The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  “You never thought what, Mr. Cranworth?”

  He looked at me then, but he did not appear to see me. “I never thought that smirk could be wiped from his face.”

  “Someone has accomplished the task. I think you should go to the house and find Squire Oxberry. As the local magistrate, he should be apprised of the murder at once.”

  With a glance back at the corpse, Mr. Cranworth said, “Why don’t you go, Mr. Brummell? I’d like a few minutes here with Connell. He—he was a friend of mine, you know.”

  I knew it, but I had other plans. “I am afraid I cannot. My soiled gloves and grass-stained breeches would shock the company. You must go. There will be opportunity enough to say goodbye to Lord Kendrick when he is laid out for viewing.” Without giving him a change to reply, I returned to the grave and continued to unearth the body.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Mr. Cranworth head for the house. Once he was far enough away, I began to work rapidly, moving the dirt away from the body. My mind worked faster than my hands. You may think it uncaring of me, but for this one moment I had to put aside the question of who had killed the marquess. At present, I had to seize the opportunity to search the body before anyone else did. If the marquess had Freddie’s letter on him, I wanted to be the one to find it.

  At last, feeling like a graverobber, I was able to reach into the pocket inside his coat. Nothing. I moved more dirt, averting my gaze from his face. I tugged at the tails of his coat where another pocket was sure to be. At last the earth released her hold on the cloth. I plunged my hand into the pocket. Nothing.

  “Mr. Brummell, you don’t need to dig him out!” Squire Oxberry called, making his way to the site with two strong footmen in tow. “I’ve brought servants for that.”

  Puffing in exertion, the Squire raised his quizzing glass at the dead marquess with detached interest. “Wonder who did this, eh? Nobody liked him, no indeed. He wasn’t the man his father or even his brother was. Won’t be missed by anyone other than that cousin of his. Finish digging him out, boys, and put him on this blanket.” Squire Oxberry heaved a sigh as if he were the one doing physical work. “I expect I’ll be put through a great deal of trouble trying to identify the culprit, curse it.”

  Lady Ariana, I suddenly thought. The angry scene between Lady Ariana and Lord Kendrick which took place a few steps away from where we presently stood flashed in my mind. Had she absently picked up one of the hair ornaments—as Freddie had first thought—and then later used it to end her cousin’s life?

  Or what about Roger Cranworth? Freddie had told me of the argument between the two men in the drawing room. Roger was angry that Lord Kendrick would not marry Cecily.

  “What’s happened?” Doctor Wendell asked, arriving at my side. He looked at the marquess’s body being heaved out of the grave. “Great God!”

  “Did you see her Royal Highness?” I asked him. “She fainted.”

  “The Royal Duchess regained consciousness. Ulga is with her,” the doctor replied. He bent over the body, now on its back on the blanket. “Who did this?”

  “We do not know yet,” I replied.

  I must admit, it was a gruesome scene. Watching Doctor Wendell’s professional fingers running over the marquess’s blood-stained throat, brushing dirt from his eyelids so he could open the eyes, made me wish for the wine decanter. I suddenly looked at my filthy gloves in something approaching horror. I stripped them off.

  “That sharp length of jet went right through his neck. From the condition of the body, I’d say he was killed some time early this morning. Perhaps before dawn. Doesn’t look like there was a struggle. No broken fingernails, torn clothing, or anything of that sort. Taken by surprise, mayhaps, and likely killed right here. There’s no trail of blood coming from the house, only some near the grave,” Doctor Wendell said. “At least, that’s my opinion, Squire.”

  “I’ve no reason to doubt you, Doctor Wendell,” the Squire said. He took a moment to pace a few steps around the scene.

  I turned to Doctor Wendell. “The Royal Duchess must be shielded from as much of this scandal as possible.”

  He nodded. “So must Miss Cranworth.” The doctor looked me in the eye, his gaze beseeching. I was reminded of Cecily Cranworth’s impassioned speech that she would rather see Lord Kendrick dead than marry him. Had something happened which caused her to resort to dire action?

