Murder in Grosvenor Square (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 9)

by Ashley Gardner

  Without further speech, he went into the smaller room, taking Brewster with him, and closed the door.

  Grenville and I waited another twenty-five minutes. Marianne stayed upstairs, Denis in my bedchamber. Neither Grenville nor I speculated on who would turn up—I had my suspicions, and whether I’d be proved right or wrong was no matter. Whoever had given the order to kill Gareth would not escape me this night.

  At last, we heard the unlocked door at the bottom of the staircase open, and a heavy tread ascend.

  A man. Well, if he was who I thought he’d be, that fit with one of my theories, but not the other. I was crossing to the door, ready to open it, when another set of footsteps came scurrying with him. This one was lighter and swifter, and then I heard the shrill sound of a woman’s voice—confirming my second theory.

  Grenville and I exchanged a glance of surprise before I moved to the door and flung it open. Two of Denis’s men stepped into the stairwell at the bottom, cutting off retreat, while another stood on the steps leading to Marianne’s flat, preventing any escape that way.

  “Please come in,” I said to the man and woman, who were both red-faced with anger. “We have much to discuss.”

  The pair looked down the stairs and up, realizing they were trapped. Resigned, Lord Percy Saunders walked inside, giving Grenville a cold bow. The woman did not want to follow, but when I reached to haul her in, Mrs. Travers snatched her arm from my grasp and marched in unassisted.

  “Captain Lacey,” Mrs. Travers began before any of us could speak. “I have come for my husband’s property.” Her gaze fell on the book Grenville stood over like a guardian. “That is it. Give it to me.”

  She held out her hand, angry and imperious.

  I regarded her calmly. “How do you suppose it came to be here?” I asked.

  “I can only assume that Leland Derwent stole it from Gareth and for some reason gave it to you,” Mrs. Travers snapped. “What do you want for its return, Captain? Money?”

  I switched my gaze to Lord Percy. “What is your interest, sir?”

  Lord Percy raised his light-brown brows. “The Book of Hours, of course. I paid for it.”

  Mrs. Travers bristled. “Paid, did you? It’s mine. My husband’s. Stolen from us.”

  I moved myself in front of the book. Grenville stood at his ease, giving Lord Percy a cool stare.

  I heard a shout from below, and the door to the street banged open again. “Here, you, get out of the way,” a voice floated up.

  Grenville lifted his brows then went out into the landing. I remained where I was, recognizing the voice—and this time I admit I was surprised. The man went on angrily to Denis’s men as he ascended and entered.

  He was the Honorable Mr. Henry Lawrence, the man we’d interviewed at Brooks’s, who’d first put us on to both Lord Percy and the Bull and Hen. Lawrence halted when he entered, his hazel eyes taking in me, Mrs. Travers, and Lord Percy Saunders waiting for him. He recognized Saunders, of course, but he frowned in perplexity at Mrs. Travers.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Lawrence,” Grenville said, giving the man a little bow. “And what brings you to this quiet lane?”

  Lawrence swept his gaze around the room again. “The summons did. Told me that … Ah …” He saw the Book of Hours lying open on my writing table and fixed upon it. “The transaction is taking place here, now, is it?”

  “Transaction?” Lord Percy asked in irritation. “What the devil are you on about Lawrence?”

  “My purchase of the Book of Hours, of course.”

  Grenville and I exchanged a glance. I had not expected Mr. Lawrence. Denis had not told us whom he’d ensnared, and I hadn’t expected him to catch more than one bird.

  I could not continue without knowing the lay of the land. “Your purchase?” I asked Lawrence. “Mr. Mackay tried to sell the book to you as well?”

  Lawrence frowned. “Mackay? Never heard him. This was set up through my man of business. He knew a Book of Hours had come on the market, and told me of it. This evening I received a note that said I should arrive here to complete the purchase.”

  “I see.”

  “My man of business sent me notice to come here, blast you,” Lord Percy said. “He was in contact with this Mr. Mackay. Where is he by the way?”

  “Dead,” I said.

  Both men gaped at me, their expressions so nearly identical I wanted to laugh. Grenville broke in.

