The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  Or the heavy instrument might serve me well as a weapon. I had had to leave my dog’s head cane with its deadly swordstick at home for the sake of my costume.

  “I shall take this as well,” I told him.

  I donned the long black cape and fastened the new red plume into a tall black hat and placed it on my head. The garments completely covered my normal evening attire. With the black mask across my eyes, no one would know me unless I chose to reveal my identity.

  No one, of course, except Neal.

  I picked up the silver wand and left the shop. The night was fine, but patches of fog marred the view to the stars above. Paying the hackney driver, I paused outside the King’s Theatre, deliberately delaying my entrance in case Neal had already been successful, had the blue velvet book, and had come to find me. One could hope.

  I bided my time and read a nearby placard: “No person will be admitted without a mask and either a domino, fancy, or character dress. Ice creams, tea, coffee, lemonade, orangeaid & c. will be abundantly supplied.”

  A couple, the man dressed as a shepherd accompanied by a giggling bo-peep walked past me. The rules of behaviour at these entertainments state that one had to remain in character of the part one was playing all evening. Whispers often went around Town that high-born ladies would appear as flower girls or house-maids. I distracted myself imagining Sylvester Fairingdale forced to play the role of a peasant in peasant’s clothing all evening. Likely he would be dressed better than ever before.

  Finally I checked my pocketwatch. After ten. Deciding I had lingered long enough, I followed a harlequin and two sailors inside the large theatre. The benches had been moved out of the pit, making the floor one large area, the scene of abandon. There is something, you know, about putting a mask over one’s face and assuming another identity that makes people ignore the conventions of Society.

  An orchestra played a bawdy tune to the delight of pilgrims, and priests. Bears danced, devils and Quakers cavorted together, and a red-haired goddess from mythology struggled to free herself from the grip of a clown.

  “Take your pulse, sir!” a man dressed as a doctor yelled at me, grabbing my wrist. I raised the silver wand and, I give you my word, he disappeared.

  My gaze swung back to the lady with the dark red hair, a notion growing in my mind. When the enraged female swung the torch with its paper flames she carried at the clown’s head, I moved forward.

  “Begone from this lady,” I said in a theatrical voice, raising the length of silver high. The clown stumbled drunkenly away, leaving me looking into a pair of emerald-green eyes behind a purple mask. “Er, Miss Lavender?”

  “Mr. Brummell, it is you, isn’t it? I’d recognise that cool grey gaze anywhere,” she cried, adjusting the folds of her purple pleated robe around her. But not before I had a delightful glimpse of her bare arms.

  Too late, I questioned the wisdom of approaching her. The Bow Street man’s daughter was the last woman I needed on my hands when I was expecting a thief to deliver stolen goods. Yet, what was I to do, leave her to that bully? She can take good care of herself, true, but this was different, I told myself. It had nothing whatsoever to do with that expanse of milk-white flesh on view.

  I bowed in front of her, lifting my tall hat. “I am at your service. Only tell me, which of the goddesses are you here representing?”

  “Aurora, for she announces the beginning of a new day.”

  “I see.” And I also saw the sparkling dots on the white muslin that formed Miss Lavender’s clinging gown.

  “I’d no idea a Masquerade could be so depraved, else I never would have wasted my guinea,” Miss Lavender said, overwrought.

  I tore my eyes from her curves. The dress was tied at the waist, you understand, giving me the opportunity to study Miss Lavender’s figure. I fully believe one should seize opportunities thrown one’s way in life.

  Then, for the first time, I became aware that the Scottish girl was trembling. I reached out and adjusted the purple cape, which had slipped behind her exposed shoulder again. “You should not have come here alone.”

  “You’re right about that. Will you escort me to Croft’s Masquerade Warehouse in Fleet Street where I obtained this costume? I can change clothes there and go home.”

  I hesitated. Here was a coil. How could I leave the theatre before Neal sent word? I looked around wildly, searching for an excuse to remain a short time longer. I must be certain no harm would come to Miss Lavender. “Would you not care to view the shrouded corpse in its coffin on view? Or what about Jack Horner over in his corner?”

