Dinner Most Deadly

by Sheri Cobb South

  Mr. Colquhoun nodded, seeing nothing to dispute in this reasoning. “And he says he saw no one leaving the house? A pity, that.”

  “I agree, sir. It would have been helpful to have a witness.” He permitted himself a smile. “I suppose he had other things on his mind at the time.”

  “I should think the next step, then, would be to try and determine to whom this belongs,” recommended the magistrate, surrendering the weapon to his most junior Runner.

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Pickett. “I should think Captain Sir Charles Ormond would be the one most likely to be in possession of such a weapon. I had thought to visit one of the gun dealers to see what he might be able to tell me about it. Only—” he broke off, frowning.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  “I confess to being ignorant of the ways of the Quality, sir, but would it not be unusual for a man, even a military man, to carry a firearm to a dinner party?”

  The magistrate nodded. “I should think it would,” he said, “unless, of course, he had every intention of using it before the night was over.”

  “In which case Sir Reginald’s murder was premeditated,” deduced Pickett.

  “It would appear to be. Mind you, I can remember a time when a man was not considered to be well dressed unless he had a sword hanging at his side,” the magistrate continued with a reminiscent gleam in his eye.

  “I’m sure you must have looked very dashing, sir,” noted Pickett, struggling to suppress a most insubordinate grin.

  “Impudent young cub!” growled Mr. Colquhoun. “Get along with you, then. Can’t you see I’ve got work to do?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pickett said meekly, then hesitated. “Mr. Colquhoun, sir—”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I shall be interviewing those at the dinner party today, including Lady Fieldhurst, since the gathering was in her honor, so to speak. I had made an appointment with her ladyship to broach the subject of our irregular marriage, but now that I have to discuss this matter of Sir Reginald with her, I confess I am reluctant to conduct personal business during working hours. I daresay it would be better if I were to wait until—”

  Mr. Colquhoun cocked a knowing eyebrow. “Stalling, Mr. Pickett?”

  Pickett grinned sheepishly. “As a matter of fact, yes, sir.”

  The magistrate leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but since the whole thing is mixed up with that Kirkbride affair, one might say it is a professional matter as well as a personal one. You have my permission to take up the matter with her ladyship while you are conducting your investigations.”

  “Thank you, sir,” sighed Pickett, although gratitude was not the emotion uppermost in his mind.

  “Oh, and John—”

  His use of Pickett’s given name, while not unheard of, was unusual enough to capture the young man’s attention. “Yes, sir?”

  “Good luck.”

  Pickett smiled uncertainly. “Thank you, sir,” he said again, and turned to leave.

  “I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it,” muttered Mr. Colquhoun as he watched him go.

  Pickett left the Bow Street office filled with determination to accomplish as much as he could on the investigation before his meeting with Lady Fieldhurst; he had a lowering conviction that by the time that meeting was over, he wouldn’t feel like doing very much of anything. With this end in view, he went first to Whitehall, where, if Captain Sir Charles Ormond had been telling the truth, that gentleman soldier’s regiment would be on review.

  That some regiment was indeed on review was apparent from the moment he reached the Horse Guards Parade, a broad expanse of pounded dirt just east of St. James’s Park. Dozens of mounted Hussars moved in formation, the scarlet and gold lace of their dress uniforms dazzling in the cold sunlight of early morning. The fact that Pickett was unacquainted with Captain Sir Charles Ormond had caused him some concern, as he would not recognize that gentleman even if he saw him. This, however, proved to be a moot point: all the cavalrymen looked identical from this distance, and civilians such as Pickett could not get near enough to make out individual riders in any case. If he had hoped to identify the captain by his lack of a pistol, here too he was disappointed: the review featured much prancing of horses and brandishing of swords, but no drawing of pistols.