  “Do you mean, Lacey, that Mackay was busily selling this Book of Hours to Saunders and Lawrence at the same time?”

  “Possibly more,” I said. “But Saunders and Lawrence bit. I have to wonder how he would produce two books. Maybe he was having forgeries made, one for each of you? While he kept the real book and sold it to another?”

  Saunders glanced at the tome open on the writing table. “Is that real?”

  “An excellent point,” Lawrence added. “You’re an expert, Grenville. You’d know if it were a true Limoges.”

  “Oh, it is,” Grenville said. “Perfectly beautiful and more than four hundred years old.”

  “I have no doubt you would be showed the real one,” I said. “What you got after you handed over the money might have been different. But now Mackay is dead, and the authentic book lies there, waiting to be purchased.”

  “No, it does not,” Mrs. Travers, who’d stood in silent shock throughout the conversation, exclaimed. “The book belongs to my husband. Gareth had no right to try to sell it to you—nor did this Mr. Mackay, whoever he is.”

  “Your husband gave the book to his son,” I said. “However it came to be in the possession of the Travers family in the past, it is their property now. Reverend Travers gave it to Gareth, which means it was Gareth’s to do with as he pleased.”

  “Gareth was a foolish young man who wanted money to impress those Derwents,” Mrs. Travers said testily. “They taunted him for his poverty, made him desperate and dependent on them.”

  Both Saunders and Lawrence looked surprised at this characterization of the Derwent family.

  “Whatever Gareth’s motives,” I said, cutting her off, “Reverend Travers gave him the book. It belonged to him, and if he chose to sell it …” I spread my hands.

  “It was not his.” Mrs. Travers’s voice rose. “But Gareth is dead, so the book belongs back with his father. I will take it home with me.”

  “The devil you will,” Lord Percy said. “I already paid Mackay a handsome deposit for it. The book belongs to me.”

  “Steady on,” Lawrence said. “I made a deposit on the thing through my man of business.”

  Mrs. Travers rounded on both of them. “Mr. Mackay had no business taking money for it at all. It is ours.”

  “Captain,” Lawrence said, looking at me with a trouble expression. “I had no idea this book had anything at all to do with Mr. Travers. Are you telling us this is why young Gareth was killed?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice quiet. “When Gareth realized how valuable the book his father had given him was, he contacted Mr. Mackay, a dealer, to ask him to sell it for him. He’d planned to meet Mackay at the Bull and Hen the night you saw him at Brooks’s, Lawrence, the same night Lord Percy enticed them to the Nines. I imagine Lord Percy wanted to sweeten up Travers, so that if Travers found out who Mackay had approached to buy the book, Travers would look more favorably upon him.”

  “Bloody hell,” Lord Percy said. He drew out a handkerchief with far more lace on it than the one Freddie had used and dabbed his lips.

  “A moment,” Grenville asked. “Why did Travers use Mr. Mackay at all? Why not offer the book himself?”

  “To get a better price,” I said. “Mackay is known to art collectors, a go-between who can haggle, so gentlemen do not have to soil their hands and ruin friendships over a transaction. Besides, Mackay could feel out the market, find the highest price without Travers having to bestir himself. Travers only wanted the money from the sale, to gain some independence.”

  Lord Percy finished bitterly. “A
nd Mr. Mackay played us against each other. Bloody man.”

  “Leland kicked up a fuss about the cheating he saw at the Nines,” I continued, “and he and Travers were taken away. You faded into the woodwork, Saunders, distancing yourself from them, which I am certain was not the way to make friends with Mr. Travers.”

  “Possibly not,” Lord Percy said. “But I was a bit terrified at the moment, and I would have made it up to him.”

  I went on. “Leland and Gareth were dragged to Mr. Forge, who owned the Nines, and given to his toughs to frighten them then toss them out.” Everyone listened to me now, including Mrs. Travers, wondering where I was leading them. “They took a hired coach to the Bull and Hen in Seven Dials, where Gareth had made an appointment to meet Mackay. Leland does not remember what the appointment was about, and he might have known nothing about the book itself, but he was not pleased that Gareth wanted to cease being dependent on him and Sir Gideon for his living. From what I understand, he and Leland argued about it quite a bit.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Mrs. Travers said indignantly. “It must have been Leland who put the idea of selling the book into Gareth’s head.”

