Grenville and I thanked him, also not betraying our interest, and he left us to wander as we wished.
Brewster already knew the way to the servants’ areas, and disappeared through a doorway set into the wall paneling. The door vanished when closed, looking like nothing more than the rest of the wall. I had found such a door when I’d made my hasty exit from the kitchen.
Grenville and I ambled through the music room and the gallery beyond it. We pretended to be intrigued by nothing more than the lavish architecture as we slowly but inexorably made our way to the banqueting room where I’d found Isherwood.
Today, that chamber buzzed with activity. Painters brushed an undercoat on the walls, men on scaffolding worked on an elaborate plaster palm that would cross the entire ceiling, and two carpenters planed a doorjamb in long, even strokes.
The place where Isherwood had lain was bare, the floorboards clean. I dimly remembered he’d been sprawled across a dust sheet, but that was gone, and no blood marked the wood. I stooped to examine the spot, earning only a curious glance from the workers.
“Here,” I said to Grenville under my breath.
The workmen, sanding, scraping, and pounding, paid little attention. Grenville leaned to study the bare floor then straightened up when he saw nothing, expression unchanged.
“Show me where you went after you found him,” he said.
I took Grenville through the narrow door that had been hidden by draperies that night. The walls were bare today, and the workmen watched us go without comment.
Once we reached the corridor, I stared blankly about, trying to get my bearings, but my memories were still foggy. “I ended up in the kitchen, I think.”
Grenville stepped past me. “It is this way.”
He led me along the hall and through another door. As we stepped into a large busy room, I recalled the huge chamber, dark and still, filled with tables, crates, and food.
Now, of course, the kitchen teemed with people. Men at massive stoves stirred and basted, and women wielded knives to chop produce or hack up fowl. Blood and melted fat dripped to the floor. The heat was stifling, the odors cloying.
The man who must be in charge spied us, and roared, “’Ere! You’re not to be back ’ere!”
Grenville gave him a bow. “Just passing, my good fellow. Your roast on Monday night was a dream. I savored it well. Good morning.”
The chef glared, though he looked somewhat mollified. Grenville beckoned me to follow as the cooks stared at us, and we ducked through another door to the servants’ corridor.
“You know your way about,” I remarked to Grenville.
“His Highness has taken me through the entire house—several times. He is very proud of every inch, or at least of what Mr. Nash has done with it. Clever man, is Nash. He’ll make the place pleasing and not the monstrosity the Regent has dreamed up. Oh, I beg your pardon, good lady.”
He tipped his hat to a maid who’d halted at the sight of us. She pushed herself against the wall so we could pass and did not meet our eyes. I bowed to her as I went by, but that made her cringe even more—she’d hoped I wouldn’t notice her.
“Anything returning to your mind?” Grenville said after we’d gone a little farther.
“Not a bit. I needed my guide, who thankfully showed me the way out.”
“Hmm.” Grenville looked about then abruptly charged off down a passageway. I followed as closely as I could.
After taking us through several corridors and down a few short flights of stairs, he opened a door that led into a small courtyard. “Here?”
“Possibly.” It had been dark, and I had been ill and disoriented.
“Let us pretend this is the correct door.” Grenville stepped out and followed the passage to the gate at the end.
“This is very like it,” I said. We walked through the gate and emerged onto a street. “I found myself in the maze of the market and bought a bud for my lapel from a flower seller there.” I pointed my walking stick down a street, now humming with the day’s activities, though no flower sellers were apparent at the moment.
“You saw no one else?” Grenville asked. “None but the footman?”
“No one,” I said with certainty. I had been alone—that much I knew.
“Nor heard anyone running away, that sort of thing?”
I returned my walking stick to the pavement. “You want me to say I heard the murderer or saw another who might have been the culprit. I’m sorry, but no, I did not.”
“The killer might have been long gone before you arrived,” Grenville said. “Or might have been your lad, Clement.”
