The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  Chakkri placed a paw on my arm.

  Absently, I stroked the top of the cat’s head.

  “Because once it was shown to him, Lord Kendrick realised the value of Freddie’s letter to me, that is why. There was no reason to keep up the highwayman scheme with such a plum in hand. But I am getting ahead of myself.

  “Going back to that first night, let us say Neal meets Roger outside the grounds of Oatlands. I can imagine Neal’s conversation with Roger. He was disappointed there had been no jewellry in the coach he had robbed—mine—but there were some very fine clothes. And this book covered in blue velvet.”

  “Reow,” said Chakkri, pushing his head into my hand. I had momentarily stopped petting him, a crime in his view.

  “Roger takes the blue velvet scrapbook. He tells Neal to go back to London and sell the clothes, then return for further instructions.

  “Evidently, Neal never returned to Weybridge. He probably kept some of the money from Mr. Kirkhead’s rag shop and bought more opium for himself.

  “As for Roger, once he glanced through the pages, he must have known the blue velvet book was mine. My name appeared on the first page, on the letters, at the bottom of poems authored by me, on the drawings. Why did he not come to Freddie or me after reading Freddie’s letter, demanding money?”

  Chakkri mumbled a reply through purrs.

  “Of course! Roger must not understand French! Freddie’s letter was written in French. So then what?” Excited, I got out of bed and began to pace.

  Chakkri shook himself.

  “Roger has the blue velvet book. Lord Kendrick and Roger Cranworth are at odds over the fact the marquess will not marry Cecily. They argue. Perhaps Roger threatens to reveal Lord Kendrick’s participation in the highwayman scheme if the marquess continues to refuse to marry Cecily.”

  I thought hard. What exactly had Freddie reported overhearing during the argument between the two men in her drawing room? I snapped my fingers. “Lord Kendrick told Roger that if he dared make any accusations or went against him, he would go to Squire Oxberry. I had thought at the time the men were arguing over a breach of promise suit, but I was wrong. Lord Kendrick must have threatened to tell the Squire that Roger had been behind the robberies. That would neatly serve two purposes: make the marquess look the part of a hero, and absolve him from any suspicion. For who would believe Roger if he tried to incriminate Lord Kendrick once the marquess had pointed the finger at him?”

  Chakkri sat on his hind legs at the edge of the bed watching me.

  “That must be what happened, old boy. Roger must have been scared. But he had my blue velvet book. As a last ditch effort, he must have told the marquess about it, ignorant of the book’s true value, but hoping to keep the marquess in the game. Remember? Freddie said that Roger had asked Lord Kendrick to come up to his room, that he had something to show him.”

  “Reow!”

  “Yes, it all makes sense. Lord Kendrick, being better educated, must have read Freddie’s letter, understood it, and immediately hatched the plan to blackmail her. But he certainly did not tell Roger Cranworth. Why would he? He would not have wanted to share this golden egg dropped into his lap. I imagine he may have even slipped the letter into his pocket and thrown the book back to Roger saying it was worthless. That way, Lord Kendrick could keep his blackmail scheme to himself, and Roger still had no hold over him regarding the marquess’s promise to marry Cecily.

  “Now Lord Kendrick did not have to obey Freddie’s command to leave Oatlands. He felt in control of her, and me. He began exercising that control immediately when he told Freddie he had the letter, and later when he boasted to me during the picnic.”

  I stopped pacing and looked at the cat. “But I cannot be certain that Lord Kendrick separated Freddie’s letter from the blue velvet book. I have no evidence that he did. The letter might still be tucked away in the blue velvet book.”

  The question remained: Where was the letter?

  My brain galloped along. Roger had been so smug at Lady Salisbury’s party. He had asked me for my direction. He had said he would be calling on me. Most importantly, he had asked if Freddie had arrived in London! Could it be?

  “I think so, Chakkri. Roger must have somehow—and I know not how—found out about the importance of the letter and its contents.”

  The cat lowered his head and licked a spot on his chest.

