“I found his body there,” I said as calmly as I could. “As did your son.”
“No!” Clement was on his feet. “I didn’t find him. I found you finding him.” He pointed a stiff finger at me.
Mrs. Morgan rose, anything genial in her vanishing. “Are you saying my son killed Colonel Isherwood, Captain Lacey? If you have come to accuse him, you will bring me evidence and allow me to send for my solicitor. Or did you, wealthy men about town, decide to badger a pathetic widow?”
There was nothing pathetic about this woman. She stood straight-backed and stared us down.
I set aside my tea and climbed to my feet. “Please. I am accusing no one. I want to get to the truth, because you can see the precarious position I might be in. I do not believe I killed Isherwood, but to prove this, I need to find out who did.”
Mrs. Morgan’s brow furrowed. “You don’t believe you did? Do you not know?”
“Unfortunately, no. I remember little about the night.”
She gave me another look, this one full of disapproval. “Strong drink is the very devil, sir.”
Grenville broke in. “Captain Lacey believes he was given a substance that clouded his mind.”
“Does he?” Mrs. Morgan’s skepticism rang out. “Does he believe Clement did this—drugged him and set him over the body of a man my son killed? I’ll thank you to consider your words, sir.”
“I do not believe Clement murdered him, either,” I said quickly. “I wish to clear his name as well as mine.”
“Why?” Mrs. Morgan demanded, as though it were a reasonable question. “Why should the likes of you stick your neck out for the likes of us?”
“Because I am interested in the truth.” I grew stern. “I do not want to see an innocent lad hang for something he did not do. I do not care if the Regent himself murdered this man—I’d prosecute him with all my might.”
Grenville had risen when Mrs. Morgan did, but remained a distance from us, trying to be the most unthreatening person in the room.
“You will find, madam, that Captain Lacey is a most honorable fellow,” he said. “He is a champion of the downtrodden—not that the description belongs to you, Mrs. Morgan.” Grenville bowed to her. “But he will work to make certain the correct person is punished for the crime, not the most convenient one.”
The words were delivered in a smooth tone and one that slightly disparaged me. He will always act honorably, even at detriment to himself, Grenville was implying. Drives his friends mad.
Mrs. Morgan was not entirely reassured, but her anger wound down a bit.
“I wanted to ask Clement what he’d observed Monday evening during the supper and after,” I explained. “He as footman would see all the guests, would know who went in and out and what servants were in the back stairs. He would know exactly when the Regent—and every other guest for that matter—left that night. I hope he can be my eyes and ears for what went on before Isherwood’s demise.”
Mrs. Morgan studied me, her indecision plain. Then she closed her eyes briefly and sat down once more.
“I don’t trust many, Captain. That includes you and Mr. Grenville. But I have also learned how to judge people quickly. You seem sincere—though in my experience, every confidence man does at first.” She lifted her chin. “I will provide you some information, before you pry it of a busybody. I knew Colonel Isherwood. When we first moved here, he wished to court me ... not as a wife. I rebuffed him. I did not like him.”
“I commend your taste,” I said, resuming my seat. “I did not like him either.”
“Mum?” Clement came forward, aghast. “What do you mean, not as a wife? You mean as his fancy piece?”
Mrs. Morgan scowled at him. “Is that difficult to believe? I am not in my dotage, and there has been more than one gentleman who wanted me on his arm. But I am neither desperate nor a fool. He tried to tell me how many gifts and riches he’d give me, as though I were an empty-headed ninny. I turned him away.” She hesitated. “I am afraid I had to turn him away quite often. He was persistent … and threatening.”
“He was ever a blackguard,” I said. “If he were still walking, I’d call him out for that.”
Grenville stepped forward. “We can all agree the man was abominable. Pray keep that story to yourself, good lady, lest you be accused as well.”
Mrs. Morgan’s eyes flashed. “I imagine if every person Hamilton Isherwood angered or disgusted were accused, there were be a long parade before the magistrate. But I take your warning, sir. Clement could also be pointed at as a lad defending his mother.”