  “No, I wish to leave. If you are indeed a conjurer, pray conjure a hackney for me,” she replied. “I can’t like what’s going on here.”

  At that moment, the orchestra broke into Carlo Vernet’s La Folie du Jour, and people began performing the daring new valse from Germany. Miss Lavender looked about as couples held each other and turned round and round, gliding about the room.

  Without my permission, my mouth opened and I said, “Would you not like to try the new dance? Even the Prince has done so, just last year in Brighton.”

  “You want to dance with me?” Green eyes sparkled with sudden interest. “I shouldn’t with someone that I wasn’t acquainted with, but since it’s only you, Mr. Brummell, I’ll feel quite safe.” Miss Lavender held out her arms.

  This artless remark had the most astonishing effect upon me.

  I reached for the torch she carried and tossed it and my sorcerer’s stick into the coffin with the corpse.

  I then placed the palms of my hands against Miss Lavender’s sides and pulled her close to me. Safe indeed! Her lips parted in surprise, yet she clung to me as I guided her into the mass of swaying couples. I held her even closer.

  We carried on this way for some minutes.

  You know, I find I quite like this new valse. And did someone say that red hair was not the fashion? Not I. On the contrary, I find that red hair is the loveliest of all the shades.

  I must also report that so pleasant was this new dance, that I had quite forgotten about Neal, the blue velvet book, and possibly even my own name, until a wigged footman with a highly painted face tapped me on the shoulder. I brought Miss Lavender and myself to a halt, noting the rise and fall of her chest. The dance had left her breathless.

  “Your property has been recovered, sir. It awaits you outside the theatre,” the footman told me. Then he, like the doctor earlier, disappeared into the crowd.

  “What did he mean, Mr. Brummell?” Miss Lavender queried.

  I looked back at her, still in the circle of my arms. I released my hold. “Nothing. He was playing his role as footman, I expect.”

  I must get away from her. Now. I must meet Neal.

  Just then a cry of alarm sounded from the area of the entryway. People began swarming out of the theatre. “Murder!” shouted a voice.

  With Miss Lavender’s hand in mine, I hastened toward the exit and out into the cobblestone street. An odd picture it presented, with all manner of cupids, gypsies, even kings and queens standing outside the King’s Theatre, gaping at a spot on the dewy stone street. A thin fog hung over the area, but the lamps from a coach made the outline of the body on the pavement easy to see. Two constables guarded it.

  Miss Lavender drew in her breath sharply, her hand clutched mine tightly.

  Minus the slightest of doubts, I knew in an instant the deceased could only be Neal. I saw the grotesque way the body had fallen on the cobblestones on its stomach, the side of his face with the red birthmark a splash of colour against the pavement. A small hole, for one so deadly, tore the back of his coat.

  Roger. It could only have been Roger that had committed such a cowardly act as shooting a man in the back. He had caught Neal in the act of pilfering the blue velvet book, perhaps topped my offer of a roll of guineas as reward for the return of the book, pried the information as to where he was to meet me out of him, then shot the thief and sent that “footman” to tell me.


  All these thoughts went through my head at lightning speed. As everyone stared and pointed at the body, the sounds of another carriage coming down the street, the link boy guiding the way and yelling “Bow Street!” reached us.

  Too late I remembered Miss Lavender at my side. I suppressed a groan thinking of the depth of Mr. Lavender’s disapproval of any sort of contact between myself and his daughter. Should I ease her away before any confrontation? I went to withdraw my hand from hers, but she tightened her grip. I moved my fingers back into place. Perhaps we would escape Mr. Lavender’s notice.

  She had another idea. When the Scotsman alighted from the vehicle, his daughter cried out, “Father!”

  I am ashamed to admit that for the space of a second, I considered turning and making a mad dash down the street.

  Instead, I remained where I was. Mr. Lavender had just begun examining the murdered man when he heard his daughter’s voice. He swung round and located her amongst the crowd. In her goddess attire. One shoulder exposed to public view. Her hand in mine.

  Mr. Lavender’s eyes popped from his head as if on wires. “Lydia!” Motioning to the two constables to remain with the body, he began making his way towards us.

