The Tainted Snuff Box

by Rosemary Stevens

The viscount sighed deeply and pondered the statement. “You know, I’ve given the matter a bit of thought.”

  “I hope the effort was not too much for you,” Mr. Lavender said.

  “Not at all,” Petersham waved a hand. “Brummell here told me that everyone would think the snuff was poisoned, but I thought the notion nonsensical.”

  Mr. Lavender pinned me with a glare I thought might blind me. Though in all fairness, I must say the Bow Street man would likely settle for turning me into a mute. That way, I could not meddle in his investigations . . . or his daughter’s life.

  Petersham went on: “But, you know, I trust Pitcairn as a good doctor, so I suppose I’ve got to accept that poison was in the snuff. I just can’t figure how it got there. Or why anyone would want to besmirch snuff that way.”

  “The person who did so wanted to kill the Prince,” I reminded him.

  “That’s ridiculous. Who would want to hurt his Royal Highness?” Petersham asked. “Weren’t any Frenchies about.”

  The Prince grasped chunks of the bedclothes in his fists.

  Mr. Lavender calmly lifted a slim box from his pocket. Made of ivory, with a small turquoise in the center, it contains toothpicks. I know because I gave it to him. Mr. Lavender once saved my life. The Scotsman selected a toothpick and popped it in his mouth.

  I did my best not to cringe at this ungentlemanly habit.

  Petersham observed the box and cried, “Say, that’s a nice little box for a Bow Street man.”

  I tensed. Would Mr. Lavender force me to explain why I had given him the gift?

  The Prince leaned forward to get a better look, but after only the briefest of glances in my direction, Mr. Lavender pocketed the box and said, “Catching criminals can be lucrative. Now, my lord, let me pose a question to you. You say you can’t think of who would put poison in the snuff. How do you think it got there then?”

  Petersham shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Mr. Lavender removed the toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at Petersham. “You are telling me, my lord, that you don’t know the content of your own snuff?”

  “Of course I know what’s in my snuff,” Petersham stated, much offended.

  “Then you must have known it had poison in it,” Mr. Lavender said flatly.

  “Well, I didn’t,” Petersham said.

  “Did you try the snuff before you brought it to the Pavilion, Lord Petersham?”

  Here was the question I had tried to ask Petersham in his bedchamber.

  “Of course I did,” came the reply.

  “Then the killer must have added the poison to the snuff sometime during the long dinner, or just afterward,” I interjected. “What a relief. That narrows matters down considerably.”

  “Mr. Brummell, if you don’t mind, I am conducting this questioning. I cannot bar you from this room, much as I’d like, but I must ask you to remain silent and let me ask the questions,” Mr. Lavender said, his patience tried.

  I told you he wanted to turn me into a mute.

  I put on my best bland expression, so he turned back to the viscount. “Lord Petersham, I put this question to you: If you tried the snuff before bringing it to the Pavilion, then why are you still living while Sir Simon, the first to try your snuff, is dead?”

  Petersham rose languidly to his feet. “How should I know? Someone tampered with it after dinner, I suppose. Look here, I’d stay and chat with you fellows, but unless you’re ready to return my snuff box to me, I’ll take myself off. I’d like to drop by the Old Ship Inn for a bottle of their French brandy. Can I bring you a bottle, your Royal Highness? I hear they just received a new shipment.”

  I passed a hand over my eyes. Everyone knew the Old Ship’s French brandy was smuggled. Not to mention that the last time Petersham had tried to give the Prince something to ingest, someone had died.

  Perhaps by Petersham’s very lack of pretense, the men from Bow Street would see his innocence. Then again, perhaps not.

  “Just one minute, my lord.” Mr. Lavender doggedly ticked items off on his fingers. “Since you have told me that you mixed the snuff, that you sampled it before bringing it to the Pavilion—”

  Jack Townsend raised a hand. “Gentlemen, I think we’ve questioned Lord Petersham on the matter sufficiently.”

  Mr. Lavender viewed his superior with an expression of utmost frustration. Undoubtedly the Scotsman had not given any consideration to the penalty of accusing a peer of the realm of wrongdoing, especially a seditious crime.