Clement’s eyes widened. “I didn’t even know.”
“If a magistrate wants a culprit, and quickly, he might not care,” Grenville said. “Let me sum up—we have three suspects standing in this room. Captain Lacey, found over the body, sword in hand. Clement, on the spot and fond of his mother. Mrs. Morgan, who was bothered by the colonel and possibly frightened of him. I am beginning to be happy I went off to that soiree, as deadly dull as it turned out to be.”
“Others were at the dinner,” I said. “Lord Armitage and his wife, who have a fairly wild history. Bishop Craddock, who argued with Isherwood about the relevance of the army now that Bonaparte has been defeated. Quite strongly, I recall. I didn’t know many of the others. Alvanley and a few of his friends I’ve met at Tattersalls.” I frowned, trying to remember. “Alvanley introduced a French count.”
“Comte Fernand Desjardins,” Grenville said as he sat down and lifted his teacup. “He is an emigre—at least, that is his story. Came to England with his parents when he was a lad. They’d managed to get much of their money and belongings out of France before the Directorate came into power, and lived very well. Desjardins inherited the lot when his father passed away. He’s a bit of a dandy—enjoys luxury and mixing in the highest circles. Even now that Louis has been restored to the crown, Desjardins seems in no hurry to move back to France.”
“Ah,” Mrs. Morgan said. “Did he quarrel with Colonel Isherwood?”
“They didn’t speak together much,” Grenville said. “I could see that Isherwood thought him a vacuous fop.”
“I wonder why the Regent invited Isherwood at all,” I broke in. “Isherwood had a talent for angering people, or being angry at them. He was quite self-righteous, I remember.”
“There.” Mrs. Morgan squared her shoulders. “All the more reason for the magistrates to look elsewhere and leave my son alone.”
I glanced at Clement. “Isherwood lost his temper with you, didn’t he? When you didn’t bring his wine quickly enough? Became violent, Mr. Grenville tells me.”
Clement chewed his lip under his mother’s sudden glower. “He did, yeah. But I didn’t fight him or nothing. I walked away when he let me go. Sometimes the guests are a bit rude, or drunk.”
Mrs. Morgan pinned him with her stare. “Does this happen often?”
“No.” The answer was a bit too quick. “It’s a good place, Mum. I’ll not run away because a bloke thinks it’s funny to knock me hat off.”
“Clement, lad,” Grenville said, his air of authority cutting through whatever protest his mother was about to make. “You are in a good position to discover things. What time did the Regent depart that night? Did Comte Desjardins, or any of the guests, have an argument with Colonel Isherwood … or at the very least, plan to meet him later? You uncover what you can, and Lacey and I will do the same on our end.” He sent us all a severe look. “I do not have to explain, do I, that discretion is called for?”
“You do not,” Mrs. Morgan said. “I don’t want anyone claiming my Clement did for a regimental colonel when Clement wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She turned on her son. “Do what Mr. Grenville says. I give you my leave to listen to the gossip and ask all sorts of questions of the other servants. Who knows? Maybe one of them did it.”
“That is indeed a possibility,” I said.
The Regent’s lofty servants had pasts, and many had worked for aristocrats throughout their careers
. Some might have served in the army, or worked for army officers—there were many opportunities for a man or woman to have crossed paths with Isherwood.
I rose. “I thank you for your assistance, madam. As well as for the excellent tea. And for lending us your son.”
“You just make certain he’s not banged up.” Mrs. Morgan got to her feet. She was only half my height, but she stared up at me with a marvelous strength of will. “Promise me that, Captain, and I’ll say nothing at all.”
I assured her I would, hoping I could make good on the promise without heading to Newgate myself.
Grenville and I walked away with Brewster, leaving Clement behind. His mother would send him back to work but wanted to speak more to him first, she said. Scold him up and down, I gathered, from Clement’s chagrined expression as we departed.