  I felt a strong measure of frustration mixed with success. I might have deduced that Roger had the letter—perhaps it even now rested back inside the pages of the blue velvet book—but how long would it be before Freddie and I were put in immediate danger again? For who knew what Roger’s demands would be? I would have to get the letter from Roger. But how?

  If I barged into his lodgings and demanded it, there could be a nasty scene, probably resulting in fisticuffs. I could best him, I knew, but if he and I were subsequently both seen publicly sporting bruises, that would not do. Timing and discretion in this entire matter were paramount.

  Wait a moment. Perhaps there was another avenue to explore first. Why not approach Neal—plenty of coins in hand—and see if he might be able to return the blue velvet book and letter to me and foil Roger’s plans? Why not indeed.

  I climbed into bed. One vital question still remained: Was Roger Cranworth angry enough at Lord Kendrick for ruining all his plans that he drove that sharp length of jet into the marquess’s neck?

  “I believe I have the killer, Chakkri.”

  “Reow!” said Chakkri, curling his tail into a “C.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Sunday morning, while the rest of Mayfair felt compelled to put in an appearance at fashionable St. George’s Church, I was on my way to that part of London most in need of transformation.

  Seven Dials had got its name because seven streets met at the base of a Doric pillar which housed a clock with seven faces. The old column with the clock had been taken down about thirty years ago, but the name of the area remained.

  I took a hackney coach to The Jolly Cow in Little White Lion Street. Alighting from the vehicle, I argued for several minutes with the coachman. He did not want to wait for me in this part of London. As is so often the case, money solved the problem.

  Following Lionel’s—or Lion as I now called him—line of thinking, I judged that if the inhabitants of The Jolly Cow were up late drinking and reveling, they would not be awake early. Thus my chances of finding Neal before he rose and went about his criminal life would be good.

  The theory proved accurate.

  I had to pound on the door until the owner, a rotund, moon-faced man, let me inside. Do I need to tell you that coins changed hands before the proprietor was so accommodating?

  On a straw pallet behind the bar, a wiry man dressed in dirty clothes snored. He lay on his side, the red birthmark on his cheek in plain sight.

  I nudged him with my dog’s head cane.

  He came awake and was on his feet instantly, in the manner of one always on the alert for trouble. His red-shot eyes looked me over from shining Hessian boots to the top of my head.

  “Neal, I am George Brummell. I have business with you, business that could be quite profitable.”

  The thief was a raw nerve. He blinked rapidly at my use of his name. “Do I know you?”

  “Not exactly. You are familiar with some of my clothing, I believe, having sold it to Mr. Kirkhead in Monmouth Street.” Sensing he was about to either bolt, or strike me, I waved a careless hand. “I am unconcerned about the loss. I have plenty more clothing.”

  Neal scratched the back of his left hand. “What’s yer business then and how much money?”

  I framed my answer carefully. After all, it would hardly do for Neal to get wind of just how valuable the blue velvet book and the letter were. I removed a silver shilling from my waistcoat pocket and held it between my gloved fingertips. “I merely want the answers to some questions first.”

  Neal nodded his head, the greasy, stringy strands of his hair
barely moving. “As long as I gets the coin.”

  “You shall have it in your possession in moments.”

  “Ask away.”

  “You are employed by Roger Cranworth?”

  Neal hesitated but a moment. “Not any more. Gone all respectable on me. Got hisself engaged to a lady. Took rooms in Curzon Street. Discharged me and said he’d hired a proper butler.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “He found me late Friday night, might have been Saturday by that time of mornin’. He told me then.”

  “Did he pay you to be quiet about the Weybridge robberies?”

  Neal snorted. “So what? You’re payin’ me to talk. I think I’ve already earned that coin.”

  I nodded politely. “Agreed.” I handed it over to him. He grabbed it and held on to it for dear life. Or opium.

  I reached into my pocket and produced the equivalent of five shillings, a crown-piece.

  “A whole coachwheel?” Neal’s expression grew crafty. I thought it prudent at that moment to release the mechanism on my dog’s head cane. With a loud click in the quiet room, the sharp swordstick came into view. Neal looked from the blade back to me.

