The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  “Now, Doctor, I know about you and Cecily Cranworth. She told me herself she’d never marry me. I’ve got eyes in my head and could see she had formed a tendre for you.”

  The doctor’s face went red.

  “What does that have to do with Lord Kendrick?” Mr. Lavender asked impatiently.

  The Squire enlightened him. “Roger Cranworth took it into his head that Lord Kendrick would marry his sister. He was furious when it looked like the marquess would not comply with this plan. I had offered for the girl, but Roger Cranworth wanted Lord Kendrick to wed his sister. She, er, had other ideas,” he ended, glancing significantly at Doctor Wendell.

  Mr. Lavender made notes.

  At that moment, Freddie rose, causing the rest of the company to follow suit. “This is ridiculous! Neither Lady Ariana nor Cecily nor Roger Cranworth would be capable of murder,” she cried fervently.

  “Then who would, your Royal Highness?” Mr. Lavender asked reasonably. “No stranger would have had access to the hair ornament left here in your drawing room. You must face facts. The killer has to be someone who was here at Oatlands.”

  Freddie’s voice shook. “This is all exceedingly upsetting. I cannot bear much more—”

  I was at her side, muscling my way between her and Tallarico. “I think you have learned all we know of the situation, Mr. Lavender. Let the Royal Duchess have some peace.”

  The Bow Street man pressed on. “To speak bluntly, I’d like to know more about the nature of your distress, your Royal Highness.”

  “She has had a violent murder occur on her property, cannot you understand that?” I said in an angry voice.

  “Yes, I can, laddie. ‘Tis only that when I first arrived in this room, the Royal Duchess said that she’d been distressed for the past two days. The murder happened today. What were your troubles yesterday, your Royal Highness? Did they involve the marquess? Do you have any suspicions as to who might have murdered him?”

  Freddie looked at me.

  Then she swooned into my arms.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ulga tried to take Freddie’s limp body from me. Tallarico let forth a burst of Italian protests, but I ignored them both. I carried the Royal Duchess upstairs to her bedchamber, Ulga following in our wake until we were at the door. The maid swung open the portal, then lit candles at the bedside and burned feathers to wave under her mistress’s nose.

  Hero and Georgicus looked up at our entrance from their place at the foot of Freddie’s bed. I recognized two other dogs, Legacy and Minney, slumbering by the empty fireplace with three of their puppies.

  I laid the Royal Duchess tenderly upon her bed. The skirts of her aquamarine gown with its small train spread across the coverlet. As I let her head fall gently on her pillow, every protective instinct in me cried out with the desire to remove all the unhappiness from her life. I could start by discovering the whereabouts of that blasted letter and the identity of Lord Kendrick’s murderer.

  If only I could do these things, I told myself, then Freddie and I could close the distance that had sprung up between us. We could return to the way things had been the evening of her birthday.

  Even as the thought formed in my mind, a doubt crept in behind it.

  “Excuse me, please,” Ulga said. She carried the smoldering feathers held over a porcelain dish.

  The dogs sat up, sniffing the air with interest. Hero moved to nudge Freddie’s hand with his wet black nose, then licked it hopefully. He cocked his head at his mistress, who did not respond. Georgicus adjusted his position so that he laid against Freddie’s limbs.

  I took a step back while the maid administered to Freddie. On a table stood a decanter of sherry. I poured a small amount into a crystal glass.

  “Ulga,” Freddie murmured a moment later.

  “Do not try to get up, your Royal Highness,” Ulga advised. She put the dish with the feathers aside. “You fainted and are safe in your bedchamber now.”

  “Oh, dear. I cannot remember ever fainting before today. Now I have done it twice. What will people think?” Freddie said, her hand automatically going to stroke Hero. Her touch triggered a direct response via the enthusiastic wagging of his plumy tail.

  “That you were overcome from the events of the day,” I answered quietly. Ulga’s lips folded at my intrusion.

  Freddie gave a start, her hand dropping from the dog, then she looked at me. Her expression was guarded. “George, did you carry me upstairs? I must rise.”

