The Tainted Snuff Box

by Rosemary Stevens

  “Chakkri, my cat, helped. You see, Marie has a fondness for cats.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed she spends a lot of time petting Marmalade.”

  “Indeed, I observed the same thing. I thought if I were to go home, collect Chakkri, and bring him along, the Frenchwoman might relax enough to speak to me. The notion proved a good one. Marie revealed not only her name, but the fact that her young lady had died. I believe Marie was a governess or companion to a French lady of genteel birth.”

  Miss Lavender shivered in the night air. “Goodness, that is terrible, but would the death of a young girl account for the severely shocked state Marie is in?”

  “It would if the young lady was murdered,” I said grimly. Then I told Miss Lavender about the body Freddie and I had found on the Brighton beach, how the doctor had proclaimed that she had died of a blow to the head, and how the cross the unfortunate girl wore was a larger, more expensive version of the one Marie held clutched in her hand.

  Miss Lavender shook her head sadly. “This is appalling. Do you think Marie witnessed the murder?”

  “I do not know. She became upset again before I could question her further. There is more, though.”

  “Faith! What else?”

  “On my way here, I stopped to ask directions of a farmer. He told me who this house belonged to. Does the name Sir Simon mean anything to you?”

  “He’s the hero who died testing snuff for the Prince of Wales!” she exclaimed.

  “Wrong. He did die after inhaling snuff at the Prince’s table. However, I cannot believe he is a hero. He was a smuggler who had used this house as a base of operation for his free-trading, and for some other nefarious doings.”

  “But he saved the Prince’s life. Father told me so.”

  “I believe Sir Simon was the intended victim of the poisoning all along. A view scoffed at by Bow Street, I might add.”

  “Why? Why don’t you believe the Prince’s life was at risk?”

  “Because of a simple lack of credible suspects. Ones who had the necessary motive along with the opportunity the dinner at the Pavilion presented. I have given this matter a great deal of time and thought. No one there that night disliked the Prince enough to want to kill him.”

  “But who might want to kill Sir Simon?”

  “That is a question I have not yet had time to explore.”

  “Do you feel a smuggling partner who felt cheated might be responsible?”

  “I cannot say, but no one of that nature was at the Prince’s table the night Sir Simon died. Mayhaps the killer’s reason for murder had nothing to do with the smuggling nature of his enterprise. The farmer I spoke to hinted at some other, even more unsavoury activities that Sir Simon was involved in.”

  “What activities?”

  I took a deep breath. “I have some ugly suspicions, Miss Lavender, and for that reason, I want to escort you back to Brighton. Then, I shall come back here and see if I can gain entry to that house.”

  “You’ll do no such thing! What do you think I’m here for?”

  “I realise you came out here with the intention of helping Marie. But this is more complicated than you thought. The situation could be very dangerous. We will find a respectable inn where you might partake of a meal while I find out what is going on.”

  “No!” she exclaimed, a stubborn look on her face. “I’m staying with you. I shan’t be tucked away like a child.”

  Gazing at the disheveled woman before me, I thought she hardly resembled a child. A Scottish temptress would be a more apt description.

  Still, I could not allow her to place herself in any further danger. I opened my mouth to tell her so, when the sound of a gunshot startled both of us.

  “It came from the house!” Miss Lavender said. She lifted her skirts and ran out of the copse of trees we had been standing in before I could stop her.

  I dashed after her, silently cursing her impetuous nature.

  Approaching the house, I caught up to her, grasping her arm and spinning her around to face me. “Go back to the relative safety of those trees!”

  She tugged her arm out of my grip. “No!”

  “Fine, but you are putting me at the mercy of your father’s wrath should anything untoward happen to you,” I said. “I shall not thank you if he has me drawn and quartered. At least stay behind me,” I said. With that, I strode toward where light revealed a set of tall glass doors swinging open into the night air. Then, the sound of hoofbeats caused me to fling a protective arm in front of Miss Lavender.