  Squire Oxberry rejoined us. “That fancy thing in his lordship’s neck belongs to the Royal Duchess, I hear.”

  “That is true,” I said. “There is a pair of them. Her Royal Highness received them as a birthday gift from Victor Tallarico. She mislaid them on one of the pedestals in the drawing room. In fact, she had forgotten she had done so until today when Sylvester Fairingdale found the other one.”

  “So they have been in the drawing room since Wednesday, eh? Anyone could have pocketed one of ‘em. A bad business. I’ll ask the Royal Duchess what she wants done.” He scratched his wigged head. “A lot of trouble it will all be, though I don’t see as how we can claim it was an accident, with him buried here like this.”

  Accident! I exchanged an incredulous look with Doctor Wendell.

  Just then, Thompson, Lord Kendrick’s valet, came hurrying from the house. When he saw his master on the ground atop the blanket, he threw himself down and began to weep.

  I felt sorry for the older man. Some time passed before we could calm him. He had served the family since Lord Kendrick had been in short coats. He insisted on helping to carry the dead marquess back to the house, maintaining that his master must be cleaned and the instrument of his death removed from his throat.

  His overwhelming grief was exactly the excuse I needed to accomplish another task which might lead to retrieving the missing letter. “Thompson, you must not wish his lordship to remain in those clothes any longer than he must.”

  “No,” the stricken valet said. “He should be in full Court dress befitting a man of his rank. He should not be viewed in this foul condition.”

  “I shall ride to his estate and gather the clothing directly after I have changed and seen the Duchess.” The missing letter and Lord Kendrick’s murder merged into one horrible mess, but there was more to it than that. I had despised Lord Kendrick, but his murderer must be found.

  My plan to obtain the formal clothing for the marquess was quickly agreed on by all concerned. I strode in the back way of Oatlands and made my way to my bedchamber, my brain reeling. Robinson must have been in the servants hall getting the news, as he was nowhere to be found.

  Chakkri laid on the bed, his long brown tail curled around his hind leg, an alert look in his blue eyes.

  “The immediate threat to Freddie has been silenced in a way I could never have predicted, old boy,” I said to the cat. “But where is the letter? I have searched Lord Kendrick’s room and his person. Or, his corpse, I should say. That leaves only his house, unless his partner has it. Who that person is, I cannot say. Lord Kendrick must have been referring to the ruffian who actually held up the coach.”

  The cat said nothing. He merely watched me with his knowing blue eyes.

  I stripped off my coat, washed my face and hands in a basin of water, and changed into fresh clothes, all in record time without Robinson’s help. He would have been appalled.

  Presenting myself at the door to Freddie’s private sitting room a scant twenty minutes later, I knocked briskly.

  Ulga opened the door and stood, arms akimbo, a solid barrier against my entry.

  “I must see her,” I said.

  “You vill not. She is lying down vith Hero to comfort her. I had to give her a drop of laudanum in a glass of sherry, so upset is she,” Ulga said. The maid looked at me as if it were my fault that her mistress was in such a condition. She felt the little dog a more loyal companion than me, no doubt.

  “Her Royal Highness asked for laudanum?” I asked in some surprise. Freddie is not one for strong hysterics and never doses herself with drugs. I would not have th
ought even finding a corpse on her property enough to make her resort to laudanum.

  Ulga took her hands from her hips and clasped them in front of her. “After all these years, I know vhat is best for her Royal Highness.” Here, the Prussian maid looked at me severely. “That is vhy you cannot see her right now. You vill upset her even more talking of that letter.”

  I had to agree. “Inform your mistress that I am riding to Lord Kendrick’s estate to search for the letter.”

  “You have not yet found it?” Disapproval of my ineptitude was written across her face.

  “No, but I shall. I am going under the pretext of getting Court clothes for Lord Kendrick’s body. Thompson has given me instructions and his blessing to do so. While at the house, I will search for the letter.”

  “Good.”

  “Tell the Royal Duchess. Her concern might be lessened.” I turned to go, but Ulga’s next words stopped me.

  “I think she vill feel better once Mr. Lavender has arrived from London.”