Grenville set his hat firmly on his head, defying the breeze that wanted to tug it off. “The world is changing,” he said. “Merchants are the new aristocrats. A lady from the East End can marry well, wear fashionable clothes, employ a cook, and host highborn gentlemen to tea without embarrassment.”
“Why shouldn’t she?” I asked. “Her husband likely worked hard to leave her and his son well off. Why should she hide her head in shame?”
“I merely observe it, Lacey. I don’t condemn her,” Grenville said, pained. “I am the most reforming of reforming men. Quite on the side of men being able to live a good life on their merits, not their birth.”
I relaxed. “Never say so in front of my wife,” I said in amusement. “She can trace every family in Britain back to Roman times.”
“Then she’ll know most families’ originators are reprobates, scoundrels, and pirates. They gleefully slaughtered each other in a never-ending quest for power, right up to the present day.”
Brewster, who’d walked behind us in silence now grunted. “You sound like them Quakers, the pair of you do. All of us the same? Give me strength.”
“Do not worry, Mr. Brewster,” Grenville said breezily. “I know you outrank us all. Even the Friends will acknowledge that.”
Brewster only grunted again at Grenville’s humor. He had a firm view of his place in the world and did not want anything to dislodge it.
“Did I hear you mention Quakers, Mr. Grenville?” a voice rumbled behind us. “Damned fools, the lot of them.”
Grenville turned, ready to tip his hat to an acquaintance. The man who approached was Bishop Craddock, who had been present at the ill-fated supper and again at last evening’s lecture.
Craddock was past sixty, but he had a firm body and few lines on his face. I’d thought him robust, and he was—the sort of gentleman who tramped miles across fields for the entertainment of it and took cold baths for his health.
He had argued long and loud with Isherwood about the relevance of the army before Alvanley had deftly turned the topic. Isherwood had never had any use for the clergy, especially bishops, considering the latter soft men who’d finagled livings out of wealthy parishes to climb to the top and make the rest of us miserable. Isherwood had especially hated bishops who sat in the House of Lords, of which Craddock was one.
“Your Grace,” Grenville said politely. “A passing comment,” he said in answer to the bishop’s question. “The Quaker Meeting House lies nearby.” He gestured back along North Street.
“I know it does. Too blasted many of them in Brighton.” His voice rang. “Cromwell has much to answer for. Did you know that more than a third of those who live in this town are Nonconformists? Methodists, Unitarians, Quakers, and other sorts of foul blights.”
“Cromwell has been dead these hundred and fifty years,” Grenville pointed out.
“That’s as may be, but he’s to blame. The Dissenters fled to Brighton when the crown was restored, the C of E back where it belonged. Do you know that if a Quaker does one small thing the others dislike, they boot him out? Shun him?”
“Do they?” Grenville asked, raising his brows. “I hadn’t heard that. So unlike our dear C of E, which welcomes drunkards and sinners.”
“Exactly.” The bishop’s voice rose. “God saves sinners, not sanctimonious, we-know-best, clergy-shunning, body-rocking, mouth frothers. Have you ever been to a Quaker Meeting? They say nothing, only sit there, eyes closed and swaying back and forth, until suddenly up jumps one and starts shouting. I ask you.”
“I have not had that opportunity, no,” Grenville said. “Sounds quite interesting.”
“Then you have a different idea of interest than I, Mr. Grenville.” The bishop bowed to us both, but not in anger. He’d said his piece, and didn’t much care whether we agreed with him or not. “Good afternoon. I’m off to have a tramp down the coast to Eastbourne. Good weather for it.”
He looked Grenville up and down, as though certain he’d never be up to such a long walk, glanced with disapproval at my walking stick, turned abruptly and left us.
Grenville waited until the man strode out of earshot before he spoke. “Such a pleasant gentleman. I hope he did not do away with the missing Quakers in his zeal.”
“As do I,” I agreed. “I have not made much of a start looking for them, I admit. I’ve been fixed on my own dilemma.”
“I am at your service,” Grenville answered at once. “It should not be too difficult to find what became of them, should it?”
