“Welcome, Gabriel,” she said. She neither curtsied nor held out a hand for greeting. “As Clive hast told thee, we formed an interest in thee. Perhaps not polite or even wise, but thou interested us. Thou art not the same as most London men who travel to Brighton for the waters.”
“’Struth,” Brewster muttered.
“Indeed, Friend Thomas, it is God’s truth,” the woman said giving him a gentle look. “I am Matilda Farrow. Has Clive not spoken to thee of why we had such an interest?”
Mr. Bickley, flustered and embarrassed, took a small step back as though letting Mrs.—or perhaps Miss—Farrow commandeer the discussion.
The trouble with a person being introduced with only their given names was that I could not tell what status they were—married, unmarried, gentleman or gentlewoman, aristocrat, of military rank, or anything else about them.
That was the idea, I gathered. From what little I knew of Quakers, I understood they considered all people to be of equal station, with no class demarcations. Their leaders, called elders, were chosen from among themselves, regardless of their status in the rest of the world. Quakers, like many other Dissenters, wanted to rid themselves of the grandeur and hierarchy of the more formal Church of England.
While I could not blame them—I’d met too many pompous bishops for my taste, including an overly arrogant one at supper last night—it currently made things difficult for me. I tried to be as polite as possible to everyone, but to do so, I had to know what to call them.
“Madam.” I settled for this honorific as I bowed to her. “I am flattered by the interest of you and your colleagues.”
Matilda smiled. “No, thou art not, Friend Lacey. Thou art unnerved, as thou ought to be, and most curious in return.” She sobered. “We learned about thee, and spoke about it. We have heard that thou hast knowledge of men of law. And that thou has brought bad men to justice.”
I acknowledged this cautiously. My exploits were generally not looked upon with benevolence. The opinion of most was that I should keep my long nose out of others’ business.
“I will speak bluntly with thee, Friend Lacey,” Matilda continued. “A few of our members have vanished. Perhaps vanished is too strong a term, but we do not know where they are. As thou art skilled in these matters, we thought perhaps thou might find them for us? Not to drag them back into the fold—if our Friends wish to leave us, that is for them to decide. We will naturally be disappointed and sorrowful, but what we most want is to make certain they are well.”
I understood. I read worry in Miss Farrow’s eyes, and in Bickley’s as well.
“I could make inquiries,” I said hesitantly. “But I am not anything like a Runner. I cannot guarantee I will find anyone.”
“Whatever help thou canst bestow us will be welcome,” Matilda said. “Their names are Katherine Purkis and Joshua Bickley.”
I raised my brows and shot a look at Mr. Bickley. He nodded, morose.
“My son.”
“Ah.” I cleared my throat. “Could it not be, sir, madam, that this young gentleman and lady left ... together? To marry, perhaps?”
Or to simply be together away from the watchful eye of the pious Quakers. I decided not to say this out loud.
Miss Farrow surprised me by laughing. “Indeed no, Gabriel. Katherine is over sixty, Joshua twenty. They might have eloped, but I rather doubt it. And they did not disappear at the same time.” She regarded me with mirth, finding my conclusion hilarious. “Katherine has been gone for a week, Joshua only since Sunday after meeting. He might simply be visiting friends, as his father suspects, but we would rest easier knowing.”
“I see.” I bowed. “My apologies. I did not mean to make light of your concern.”
“An excellent question and a natural assumption.” Matilda lost her smile and folded her hands. “Wilt thou help us, Gabriel?”
They were kind, and they were worried. I could only agree.
Brewster was not as sanguine as we left the Meeting House and continued our journey to the Pavilion.
“Unnatural,” he muttered as he walked beside me. “All thees and thous. What a daft way to talk.”
“They call it Plain Speech.” I ducked around a low awning of a butcher’s shop, the stench of raw meat and blood strong.
“Nothing plain about it. Sounds like one of them plays by Mr. Shakespeare you like.”