  “Yes, I did carry you. Stay where you are comfortable, and do not concern yourself with the proprieties. I shall remain but a few minutes. Here, drink a bit of this sherry.”

  Ulga moved to place another pillow behind her mistress’s head. As Freddie lifted herself to a sitting position, the dogs slid closer. Freddie accepted the glass from my hand, her fingers like ice.

  Watching her take a sip, I said, “I wish you would leave the matter of the marquess’s demise and the letter to me.” I held up a hand against any protests. “Now I know you have hired Mr. Lavender to uncover the killer, and while I cannot think it wise, I accept it. We shall all have to go back to London, even Mr. Lavender. That is where everyone who attended the house party will be, with the exceptions of Doctor Wendell and Squire Oxberry. Old Dawe will be here to forward any correspondence to you in Town. With him doing so, and the two of us in London, we will be aware if anyone attempts to continue Lord Kendrick’s blackmail scheme.”

  Freddie shuddered. “I know I said I would come to Town after the house party, but you cannot expect me to keep that promise after what has happened.”

  Ulga nodded her agreement, then subsided into a chair under my hostile gaze.

  “Freddie, you must listen to me. As unpleasant as it is, word of Lord Kendrick’s murder at Oatlands is probably all around London already. You must appear in Town, above suspicion, above reproach, with your usual air of dignity.”

  She looked away and began to pet Hero again. “I do not want to go to London. I want to stay here with my dogs. They love me. I can trust them.”

  Only with the greatest of self-control did I refrain from comment on yours truly’s feelings and trustworthiness.

  A moment passed, then she said, “Very well, I shall remove to St. James’s Palace on Monday. I need the next two days to organise the household. I should also pay my final respects to Lord Kendrick. It would look odd in the neighbourhood if I did not.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  “George,” she said, turning her gaze to me. “I think it best if you leave Oatlands since almost everyone else has.”

  What of Victor Tallarico? I wanted to shout. Are you going to tell him to leave as well? “I shall return to the drawing room and inform everyone you are recovered and resting. You will find me gone in the morning.”

  “You may call on me at the Palace to apprise me of your efforts to obtain the letter.”

  I made her a bow.

  Ulga stood waiting with the door open. Happy to see me go, no doubt. I paused next to her and spoke in a low voice, “Take care of her.”

  Ulga’s shoulders went back. “I alvays do.”

  Not like you, was the silent message I read in the maid’s eyes.

  I walked down the corridor, hearing the door close behind me.

  Downstairs, Mr. Lavender, Victor Tallarico, and Doctor Wendell sat in the drawing room.

  I told them of Freddie’s condition, adding that she would arrive in London on Monday.

  Mr. Lavender said, “That’s good news.” He pulled a small ivory box from one of his pockets, darting a look at me. I knew the box contained toothpicks. I also knew it had a tiny round turquoise stone in the centre of the lid. How did I know this? Because I personally had gifted the Scotsman with it after he once saved my life.

  He popped a toothpick in his mouth and was about to put away the box when he examined it more closely. I knew what was coming next and tried not to cringe. Sure enough, Mr. Lavender spat on the top of the box, then rubbed
it on his sleeve to clean it before putting it away. I shuddered.

  He spoke around the toothpick. “Squire Oxberry has gone to bed. He is cooperating with me regarding the investigation and will let me know of any developments here in the countryside. I needn’t stay overnight.”

  “You are going to set out for Town at this late hour?” Victor Tallarico asked. “What about the highwayman who has been plaguing the area?”

  “Highwayman?” Mr. Lavender sat forward in his chair.

  I waved a careless hand, wishing I could choke the Italian. But wait, Tallarico’s mention of the highwayman surely meant Freddie had not confided in him about the letter. If she had, he never would have broached the subject.

  I answered the Bow Street man’s question. “A mere country nuisance. He will not bother a man dressed as you are, riding on horseback. Er, I assume you came on horseback.”

  Mr. Lavender’s bushy eyebrows came together. “I did. I’ll go now, but when I get back to Town, I’ll want to speak with you again, Mr. Brummell.”

