I could not have done much, in any case. Divorces were costly and difficult to obtain--only those in the upper classes managed to divorce and even then they could be ostracized by their family and friends. An annulment could be granted only under certain circumstance, such as my wife and I being too closely related or one of us already married to another party--or me being afflicted with Colonel Westin's malady. So I had simply let her go. I was a poor man with no prospects; likely she and my daughter were better off without me.
I could, of course, simply declare her missing and marry again without taking the trouble to search for her. Others did so when wives or husbands traveled to far lands and never came back. After seven years without word, one could presume they had died and marry again without censure.
But I wanted to know.
Of course, my wife could very well no longer be living. Her French lover might have abandoned her long ago, or she might have married another. She might have died in France. My first step was to find her, and decide what to do after that.
I swallowed my pride and approached Grenville for advice.
First, he professed astonishment, because I had not yet told him I had once been married. Once he'd recovered his surprise, he admitted he knew a man of business in Paris who could help me.
As he wrote the letter, he quizzed me. "You are certain you want to pursue this?" He sat at his ornate writing table in the center of a private sitting room, a chamber decorated with mementos from his travels. A scarlet tent hung from one wall, and fascinating gold miniature cats from Egypt occupied a shelf beside whimsically carved ivory animals from the Orient.
"Quite certain," I said.
"I do not mean your marrying Lydia Westin. For that, I can only applaud your taste. I mean delving into the past. I know from experience that sometimes the past is best left buried."
I paced across his silken carpet from Syria, my hands behind my back. "I cannot marry Mrs. Westin under false colors."
"I know that. But it was so very long ago. Who knows what person your wife has become? Or what her life is now? Is it worth raking up what was, for either of you?"
I stopped. "You mean she might have married under false colors herself? I have thought of that. I have also realized that she might no longer be living. But I cannot marry Lydia if I am anything but honest with her. Not discovering the truth might only haunt us later."
Grenville gave me a cynical smile. "Such as the previous Mrs. Lacey turning up on your doorstep threatening suit? Yes, I can understand why you would want to prevent that."
He did not understand in the least. I could not let Lydia marry a lie. Even if my first wife never turned up, I would know the lie, and it would fester. Also, I wanted to finish what had been between myself and my wife, now that I could finally put my hurt behind me.
In addition, I could learn what had become of my daughter. I probed that thought as delicately as I would an abscessed tooth. So long I had debated whether or not to search for my daughter and bring her home. By law, she belonged to me, not her mother. But always I feared that knowledge the investigation would bring. If I learned Gabriella had died, I would know oceans of pain. If she lived, she would not know me.
"You do know," Grenville was saying. He toyed with the end of his pen and did not look at me. "There is a man in London who could find your wife quickly, and what is better, discreetly. With little disturbance to her, I imagine, if you so chose. I would even offer to put up the fee."
I eyed him coldly. "You mean James Denis. Know this, Grenville. I do not want Denis anywhere near my wife or anyone close to me. Imagine what he could do with such knowledge once he had it."
Grenville shrugged, but his mouth tightened. "A thought only. I will write to my man in Paris. But it may take time."
"I understand," I said.
He wrote his letter, and my quest was set in motion.
*** *** ***
Another task I assigned myself was to keep an eye on the Spencer brothers. I visited Pomeroy again and told him of my interview with the Spencers, and asked him also to watch them. If John Spencer were carrying out his revenge, then he would strike again, probably soon. Breckenridge and Westin were dead. Eggleston and Connaught would be next.
Two days later, when I returned to my rooms from a meager dinner at the Gull in Southampton Street, I found young Leland Derwent waiting for me at the bake shop.
I shook his hand with pleasure. I had enjoyed myself at his sumptuous supper, where his family had made me feel welcome and wanted. He had brought with him another young man of his own age, whom he introduced as Gareth Travers. Travers was a clean-looking young man with light brown hair and small brown eyes. This gentleman, however, lacked the unworldly look of the more innocent Leland.