“Or the Bible.” I moved down a lane, a narrow artery that contained a bookseller, a wagon office, and a coffee house. The coffee house was lively at this hour, with gentlemen conversing loudly over what Orator Hunt was going on about these days. On any other evening I’d have been tempted to join them.
“Did ye truly speak to the Quakers last night?” Brewster asked as we made our way past holiday-makers, along with pickpockets and ladies who hung on the fringes, waiting for opportunities. “Or did they say such to coax you to help them today? They knew all about you.”
“I must have done. It is Quaker teaching never to lie.” I squeezed around a cluster of rather rotund gentlemen in frock coats who were pontificating with wild gestures.
One of the men, slimmer than the others, wore a cavalry uniform. Preston Barracks, housing light cavalry regiments, lay only a few miles from the center of town, and officers often ventured into Brighton, some residing there.
This officer threw me a sharp look was we passed. I thought he would speak to me, but at the last minute, he turned his head and resumed his part in the discussion.
“How do ye know Quakers don’t lie?” Brewster growled as he pressed through the crowd. “A man can say he tells only the truth, but how can ye know he ain’t lying when he says it? A man who claims he never lies can’t be trusted, guv.”
He had a point, but I hadn’t read duplicity in Mr. Bickley or Miss Farrow. Chagrin and distress, but no slyness or cunning. They truly had been worried about the two Quakers who’d gone missing.
We emerged into Great East Street, which held more coaching offices, a bank, and several boarding houses. A passageway meandered past a tavern to the Steine, which was a wide green space in the middle of the bustle. The road skirting the Steine led to the Pavilion, its domed rotundas an incongruity with the straight brick exteriors around it.
Plenty of people strolled through the Steine gardens, as it was a fine evening, a breeze from the sea sweeping away both mist and heat. The long twilight let the sunshine linger well into the late hours, which meant more time for walks under an azure sky.
I’d hoped my memories of the previous night would leak through as I approached the Pavilion, but nothing came to me. The blankness was unnerving.
“How far did you follow me?” I asked Brewster. “Before losing sight of me?”
Brewster pointed. “Ye went up to the north side of the Pavilion, around the stables, then snaked back down through the town. That’s when I couldn’t find ye. I passed the Quaker house but I didn’t notice you chatting in the garden with no Dissenters. Couldn’t see you at all. You must have been inside the house with them, but how was I to know? I cursed you something fierce.”
“I imagine you did. You didn’t happen to note what sort of spirits I imbibed to erase all knowledge of my actions, did you?”
“Chance would be a fine thing. You and Mr. Grenville strolled out from the Pavilion once your ladies were off, and you weren’t drinking anything then. Mr. Grenville could have given you a nip from his flask, but in that case, he’d be laid as low as you today. It must have been whatever you swallowed at supper or right after, unless you dropped into a tavern and drank bad gin.”
I slowed my steps, the beauty of the park doing nothing to soothe my senses. “I never drink gin—I don’t like the stuff. I’ve been hungover from port and brandy before, but never like this. Nor have I walked in my sleep, as far as I know. But perhaps a person can take it up.”
Brewster looked aggrieved. “If so, I’ll tell His Nibs I can’t be your nanny anymore. It’s enough to keep up with you when you’re awake.”
Something stirred in the back of my mind, however, something I did not like. I stared at the lavish Pavilion, the whimsical home of a spoiled prince, and knew the answer lay within its walls.
I could not simply rush to the door of the royal Pavilion and demand entrance. For that, I’d need an appointment, and for that, I’d need Grenville.
Bartholomew had told me Grenville had gone home to sleep after looking in on me, and I did not want to disturb him. But if a murder had occurred at the Regent’s summer house, I would expect a flurry of activity, with journalists vying to get in, as well as the curious residents peering into the windows. Sensations always drew a crowd.