  I swung around, astonished. “Mr. Lavender? She sent for Mr. Lavender of Bow Street?”

  “Yes.” Ulga shut the door in my face without another word.

  I strode down the stairs and outside, noticing that guests were leaving the house party in droves. Not that I cared. I walked toward the stables positively seething. Ordering a horse to be saddled, I paced the stable yard, considering Freddie’s action.

  Very well, I told myself, a murder had occurred on Oatlands property. The killer must be identified and apprehended at once. I could understand all this, indeed, I agreed with it, even if the killer turned out to be Lady Ariana or Cecily or Roger Cranworth. But what of Squire Oxberry? Was he not the appointed magistrate for the district? Could he not work with the constables and the county coroner to uncover the murderer?

  I accepted a fine chestnut horse from a stable boy, mounted after obtaining directions to Lord Kendrick’s estate, and galloped away.

  The springtime English countryside passed my view unappreciated as I made the long ride. All right, Squire Oxberry was not the brightest man. Had I not wondered if he were even capable of finding the highwayman? But why had Freddie chosen Mr. Lavender, of all people? Jack Townsend was the Bow Street man usually called upon in criminal matters relating to the Royal Family.

  To my knowledge, Freddie has only once met the toothpick wielding, finger-pointing, brusque Scotsman known as John Lavender. That occasion was during the investigation of another murder, the one last autumn at the Royal Pavilion. I told you the whole story another time, remember?

  You might recall that Jack Townsend and Mr. Lavender both were involved in that case. You might also recall that Mr. Lavender holds a strong aversion to my being involved in any of his investigations. Well, I did not want him at Oatlands either, so this time our animosity would be mutual.

  A warm, dusty ride later, I arrived at Lord Kendrick’s estate. The house and grounds were smaller than I had imagined. Knocking at the door, I found myself in the awful position of being the messenger of bad news. The butler looked at me in horror as I explained what had happened and why I was there. I admit I did embellish matters a bit, saying that I was also there to obtain some of Lord Kendrick’s papers. That would account for my being in rooms other than the marquess’s bedchamber.

  The butler did not question me further and wasted no time in gathering the servants in the kitchen to apprise them of their master’s death. They remained huddled together belowstairs, each perhaps going over what his or her future held. This left me with the freedom to go about the house at my will.

  I shall not bore you with details. Believe me when I say that I spent the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening searching the house. A letter is a small item, easily concealed in any number of places. I assumed the letter had been separated from the blue velvet book, though I could not be certain of anything.

  Thankfully, I was not disturbed by anyone after the butler offered me tea, which I declined.

  At five o’clock, tired and frustrated beyond words, I had to admit defeat. Standing in Lord Kendrick’s library, I turned the last book upside down, letting the pages fall free. No letter.

  I sagged into a chair, tapping my fingers on the armrest. Assuming I had covered the house, I was at a loss as to where the marquess had hidden the letter. I tried to put myself in Lord Kendrick’s place—alive, better dressed and sans the smirk—and thought hard. The letter was not on his person, not in his room at Oatlands, not here at his estate unless he had buried it somewhere. No, he would not have had time for any such elaborate scheme. In addition, he would have wanted to have the letter close at hand, to produce it for Freddie had she asked for proof.

  Which left only two possibilities: one, that his accomplice, whoever he might be—and he might very well be the killer—had the letter in his keeping, or two, there was somewhere else at Oatlands the marquess had hidden it.

  I vaulted to my feet. Lady Ariana’s room! The perfect place, close at hand, yet safe.

  Cursing myself for a fool, I dashed up the stairs, retrieved the court dress I had gathered earlier for Lord Kendrick to be laid out in, and exited the house.

  I rode at a tearing rate back to Oatlands. I could search Lady Ariana’s room at dinner, if not before, should the young lady be absent from the chamber. She had brought no maid with her: indeed, I doubted her cousin had ever provided her with one. My way would be clear. Though perhaps, I thought, riding into the Oatlands stable yard, Lady Ariana was so overset at the murder of her cousin she had taken to her bed.