Because they were the same age, I concluded they were school friends. Travers referred to Leland as "Eely," which I assumed was a somewhat dubious play on "Leland."
I hoped we could visit in the bake shop, with Mrs. Beltan's bread and coffee, but Leland said he had some important news to relate and wished to speak privately. He looked about as though he expected conspirators to lurk in the corners of Mrs. Beltan's cheerful and clean-scrubbed shop.
I led the way upstairs. The stairwell was dim and cool, with light filtering through the dirty skylight high above. I heard nothing from Marianne's rooms, which relieved me. I shuddered to imagine Leland encountering her.
I let Leland and his friend into my rooms and opened the windows against the stuffy heat. Leland looked about in awe, his gaze roving from the flaking plaster ceiling to the threadbare carpet. "Did you live in tents in the army, Captain?" he asked.
I limped back to the pair. "Not always. I lived in barracks or inns whenever we stayed put. Usually near the stables."
"So that you could ride out at a moment's notice?"
"So that we could better care for the horses. A cavalryman needs a decent horse beneath him, or he should simply stay in bed."
"With a pretty woman?" Travers said slyly.
"That is preferable," I answered with a straight face.
Leland did not laugh. He nodded, as though he were taking particulars for exams.
"You said you had news?" I asked, trying to steer them back to the reason for their visit. "Are we to move the appointment to meet Sir Edward Connaught?"
Leland jerked his attention back to me. "That is just the trouble, Captain. We will not be meeting with Major Connaught at all. He is dead."
I stopped. "Dead?"
Leland nodded unhappily. "He died in his sleep at his house in Sussex. Quite peacefully, his valet said."
I sat down on the chair behind me. So the killer had already struck again. I had asked Pomeroy to tell me if John Spencer made a move, and I'd heard nothing. I fumed in frustration and regret. "You spoke to the valet?"
Leland shook his head. "That is what the valet said at the inquest. Father had it from the magistrate."
"The inquest was already held? When?"
"Last week. By the time father found out what happened, Major Connaught had already been buried. Father knows the magistrate in that part of Sussex. The magistrate says the valet says Major Connaught was not feeling well one night. He went to bed, and sometime in the night, he died."
Travers looked at me. "The verdict was not murder, if that worries you."
Surprised me, rather. But then Breckenridge's death had been put down to an accident. Connaught might have died naturally, but I was unprepared to believe it. Of the four officers who'd known the truth about the death of Captain Spencer, only one remained alive.
One other man had known, too--Colonel Spinnet--and he had been killed along with Captain Spencer at Badajoz. I rested my head in my hands. If only the dead could speak.
I jumped to my feet before that thought fully formed. The dead could speak. The murderer had forgotten that.
Leland and his friend were staring at me in concern. I snatched up my hat and walking stick. "Come with me," I said.
&n
bsp; They followed me in curiosity. Leland's coach waited nearby in Russel Street, and I commandeered it. Leland did not seem to mind. I directed his coachman to Mount Street and the home of Lord Richard Eggleston.
"Why are we going there?" Leland asked as we rattled toward Mayfair. "Do you think Eggleston will be murdered, like Lord Breckenridge?"
"Anything is possible," I answered, then I kept silent for the rest of the journey.
Lord Richard Eggleston's front hall was narrow and shadowy. Little thought had been given to decoration, and the walnut paneling and heavy-legged furniture of the last century darkened it still further. The butler who answered my knock looked like a shadow himself, thin and drawn and gray-faced.
"I regret to say that his lordship is not at home," he said. "He has gone to the country."
"His doorknocker is here," I said, motioning to the shiny doorknocker on the black painted door. Only when a family left Town did the staff remove the doorknocker to show that the inhabitants were not in residence.
"Her ladyship is still here, sir. But I regret that she is not at home, as well."
Doubtless she was upstairs and still in bed. Not that I wanted to speak to the spoiled child.
"Is Lord Richard in Sussex, by chance?"