  Holding the crown where he could see it at all times, I said, “Last Tuesday, you robbed a coach in Weybridge. There was a manservant carrying a small dog in the coach.”

  “Heh heh heh, I remember. Prig of a gent. Shoutin’ at me while holdin’ on to that dog. The dog bit him.”

  “What did you take from the manservant?”

  “Couple cases with only clothes inside. I didn’t think they were worth much. No offense iffen they were yours. Plain they were, not a bit of lace in sight.”

  Later he must have found the value of the clothes to be high, unless Mr. Kirkhead had cheated him, which I would not be surprised to learn. “Anything else? Think hard.”

  “The cases the clothes were packed in were mighty fine. Oh, and some blue book covered in fancy velvet with silver corners.”

  My heart leapt rather uncomfortably in my chest, but I remained outwardly calm. “What did you do with everything?”

  “I met up with Roger as planned. He told me to sell the clothes and the cases. He kept the book.”

  “You are doing very well, Neal. Here, you have earned the extra coin.” I handed him the crown. I could tell he wanted to run to the nearest place where he could purchase opium. From my pocket, I then removed the biggest lure: a gold guinea.

  Neal licked his lips.

  “I am a sentimental man, much to my regret,” I bemoaned. “That blue velvet book contained poems and letters of value only to me. I want it back. I cannot just ask Roger Cranworth myself. These matters between gentlemen can become awkward, you understand. To your knowledge, does Roger still have the book?”

  “I know he does. I seen it. I seen it myself.”

  Lying, I thought. He probably lies with the regularity of rainfall. We locked gazes. He must be assuming Roger still has the book and that he can steal it from Roger’s rooms. That was fine with me. As I have said, I did not wish to try to break into Roger’s lodgings myself. Yet.

  I held the gold guinea up to the light. In the most casual voice I could muster I said, “If you would be so kind as to get the blue velvet book and bring it to me, this is yours.”

  “I will,” he cried, unable to contain his excitement. Though whether it was the thought of the guinea that thrilled him, or the opium the money in his hand would purchase.

  If he was going to get the book—and hopefully the letter—for me, the sooner the better. If he was bluffing, I needed to know that. Time was critical. On the other hand, if I demanded Neal go immediately, the thief might steal the book then see who would give him the most money for it: Roger or me.

  “When will you have the book?” I asked.

  Neal considered. With the money I had given him, I suddenly realised he could be in an opium fog for days. I felt like kicking myself, but, no, money had been necessary if I were to pry information out of him.

  “I could have it for you by the end of the week,” was the reply.

  I made as if to leave. “I am afraid that will not do. I am a busy man. Tomorrow night would be the longest I would be willing to wait for it. If you do not think you can get it for me by then, I must hire someone else to do the job. I know where in Curzon Street Mr. Cranworth is residing. So you see it would be quite simple for me to offer my gold guinea to someone else.”

  Neal fidgeted like a five year old. “I’ll get it for you by then. Not many parties and such on Sunday, but Roger will be out tomorrow night, I’d wager. He always is when he’s in London. Miss Cranworth might be home—”

  “Miss Cranworth is not to be harmed in any way, is that quite clear?” I demanded harshly.

  “Fine, fine! No need to get all riled up. I’ll get the book and bring it to you tomorrow by midnight. How’s that? Where do you live?”

  I struggled for calm, feeling myself closer than ever to retrieving Freddie’s letter. Most especially, here was my chance to get it back before Roger Cranworth could begin blackmailing Freddie and me. Freddie was not in Town yet, though she had said she would arrive tomorrow. Once I had Freddie’s letter, I could give Mr. Lavender certain details about the house party that I had previously withheld from him carefully edited, of course.

  “Perhaps it would be best if you were not seen at my house.” My gaze fell to a copy of the Times lying on the bar. I picked it up and scanned the front page. “There is to be a Grand Masquerade tomorrow night at the King’s Theatre in Haymarket. Send word to me there once you have the book. I shall be wearing a black domino and a tall black hat with a red plume.”

