mrs. Bennington expressed rather gushing admiration for my gown, especially the lace. She asked me for a snippet so she might have her dressmaker find some like it. So I cut a little bit off where it would not show and gave it to her."

  I took the lace back from Lady Breckenridge and laid it on my glove. The innocent scrap glittered with wires of gold against my glove's cheap leather. It was feminine and pretty, yet strong, like Lady Breckenridge herself.

  "This killer is of ruthless and nasty mind," I said. "He does not mind using another man's dagger to do the deed, nor stealing from an innocent woman to assist him. Every clue left behind will point to a different person, each completely removed from the crime. The killer planned this with deftness and care then sat back and laughed while we scrambled about to solve it."

  Lady Breckenridge watched me with intelligent eyes. "What will you do?"

  I thrust the lace into my pocket. "Speak to Mrs. Bennington. I wish to ask her why she wanted a piece of your lace and what she did with it after you gave it to her."

  "She is performing tonight."

  "I will make an appointment to see her after the play. She invited me once before; she might be persuaded to invite me again."

  "She will."

  "You seem confident," I said.

  Lady Breckenridge smiled. "My dear Gabriel, you are handsome, polite, and unattached. She will see you."

  "But penniless," I reminded her.

  "Some ladies do not mind this. Sit in my box tonight, and we will visit her afterward. We are in Russel Street now. Shall I have my coachman set you down here?"

  I agreed, and she ordered her coachman to stop.

  "Until this evening, then," she said as I descended. "And tell your Miss Simmons not to accost you under the piazza." She chuckled as the footman closed the door behind me, and then the carriage pulled away.

  I smiled to myself and tapped my way down Grimpen Lane to my rooms.

  Bartholomew greeted me with hot coffee, and I reflected, as I often did, what a luxury it was to have a valet in training.

  I found a letter from Sir Montague Harris waiting for me. As I read it, I mused that I envied his network of resources. He'd managed to find, through inquiries, a man who'd known Mr. Bennington on the Continent.

  Said gentleman, a solicitor by trade, had moved from Italy to London shortly after Bennington had. Bennington, the man had told Sir Montague, had come to Italy from the north of England. That interested me, because Bennington certainly did not have a north country accent.

  The next statement interested me further. This man who'd known Bennington said that Bennington had been known as Mr. Worth, but at his marriage five years ago had changed his name to his wife's family name, Bennington. Why he'd wanted to, the man did not know, but then, Bennington--or Worth--had always been whimsical.

  Armed with this knowledge, Sir Montague had found the man of business of this Bennington-Worth and visited him.

  Yes, Mr. Worth had spent years in Italy, said the man of business, and arranged to have his name changed on his marriage. Mr. Worth did have a legacy; he'd inherited a fortune about ten years ago when a Scottish gentleman, Mr. Worth's fourth cousin, had died. Mr. Worth drew a large sum--how much, the man of business refused to specify--every quarter, a substantial living.

  The man of business had of course asked Mr. Worth why he wanted to change his name. Mr. Worth had explained that his wife was already so famous, it would avoid confusion if she were to continue to be known as Mrs. Bennington, and her husband as Mr. Bennington. The man of business had been skeptical but had not pursued it further. No, Mr. Worth was not heavily in debt. He paid his bills regularly and so was not hiding from creditors or moneylenders.

  Mr. Worth seemed to have a stellar reputation. And yet, the drawling, sardonic man had married a woman he despised and insisted on taking her name.

  Make of that what you will, Sir Montague had finished his letter. I am certain you will come to some interesting conclusions.

  For some reason, I imagined that Sir Montague had already formed his own conclusions and was waiting for me to catch up. I could see him smiling as he wrote.

  I read the letter again, shook my head, then sat down to pen a note to Mrs. Bennington, asking to see her again that night.

  *** *** ***

  Later, I lounged in Lady Breckenridge's box wit
h Lady Aline and a few other ladies and gentlemen of the ton with whom I'd become nodding acquaintances. Mrs. Bennington had granted me leave to visit her an hour after the performance, at her house in Cavendish Square. Grady would admit me, the note delivered to me in the box said, even if Mrs. Bennington were running late.

  The play seemed to take a long time tonight. As usual, the audience talked to each other while the drama dragged on; they paid attention to the stage only when Mrs. Bennington stepped upon it. She was particularly brilliant tonight, her voice clear and ringing, the character coming to life through her.

