John snorted. "It was not kindness. Guilt, rather. I wondered why the devil he had chosen to write at all. He was not my father's commanding officer; they were not even in the same regiment. I concluded that he must have been present at my father's death, and had known how utterly wrong it had been."
I watched him pensively. The remorse that moved Colonel Westin to pen the letter fit with what I'd learned of his character so far.
"The letter made me decide to discover just who had actually killed my father," John continued. "I asked questions of officers I knew and then of the soldiers and officers they directed me to. I even advertised in the newspapers. I at last found one man and a woman who had been eyewitnesses." He took another sip of coffee. "The man, an infantry corporal, told me that he had seen my father at Badajoz, running toward a group of officers who had been drunk and shouting. There was much smoke and glare of fire, and he could not see precisely what happened, but he heard a shot and then saw my father fall dead to the ground."
His voice was flat, toneless, as though he had recited this story time and again. "The woman told a similar tale. She saw my father peering through smoke at a group of officers. According to her, he went suddenly still, looked horrified, then began running toward them. Just before he reached the officers, he fell dead. Where the shot had actually come from, neither could say, but they were certain one among the group of officers had fired it."
I wondered what Captain Spencer had seen. I was ready to believe that with Eggleston and Breckenridge, anything was possible.
"I at last pieced together the identities of the officers," John went on in a hard voice. " Westin, Breckenridge, Eggleston, Connaught, and a Colonel Spinnet, although Spinnet died there himself. Colonel Spinnet's journal told me much about the others, most of which I found disgusting. I hired a Bow Street Runner, and began to investigate them."
Kenneth fingered his cup nervously. "I expected them to bring suit against us."
John frowned at him. "They would not have dared. The Runner could not discover much, but then suddenly, Colonel Westin offered to confess. The newspapers took up that sensation, and the other gentlemen faded back into the moldings."
His brother broke in gently. "I was pleased he came forward. He was ready to pay for what he had done."
"Kenneth is too quick to finish the business," John said to me. "The more I learned about the other gentlemen, the more I decided Colonel Westin was unlikely to have pulled the trigger. He may have been about to tell us the entire truth of the matter himself."
I fingered the handle of my cup. "Why do you say that?"
"He made an appointment with us. One he never kept."
I came alert. "Appointment?"
John nodded. "The night before he died. He wrote to me and begged to see us."
"For what purpose?"
Kenneth said, "We will never know. He asked us to meet him at a coffeehouse in Conduit Street at an early hour of the morning. We appeared and waited. He never arrived."
Because he'd likely been dead by then, I thought. Tucked up in his bed waiting for Lydia to find him.
"We assumed he had changed his mind," John continued. "Too cowardly to tell us the truth. And then the next day, we heard he'd fallen to his death. I could not help but think it served him right. If he knew the truth, he ought to have told it at once."
He looked grimly satisfied. His brother sent him an uneasy glance.
"Colonel Westin was an honorable man, by all accounts," I said. "He did not deserve to die."
"Neither did my father," John snapped back.
I had to agree. "I, too, am interested in the truth. And now Breckenridge is dead."
"And can tell no tales?" John asked. He lifted his cup, his dark eyes glittering. "Well, all we need do is wait and see which is the last man standing."
Kenneth shot him another look, worried and nervous.
"I hope it will not come to that," I said. "If you discover anything more, please write to me."
John nodded tersely. Kenneth tried to be pleasant.
After an uncomfortable leave-taking, Grenville and I left the tavern.
"Interesting," Grenville said as we walked up Pall Mall, past shops and booksellers. "I noted that Kenneth Spencer made bloody certain we knew he and his brother had departed Kent before Breckenridge died."
"Yes," I mused. "I wonder if that is the truth. Did you notice them after the match?"
He shook his head. "I was busy watching you get bandaged. I wish I had known who the devil they were then, because I could have kept an eye on them." He looked glum. "I can always send someone back to Astley Close to nose about the village and discover when they did depart, I suppose. Of course this widens the range of suspects, rather than narrows it."