  At that juncture, in order to keep all the curious present from knowing my identity, I thought it prudent to meet the Bow Street man halfway, out of the earshot of onlookers. So I walked Miss Lavender around the deadly scene into her father’s care.

  When she reached him, Miss Lavender flung her arms around her father, leaving him eyeing me warily over her head. A faint air of cherry pipe smoke clung to him.

  “Oh Father, I should never have come here. It’s only that when Mr. Brummell told me about the Grand Masquerade earlier today when I was at his house ....” she broke off on a sob.

  Mr. Lavender took a knife from his pocket and filleted me from stem to stern. I saw it all happen in his eyes in that instant when he realised it was me there with his daughter, holding her hand—and that she had been to my house! Mentally I wondered who would take care of Chakkri after I was gone.

  “Mr. Brummell, I asked you a question,” the Scotsman growled in a low voice. “What are you doing with my daughter?”

  Amazed to find myself still alive, I spoke. “It was the merest chance that we happened upon one another. Shall I see Miss Lavender safely back to Fetter Lane while you deal with this ... unpleasantness?”

  I noticed that Mr. Lavender’s fists—balled at his sides—were quite large. “No,” he said, popping a toothpick into his mouth and grinding his teeth against it. “Lydia, get in the carriage and wait for me there. I’ll have a report on this killing and join you in a moment. Then you’ll tell me how you came to be here in Mr. Brummell’s company and why you went to his house.”

  Miss Lavender obeyed him, which should tell you the depth of her distress at seeing the corpse.

  “Well,” I said in a bright tone I was far from feeling. “I shall just let you go about your business, Mr. Lavender. Though I must say it makes one cross the way a fellow cannot travel the London streets without being shot at.” I looked pointedly at Neal’s body.

  And froze.

  For I could see a glint of silver. In death, Neal grasped something in his hands. My blue velvet book with its silver corners.

  Mr. Lavender must have seen it at that exact moment. He pushed past me, promising that he would speak with me later. He bent down and turned the body over. Then the Bow Street man’s fingers closed around the blue velvet book.

  I give you my word it felt like his thick fingers closed around my neck.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sleep eluded me that night. Reason told me that even if Roger had kept Freddie’s letter in the blue velvet book before, when he killed Neal—and I did believe he was the murderer—he would have removed the letter from the blue velvet book. He would not want to lose his valuable piece of blackmail material, after all. I need not worry that Freddie’s letter was now in Mr. Lavender’s hands.

  Yet I could not be certain. If Roger were inventive, might he not have had a copy of the letter written out and left in the book? That way, yours truly could be arrested, and Roger’s way would be clear to blackmail Freddie with no one to stop him.

  But no, the scandal would be made public at that point. Roger would lose his hold over Freddie then. So what was Roger’s plan? Why had he left the book at the scene of the crime?

  Ah, of course to implicate me in the death of a common thief. That made more sense. With me out of the way, busy defending myself to Bow Street, Roger’s path to blackmailing Freddie would be clear.

  I paced my bedchamber, trying to form a strategy that would allow me to remain a step ahead of Bow Street and Roger Cranworth. Who had killed twice.

  Around seven in the morning, I rang for Robinson. The valet made not a murmur of protest about the early hour. I tell you, I do not know which is worse, his complaining or this eagerness to make amends.

  By nine I was seated in my book-room, clad in my Eton-blue coat over buff breeches. Chakkri, wise entity that he is, spent a restful night in the exact centre of my bed, dined this morning on Andre’s special scrambled eggs with cheese sauce, and was presently ready for his extended morning nap. The cat scanned the lined shelves of books, but chose to hop up onto the small revolving bookcase that sits on the other side of my desk near a chair. He entwined his fawn-coloured body around the finial, curled his tail into the letter “C” and promptly fell asleep.

  “Lucky devil,” I muttered. Drawing a sheet of vellum from the desk drawer, I put pen to paper and began answering correspondence. My mind was only half on what I wrote, though. I was really waiting for Mr. Lavender. Once he comprehended the book was mine, he would be on my doorstep.