But the Pavilion looked quiet and peaceful, late evening light glittering on its windows and brushing the new, Eastern-looking domes. All was calm—I had seen far more activity when we’d arrived for supper last night, lights glowing from every room.
“Perhaps I did dream it,” I murmured.
“Would be a leg-up if ye did,” Brewster agreed.
“There is no sign anything occurred here at all,” I said as we turned our steps from the Pavilion. “Let us continue to the colonel’s abode. He told us last night that he is stationed at Preston Barracks but lives in a house in town. Which would be just like him. He never associated with those of a lesser rank. He either commanded them or ignored them.”
“Knew him well, did ye?”
I glanced away, uncomfortable. “It does not take long to discover a man’s character.”
Brewster accepted my evasive answer at face value and asked no more.
Isherwood had proudly stated that he’d taken a house in the Royal Crescent. The curved row of houses built at the end of the last century lay east of the center of Brighton, on the Marine Parade. All the houses faced the sea, giving each a fine view out its front bow windows.
I knew about this view because my stepson, Peter, as Viscount Breckenridge, owned one of the houses. His father had purchased it twelve years ago to tuck a ladybird into—so Donata had informed me in the disgusted tones with which she always spoke of her late husband. He’d still possessed the house when he died, and Peter, his only child, had inherited it.
We were not staying in that house because Donata had decided to take the opportunity of our holiday to have it thoroughly redecorated. Peter, upon his majority, could choose whether to keep the house or sell it, but for now, he—or the Breckenridge man of business—could always let it out.
I understood Donata’s reluctance to live in the house and did not argue with her reasoning. For us, she’d hired one of the newest residences in town, in what was quickly becoming a highly fashionable square. I was pleased with her choice, liking the small house with its clean lines and ivory-colored paint.
The Royal Crescent was elegant, I had to admit as we approached it, with its dark gray brick, uniform white doors, and decorative railings on the first-floor windows. The crescent was nowhere near the size and magnificence of the one in Bath where we’d stayed last year, but the smaller stature of the houses fit the more intimate nature of Brighton and the town’s proximity to the sea.
Though Isherwood had been pleased with himself for residing in one of these houses, he hadn’t mentioned its number. I strolled along the Marine Parade, gazing at the curved row, wondering which was his.
Number 6 had all its draperies and blinds shut tight. Either no one was in residence, or they’d had a bereavement.
After some consideration, I went to this house rapped on the door with my gloved hand—they’d removed the knocker, which could indicate they were not in town or did not wish to be disturbed.
A footman answered after some time. He wore red livery and a white wig and did not look pleased to see us.
“Colonel Isherwood?” I asked.
“I will inquire, sir.” The footman closed the door, leaving us on the doorstep.
“Bloke ain’t dead then.” Brewster announced this in profound relief. “Be no one to inquire to if he were.”
Not necessarily. Footmen were trained to not reveal the circumstances of the family within. The only thing I could be certain of was that I had found the correct house.
The footman returned after a quarter of an hour. With no apology for making us stand on the doorstep for so long, he bade me follow him inside.
Brewster turned and walked unhurriedly down the stairs from the street to the kitchen doorway as I entered the house. I knew he’d gone to pry things out of those below stairs while he waited for me.
The footman led me to a library. The room, lined with bookcases, was lit by a tall bow window that looked out over the Channel, a lovely view indeed. The sea was gray-blue under the darkening sky, scattered clouds lined with pink from the lingering sunset.
Two men straightened from bending over a desk. I recognized one as an officer called Forbes—Isherwood had been mentoring him when we’d been in Salamanca—but the other’s appearance made me start. It was Isherwood, but Isherwood with twenty years removed from him.
“You’re his son,” I stated.
Forbes looked haughty, but young Isherwood bowed. “I am Colonel Giles Isherwood. I know you are Captain Lacey. Forgive our rudeness, but we are much agitated today.”
He spoke in quick, polite tones, very unlike his father, who had shouted his opinions to anyone near.