“I recall looking him over for signs of blood or violence. I saw none. He was terrified—he obviously believed I was the killer.”
“Well, either both of you are innocent, or one of you is guilty.”
“Very helpful.” I gave him a frown.
“I am attempting to be efficient, my friend. As you can be when you are not distraught. Your involvement in this is clouding your judgement.”
“As is my lack of memory,” I said grimly.
“Oi!”
I heard a familiar shout and swung around to see Brewster bolting out through another gate. He pointed a thick arm down the lane and charged after a retreating figure.
It was a tall lad with black hair and skin, his footman’s livery awry, running as fast as he could. Clement, my conspirator from the night of Isherwood’s murder, fled into the lanes, Brewster hard on his heels.
Chapter 7
Grenville, after a startled look at the running Clement, sprinted down the road behind Brewster, never mind his pristine suit and polished boots. I had to let those more fleet of foot than I pursue the lad, while I hobbled in their wake as swiftly as I could.
Brewster, who could move rapidly for all his bulk, caught Clement in a lane that branched off North Street. When I reached them, Brewster had Clement against a wall with his arm across his throat, Clement struggling hard. The tall youth had fear in his eyes, but also resolve.
Grenville seemed none the worse for the chase, but I leaned against the wall to catch my breath. “Let him go, Brewster.”
Brewster did not obey. “I introduced meself to him, so to speak, below stairs, and said you wanted a word. And off he went.”
“Yes,” I reasoned. “But he cannot answer me with you cutting off his air.”
“He can. I know how to go about it.”
I dragged in another breath and hauled myself upright. “Please don’t be afraid, lad. In spite of appearances, I have no intention of hurting you. I wanted to talk, and you know what about.”
Brewster did ease his hold, though he kept Clement trapped. “Why didn’t he say so?” the young man asked angrily.
“Why’d ye run?” Brewster returned.
“I was off to see me mum.” Clement scowled at him. “And this lout starts chasing me.”
“In the Regent’s livery?” I gestured to his satin knee breeches and coat, his silk stockings and well-made shoes. He’d left off the turban, his short hair glistening in the strong sunshine. “Why not change before you go?”
“I ain’t a dandy with a dozen suits, am I? Not a different one for every hour, like Mr. Grenville.”
“Touché,” Grenville said, brows rising. “It is an apt question, lad. You’d have at least clothes to go home in. I doubt the majordomo will be pleased if you tear your finery.”
“His Highness has got enough money to buy me dozens. I ain’t doing nothing wrong, guv.” He glared at me. “Call off your dog.”
My “dog” growled at him.
“If you truly are visiting your mother, I hardly wish to keep you,” I said. “We’ll walk with you, shall we? I do need to speak with you, lad.”
Clement sent me a belligerent look. “You’ll fit me up for the magistrates. I never killed that bloke.”
Brewster’s grip tightened. “Do I look like a beak?” he demanded. “This is Captain Lacey. He’s not in the habit of fitting
people up. Even to save his own neck,” he finished in disapproval.
“I promise you,” I interrupted firmly. “No magistrates. I do not believe you murdered the colonel, but I am not prepared to tell you why on the street.”
Clement looked me over with less fear than he should have being in the clutches of Brewster. Brewster was not a killer, but he didn’t mind rendering a victim unconscious or breaking a limb or two.
At last, Clement gave me a nod. “All right then. But you don’t say nothing about this to my mum.”
“I would not dream of it,” I assured him. I signaled to Brewster, but I knew Brewster only released the lad because he’d decided. Even in the days when Brewster had been briefly employed by me, he’d never done what I asked simply because I asked it.
Clement and his mother lived on the northeast end of Brighton, in a street of small, neat cottages. A well-kept garden lay before the house where Clement led us through a gate, the clumps of bright flowers and trained rose vines a testimony to a gardener of good taste and hard work.
Clement, followed closely by Brewster, strode up the path made of crushed stone to the front door. The lad gave us a warning glance before he walked inside, singing out, “It’s me, Mum! I brought visitors.”