I greeted this fact with relief, because it lessened my worry about Brandon.
Grenville stopped. "What do we do now?"
I considered. "Do find out when the Spencer brothers departed Astley Close. I would be interested to know also if their appointment with Westin was in fact at his house rather than a coffeehouse. He could have let them in himself, unknown to the servants. I can quite imagine John Spencer killing Westin in anger. He does not strike me as the most self-controlled of men."
"I agree with you." We reached a hackney stand, and Grenville shook my hand in parting. "On with the investigation, then. Here is to swift results."
We said good-bye, and I hired the hackney to return me home to prepare for my evening call on Lydia.
I thought over what the Spencers had said, as well as what I'd discovered in Kent as I brushed my dark blue regimentals and asked Mrs. Beltan for a bit of thread to repair a torn silver braid. I fussed more than usual about my appearance, wishing for a fine suit of clothes and hair that lay flat, but at last I left my rooms and took myself back to Grosvenor Street.
To my great disappointment, I found Lydia in the company of her daughter’s fiance, Geoffrey Allandale.
* * * * *
Chapter Fourteen
Allandale greeted me cordially enough, his too-handsome face arranged in polite lines that expressed nothing.
I had been invited to take supper. We sat at the long table in the dining room, the three of us, Lydia at the head, with Allandale and I across from each other, I on her right hand, he on her left.
Lydia wore a dull black mourning gown that covered her bosom and circled her throat with thin, pale lace. Long black sleeves fastened at her slim wrists with onyx buttons. She wore a widow's cap, a small lawn piece that fitted snuggly. Her dark hair peeped from beneath it.
She wore the costume like a uniform, the outward shell of it reflecting nothing of the woman inside. Behind her thick lashes, her eyes smoldered with anger and impatience, whether at me and my lack of news, or at Allandale, or at both of us, I could not tell.
Allandale led the discussion and Lydia let him. He talked of conventional things, like the controversial novel Glenarvon, published that year. In it, Lady Caroline Lamb had satirized most of London society in retaliation for her failed, very public love affair with the poet Byron. Byron, sensibly, Allandale said, remained on the Continent and ignored it. Allandale professed disgust for the book and those who had flocked to buy it, but I noted that he seemed to know many of its details.
I could not contribute much to the conversation because I had not read the book, nor was I likely to. Lydia only ate in silence.
As supper and Allandale's monologue drew to a close, I inquired after Lydia's daughter. She was well, Lydia answered, still in Surrey with her uncle and aunt.
"Better that Chloe remains there for a time," Allandale interposed. "Let the newspapers calm down before she returns. What trash they do print. I have forbidden William to bring them into the house." He shot me a look that said he blamed me for the scurrilous stories.
"She will not return here at all," Lydia said. She broke off a tiny piece of bread and lifted it to her lips. "My husband left this house to me, and I plan to sell it."
Lydia's eyes flickered. She returned her gaze to her food, but not in submission. I had seen her flash of temper at Allandale's impudence. Allandale was overstepping his mark, trying to slide in as man of the house before he'd even married Lydia's daughter. I was pleased to note that, because she'd mentioned selling the house, Colonel Westin must have left it to her outright. I hoped he had left her everything absolutely, as a man with no entail and no son might do. Doubtless she held any money left to her daughter in trust. It would be in Allandale's best interest to ingratiate himself to Lydia, but the fool obviously did not know how to do it.
I carefully clicked my knife to my plate, interrupting them. Allandale shot me a rueful smile.
"Forgive us, Captain, for bringing up family business." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "But as long as we have broached the subject, I do so hope that you will help me persuade my mother-in-law to give up this business about Captain Spencer. It is agitating her greatly."
"My husband did not kill him," Lydia said calmly.