  We hurried along the side of the house in time to see a masked rider galloping into the night on horseback.

  “He’s away,” Miss Lavender said.

  “Yes, let us see what he left behind. Allow me to go in first,” I cautioned.

  Stepping through the open glass doors, I found myself behind a large desk in a study. Moaning could be heard from the other side.

  I advanced into the room.

  The body of a large man lay on the floor, a bright red spot growing in the centre of his chest.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Heaven save us!” gasped Miss Lavender.

  “Go outside,” I told her, but she did not obey. Why was I not surprised?

  I moved closer to the man, whom I recognized as one of Sir Simon’s brutish footmen. A muscular, bald fellow, he lay bleeding. When he saw me, he tried to raise his arm.

  “ ‘Elp me. Oi’m shot.”

  Crouching down next to him, I saw the ball had entered in the region of his heart. While I am no doctor, it was clear nothing could save him. Still, I reached around his neck and untied his dirty neckcloth. “Who are you?” I asked. “Who did this?”

  He pressed his hand to the wound, perhaps to try to stanch the flow of blood, but it was pointless. “Wheeler. Jemmy Wheeler. Oi’m shot. ‘Elp me.”

  “Who shot you?” I asked.

  He looked at me and blinked. “Know you. That night, in the alley . . . ‘e ordered it done.”

  Good God, he was one of the men who had attacked me. “Who gave the order?” I demanded.

  But the man was in shock, losing blood fast. “Oi can’t believe ‘e shot me. ‘E never shot Sir Simon.”

  “Tell me who did this,” I commanded again, more urgently. “Why would he shoot Sir Simon?”

  “Blackmail. Sir Simon blackmailed ‘im.” Wheeler looked puzzled. “‘E never shot Sir Simon,” he said, his breath rattling in his throat.

  My voice rose along with my frustration. “What man? What man blackmailed Sir Simon?”

  “The fine gentleman what killed the virgin girl,” Wheeler said in a weak voice. Then his head rolled to one side, and his eyes stared sightlessly at the desk. I would get no more information from him.

  “Oh, Lord,” Miss Lavender moaned.

  I stood and walked to her side. “There was nothing we could have done for him. And he did not do enough for us.”

  “Aren’t you being rather callous? The man has just lost his life!” Miss Lavender’s eyes were wide, and she leaned against the side of the desk. Another female might have fainted at the events unfolding.

  “He and a partner beat me senseless the other night. And for all we know, he was involved in a blackmail scheme. No, I have little pity for Wheeler. I am more concerned for your well-being.”

  “I am fine,” Miss Lavender said.

  Her hands clutched her cloak tightly around her chest. Noting they were steady, I looked about the room. Intent on finding out what Sir Simon had been involved in, I walked around Miss Lavender to the desk and began pulling drawers open.

  “What are you doing? Shouldn’t we be sending for help, the magistrate, perhaps?”

  “Spoken like a true Bow Street investigator’s daughter. We shall send for help, but not until I have some answers.” I thrust my hand into the back of a drawer and pulled out a sheaf of papers. Scanning the lines, I determined it was a list of goods brought in on a ship from France.

  The contents of t
he other drawers revealed nothing more than household papers, a few bills—I raised an eyebrow at one from Sir Simon’s tailor, noting the man’s name so I could avoid

  him—and a letter from a hopeful sea captain wishing to join Sir Simon’s organization.

  Sitting back in the leather chair behind the desk, I pondered over where Sir Simon might have kept his secret papers. Why, in a secret drawer, of course.

  “What are you doing under the desk?” Miss Lavender asked a moment later.

  “Searching for—ah, here it is.” I released the mechanism hidden behind one of the drawers. A small compartment opened, releasing its contents to the carpet. I gathered them up, tossed them on the top of the desk, and seated myself in the chair once more.

  “What is all that?” Miss Lavender asked, coming to stand beside me.

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “So do you!”

  “Well, let us see.” The mask caught my attention first. I picked it up and examined it curiously. In the shape of a jackal’s head, it was meant to wear over one’s face. “This could conceal a person’s identity quite nicely.”