  In spite of the early hour, there were a handful of spectators situated along the perimeter of the parade ground. Most of these were female, probably mothers, wives, or sweethearts of the soldiers, Pickett deduced from the ladies’ ages. Of the handful of men in attendance, Pickett suspected most had seen action themselves, if the presence of canes, crutches, and eye patches was anything to judge by. He watched the proceedings on the parade ground for a few minutes, wishing he knew enough about military matters to enter into a reasonably intelligent conversation with one of the veterans, then strolled idly along the edge of the parade until he drew abreast of a grizzled veteran leaning heavily on a crutch. The weather, Pickett decided, was usually a safe bet.

  “Fine day for a review, especially one so late in the year,” he observed, nodding toward the sun riding low in the east.

  The gambit did not disappoint him. “Aye, we can’t have the Hussars parading in the rain; might soil their pretty uniforms,” scoffed the old man. “Have you ever seen such a collection of jack-a-dandies? Faugh!”

  “Not your former regiment, then,” remarked Pickett, hazarding a guess.

  “Mine? Nay, I was one of the death or glory boys.” Seeing Pickett’s bewildered expression, he added, “Dragoons, my lad! We didn’t wear yellow boots! Who ever heard of such a thing? Yellow boots!” He spat on the ground in a demonstration of contempt for the Hussars’ colorful footwear.

  “I believe there used to be a captain of the Hussars, a Sir Reginald Montague,” Pickett ventured.

  The older man cast a furtive glance over first one shoulder, then the other. “Aye, but I wouldn’t say that name aloud around here, if I were you. You’ll find there’s little love for Sir Reginald among the Hussars—nor any of the other regiments neither, come to that.”

  “So I had been given to understand.” Pickett idly scratched at the ground with the toe of his boot. “Why not, can you tell me?”

  “Well, it was all hushed up, but from what I understand, Captain Sir Reginald was to lead his men in an assault against the French at Masséna. The way I’ve heard it told, he’d been drinking heavily the night before—Dutch courage, some say—and was about half seas over when he led his detachment straight into an ambush. Sir Reginald contrived to escape without a scratch, but most of his men weren’t so fortunate.” He spat on the ground again.

  “But surely Sir Reginald can’t be blamed for a French ambush,” Pickett objected. “I’ll admit I am no expert on military matters, but I should think an ambush, by its very nature, would be impossible to adequately defend against.”

  “Aye, but in this case, all the signs were there, had the captain been sober enough to recognize them. Apparently one of his junior officers saw the danger, anyway, and tried to warn him. If Captain Montague, as he was then, hadn’t been cast away at the time, he might have listened to his young lieutenant.”

  “Was the lieutenant’s name Ormond, by any chance?”

  “Aye, it was,” said the veteran Dragoon in some surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” Pickett said cryptically. “And you say there were heavy losses?”

  “Aye, most of the detachment. Of those who survived, many were injured and left to languish in a French prison until their release could be negotiated. None of that for Captain Montague, though. He managed to show the French a clean pair of heels.” A third stream of spittle demonstrated the veteran’s opinion of Captain Reginald Montague.

  “Surely he must have faced a court-martial for his part in the debacle,” Pickett remarked.

  “You would think so, but they say the devil looks after his own. His father died, and Captain Montague was allowed to sell
his commission and go home to assume the baronetcy. Mind you, public support for the action was running low at the time; I daresay the War Office was afraid the spectacle of a court-martial might harm morale even further, and since they were getting rid of Captain Montague in any case . . .” The veteran shrugged.

  The conversation grew more general after that, but Pickett had already learned what he needed to know. He watched as the cavalry regiment was put through its paces until at last they fell into retreat formation and returned to the stables on the north side of the Horse Guards building. Pickett excused himself to his new acquaintance and followed the horses from a discreet distance, picking his way cautiously around the droppings they left behind. Since he would not know the captain by sight, he was obliged to ask several times as to the officer’s location. At last he located Captain Sir Charles Ormond, a tall figure resplendent in scarlet and gold, his chestnut hair topped with a feather-crowned shako. Pickett approached him as he dismounted his sleek black stallion and surrendered the beast to the enlisted man who served as his batman. Pickett’s heart sank at the sight of him. The preference of ladies for a man in uniform was well documented, and the dashing captain seemed to embody all the most coveted qualities of the breed.