  Unless she had a different feeling altogether regarding her cousin’s death, one of relief, perhaps.

  While my mind had not yet been free to contemplate the array of possible suspects, Lady Ariana’s name had been the first to strike me when I saw the murdered marquess. The girl was not in her right mind. Furthermore, her very freedom had been in jeopardy when Lord Kendrick threatened to have her placed in a lunatic asylum. Though I could not rule out Lord Kendrick’s partner in his highwayman scheme, nor, sadly, could I rule out Cecily Cranworth or her brother, Roger.

  But I would explore those possibilities later.

  Entering Oatlands, I was in time to see Freddie, trailed by four dogs and Ulga, coming down the stairs. Old Dawe was not at his post at the door. I hoped he was resting after the shock he had received. A younger footman was stationed in his stead. I handed him the parcel of Lord Kendrick’s clothes with instructions to give them to Thompson.

  I bowed to Freddie. She looked at me anxiously.

  “Your Royal Highness, I would not ask for much of your time, standing here as I am in all my dirt from the road, but there is a matter—”

  “Step into the drawing room, George,” Freddie motioned. Once the three of us were inside, she closed the doors behind me, and we found seats. “Almost everyone has departed, so we can count on a few moments of privacy. What did you find? Ulga tells me you went to Lord Kendrick’s house.”

  “I did not find the letter, I am sorry to say.”

  Ulga let out her breath in an aggravated rush, then returned to her knitting. Freddie’s complexion paled over her aquamarine-coloured gown.

  “All is not lost, Freddie,” I said. “I have another idea where the marquess could have hidden the letter, in Lady Ariana’s room. How did the girl take the news of her cousin’s murder? Is she in her chamber?”

  Freddie looked at me intently. “Lady Ariana was in shock, as one might imagine. She had no relatives other than her cousin, Lord Kendrick. Lady Crecy kindly took the girl under her wing. Her ladyship astutely stated her belief that Lady Ariana should not be subjected to the burdens of a funeral. They have left for London.”

  I passed a hand over my forehead. “It is still worth a look into Lady Ariana’s chamber. Another curious thing is that none of my stolen clothing was to be found at Lord Kendrick’s house. He has a partner, Freddie, he told me so himself. I am sorry to have to tell you and cause you more concern. But if I can f
ind the accomplice, I might find the letter.”

  “Unless,” Freddie said stiffly, “he finds us first in order to continue the blackmail scheme.”

  This idea had already occurred to me, but I did not want Freddie to worry. “Surely not. Robinson said the person who held him up was no gentleman. The cohort must be a paid ruffian, one who would not know the value of what he held.”

  “We must hope that to be the case. However, I shall not be able to have a moment’s peace until that letter is returned to me, George.”

  “Freddie, I have given you my vow to return it to you and I shall. Now we have the marquess’s murder to contend with as well. I shall do everything in my power to resolve both matters.”

  If possible, her face grew even whiter.

  “Ulga told me you sent word to Mr. Lavender. Why have you asked him to come? He and I are far from the best of friends, while I do admire his work. Why not Jack Townsend?”

  “Jack Townsend, while well enough in his way and discreet, cannot be relied upon to get to the truth. Mr. Lavender’s excellent reputation for justice is precisely why I have asked him to Oatlands,” she replied, her bearing rigid. She swallowed hard. “I cannot bring scandal on this house. The murderer of Lord Kendrick must not, on any account, be left to go free. The Duke would want me to do everything possible to avoid scandal.”

  I tensed at the mention of Freddie’s husband. “The Duke of York? Avoid scandal? While parading his mistress through the streets of London and, at the moment, the streets of Geneva?”

  Freddie rose to her feet.

  I followed suit, taking a step toward her. “I apologize. I ought not to have said that, Freddie. It is just that I do not want you to feel you must bear all this alone. I will find the letter and uncover the murderer. You can count on me to help. You can always trust that I will be available to you.”

  Her Royal Highness looked at me through doubtful eyes. “Can I count on you, George? For the first time, I wonder if that is true. And if it is true, to what lengths will you go—”

  Her voice broke off.