Allandale's tone was all that was pleasant, but I sensed in him the quiet, unthinking stubbornness of a limpet. "It is over and done with, now. No need to worry about it any longer."
"It will be over and done with," Lydia answered. "Once Captain Lacey and I have unraveled the truth."
Allandale shot her a glance. She returned the look, uncowed.
Allandale laid down his knife. "Captain, would you speak to me a moment in the drawing room? Mother-in-law, please excuse us."
Lydia said nothing. I looked a question at her, and she inclined her head slightly. I hoped she trusted that I would oppose him on her behalf, but her gaze told me nothing.
Allandale led me to the next room, which was Lydia's private drawing room. Candles had been lit here. The light brushed the pianoforte and gently touched Lydia's portrait.
Allandale closed the door. His expression held annoyance, but he spoke in the soft, careful voice of a man who suppressed his annoyance because the person he addressed was a fool. "Captain, I truly must take you to task. When I heard that Mrs. Westin had invited you here tonight to discuss Captain Spencer, I was most distressed. I insisted I attend as well, so that I could speak to you." Behind him, Lydia's portrait looked down on him, cold and haughty. "You must cease speaking to her of the incident on the Peninsula. It upsets her. Colonel Westin is dead, and that is that."
He sounded like Kenneth Spencer. "Her husband was accused of murder," I said dryly. "That would certainly be upsetting."
For one instant his affable expression vanished. Beneath it I glimpsed something ugly and hard, a glittering sharpness. It was a flash only, then his fatuous smile returned.
"Even so," he went on, "I do not like what the events of the past month have done to her. I will ask you to please have done discussing it with her." He clasped his hands. "I have asked her to go to her daughter, but she refuses. You can certainly see that such a thing would be better for her."
"On that point, I can concede." When Lydia had lifted her glass, I was alarmed to see how much her too-thin hand had trembled. The country air could only do her good.
"Excellent," Allandale said. "I do appreciate your interest, but really, Captain, this business must stop." He gave a decided nod, as though he expected his word to be final on the subject.
I opened my mouth to tell him that not talking of it did not mean the deed had not been done, but William, Lydia's footman, opened the door on us. "Forgive me, sir."
Allandale swung on him, then quickly rearranged his expression. "Yes, William. What is it?"
"Message for you, sir." The boy advanced across the carpet, a folded paper in his hand.
Allandale took the note, unfolded it, and read the two lines penned there. He blew out his breath. "Devilish nuisance. Forgive me, Captain, but there is business I must take care of. William, please send for the carriage to take Captain Lacey home. I will hire one for my errand."
He shook my hand, his polite mask returning. "Pleased that you should dine with us, Captain."
He crumpled the paper, his brow creasing even as he turned away.
He marched from the room. I followed more slowly. Lydia had not dismissed me, and I certainly would not rush to obey the upstart Mr. Allandale.
I looked in at the dining room, but Lydia had gone. Disappointed, I proceeded downstairs, and reached the ground floor just as Allandale was gathering his hat and gloves from the young footman.
Allandale looked up at me. "Good night, Captain," he said firmly. He went out. The front door closed.
William's expression performed an instant transformation. The deferential footman's mask vanished, his young eyes twinkled, and he almost smiled. He raised his finger to his lips.
On the other side of the door, Allandale tramped away, his footsteps soon lost in the noise of traffic. William turned, nearly quivering with glee. "Please come with me, sir."
He led me back upstairs and to the drawing room I had just vacated. I followed, puzzled, and hopeful.
"Just wait here, sir," William said, then vanished.
I waited for about twenty minutes, pacing the room beneath Lydia's portrait. She gazed down at me, serene, calmly beautiful. She'd had no troubles at the time the picture had been painted--she'd had a young daughter and a husband with a solid and distinguished army career.
I had just decided William had forgotten about me, when, to my delight, and answering my hope, he opened the door again and ushered Lydia inside.
She smiled at me as William closed the door and left us alone. "The cocklebur has become unstuck at last."