  “I hold myself flattered,” I replied, giving him my most elegant bow.

  He scowled. “I’ll want to talk to everyone involved in this again, and will be asking the Royal Duchess for a list of all in attendance at the house party. Not until Monday, though,” he said, jamming a hat shaped like a coal-scuttle on his head. “Tomorrow I’ll find out where the people mentioned here tonight are residing in London. Sunday is the Sabbath. We honour the Sabbath in the Lavender household.”

  With that remark he was gone. I turned my attention to Tallarico. “I expect you will be leaving in the morning.”

  “I had not decided.”

  “Now you have,” I said.

  He met my steady gaze and shrugged. “Dio mio, there’s no need to have an apoplexy. I’ll go tomorrow and prepare for her Royal Highness’s arrival in Town. She will need to be kept amused once she arrives.” With a wide smile, he strolled from the room.

  Alone with Doctor Wendell, I poured myself a drink. “Wine, Doctor? I hear it is good for a man.”

  The country doctor looked as if he needed something to console him.

  “Thank you, no. I must return to my home. The county relies upon me for medical services. There might have been a note asking for my assistance left at my door.”

  “Then I suppose you will not follow Miss Cranworth to London,” I said.

  The doctor shook his head, looking miserable. “There is another doctor in the area, but he is miles away and his wife has been ill. Perhaps in a day or two when she improves ....”

  “You may find that the Middlesex Hospital is holding a series of beneficial lectures you would like to hear,” I suggested.

  He looked up at that, a light of hope in his eyes. “Indeed, Mr. Brummell, indeed I shall. In the meantime, if it’s not too much to ask of you, I must beg a favour.”

  “Please do. I am at your service.”

  “Can you look after Miss Cranworth in London?” he asked earnestly. “She is not used to Town ways as it is, not to mention the events of the past few days. With her brother the only one to offer her comfort and guidance, she might be unhappy.”

  My plan was to watch both of the Cranworth siblings, in fact, to call on them, but for different reasons entirely. However, there was certainly no need to alarm Doctor Wendell. “You may be assured I shall. In the meantime, you have my card in case you wish to direct a letter to me.”

  “I do, but I hope to be in London before long.”

  We parted company on the best of terms. He could not know that the thought crossed my mind that his obvious love for Miss Cranworth might provoke him into doing away with the thorn in her side, that thorn being Lord Kendrick.

  I made my way through the quiet house up to my bedchamber. “Robinson, we must leave tomorrow,” I said, as he helped me remove my coat.

  “Sooner than expected, sir. What time shall I wake you?”

  Was that a hint of a smile on Robinson’s face? Was he perhaps anxious to return to his mysterious lady friend in London? Or just happy to be leaving Oatlands dog hair behind?

  “There is no need to rush. You can bring my tea around eleven.”

  “I shall notify the stables to have your coach ready to depart at one o’clock. Am I to ride with you, sir?” he asked, clearly torn between wanting to do so and knowing he would have to share my company with that of the cat. He darted a look at Chakkri, who lay on his stomach, his paws tucked under his breast and his tailed curled into a “C.”

  “Yes, you will come with me this time.” I replied, reminded of the highwayman and the letter. “By the way, did you have an opportunity to find out about Cook and her niece?”

  “Yes, sir. We must eliminate them as suspects.”

  “Oh?”

  “Someone might have told me earlier, but it appears Cook’s niece, Susan, needed medical attention. Susan had been in shock after Lord Kendrick forced himself on her, then last night she took to uncontrollable crying. Cook sought Doctor Wendell, and the two of them stayed up watching over the girl all night and into this morning.”

  “Good God.”

  “Indeed, sir. One of the maids said that Doctor Wendell only left the room to change clothing in Mr. Dawe’s room just before everyone gathered for the trip to the ruins at noon. As for Cook, the maid said that she found her dozing in the bed with Susan. The girl’s hand clutched her aunt’s even in sleep.”

  “That would explain both the difference in quality of the meals served and Doctor Wendell’s haggard looks today,” I mused.

  “It appears so, sir,” Robinson agreed.