“Huh,” Brewster said. He’d faded back as the bishop railed but now joined us again. “You’re a fool to think so, Mr. Grenville, if you don’t mind me saying. Anything involving the captain is a right mess. If it didn’t start that way, he will make it so.”
When I reached home, I faced another ordeal. Donata had Peter and Anne downstairs, ready for us to make our way to the sea.
She regarded my tardiness with some impatience, but we set off in due course. Anne’s nanny accompanied us, as did Gabriella in a pretty muslin frock and jacket.
For a certain sum, one could hire coaches that drove out through the shingle to a calm cove, stopping right in the water. There, using the coach as a shield from prying eyes, we uncovered to light clothing and plunged into the sea.
Donata was quite fetching in her thin muslin frock that clung to every curve. She swam sedately, but well, Gabriella happily paddling alongside her. Gabriella had often traveled to the coast with her family in France, and she enjoyed sea bathing.
Anne remained in the carriage, as both Donata and I had great fear of her drowning if she so much as touched the water, but at least she could enjoy the air and a day out.
Peter was the most exultant of all. He swam and dove, played splashing games with Gabriella and me, and shouted and laughed at us both. Gabriella held her own against him in these games, with no intention of letting him best her.
Peter liked swimming out with me as far as we dared go, the cold water bracing. We stroked side by side, I slowing myself so I would not outpace him. In a few years, I suspected, he’d outpace me.
The sun headed westward but had a long way to go before nightfall. The sea glittered with light, a mist rising on its edge. It was beautiful, but the mist warned the evening would be cool.
“Papa!” Peter yelled. “Look!”
In spite of my thrill that he’d addressed me as Papa, I peered at what he excitedly pointed to. I shaded my eyes, and felt a pang of disquiet.
It was a boat, but upended, floating on the waves like a pile of boards, its hull black with water. I stopped Peter as he began to swim out to it.
“Stay here. Look after your mother.” I left him behind me and started toward the boat.
When I reached the small vessel, I realized Peter had disobeyed and come after me. He was like a fish in the water, and easily caught up.
I put my hands under the gunwale of the boat. I realized I’d never shift it all the way over by myself but I could at least lift it enough to see if anyone had been trapped beneath.
Someone had, and he was dead. As I moved the edge of the boat upward, Peter’s small hands helping to push, the bubble of air b
eneath the boat revealed the body of a young man.
He was dead with no doubt, his face blue and bloated. His body had been trapped under the plank seats across the bottom, which explained why he hadn’t sunk into the sea, though he was quite wet.
His eyes were open, staring in terror, and the clear marks of strangling fingers were black across his throat.
Chapter 8
Peter gasped at the sight of the dead man, but did not look as horrified as I’d feared he’d be. He gazed at the body in fascination but also sadness, genuine sorrow that such a thing had befallen another.
“We should fetch the magistrate,” he said in a hushed whisper.
“That we should.” I seized a rope that had also been trapped under the boards. It was wet, but the upended boat had kept it from becoming sodden. “We need to tow this to shore, to secure it so it doesn’t drift.”
Peter reached to help, and together, we lashed the rope to a hook in the gunwale. The young man inside was well stuck, so we would not need to turn the boat all the way over to get him to shore.
Peter and I shared the rope between us. We swam, and when we hit shallow water, we marched onward, hauling the boat with us.
We passed Donata, who was climbing into the coach that had taken us into the sea. Donata’s maid reached out with a cloak, hiding her clinging wet gown.
“Gabriel?” my wife called, startled.
Gabriella, already inside, peered out in concern. “Father, what has happened?”
I did not answer either of them, not wanting to shout the news across the water. I continued with the boat toward the shore, Peter assisting.
Halfway up the shingle, a stump of an old dock protruded from the rocks. I fastened the rope to it, looping it around and around and tying it as tightly as I could. I called out to a fisherman and asked him to please make certain the boat stayed put. I had to promise to pay him, but he nodded, settling down next to it without question and pulling out a flask.
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 8