  “I wonder why Sir Simon had such a thing.”

  “Not for attending respectable masquerades, I would wager.”

  I put the mask aside reluctantly and picked up a seal. “Another jackal’s head. Sir Simon must have been fond of the animals,” I said wryly.

  “Did you hear what you just said, Mr. Brummell? You said, ‘the animals.’“

  I stared up at Miss Lavender, my hands stilled over the items. Mentally I could hear Marie sobbing about “ze animals.” “Just so, Miss Lavender.”

  A folded piece of paper was the last item. The writing revealed a list of dates and times. Above the dates—one of which I noted was the day after tomorrow—was the word “Anubis.”

  Miss Lavender read over my shoulder. “Anubis. That’s the Egyptian deity with the body of a man and the head of a jackal.”

  I refolded the paper before the intrepid Miss Lavender could see the dates. “Precisely.”

  “What does it mean? Anubis was the guardian of souls. He conducted the dead to judgment. Was that a fitting description of Sir Simon? You say he was a smuggler, and that dead man over there said he was a blackmailer. That doesn’t sound like a person I would want guarding my soul.”

  “No.” I stood.

  Miss Lavender eyed me shrewdly. “What are you thinking? I can tell you have a theory. You had best tell me.”

  “The theory is not one suited to a lady’s ear.”

  Miss Lavender leaned close. I could smell the scent of autumn on her, wet earth, damp leaves, apples, and cinnamon.

  She stared at me in the candlelit room with those green eyes of hers and said, “Have you forgotten? I am not a lady.”

  For some reason unknown to myself, the thought crossed my mind at that particular moment that it would be quite pleasant to kiss Miss Lavender. Hard on the heels of this ill-conceived idea came the notion that Miss Lavender might very well allow me to do so.

  The point could be argued.

  An equally lively debate could ensue as to whether my kissing a girl of Miss Lavender’s station in life would, after all, be wise.

  My hand closed over the dog’s head walking stick Freddie had given me.

  Miss Lavender sighed. Why she did so, I could not tell you, but the matter was pushed aside when the sound of footsteps came from the front hall.

  “Doubtless that is Wheeler’s partner. Since I hear he is known as Devlin the Devil, I suggest we take our leave,” I said, assembling the mask, seal, and list, then thrusting them into my pocket. I grabbed Miss Lavender by the hand, and we made a swift exit into the cold night air.

  We hurried to the thicket of trees where my horse was still tethered. Untying him, I glanced at Miss Lavender. “Do you not possess a proper riding dress?”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Not with me. I’m sorry to incur your disapproval, but I did not expect to be travelling by horse.”

  “Er, well, how shall we do this, then?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Just give me a hand up and then get behind me.”

  I did as she bade, placing my arms around her, my head next to hers, and grasped the reins. I must say that it was not at all a disagreeable posture. Though I cannot help feeling that inferiour wool is exceedingly rough underneath one’s chin.

  Once in Brighton, I ordered a private coach, and we began the journey back to London.

  To avoid Miss Lavender’s inevitable questioning, the moment we settled ourselves in the coach, I yawned. “I confess to being overcome with fatigue. You will excuse me.”

  “No, I won’t, Mr. Brummell. I wish to discuss all that has transpired.”

  “Much as I regret being so disobliging, I fear I shall insult you more if I fall asleep while you are speaking.”

  Under her protests, I propped my head against the side of the coach and closed my eyes. She looked weary as well, so I hoped that after a short length of time, she would succumb to sleep.

  Meanwhile, I considered the information I had gleaned over the evening. The pieces of the puzzle began taking form, if not quite falling into place.

  Evidently, Sir Simon ruled at the head of a secret club called Anubis, whose members met at his house. Everything pointed to it: The farmer in Hove had spoken of “peculiar things” of which Sir Simon was involved. He had said the baronet was evil. Marie had called the place a “house of evil.” To add to that, I recalled Lord Yarmouth telling me that fateful night at White’s that there was a club on the sea coast whose activities went beyond the pale.