  But Jack Townsend had thought of it. Most likely, he envisioned what the reaction of Petersham’s father, the Earl of Harrington, would be to any accusations made against his son. That, I judged, was the reason why Mr. Townsend had stopped Mr. Lavender from pressing too hard, and why he was willing to let Petersham go on his way. For the moment.

  The second the viscount was out of the room Mr. Lavender rounded on Mr. Townsend. “Why didn’t you let me finish?”

  “Let’s not rush our fences,” Mr. Townsend said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Three suspects—Victor Tallarico, Mr. Ainsley, and Lord Petersham—have emerged as the most likely candidate for assassin, but it’s early days yet.”

  “Early days?” Prinny expostulated. “How long are you going to take to find the villain? Long enough for me to die? What if the killer tries again?”

  Mr. Townsend consulted Mr. Lavender’s list. “I see we have only the Duchess of York and Lady Bessborough left to question.”

  “You can do that on your own, Townsend,” the Prince said, exasperated.

  I made up my mind instantly that Freddie would not be questioned without my attendance.

  At that moment, a footman in the King’s livery entered the room and bowed low. “I have a message from His Majesty, King George the Third, for his son, the Prince of Wales.”

  “Bring it forward, man,” the Prince commanded.

  He scanned the few lines and glanced at Mr. Townsend in a manner I could only describe as accusatory. “My father and Mr. Pitt have learned of the attempt on my life. Did you tell them?”

  Mr. Townsend spread his hands in a depreciating manner. “The Prime Minister would not take it well had I not.”

  “Well, now my father is demanding I return to London. He says I will be safer at Carlton House. I suppose I can only be grateful he did not command me to rusticate at Windsor.”

  The Prince tossed the letter aside and curtly addressed the footman. “You may tell my father he has wasted his ink in writing me. I had already decided to return to Town. Tomorrow. I need a meal and a good night’s rest before attempting such a journey.”

  The King’s footman backed out of the room.

  “Shall I send word to the kitchens to send something up to you here, my dear, or will you dine with your guests?” Mrs. Fitzherbert inquired.

  “I’ll dine in my room and only after a food taster has sampled each dish,” the Prince replied crossly. He looked my way. “Brummell, remember your promise to get to the bottom of this no matter who is implicated. That includes Petersham, you know.”

  “Sir, I am aware of the fact and confident the viscount is completely innocent of any malice,” I said.

  I contemplated the expression of acute aggravation on Mr. Lavender’s face at this reminder of my involvement in the matter. And on orders from no less a personage than the Prince of Wales.

  The Scotsman’s toothpick bobbed up and down furiously as he no doubt ground his teeth against it.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Friday, the eleventh day of October, we set out for London in a sort of cavalcade of coaches. The Prince’s return to Town meant a return to the metropolis of his court followers. And probably of his would-be murderer.

  As the view of the sea receded, a mental image of the girl Freddie and I had found dead on the beach flashed through my mind. Who was she? Who missed her? Would I ever know?

  Ahead of me, Lord and Lady Perry rode at a careful pace in their coach. They had invited me to make
the journey with them, but I cannot help feeling that a married couple is most comfortable on their own, so I declined.

  Nonetheless, the Perrys were not left to their privacy. Victor Tallarico accepted Lady Perry’s kind invitation, kissing her hand and ignoring his cousin’s muttered curse.

  I travelled with only Chakkri to keep me company. I hoped our normal fellowship would return once we arrived home. The cat had hopped into his lidded wicker basket eagerly enough, as if he knew our destination. He had promptly fallen asleep with a grin on his feline face. Yes, a grin. Would I exaggerate?

  As for Robinson, he made the journey under circumstances which could only be abhorrent to him: He rode in a coach hired for the servants. These included Lady Perry’s maid, Betty; Lord Perry’s valet, Mr. Hearn; and most disturbing to Robinson’s equilibrium, his archenemy, Mr. Digwood.

  Petersham and Munro, you see, had decided to quit Brighton the evening before, leaving Mr. Digwood to close the house they had been renting. Thinking of Robinson and Diggie riding shoulder to shoulder, animosity oozing between them, I almost shuddered at the atmosphere in that conveyance. At that very moment they were probably in a heated debate as to whether cedar shavings or chippings of Russia leather were best for protecting clothes from moths.