The butler's eyebrows climbed. Sussex, they said, as though horrified at such a gaffe. "His lordship's country house is in Oxfordshire."
In the opposite direction. But my elusive murderer had managed with ease to go to Sussex and visit with Major Connaught. He might manage Oxfordshire as easily.
"Excellent," I said. "I will write him there. If he returns, please have him look me up." I thrust a card at the butler, which he took with another disdainful rise of brows.
We retreated, and he closed the door on us. Far above a curtain moved. Another servant looked out, perhaps, or else Lady Richard peered down to see who had knocked. We apparently were not fascinating, because the curtain dropped almost at once.
"May I take charge of your conveyance one more time, Mr. Derwent?" I asked in the act of scrambling aboard.
"Of course." Leland climbed happily in after me. Travers followed, curious but much more contained than the pup-like Leland.
We did not go far, only around the corner to South Audley Street and the house of the late Lord Breckenridge.
This hall was much less shadowy--in fact, anything from the past had been ripped away and the house redone in the utmost modernity. The butler who answered our knock was much younger and looked a bit harried.
He began his "I regret-- " speech, but I pushed a card into his hand.
"If Lady Breckenridge truly is at home, please let her know that Captain Lacey requests a moment of her time."
The butler looked doubtful, but left us in a small, cold, square reception room and reported to his lady. Ten minutes later, we followed the butler upstairs to a sitting room, where Lady Breckenridge awaited us.
She wore mourning, as did Lydia Westin, but her gown showed off her plump bosom and arms, and its long skirt, falling in a graceful line to the floor, clung to her long legs. Otherwise, she looked much the same as she had in Kent--cool blue eyes filled with slight disdain, hair curled and pinned under a lace cap. The only thing missing was the cigarillo.
"Good evening, Captain," she said. "Did you call to convey your further condolences?"
Her gaze flicked to Leland and Mr. Travers. I had worried a bit about bringing the innocent Leland into this woman's presence, but Leland had insisted on not being left behind. He regarded Lady Breckenridge with polite indifference.
I introduced the two young men. Lady Breckenridge looked them over, frowned slightly, and returned her full attention to me.
"I called to inquire about your husband's papers," I said. "Do you still have them?"
"How flattering you are, Captain. My health is quite well, thank you."
I inclined my head. "I beg your pardon, my lady. I am anxious to review his letters or journals, or anything you will let me see. They might help me unravel who murdered him."
Her brows arched. "His horse murdered him."
I knew differently. I had suspected; now I knew. "If his papers no longer exist, then I apologize for my intrusion. But if they do, may I persuade you to let me see them?"
She made a show of considering. Lady Breckenridge owed me nothing, and in Kent, I had insulted her greatly. I probably had not hidden my disgust well when I'd walked in and found her in my bed. Also I had not yet paid her the five guineas she'd claimed she'd won at billiards. I'd written her a vowel for it, and no doubt she'd call in the note soon.
"Very well, Captain," she said at length. "If my husband's private papers are still in the house, they will be in his study. I will have Barnstable escort you."
I nodded my thanks. I doubted she'd gone through his papers herself. She'd seemed singularly uninterested in anything involving the late Lord Breckenridge.
A small smile hovered around her mouth. "While you read them, perhaps Mr.--Derwent, was it? can remain here and speak with me."
I glanced at her sharply. Her smile was all innocence, but her eyes said ha, that's got you, Captain.
I turned to Leland. He managed to look polite, but I sensed the acute disappointment that he would not accompany me. Solving a murder with me far outweighed the young man's desire to speak to widows ten years his senior.
I made my decision and hoped his father would forgive me. "Of course. Mr. Derwent would be happy to keep you company."
Leland bowed and responded politely that yes, he would. A more blatant lie I had not heard in a long while.
Lady Breckenridge rang the bell and the harried butler returned. At her instruction, the man led me and Travers down a flight of stairs and opened the door of a small study that overlooked a minuscule patch of garden.
The butler unlocked the desk. "His lordship kept his papers in here, sir. His man of business has not yet sorted through them."