  I did not write to Freddie. Better to wait until later in the day when I might know more. Then there was the chance she might take pity on me if she knew I was writing from jail.

  The knocker sounded a scant twenty minutes later. I continued my writing, not even glancing up when Robinson announced Mr. Lavender. “Send him in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I resumed writing, my demeanor unconcerned.

  The Scotsman entered the room with my blue velvet book in hand.

  I tried to bluff. “Good God, however did you find that? Sit down, Mr. Lavender. I shall take that book from you. Have you got my stolen clothing as well?”

  Mr. Lavender let the book drop with a loud thud on top of the desk right under my nose. My hands itched with the desire to flip through the pages and see if, by some miracle, the letter was there.

  The Scotsman never took his eyes off me as he lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk. “That is your book, then, Mr. Brummell?”

  As if I could deny ownership when right on the first page my name was engraved in gold. I forced myself to casually go through the pages, tsking occasionally. “Of course it is mine. Dear me, that drawing Lady Perry gave me of Perry playing the pianoforte is missing.”

  “Stop your playacting, Mr. Brummell. You knew exactly where the book was. Neal had it.” Mr. Lavender, minus his toothpick today, his face hard as granite, was all business.

  I assumed my best foolish dandy expression, all the while continuing to examine the book. Freddie’s letter was not there, dash it. “Er, yes, I knew the highwayman—Neal I believe Lionel said his name was—had the book unless he had sold it for the price of these silver corners.”

  Mr. Lavender glared at me in complete disbelief. “You can’t think I’d believe you hadn’t found that ugly customer, Neal, and talked with him, tried to buy your things back.”

  “Why? I avoid ugly customers, as you say, as a rule.”

  “That was Neal Snure’s body on the street last night outside the King’s Theatre.”

  I sighed. “That alters the case amazingly. I shall never find my clothes now. At least I have my book.”

  Mr. Lavender shot to his feet and used both hands to brace himself against the desk. “Had you spoken to Nea
l Snure about your clothes and this book?”

  “Why should I? Once I knew your daughter had told you his name, I assumed you would handle the matter.”

  Mr. Lavender glared at me. “Last night when I found this book and saw your name in it, I had a bad feeling. In fact, Mr. Brummell, most times I hear your name or see your face I have a bad feeling.”

  “I say!” I protested. “That is a touch harsh.”

  “When the body was identified as that of Neal, that bad feeling grew into some mighty strong suspicions. You hunted him down, didn’t you?”

  I made a steeple of my fingers and smiled amiably. “Do you really think me so clever, then? I am flattered.”

  The Scotsman pointed a finger at me. “I won’t address that remark. What I want to know, laddie, and you’ll be telling me this instant, is why. Why is that book in front of you so important?”

  “This book? What makes you think I care about it? Here, you can have it back if you need it as evidence. It holds only sentimental value for me as you must know. No doubt you have been through it. Mind, I shall want it returned to me when you are done.”

  “Don’t think you can trick me and wheedle your way around the subject,” the Bow Street man said, his voice rising. Then, in a normal, but no less menacing tone he said, “You wouldn’t have raised one of your finely manicured hands to locate those clothes. It was that book you were after. Now the thief is dead.”

  “The lives of thieves are seldom long are they?”

  “I find it all mortal curious. You’re not that sentimental a man. Here’s something else that’s curious, Mr. Brummell. You leave London to attend a party at Oatlands. Your clothes and that book are stolen along the way, then—”

  “We have already established that a highwayman had been plaguing the area.”

  Again the finger pointed at me. “Don’t be interrupting,” he said, burring his “r.” “Lord Kendrick is murdered at Oatlands for a reason I have yet to determine, though I have some ideas. While I am at Oatlands, The Royal Duchess confesses to me that she has been upset for two days. When I question her as to why two days when the murder on her property had only occurred that morning, she faints. You come back to London and immediately hunt down the highwayman rather than poking your quizzing glass round trying to figure out who murdered Lord Kendrick. The thief ends up murdered outside the very place you’re passing the evening.”