A woman’s voice floated from a room down the flagstoned hall, her tone filled with alarm. “It’s not your day out. You’d better not be in trouble, my boy.”
“Nah.” Clement shot me a worried look. “Have some gentlemen with me.”
Footsteps sounded and a woman emerged into the hall. She had dark skin, like her son, and resembled him greatly. She wore a frock of light brown trimmed with cream, her hair in a simple but elegant knot.
She did not look old enough to have a son Clement’s age—I put him to be nearly twenty. Her smooth face was unlined and she had no gray in her hair, but from her expression, she was obviously his mother. The admonishing glare could have come from no other.
The lady addressed Grenville, guessing by his clothing and demeanor that he was the most highborn of us. “Clement is a good lad, sir. But not always. What has he done this time?”
Grenville gave her a gentlemanly bow. “Nothing at all, dear lady. Captain Lacey made your son’s acquaintance when he dined at the Pavilion the other night, and today sought him out to give him a shilling for his service. Clement unfortunately got hold of the wrong idea and tried to flee. We thought we’d escort him home and assure him we have only kindness in mind.”
A plausible tale, but Clement’s mother regarded Grenville narrowly. She moved the skeptical gaze to me then Brewster, who hovered near the door, ready to prevent Clement from rushing out.
The lady was no fool. She nodded to Grenville but it was clear she was reserving her opinion. “In that case, gentlemen, let me offer you refreshment. I have a nice pot of tea brewed, and cook has made some of her excellent cakes. Take them into the parlor, Clement, and let them sit down. I won’t be a moment.”
She spoke clearly, with only a hint of the London cant Clement had. She bustled from us without a qualm, and Clement could do nothing but usher us into the sitting room.
I liked the house, clean and tidy, comfortable without ostentation. It was the sort of place I ought to be living in—I’d gone from faded, cheap rooms in Covent Garden to the opulence of Donata’s Mayfair home in one day. I preferred the comfortable and informal to either penury or ostentation.
Grenville, who was at home anywhere, seated himself near the window and admired the view—across the garden and down a hill to the sea. Brewster declared he’d wait outside, meaning he’d station himself near the front door like a pillar.
“I have no intention of upsetting your mother,” I told Clement, who hovered uncertainly as I sat down. “But I do need to ask you about the night Colonel Isherwood died. I want to know what you saw, and who, and when.”
“I saw you.” Clement rocked on his heels. “Standing over the colonel with a sword in your hand.”
“I know that.” I held on to my patience. “Yet you helped me leave the palace instead of sounding the alarm.”
Clement hesitated. “Because I didn’t think you done it.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you think I hadn’t done it?” he countered, folding his arms. He was a big lad, and strong.
“Lack of blood on your clothes,” I said. “Your terror when you saw me with a sword. You had the fear of one thinking he would be killed next, not the guilt of a man caught.”
Clement considered this then nodded. “Thought the same about you. A stab like that would have sprayed you all over. You had a little blood on you, but only what smeared from the sword. And you had the same fear, like.”
I loosened in some relief. “Good. I’m pleased to find you are sensible. You do see, do you not, why both of us need to find out who really killed him?”
Clement regarded me in unhappy silence before nodding once more. “Please don’t tell me mum.”
“She will likely hear the tale sooner or later,” I warned in a quiet voice. “Of Isherwood’s death if nothing else, in a place you are employed. I assume you ran and fetched the majordomo that night, who gave you instructions to say nothing at all?”
Another nod. “I had to help him clear out the body.” Clement shuddered. “We carried him out on the dust sheet and the majordomo gave the man to his son. Not nice work.”
I didn’t imagine it would have been. “I have not asked you why you happened to be traipsing around the Pavilion in time to catch me over Isherwood’s body. What were you doing in the banqueting room at that time?”
If I expected him to stutter and stammer and try to come up with a lie, I was disappointed. Clement gave me a surprised look and said, “Quickest way to the kitchens, innit, cutting through that room. I was peckish.”