"We will remove nothing, I promise," I said. My fingers twitched, itching to begin. "Thank you."
I seated myself when he departed, opened the drawers, and began to pull out their contents. I found stacks of letters and documents that had to do with properties and investments, instructions to Breckenridge's staff and stewards, and correspondence with friends and colleagues.
Travers looked at the piles in dismay. "Good lord, are you going to read all that?"
"I hope I do not have to," I said, beginning to sort things.
Travers dragged a chair to the desk, lifted a bound bundle of letters and untied the ribbon. "What are we looking for?"
I gave him a grateful glance. "Anything that mentions the names Eggleston, Connaught, Spinnet, or Westin," I said. "Or Spencer, for that matter." I doubted we'd find anything about the last, but it was worth a try. Travers silently mouthed the names, and bent over the letters.
Lord Breckenridge seemed to have been quite orderly, or at least his secretary had been. Documents were neatly organized into categories, as were his private and business correspondences.
I skimmed through papers, opened letters, read through notes to his man of business or secretary. I'd hoped to find a journal that readily fell open to the entry reading "This evening, we murdered Captain Spencer," but nothing came that easily.
In the end, Travers and I created a dismally small stack of papers that in any way concerned the gentlemen I'd named.
One was a letter from Eggleston, dated late in 1811. "I have oiled the levers as much as I dare," it said. "If Spinnet will not have you as major, Westin will not be brought to bear, I wager. They are close as thieves in the night. I do not believe the toad-eater Westin breathes when Spinnet tells him not to. But I have a few ideas on this, my friend."
He did not elaborate in this or any other letter. Whatever his ideas had been, he'd either kept them to himself or told them to Breckenridge in person.
Another letter documented a large sum of money paid out to Colonel Roehampton Westin of the Forty-Third Light Dragoon
s and a smaller payment to Colonel Spinnet. This had been dated January 1812.
I found a letter from Major Connaught written in June of 1812, on the back of a letter from Breckenridge to him. I read this eagerly. Breckenridge had written: "Badajoz went well, confound you. I should be major. Have you taken a leaf from Spinnet's book? What must I do?"
Connaught's reply had been terse. "Do nothing. The wheels turn. Doing things will be the death of you."
Interesting, if cryptic. "Doing" had been underlined three times.
"Here's something," Travers murmured. He handed me the letter announcing Breckenridge's promotion from captain to major in November 1812.
I contemplated this for some time. It had always struck me as odd that Breckenridge had never risen further in rank than major. Lydia had mentioned that Breckenridge had pestered her husband to be made a colonel, but Westin had resisted. I myself had been a lieutenant for years, then made captain during the Peninsular campaign for some of my actions at Talavera. For a man of my wealth and standing--which was to say, none--that I had risen as far as I had was commendable. Breckenridge, wealthy, connected, and a lord, ought to have been at least a colonel. Wellesley--the Duke of Wellington now--had risen through the ranks from ensign to general by the time he was thirty-three. And yet, from all evidence, Breckenridge, no older than I, had struggled to make even major.
The letter of promotion had been signed by Westin, the regimental colonel. Breckenridge had won his rank of major--after Colonel Spinnet had died.
I sat back, my thoughts spinning. John Spencer viewed the rioting at Badajoz as culminating in the death of his father. But what if we viewed it not as the murder of Captain Spencer, who had come across the melee by chance, but as the murder of Colonel Spinnet, an annoying cog in the wheel who had prevented Breckenridge from advancing in rank?
Eggleston had claimed he'd had ideas. Had one of those ideas been to corner Colonel Spinnet, under cover of battle or the revelry following, and murder him? Had Eggleston seen in the rioting at Badajoz a golden chance to rid his friend of the bothersome Spinnet?
I remembered the confusion at Badajoz, the drunken violence, the fear and horror, the futile attempts to stop it. Who could have said whether a man had been killed by a stray bullet or deliberately murdered by his fellow officers?
A Regimental Murder Page 17