  “Captain Sir Charles Ormond?” Pickett asked, hoping against all odds that he might yet be mistaken.

  “Yes?” The captain frowned at the sight of a rather shabbily dressed civilian in the rarified domain of the Horse Guards.

  “John Pickett of Bow Street. I believe you attended a dinner party in Audley Street last night?”

  The captain inclined his head. “At the home of Lady Dunnington, in fact. What of it?”

  “I should like to ask you a few questions about that evening, if I may.”

  The officer’s frown deepened. “Why the devil should you?”

  “In case you are unaware, Captain, a man died last night. Shot through the chest at point-blank range, in fact.”

  Captain Sir Charles hardly even blinked. “Who was it? Sir Reginald Montague, I daresay.”

  “And why should you come to that conclusion?” asked Pickett sharply.

  “When the most hated man in England is shot to death, the only question one must ask is why it didn’t happen sooner. I shall answer any questions you wish, Mr.—Pickett, was it?—but this is hardly the place for such a discussion. There is a coffee room inside the Guards building. If you will allow me a minute to finish up here, I shall attend you there directly.”

  Pickett agreed to this plan, and forsook the stables for the Palladian splendor of the Horse Guards building. A glance at the clock in its domed tower—long reputed to be the most accurate timepiece in London—showed the hour to lack a quarter to nine; more than five hours until the dreaded interview with Lady Fieldhurst.

  As a civilian within the very heart of the War Office, Pickett had expected to be glaringly conspicuous, but to his surprise (and yes, relief), none of the military men in their regimental uniforms of scarlet, green, or blue seemed to pay any attention to him. He located the coffee room by the simple expedient of following the aroma of the brew, ordered a cup, and sat down at a table along the wall to wait. And wait. And wait. He was beginning to wonder if the captain had given him the slip when Sir Charles appeared, full of apologies.

  “I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. My departure from the stables took rather longer than I expected. Now, what is all this about Sir Reginald Montague?”

  Pickett sought recourse to the notes in his occurrence book. “He was the last to leave Lady Dunnington’s house last night—”

  “Yes, I daresay he would have been,” observed the captain dryly.

  Pickett looked up from his notes. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My good fellow, all the ton knows of Lady Dunnington’s determined pursuit of Sir Reginald—not, mind you, that her quarry was making any very noticeable attempt to elude her.”

  “Are you telling me that Sir Reginald had ambitions of becoming Lady Dunnington’s lover?” Pickett began to feel a very real affection for the dead man; whatever his defects of character, Sir Reginald had apparently never entertained amorous intentions toward Lady Fieldhurst—an omission that, at least to Pickett’s mind, must surely cover a multitude of sins.

  “Oh yes, and he would undoubtedly have done so, had he lived long enough.” Seeing Pickett’s stunned expression, he added, “You are thinking of all that nonsense regarding Lady Fieldhurst, I daresay. Yes, I attended the dinner with the idea of, er, furthering my acquaintance with the viscountess, but by the end of the evening I had become convinced that Lady Dunnington was wasting her time in that regard. It should have been obvious to the meanest intelligence that Lady Fieldhurst had not the slightest interest in any of us poor blighters being trotted out for her inspection. Perhaps her marriage has soured her on the male sex in general, or perhaps she is pining for another—if the latter should be the case, then you may be sure the object of her frustrated affections is not the late Lord Fieldhurst.”

  Pickett found himself quite in charity with the good captain; in fact, if Sir Charles had confessed to the murder of Sir Reginald on the spot, he was not at all certain he could have found it in his heart to arrest him.

  “But I interrupted you,” continued Captain Sir Charles. “You say Sir Reginald was the last to leave?”

  “The last of the gentlemen, in any case,” Pickett corrected himself. “Lady Fieldhurst was still there. In fact, she and Lady Dunnington were in the drawing room when the shot was fired. They ran to the hall and found Sir Reginald lying there with a leak in his chest.”