  Neal started scratching again. “Seems a lot of trouble just to conduct a bit of business.”

  “Meeting in a public place would be best for both our safety,” I pronounced in a tone that would tolerate no argument.

  Neal nodded. “Just be sure to have the yellowboy.”

  “I give you my word.”

  * * * *

  I walked to Hyde Park Sunday afternoon to make the circuit of the Park. Since I had appeared at Lady Salisbury’s ball last night, knowledge that I had once again taken up Society’s amusements would be known. I must continue to frequent fashionable places to give an impression of normalcy.

  After my trip to Seven Dials, I had felt dirty. I had ordered hot water and a change of clothing. Because of the late hour I had returned to Bruton Street last night and the early hour I had departed the house this morning, a nap had also been needed before I dressed to go out.

  Hyde Park was crowded. As I greeted numerous acquaintances, some by just a doffing of my hat, the sun shone brightly above. Later I planned to call on Lord and Lady Perry to see the new baby. Then a visit to Lady Crecy’s was on my list. I was anxious to see Lady Ariana.

  At that moment, a feminine voice hailed me. I turned to my right to see Miss Lavender, her father grudgingly following behind her, crossing the grass. Her stride was most determined. Now what had her looking so peeved?

  Lion! The boy had told her of his adventures. I had neglected to ask him to remain silent.

  “Mr. Brummell, even from a distance I knew it was you. No one else dresses with such elegant perfection,” she said, a martial light in her emerald eyes.

  I made her a small bow. “Thank you! Ah, Mr. Lavender, keeping to your practice of not working on the Sabbath, I see.” Except in regards to that deuced toothpick jumping up and down between his teeth.

  “Aye, laddie. But I see you’re hard at work.”

  I tilted my head. “Why, what can you mean? I am merely enjoying a spring stroll.”

  “Working twenty-four hours a day to stave off your boredom is how I see it. I reckon I should be glad you’re not poking your nose in Bow Street work.”

  A sound suspiciously like a snort came from Miss Lavender. I noted she looked most fetching this afternoon in a light moss-green muslin dress. She said, “No, this time he’s meddling in the Weybridg
e magistrate’s work. He’s trying to find the highwayman that’s struck out that way.”

  “Is that so, Mr. Brummell?” the Bow Street man asked, his interest caught. “And just why would you trouble yourself with a country matter?”

  Before I could reply, Miss Lavender was ahead of me. “It is so, and he’s used an innocent young boy to help him!”

  “My clothes, you know, I had to find out what had become of them,” I explained in my best foolish dandy voice.

  “Faith!” exclaimed Miss Lavender. “That’s what you told me, and I believe you. ‘Twas one thing when you came to me wanting to know the location of the rag-merchants. But then to bribe a boy of two and ten to go into Seven Dials to find a thief. How could you? Even though you said you were concerned for the Royal Duchess’s safety, I still couldn’t believe it when Lionel told me you’d paid him to find the ruffian.”

  Mr. Lavender seemed annoyed at my doing Squire Oxberry’s job. I would wager the news that I had called on his daughter did not sit well with him either. At any rate, his eyes narrowed. “I’m having a hard time believing your stolen clothes were that important to you, Mr. Brummell. What was it that really caused you to expend your energy on such a matter?”

  I hesitated. Mr. Lavender is not stupid. I would have to tell a version of the truth. “As Miss Lavender said, her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York, is a special friend of mine. She must be protected from danger. I felt Squire Oxberry not up to the task. Lionel ran the streets of Seven Dials for the past year. Miss Lavender told me so herself. I thought it safe enough for the boy to help me investigate the robberies.”

  Miss Lavender suddenly averted her gaze from me. “I am beginning to understand the way of things. In your mind even the most remote possibility of the Royal Duchess being set upon by thieves must weigh more in importance to you than a boy’s safety.”

  “That is not true,” I denied with some heat. “I cautioned Lion to be most careful, and he gave me his word that he would be. He knows Seven Dials and grew up under the worst of circumstances. He can take care of himself. Did he tell you I have given him the nickname of Lion, by the way?”