  There was one person of importance to me who would not be travelling to London.

  Alone, with nothing more to do than reflect while the coach rambled along the London Road, I thought of Freddie on her way back to Oatlands. Much as I had tried to persuade her to come to Town for a bit, as usual she preferred the comfort of her country estate to the uncomfortable sight of her husband, the Duke of York, cavorting with his mistress all around London.

  My thoughts turned away from the Duke—you know I try not to think of him—and I contemplated the previous evening. Dinner at the Pavilion had been a solemn affair. True to his word, the Prince had dined with Mrs. Fitzherbert in his chamber. Doctor Pitcairn had asked for a tray to be brought to his room so that he might be close at hand in case his royal patient had need of him.

  This left Freddie and me, the St. Clairs, and Mr. Ainsley the only Pavilion guests at table. By tacit agreement, the chair in which Sir Simon had partaken of his last meal remained vacant. Despite the empty place, Sir Simon was very much on everyone’s mind, and conversation was sparse. I thought the St. Clairs pensive and Mr. Ainsley exceptionally nervous. He looked like a man about to burst from his skin.

  I knew I should try to draw him out, but he excused himself the moment he finished his meal. You think I should have followed him from the room? Well, I suppose you are right, but I chose not to. Freddie was present, clad in a most fetching gown, gold-coloured with blond lace. I convinced myself that questioning Mr. Ainsley could wait. Mr. Townsend and

  Mr. Lavender might call at any time to interrogate Freddie. I needed to stay close to her.

  As soon as the empty syllabub glasses were taken away, I approached Freddie. “If you wish to take Humphrey for a walk on the Steine before retiring, I should be glad to accompany you.”

  Freddie quickly agreed to the plan, sending a footman upstairs for Humphrey and her cloak. I could not suppress a sigh when Ulga appeared, dressed for the outdoors, bringing the cloak and the dog to her employer.

  Outside, I found the cold air refreshing for once and did not regret the lack of my greatcoat. The Pavilion had been stiflingly hot.

  With Ulga several yards behind us, we walked along. I outlined for Freddie the details of the afternoon of questioning by the Bow Street men, as well as my study of Mr. Ainsley.

  “What are your thoughts, dear?” she asked when I had finished. We paused so that Humphrey could sniff an irresistible tree.

  “I am concerned for Petersham.”

  “You do not think he could have been the intended victim, do you?” Freddie asked.

  “No, he is too lazy to have made any enemies.”

  “Quite right.”

  “Freddie, the entire affair makes no sense to me for one simple reason: I cannot believe anyone present at that dinner had reason to kill the Prince of Wales. Even Mr. Ainsley, who has been the subject of my own inquiry, does not appear to have enough motive.”

  “From what you have told me, I agree. But perhaps we do not know all there is to know about Mr. Ainsley, George,” Freddie suggested. “And if by nothing else but process of elimination, he must be our chief suspect. Did you mark how his nerves were all to pieces tonight at dinner?”

  “Yes. And in my mind I have replayed the minutes last night after the meal when the ladies retired to the Saloon and the gentlemen mingled. Ainsley approached the side table where the snuff box sat more than once,” I told her. “But anyone in that room could have gotten to the snuff box. I do not know what to think, Freddie.”

  Freddie tugged on Humphrey’s leash. The short-legged dog obeyed the command. “The day has been long, dear. You will pursue the matter back in London and will discover the truth. I have no doubt of it. Look at what an admirable job you did clearing Miss Ashton’s name in that recent unpleasantness.”

  I gazed down on her upturned face. The moonlight glowed on her skin and she looked very young. I knew we would write to each other, and one weekend soon I would ride out to Oatlands for one of Freddie’s weekend parties. Still, at that moment, I could not bear the thought of having to part from her.

  I experienced a moment of supreme irritation when our peace was disturbed.

  “Egad, Harold, take a look at the Duchess’s hound. That’s a new one, isn’t it?” came Viscount Petersham’s voice from the darkness.