I smiled back. "Happy chance that took him away."
She flushed. "It was not chance, truth to tell. I caused that message to be sent. It will take him to Essex, and by the time he discovers the ruse, it will be far too late to reach London again until morning. But I wanted to speak to you, uninterrupted."
My heart quickened. "I forgive you your deception. I, too, find him a constraint to conversation."
She sat in her usual place on the divan. "You mentioned selling this house," I said. "Where will you go after this business is cleared up? That is, if it ever is. I feel devilish ineffectual, I must say."
"You believe in Roe's innocence. That is already a great help."
"I want to do so much more."
Her eyes softened. "You do not know how it feels to have someone on my side, Captain, such a relief to speak openly. I so long to know the truth. The newspapers--what they print is horrible. Those cartoons about you are ludicrous. How can you bear it?"
I smiled. "I thought Mr. Allandale had forbidden newspapers in the house."
She made a derisive noise. "He might have told William to throw them away, but William is loyal to me, not to Mr. Allandale. Yes, I have seen the stories. They do not upset me, they make me quite angry. They have no right to ridicule you."
"I am a convenient target. It will pass." Or else I would break all Billings's teeth.
"They are hashing out the entire Badajoz incident over again." She sighed. "I am so tired of all of this."
I sat forward, wanting to comfort her and not knowing how.
She sent me a wavering smile. "Please, Captain. Tell me what you discovered in Kent."
"Little, I am afraid. I discovered that Lord Richard Eggleston and Lord Breckenridge are vulgar and irritating, but you did not need me to tell you that. And that they were Belemites."
She raised her delicate brows. "Belemites?"
"Officers who manage to be assigned posts nowhere near the fighting. Even if their regiment is heavily involved in battle, they somehow have been assigned to transport prisoners or look into a supply problem."
"My husband was not fond of them," Lydia said. "They liked a pretty uniform, but nothing more. Lord Breckenridge plied Roe for a long time to raise his rank, but fortunately Roe had the resolve
not to let him become a colonel."
"I can believe that. Breckenridge might have served in the Peninsular campaign, but he was not a soldier."
I then gave her the full account of my visit to Astley Close. I omitted the shameful game of cards and my boxing bout with Breckenridge. I did tell her of Brandon's unexpected appearance and Breckenridge's suspicious death. While I spoke, she toyed with a heavy gold and garnet ring on her right forefinger, twisting it round in a distracted way.
"So I really learned nothing," I concluded. "Except that Eggleston and Breckenridge were most put out that I should be investigating them. I have not yet made acquaintance with Connaught, though Grenville is trying to contact him."
"He is much the same as the other two, I am afraid."
I tapped my fingers to the arm of the chair. "I wonder that your husband did not cut his acquaintance with them after the war. They are thoroughly unpleasant, and not men whose company I would have thought your husband would seek."
She opened her hands in a helpless gesture. "I asked him why myself, but he never would tell me. He only said that they had shared the camaraderie of battle, and so they must remain friends. I knew he did not much like them, but he refused to break the connection."
I remembered Lady Breckenridge describing how Lydia had begged her husband to take her home when Breckenridge wanted to play his disgusting card game. "He ought to have spared you."
She shrugged. "It no longer matters."
It mattered to me.
I continued, telling her what I'd learned from the Spencers and from Pomeroy. She listened attentively, the garnet on her ring winking as she twisted the band again.
"What this means," I said carefully, "is that not only could Breckenridge, Eggleston, or Connaught have killed your husband, but the Spencers could have also. And they might have killed Breckenridge as well."
She looked surprised. "But why should they?"
"Because John Spencer longs for revenge against those connected to his father's death. He reeks with it. And Kenneth Spencer worries much about his brother. He might have murdered your husband believing that John would be satisfied once Colonel Westin was dead. He seemed much distressed that John wanted to continue his search for the truth."
A Regimental Murder Page 13