  Grenville's box remained dark and unused. I heard people speculate on where Grenville was hiding this evening. I ventured the opinion, when asked, that he'd chosen to have a quiet night at home, but no one believed me. Because I had no idea where he was myself, I could not elaborate.

  After the performance, Lady Breckenridge offered her carriage to take me to Mrs. Bennington's in Cavendish Square. She accompanying me, of course. I accepted. I knew that Lady Breckenridge was as curious as I, and she deserved to hear the explanation of how her lace got into the pocket of Mr. Turner.

  I wanted also to bring Grenville. Something was in the wind between Grenville and Mrs. Bennington, and I did not want to chance that it had nothing to do with Turner's murder. Grenville would not thank me, but in the choice between saving Colonel Brandon and not offending Grenville, I had to choose Colonel Brandon's life.

  Lady Breckenridge acquiesced and told her coachman to drive first to Grosvenor Street. Grenville, however, was not at home. Matthias, who answered the door, informed me that Mr. Grenville again was spending the evening in his house on Clarges Street.

  I spent a few moments wondering whether I should intrude upon Grenville's privacy, then I decided to intrude. I told Lady Breckenridge's coachman to drive us to Clarges Street, and in ten minutes' time, we stopped before the house.

  "I will have to ask you to remain here while I go inside," I said to Lady Breckenridge. "There are reasons."

  She laughed. "My dear Lacey, it would hardly do for a lady of the ton to enter a house in which a gentleman keeps his mistress."

  "You know far too many things for comfort, Donata."

  "Gossip is popular entertainment. After you told me about Grenville's little actress, I put two and two together. There is little I do not know."

  The thought unnerved me a bit. I descended from the carriage into the rain and plied the doorknocker. The haughty maid, Alicia, opened the door and looked me up and down.

  Lucius Grenville employed the best-trained servants in London, even more so than Lady Gillis's elegant horde. Alicia stolidly refused to admit me. I had to talk long and hard to convince her that the matter was of utmost urgency.

  She at last let me in but forbade me to move past the front hall. She sent the footman Dickon upstairs with a message for Grenville, then Alicia hovered nearby, as though not trusting me not to dash up the stairs the instant her back was turned.

  After an appallingly long wait, a door opened above, and I heard Grenville's footsteps on the stairs.

  In the year or so that I'd known Grenville, I had never seen him in dishabille. Even now he was in only relative dishabille. He wore pantaloons and a lawn shirt covered with a silk dressing gown, and his hair was a bit mussed. His expression was wary and not a little annoyed.

  "Lacey," he said in his cool man-about-town voice. "I respect and admire you, but this is hardly the best time for a visit."

  "I realize that," I answered. "But I was on my way to see Mrs. Bennington, and I hoped you would come with me."

  Grenville stopped his descent. "Mrs. Bennington? Why?"

  "Because I believe she is the key to this murder. I thought you might want to be present."

  Grenville came alert, all thoughts of privacy forgotten. "Yes. Yes I do. I must dress. Wait here."

  "Be quick, please. I do not want Mrs. Bennington's dragon of a maid to refuse to admit me because I am late for the appointment."

  Without answering, Grenville turned and dashed back up the stairs. The sound of a door banging followed.

  I waited while the clock ticked steadily in the corner. I wished that Grenville could be the sort of gentleman to simply snatch up a greatcoat and dash out the door, but no. He'd once told me that if he were seen on the streets of London without waistcoat and cravat and the proper footwear, the newspapers would be filled with stories that he'd run mad. Not even to catch a murderer would Grenville take chances with his reputation.

  When the door banged again, I looked up in anticipation, but the voice that sailed down to me was not Grenville's.

  "Lacey, what the devil do you think you're doing?"

  Marianne Simmons, in true dishabille in a loose peignoir, her hair floating free, raced down the stairs to me.

  "Trying to discover a murderer," I said.

  "You came here to snatch him away to visit Mrs. Bennington, of all people! Why, I'd like to know? Let me come with you. I will claw her eyes out."

  "No," I said firmly.

  "Dear God, Lacey, why must you torment me?"

  "I want to question Mrs. Bennington about the murder. I want Grenville there as well."

  "And I suppose you will not tell me why?"

  "No."