Forbes gazed at me with dislike. He knew my brief history with Isherwood and had always despised me.
I’d removed my hat as I entered the house, but the footman had not taken it, and I turned it around in my hands. “Your father?”
“Dead,” Forbes snapped before Giles Isherwood could answer. “He’s been murdered.”
Chapter 4
I watched them as Forbes’s words ended my hopes. “How?” My voice went weak.
Forbes glared in outrage at the question, but Isherwood answered with calm readiness. “He was found at the Pavilion. Stabbed through the heart, with his own cavalry sword.”
I began to shake. “My condolences for your loss,” I made myself say.
“What is your purpose here, Captain?” Forbes snapped. “Come to sneer at this sordid business?”
“To offer my assistance.” I groped for a plausible reason. “I heard a rumor of his death, and I wanted see if it was true.” Not a lie. I absurdly wondered what Mr. Bickley the Quaker would think of my evasion.
“A rumor?” Forbes remained suspicious. “From where? The Regent’s majordomo promised no one would know.”
Isherwood moved past him to me and extended his hand. “It is kind of you to inquire,” he said. “Well met, Captain. You were at supper with my father only last night, were you not?”
Forbes’ words explained why the death hadn’t been in the newspapers, but his expression stated he didn’t agree the murder should have been contained. He’d blurted the news to me without worry, perhaps because he believed I’d committed it. Forbes had always thought the worst of me.
I ignored him and shook young Isherwood’s hand. He had a firm grip, which went with his rather hard face, close-cropped dark hair, and gray eyes that brooked no fools. He greatly resembled the older Colonel Isherwood but had a cool evenness about him that his father had lacked.
“We did indeed request the majordomo, who sent for me this morning, not to broadcast the murder to the newspapers,” Isherwood said as we withdrew. “He readily agreed, as he did not want gossip to surround the Regent and the Pavilion. I did speak to the magistrate, who promised to investigate quietly, though I do not know how long that can last. We will prepare my father for his funeral, regardless. Is there anything you can tell us about this business, Captain? I am distressed, as you can imagine.”
The speech was delivered without much inflection, but I saw the pain in his eyes. A man who grieved but would never openly show it.
I fo
rced myself to think through what I could remember. “I dined with your father last night, with my wife, my friend Mr. Grenville, and several other guests. The Prince Regent graced us with his presence for a time, but he left early. Lord Alvanley was there …” I trailed off, trying to remember. “Mr. Grenville would know better than I who was who.”
“Did he quarrel with anyone?” Isherwood’s thin lips curved into a smile. “I know my father, Captain. He was apt to enjoy a good quarrel.”
“With me, in fact,” I said, though the memory was vague. “Old soldiers, you know, reliving battles.”
Forbes scowled, no doubt guessing what the argument had been about. “The colonel was never happy with you, Captain Lacey. I am surprised he sat down at the same table with you. Did you run him through?”
I had no idea, and this made me sick inside. “Not that I recall, Captain Forbes,” I managed.
“It’s Major now,” he snarled. So, at last he’d been promoted, no doubt with Colonel Isherwood’s help.
Young Isherwood took my reply for a jest, if one in questionable taste. “My father came home after the meal, or so I assumed. I was on duty at the barracks and not here. Why he returned to the Pavilion in the middle of the night, and who he met there, I do not know.”
“What does his batman say?” I asked, hiding my worry about the answer. “Did anyone observe him leaving?”
Major Forbes’ face pinched. He was of an age with the deceased Colonel Isherwood, which put him about fifty. Gray streaked his dark hair but his skin was smooth, only a few lines etched into it by sun and weather.
“None did,” Forbes said. “That is what the servants claim. The footman on the door should be whipped.”
Young Isherwood did not look pleased with this. “My father did as he liked and none could stop him. If he slipped out, he had reason. We simply do not know what that reason is.”
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 3