  Then there was the jackal head mask I found in Sir Simon’s desk, along with the seal and the list of dates, which I could only assume were planned meetings.

  But what went on at those meetings?

  One could only speculate. Yarmouth’s description was the most telling. The club’s endeavours most likely went beyond high play at the gaming tables or the sampling of smuggled wine.

  The key might lie in the name Sir Simon had chosen for his secret club. I suspected that the baronet would have chosen the name Anubis, not so much out of respect for any Egyptian god, but more because Anubis represented the jackal. Jackals hunt in packs, at night, and are base creatures known to be insatiable.

  My sense was that this described the secret club, or at least, some of its attributes. While the members might not go outside and hunt, perhaps their hunting had been done for them prior to their arrival.

  The prey might very well include innocent young women. Wheeler spoke of the “fine gentleman what killed the virgin girl.” A mental image of the young girl found dead on the Brighton beach appeared to haunt me once more.

  Could she have been “prey” for the club members?

  Revulsion welled up in me at the thought of a “fine gentleman” destroying the innocence of a young lady. How had she died? Had the man in question killed her in order to keep her quiet? Was that what Marie had seen that had frightened her so?

  “The dastards.” Unconsciously, I had spoken aloud. My eyes flew open. For a moment I thought Miss Lavender would discover I was only pretending to sleep. But as I looked across at her in the semi-darkness, I saw her long dark lashes laid against her porcelain-like skin. Her head rested on her folded hands against the side of the coach.

  Not even when we stopped to change horses at about midnight did she awake. Climbing back into the coach as silently as I could after paying the posting house for a team of fresh horses, I gazed at her sleeping form and frowned.

  The conventions state that a gentleman who has spent the better part of a night with an unmarried female alone in a coach has thoroughly compromised her. Regardless of the fact that Miss Lavender is not of my station in life, she is an educated female, not some tavern wench.

  We would not return to Fetter Lane until the small hours of the morning. While I know that Miss Lavender is not a stickler for the proprieties, her father is another matter
altogether.

  I swallowed the cup of wine I had purchased at the posting house in one long gulp. My dog’s head stick rested against the seat beside me. With a tender touch, I caressed the silver top with my gloved thumb. When I returned home, I would have to write to Freddie and tell her of my findings. Furthermore, I knew she would expect me at Oatlands this weekend. If I could untangle the muddle around Sir Simon’s death, perhaps I might feel free to visit her.

  Unless I was spending the weekend with my new bride.

  I closed my eyes and leaned against the squabs of the coach, concentrating on Sir Simon rather than any forced nuptials.

  If I needed any confirmation that the baronet had been the intended victim of the poisoned snuff all along, I had it now.

  But who were the members of the secret club, Anubis?

  On whose hand had I seen a jackal ring?

  Which one of the members had Sir Simon been blackmailing?

  How did the young girl die?

  Why had Sir Simon and Prime Minister Pitt had a falling out?

  The answer to the last question I would find out tomorrow, or today actually, from Lady Hester.

  Or I would find out how it felt to stand in front of a vicar speaking my marriage vows.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  As it turned out, I only narrowly escaped speaking those sacred vows.

  Upon our arrival in Fetter Lane, I helped Miss Lavender out of the hired coach, hoping against hope that her father would not hear our arrival.

  Luck was not on my side.

  As I walked Miss Lavender around to the private entrance to her father’s lodgings, the man himself swung open the door and hurtled down the steps. Clad in a plaid robe, with slippers on his feet, he still managed to look fierce.

  “Where, by all that is holy, Lydia, have you been?” the Scotsman demanded. He darted a disbelieving glance at me, then spoke in an awful voice. “Lydia! Have you been with

  Mr. Brummell all evening?” The ends of his enormous mustache seemed to leap skyward in indignation.

  “Father, let’s go inside out of the cold and I’ll explain—”