  I sent her a severe look. “I do not know why you are so angry at the Derwent family, but I and everyone else believe you read them wrong. You are simply annoyed that Gareth was about to take the only thing the Travers had that was worth any money, sell it, and keep the funds for himself. Gareth was not an unkind young man, however. I imagine he’d have shared the proceeds with his father.”

  “I doubt it,” Mrs. Travers said in a hard voice.

  “You wrong him. But let me continue. Mackay did not make the meeting with Gareth at the Bull, for what reason, I do not know. Perhaps he was so busy setting up buyers for this very expensive book that he was late. Or had other irons in the fire—I have heard he served several masters. When he was late, Leland persuaded Gareth away. They walked from the Bull and Hen to find a hackney stand to hire a coach home.”

  “This is all fascinating, Captain,” Lawrence broke in. “But what does it mean?”

  “It means they were followed. Gareth had the book with him, or so the killer thought. Perhaps he’d already handed it to Mackay and was waiting for payment; who knows? Gareth and Leland were followed, and when they reached a likely spot—Seven Dials is full of them—they were attacked.”

  “So, it was a robbery?” Lawrence asked. He watched me with the most interest, his eyes clear and shrewd.

  “It was. The killer had hired a man called Draper and his friends to set upon Leland and Gareth, beat them, and steal the book. Possibly also to arrange them so they’d be found in a position that left the world in no doubt of their relationship with each other. But men like Draper are not very subtle. They struck too hard, killing Gareth and nearly killing Leland. They dragged the bodies into the passage, quickly searching them. I believe they were interrupted, or heard Mackay coming, or some such. For whatever reason, they retreated. I am not certain of all the details.”

  Percy touched his lips again with his delicate handkerchief. “Then what happened to the book?”

  “I believe Mackay found it on Gareth—or else, as I say, he might already have had it. Or Draper missed it, or they were interrupted, or Draper was not asked to search the bodies for a book. Draper half stripped Leland and tossed his clothes aside, where they were found by a destitute man of the area. Draper likely pocketed Leland’s money and watch, because the destitute man found nothing in the coat and waistcoat. Imagine Mackay’s shock when, hurrying late toward the Bull and Hen, he finds the two lads lying in their own blood, looking as though they’d been engaging in buggery and killed by someone such an act enraged.

  “Leland, who was just sensible enough to speak, begged Mackay to run to me for help. Mackay, while he was a thief, a cheat, and possibly a blackmailer, had enough compassion to obey. After all, he had the book, he’d not struck the lads down, and he was truly horrified by the crime, at least he was when he found me. I’m certain that fear for his own skin was a part of it. He returned here with instructions to tell Marianne to send for Grenville. In the commotion, he slid the book into my bookshelf, knowing he could return when the rooms were empty and take it. But the killers were still out there, and he had no idea if they’d try to beat and rob him. He decided to lie low until things settled, and then retrieve the book.”

  “A risk,” Lawrence pointed out. “You might have found it.”

  “I spend most of my time in South Audley Street these days,” I said. “News of my wedding to Lady Breckenridge has been in all the newspapers. I believe Mackay returned for the book when I was at my new home and Marianne out. When he didn’t find it, it must have been a great blow to him. But I have the reputation for being an honorable man. Mackay no doubt assumed I’d taken the book to Sir Gideon or Leland, two honest men who would be certain to return it to Reverend Travers.”

  “And did you?” Lawrence asked, watching me with intensity. “Take it to Sir Gideon?”

  “I did not, but Mackay could not have known that. He went to the Derwents’, slipping in through the front door during an unguarded moment or up through the scullery. He enters covertly to search—if he is found he can pretend he came to inquire about Leland. The killer, who had followed him, gained entrance through the kitchens, where food was being handed out, discovered Mackay in the drawing room and struck him down. However, the book was nowhere to be found, and the killer realizes that perhaps Sir Gideon never had it. Which meant I might still have it. The killer had to depart or chance being caught, and left either via the kitchen or the front door when it was unattended.”

  “This Mr. Draper again?” Lawrence asked.