  Marianne looked as though she might fly at me on the moment, claws raised, but she stopped, her face taking on a canny expression. "Did Mrs. Bennington do the murder? That would suit me."

  I looked past her at Grenville, who was at last coming down the stairs. He had heard her. "Mrs. Bennington had nothing to do with Turner's death," he said in a sharp voice. "I am accompanying Lacey to prove it."

  Marianne sent him a look of fury, but I saw the hurt in her eyes. She dropped her gaze and turned away before Grenville could spot it. "Alicia," she called to the prim maid. "Come upstairs and dress me. I am going out."

  Grenville's face set. Saying nothing, he strode past Marianne and out of the house.

  So great was Grenville's anger that he'd climbed into the carriage before he realized that the coach belonged to Lady Breckenridge, and that she was waiting inside.

  He flushed. "Good evening, my lady."

  "Mr. Grenville," Lady Breckenridge said. Her eyes glinted with humor.

  Grenville sent me an accusing stare. He was angry, and he was embarrassed, but I could not wait upon the nicety of his feelings.

  As the carriage wound through the streets to Cavendish Square, I showed Grenville the scrap of lace and explained about the servants' passage at the Berkeley Square house and my thoughts about it. As I talked, Grenville's expression changed from frustrated anger to one that was worried and grim.

  "If this is true, Lacey," he began. He broke off, as though unable to complete the thought. "I never believed . . ."

  Grenville trailed off again, closed his mouth, and looked away in uncomfortable silence.

  The Bennington house in Cavendish Square was quiet. We were admitted by a maid I'd not seen before, who curtseyed to us and led us to a reception room to wait. Grenville paced, moody and quiet, while Lady Breckenridge looked about her with interest.

  Mrs. Bennington's maid, Grady, entered the room not long later and sent the three of us a look of disapproval.

  "My lady has decided she is not receiving tonight," Grady said.

  I had feared as much. "I do not wish to disturb her for long." I took the scrap of lace from my pocket. "Please give her this, and tell her Captain Lacey wishes to ask her about it."

  Grady frowned but when she saw what I held out to her, paled. "She will know nothing about that."

  "Take it to her, please."

  Grady pressed her mouth closed. She snatched the lace from my hand and marched swiftly from the room.

  Grenville shot me a dark look. "Lacey, you cannot mean that Claire Bennington committed this crime, can you? I simply will not believe it."

  "I do not know whether she committed it. That is why I want to ask her questions."

  Grenvi
lle paced again, his distress evident. "She could not have killed Turner. She is not strong enough. She's only a girl."

  He seemed inordinately upset, more so than a gentleman with simple concern for a young woman. Before I could speak further, Grady returned. She did not look pleased but said we could go up.

  Grady led us to the sitting room in which Mrs. Bennington had received me on my last visit. This time the salmon-striped sofa and chairs were strewn with gowns, bonnets, and shawls. I was reminded of Turner's rooms when the valet, Hazleton, had emptied the cupboards in preparation for sending Turner's things back to his father.

  Grenville looked at the jumble in surprise. "You are leaving London?"

  Mrs. Bennington flinched and avoided his gaze. "Grady, why did you let Mr. Grenville come here? I wanted only Captain Lacey."

  "I came to help you," Grenville said, anger in his tone.

  "We don't want your help," Grady retorted.

  Mrs. Bennington sank to a chair and put her hand to her forehead. "I have such a headache. I do not want these people. Send them away; I feel unwell."

  "You see?" Grady said to Grenville. "You have upset her again."

  "I have done nothing of the sort. Claire, Captain Lacey has come to ask you about the murder of Henry Turner. I know you had nothing to do with it, and if you answer honestly, I can make him take his questioning elsewhere."

  I stared at Grenville in amazement. His face was red, his gaze uncomfortable.

  Mrs. Bennington's eyes swam with tears. "My head. Grady, I need my draught."

  Grady rushed to the cupboard and pulled out a glass bottle full of dark liquid.

  Lady Breckenridge, who had lifted a silk shawl to admire it, suddenly laughed. "Good heavens, how dramatic we are." She folded the shawl and replaced it on the chair. "We are not on the stage, Mrs. Bennington. Captain Lacey only wishes to know what became of that bit of lace you asked of me."

  "Oh." Mrs. Bennington sat up, looking relieved. "From your ballgown? You ought to have said. I gave it to my husband."