  It also appeared that my last hope the killer was not one of the guests at Oatlands had vanished.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ah, London at the height of the Season. Is there anything to compare to it? Provided one is wealthy or powerful, and not preoccupied with a murder investigation.

  The grand balls, parties, assemblies. The theatre, the plays, the opera. Almack’s, the most fashionable of gathering places where so many matches between members of the cream of Society are made. Hyde Park where birds fly overhead while Birds of Paradise, Soiled Doves, Peacocks, Cocks of the Walk, and Pigeons Ripe for Plucking stroll the grounds or show themselves to advantage—in their new high-perched phaetons—alongside the members of the Beau Monde. One must be seen, admired, envied.

  Alas, I had other things on my mind.

  Saturday near the hour of three o’clock, I arrived home at No.l8 Bruton Street. Crossing the black-and-white tiled hall, I ascended the stairs to my bedchamber, lidded basket in hand. Robinson trailed behind lugging my valises.

  The occupant of the basket, heretofore silent, commenced a shuffling, murmuring and finally a loud “reow!” sensing he was home at last. The supreme happiness of his feline heart knew no bounds.

  No longer would Chakkri be disturbed by the disagreeable sounds of dogs barking, whimpering, howling, woofing, or growling. No clicking of dog paws on the hallway outside where the Prince of Fur slept would interrupt his slumber. No stray dog hairs would float through cracks into His Catly Highness’s realm to cause a delicate sneeze or ten. No barbaric canine sniffing at the bottom of the door to his chamber would cause Lord Feline to lift his dark nose into the air and his mouth to open an inch, the whisker pads curled back a bit in haughty disdain. A cause for celebration indeed.

  “Here we are, Chakkri,” I said, opening the door to my bedchamber and releasing the cat. He hopped out of the basket with the agility of an opera dancer. After a quick, satisfied survey of the room, he disappeared behind a black lacquered screen set up in one corner. This area contains his sand-tray.

  The selection of the tray where Chakkri conducts his private business had been left to Robinson when the cat first joined our household last autumn. The valet had chosen a particular porcelain container given to me by a member of the merchant class who hoped to gain my favour. The thing is ivory-coloured with gold trim. In the exact centre, the artist has painted a
detailed likeness of yours truly complete with tall hat, perfectly tied cravat, and raised quizzing glass. Robinson’s idea of revenge.

  I stripped off my gloves, and laid my dog’s head walking stick on a table between two high-backed chairs angled toward the cold fireplace. My chamber contains every luxury a gentleman of fashion could want: a spacious, tented bed with ivory silk hangings, a handsome dressing table, a set of mahogany wardrobes marching in a row down one wall, a fine floral-patterned Oriental carpet, engravings and paintings upon which to gaze, as well as my superb collection of prized Sevres porcelain resting on a crescent-shaped console table.

  Furthermore, the chamber runs the length of the house, with large windows on either end from which Chakkri can monitor the activities of passersby both human and avian.

  Speaking of the devil, Chakkri emerged from behind the screen, stretching his fawn-coloured body to its utmost length. He walked on elegant legs to the bed, elevated himself to the top of the coverlet, and rolled around on his back enjoying the smooth feel of the satin. At one point during this performance, he looked at me upside down. I could not resist reaching out and stroking his incredibly soft fur. This seemed to relax him enough to shed his inhibitions, curl into a ball, and, after a sigh of deep contentment, drift into sleep.

  While Chakkri might loll about, there was no time for me to enjoy the comforts of home. I had some investigating to do. All during the ride back to London from Oatlands, I had concentrated on the matter of the missing letter and Lord Kendrick’s murder. Questions formed in my mind, some of which I hoped to have answers for today. I had thought of a plan which might lead me to the identity of Lord Kendrick’s accomplice in his highwayman scheme. If I could find that ruffian, I might find the letter.

  When Robinson entered the room carrying a second set of valises, I was already extracting an Egyptian-blue coat out of the wardrobe. “Robinson, after you have put those down, bring me some water so I might wash before changing clothes.”

  “Very well, sir. You are going out?”