  I shook my head. “Upon reflection I do not believe Draper killed Mackay. Draper is distinctive, and I believe Sir Gideon’s household would have noticed him. The staff are well paid and careful about protecting their unworldly employers. No, this killer was unremarkable, able to blend in with the downtrodden poor come for charity. I imagine you were once downtrodden yourself, Mrs. Travers. The thought of all that money simply walking away from your grasp was too much to bear.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Mrs. Travers’s mouth opened to reveal her fairly even teeth. “I have no idea what the devil you mean.”

  “Good Lord,” Lawrence said, with a mock start. “Such language. And you a vicar’s wife.”

  I went on, ignoring Lawrence. “I mean that you entered the Derwents’ house in Grosvenor Square,” I said to Mrs. Travers, while Grenville surreptitiously stepped between her and the door. “You went there to find the book. If anyone saw you in the family’s private rooms, like Mackay, you had an excuse to be there—you would have come to look in on your stepson’s dear friend Leland. You found Mackay there. Whether you argued with him or demanded he hand you the book, you lost your temper. The poker was at hand. And so, he died.”

  Mrs. Travers stared at me, her blue eyes wide. “You assume much.”

  “When I came to you and told you Gareth was dead, you were surprised,” I said. “Genuinely, I imagine. Your shock was real. You had hired Draper to rob Gareth and Leland, not murder them. But you discovered with Mackay, did you not, that it is easier to kill than one might think. One moment, the person is alive. The next … Nothing.”

  The distress in Mrs. Travers’s eyes told me I had the right of it. She had never intended death. She’d wanted the book, and the money it would bring. That was all.

  Still, she tried. “You don’t know,” she said swiftly. “You were not there. You can know nothing.”

  I lost my sympathy for her. “You killed your husband’s son, and Leland might die. Likewise, you murdered Mackay, who was only interested in the same thing you were—the damned book.”

  “Which is mine, by rights,” Lord Percy broke in, still angry. “Have this woman arrested, do, Lacey. I’ll take the book and go.”

  “The devil you will, old boy,” Lawrence said. “As I say, I’ve already made a pay
ment for it.”

  “If you want it, you can give me what I gave Mackay,” Lord Percy said heatedly. “Fifteen hundred pounds.”

  Mrs. Travers’s mouth hung open. “Fifteen hundred? You are lying, sir. Gareth did not have that money. Mr. Mackay never had so much either.”

  She condemned herself. She couldn’t have known what Mackay had if she hadn’t had him followed or searched him after she’d killed him.

  Saunders flashed her a dangerous look, not used to impertinence from the lower classes. “I will have the book, or the money for it, madam.”

  “I haven’t got the money,” Mrs. Travers said desperately.

  “No, you never got anything for it,” I said, cutting over them. “All that death and violence, and you still have neither the book nor the price of it.”

  Mrs. Travers glared at me again for a long moment, then her hauteur vanished. “Bleedin’ upstart,” she shouted, her cultured voice giving way to the long vowels of South London. “Trumped up, worthless piece of dung, friend to bloody mollies.”

  She came at me, the same rage in her eyes Mackay must have seen when she’d lifted the poker and gone for him. She had no weapon now; she only lunged at me, her fingers curved, ready to gouge out my eyes.

  She found herself held back by the strong arms of Brewster. Mrs. Travers struggled, trying to reach me. “You’re a liar,” she spat.

  “Your ruffian for hire, Mr. Draper, is even now in the hands of Bow Street,” I told her. “I imagine Pomeroy or Spendlove are promising to spare him the noose if he tells who hired him.”

  Mrs. Travers hesitated at my words, then she screamed and renewed her efforts to attack me.

  Lord Percy stepped away from her, his handkerchief at his mouth. “Good heavens,” he said. “What a varlet.”

  Lawrence only regarded her with disapproval. “I thought it was too good to be true. Do compose yourself, woman. You’ve lost. The bloody mollies, as you call them, have defeated you.”

  *

  I had summoned Spendlove and Pomeroy to be on hand to arrest the culprit when identified, to prevent Denis meting out justice of his own. The fact that Mrs. Travers was a woman would not deter him from taking his vengeance for the death of one of his agents.