  “And the killer?”

  “Long gone. He did leave something behind, though.” Pickett withdrew the pistol from the waistband of his breeches and laid it on the table. He intended to see a gunsmith later that morning, and was sure this individual would be able to tell him far more about the firearm than Captain Sir Charles ever could. In fact, he was less interested in hearing the captain’s opinion of the gun than he was in gauging his reaction to it. “Can you tell me anything about this weapon?”

  The captain picked it up and turned it over in his hands, examining it from all angles. “Perhaps. What do you want to know?”

  “Is it yours?”

  Sir Charles looked up, nonplussed. “My good fellow—!”

  “I understand you had every reason for wishing Sir Reginald dead,” Pickett said, not without sympathy.

  “Oh, I’ll not deny that.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Almost ten years ago.” The captain’s gaze grew unfocused, and Pickett suspected he was no longer in the coffee room at all, but on a battlefield far away. “They were good men, some of them little more than boys. And perhaps they would be alive today if their commanding officer had been less fond of the bottle.”

  “A heavy drinker, was he?”

  “No more so than many others, I daresay. But most men know when to indulge, and when to keep a clear head. The good Captain Montague”—he all but spat the name—“obviously did not.”

  “I understand you tried to warn him of the ambush.”

  “I did. But what did I know? I was a mere second lieutenant, as the captain was quick to point out to me.”

  “I’m sure no one could blame you for wanting him dead,” Pickett said. “Still, I’m afraid I must ask you for an accounting of your movements after you left Lady Dunnington’s house last night.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Pickett. As I told Lady Dunnington at the time, I was obliged to leave early, since my regiment was on review this morning. Mind you, my premature departure was no great burden, as I had no desire to linger in Sir Reginald’s presence. I left Lady Dunnington’s house and came straight back to the barracks—as anyone in my regiment, as well as the sentry on duty last night, can attest.”

  “Thank you, Captain. I will look into it before I leave.”

  The captain nodded his approval of this scheme, and Pickett excused himself.

  Unlike
the parade ground, which was open to St. James’s Park on the west, the barracks were guarded by two sentry boxes on the Whitehall side to the east. Pickett approached one of these and spoke to the soldier on duty.

  “John Pickett, Bow Street Public Office. I should like to speak to the sentries who were on duty last night, if you please.”

  The sentry’s brow puckered. “Last night? Wilkinson would be one of them, but as for the other, I don’t know. Lieutenant Carson is the officer who assigns sentry duty; he’s the one you’ll want.”

  “Carson, you say?”

  “That’s right, Second Lieutenant Andrew Carson. I’d take you myself, but I’m not allowed to leave my post. Bow Street, eh? Go on through, sir, and if anyone stops you, tell them Private Watters let you in.”

  Pickett nodded. “Thank you, Private.”

  He passed through the gates into the barracks where, after some questioning, he was able to locate Lieutenant Carson. The lieutenant proved to be no older than Pickett himself, but aristocratic breeding combined with military discipline had given him an air of command that Pickett could only envy; he suspected Lieutenant Carson did not have to endure disparaging remarks on his age, even from the enlisted men under his command who were many years his senior.

  Upon hearing his request, the young officer nodded. “Last night? That would be Collins and Wilkinson.” He turned to bark an order. “You, there—Simpson! Go fetch Collins and Wilkinson, and have them report to me.”

  Private Simpson hurried off to obey this command, and within minutes two soldiers stood saluting Lieutenant Carson.

  “Wilkinson, Collins, this man is from Bow Street,” said the lieutenant, gesturing toward Pickett. “He has some questions for you regarding your sentry duty last night. You will give him any assistance you can. Mr. Pickett, if you need anything else, you have only to send for me.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Pickett, resisting the urge to salute. Alone with the two sentries, he said, “I understand you were both on guard duty last night. Do either of you recall Captain Sir Charles Ormond returning to the barracks?”