  “No, Charles, I’ve seen Brummell with the Duchess time out of number,” Lord Munro quipped as the pair came into view.

  “Harold,” Petersham remonstrated, but then spoiled it by chuckling. Reaching us, he bent and patted Humphrey.

  Over his head, I gazed at Lord Munro in silent contempt. Had Freddie not been with me, his lordship would now be tasting sea-water.

  The two bowed to Freddie and she greeted them in a bright tone.

  “We were just coming to say good-bye,” Petersham informed us, surreptitiously wiping dog drool from his hand. “Brighton is as flat as champagne flowing from a fountain. We’re for London tonight.”

  I stroked my jaw. “Have you told Jack Townsend your plans, Petersham?”

  The viscount looked puzzled. “Why should I? If he wants to see me, he knows my direction in London. Well, we’re off then. Hope to see you at Oatlands soon, Your Highness. Brummell, I’ll see you at White’s.”

  And with a cheerful wave, Petersham turned on his heel and headed back across the Steine, Lord Munro at his side.

  I stared after them. “Freddie, do you see how Petersham is so completely oblivious to the . . . awkward, shall we say, position he is in?”

  “I think it is because he is innocent and finds it impossible to think anyone would judge him otherwise,” Freddie observed.

  “Let us hope Bow Street conforms to that view.”

  Strolling back in the direction whence we had come, I saw the very men of whom I spoke. Mr. Townsend and Mr. Lavender were walking through the entrance to the Pavilion.

  “Freddie, have you been questioned by the Bow Street men yet?”

  “Why, no. Do they intend to speak to me?”

  “Yes, it was my understanding they would. I see they are at the Pavilion now. Shall we go back?”

  “If we must,” she answered. I could not help but be pleased that she did not seem eager to end our walk.

  Presently, while rambling along in the coach, I recalled how the meeting went. I remembered Jack Townsend’s respectful bearing toward Freddie, Mr. Lavender’s attention to

  Humphrey—which afterward caused Freddie to tell me she thought Mr. Lavender a fine example for Bow Street—and Lady Bessborough’s appearance on the scene. That lady had no qualms letting it be known that she viewed Lord Petersham as the obvious guilty party. Everyone knew he was, as her ladyship put it, “odd.”

  Up
on hearing this witless remark, I had fixed my expression to one that clearly indicated Lady Bessborough could not be taken seriously, while Freddie, very much the grande dame, said she had known Lord Petersham for many years.

  The farther we got from Brighton, the more I wondered how long it would be before questions about the death of Sir Simon, and whispers about who might be responsible it, would fly around London. Since Jack Townsend had sent word of the Prince’s jeopardy to the King and Mr. Pitt, the Prime Minister, it was entirely possible we would return to gossip-loving London to find the bibble-babblers having a hey-dey.

  All of a sudden, my driver pulled the coach to a stop. I reached a hand over to make sure Chakkri’s basket remained secure on the seat. I let down the window to see the Perrys’ vehicle halted in front of me. A farmer led a herd of black-faced sheep across the road. Amongst much bleating and scrambling, the man hurried the creatures as best he could, recognizing from the crest on Lord Perry’s coach that he delayed the journey of a nobleman.

  The chilly air entered my coach. I went to close the window. In the process of doing so, a sad sight made me pause. A woman of middle years walked by the side of the road, looking dazed and muttering to herself. One does see such unfortunates on occasion, but what made this woman different was her bearing and dress. Instead of the rags usually to be seen on persons fallen on difficult times, this woman’s dress was fine. Though dirty and torn at one shoulder, exposing a sliver of white flesh, the gown was of an expensive-looking dove-coloured silk. Her brown hair, heavily streaked with grey, had been messily pinned to the top of her head in a disordered knot.

  On the seat next to me, a rustling sound came from the wicker basket. Chakkri woke. A minute later a brown face, followed by a fawn-coloured body, emerged from the lidded container. The cat stretched his neck to an almost impossible length, placed one paw on my shoulder to brace himself, and looked out the window. He uttered a sharp “Reow.”

  The farmer drove the last of his sheep across the road. We would be on our way in a moment. My gaze swung back to the woman. She looked the same age as my favourite aunt.