Grenville chuckled. “How many nights in my youth did I wander my father’s dark mansion in search of sustenance? And again when I was at school? There was never enough at meals to satisfy me.”
I was not ready to take Clement’s word without question, but I could not deny that I had done the same as a boy.
“I carried food and drink to the table all night,” Clement went on. “Run off my feet, and didn’t get much past a crust of bread for my trouble. I knew there’d be leftovers from the meal going begging.” He glared as though daring me to tell him he’d been wrong.
Heels clicked in the hall, and Grenville sprang up to open the door. Clement’s mother entered with a full tray, which Grenville took from her, setting it on the table.
“Thank you, sir.” She gave him a curtsy. “This is how a gentleman behaves, Clement. Take note. A cup of tea, sir? I am afraid I cannot offer you other. I have no strong drink in my house.”
“Tea is admirable, dear lady.” Grenville took a seat as she sat down to pour out. “What do we call you, madam? We can hardly keep referring to you as Clement’s mum.”
She gave Grenville a quick smile but one that said she saw through his charm. “I am Mrs. Morgan. Cecilia is my Christian name. Mr. Morgan is deceased—I am a widow. We come from London, but we moved to Brighton when the Regent began hiring servants for his Pavilion. I sent Clement along to see if he could get a place, as the pay was decent. I would like to think the majordomo hired my Clement because he is clever and well-mannered, but I rather think it was because he’s tall and looks fine in the livery.”
“Mum …” Clement sank into the window seat, embarrassed.
Mrs. Morgan handed Grenville a cup and began filling another. “My husband was a merchant who sold goods from India as they came off the ships. A wholesaler. He did well in his business, if not brilliantly, and left me comfortable. I tell you this to save you the breath of asking questions about Clement’s life. He was well brought up and mostly stays free of trouble.”
I took the tea Mrs. Morgan handed me, noting the glint of amusement in her eyes. She was very curious about us in return but wasn’t about to say so.
“Clement is a fine
lad,” I said. “And has caused no trouble that I know of. Before I drink your tea, I will introduce myself. I am Captain Gabriel Lacey, late of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons. This gentleman is Mr. Lucius Grenville, a famous dandy and friend of the Regent. In spite of this, he too can keep himself from trouble.”
“I have heard of Mr. Grenville, of course.” Mrs. Morgan gave him a nod. “I thought it was you, sir. I read in the newspaper that you had arrived in Brighton with your new wife. My felicitations. I am honored by your visit.”
“Not at all. Thank you.” Grenville made a bow from his chair. “Captain Lacey enjoys teasing, you might have noted.”
“I gathered that. The newspapers seem even more agog about your wife than yourself, Mr. Grenville. An actress, they say. A scandal, is it?” Her tone was curious, not condemning.
Grenville flushed. “A romance, in truth. Once I met my love, I could marry no other.”
“A very good answer.” Mrs. Morgan lifted her teacup. “If a bit affected. Well, gentlemen. Please tell me the true reason you’ve come, and what you want of my son.”
“Never you mind,” Clement blustered. “They wanted to give me shillings is all.”
I exchanged a glance with Grenville. His uncertainty matched mine. This lady seemed intelligent, and the event concerned her son, but how discreet could she be?
“Bloke was killed at the Pavilion,” Clement blurted out before I could decide. Under his mother’s eye, he wilted, clutching the window seat’s cushion. “A colonel what was at the supper party on Monday night.”
“Colonel Isherwood from the Forty-Seventh Light Dragoons,” I finished. “He was a regimental colonel at Preston Barracks.”
Mrs. Morgan’s teacup lowered slowly as she stared at first Clement, then Grenville and me. Her good humor drained away. “Colonel Isherwood?”
Grenville leaned forward. “Did you know him, madam?”
Mrs. Morgan regarded us sharply, animation returning to her face. “What is this? Why do you say he was killed, and at the Pavilion?”
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 7
