Mr. Quimby lifted his head. “Indeed, such a sudden illness in so healthy a gentleman might indicate poison of some sort. You ate and drank the same things as everyone at the supper?”
“As far as I know. The footmen served us out of the same dishes, poured wine out of the same decanters or bottles.”
“Hmm.” Quimby carefully blotted his page with another piece of paper, and then leafed back through the book. “Your wife told me that you had pieced together a few more things. You spoke to the Quakers between leaving Mr. Grenville in the Steine and waking up to find Colonel Isherwood. When you saw Mr. Bickley yesterday, he asked you to help find the missing Joshua, who is now deceased.”
I nodded regretfully. “Joshua and another woman—Miss Purkis. Or perhaps Mrs. Purkis—I am not certain whether she is spinster, wife, or widow.” I hoped very much that whoever she was, she had not come to the same end as Josh.
Another jot of the pen. “Have you remembered anything else since then?”
I closed my eyes to think, blotting out the fine sunshine streaming over the garden, the scent of sea in the air.
“No,” I had to say. “I’ve had odd feelings and a few flashes, but when I try to grasp them, they are gone.”
Quimby made another note before he laid down his pen. “I would like to speak to Colonel Isherwood’s son. Can you arrange that for me, Captain?”
“I will.” I hesitated. “I do not blame him trying to keep the murder quiet—journalists would make a meal of it, especially since it happened at the Pavilion. Will you follow his wishes?”
“As I assured you, I am a man of discretion.” Mr. Quimby shut his notebook and rose. “Even so, a man has been killed, violently. I will not announce my intentions regarding Colonel Isherwood, but I will find who killed him and make an arrest. What the colonel’s son wishes to do after that is up to him, of course.”
“Of course,” was all I could say in response.
“And now it seems we might have to find out who killed young Mr. Bickley. That death can obviously not be kept quiet, but will provide a plausible reason for me to be here, if an unfortunate one.” He let out a breath. “Well, I certainly will have much to do.”
Quimby gave me his affable smile as he shook my hand and took his leave. I accompanied him to the front door, which a footman opened for him, and I watched him walk steadily down the lane.
I reflected that the small Runner who took quick, firm steps, moving aside for and tipping his hat to a passing lady and gentleman, might be the most dangerous man in England. Mr. Quimby was quiet and unremarkable, yet he worked with an efficient ruthlessness that could topple the most violent of criminals.
I hoped he would not have cause to topple me.
I sent a message to Grenville after that, asking him to set up a time when I could speak to Lord Armitage. I wanted to know what had jarred me so much upon seeing him and his wife at the lecture. I ought also to meet with others who had been at the meal. Grenville should be able to arrange things so that the encounters wouldn’t seem unusual.
While waiting for his response, I continued to be doting husband and father, suggesting a promenade before our evening activities. We had all been distressed about the death of Josh Bickley, and a walk in the fresh air would do us good.
It was fine to stroll arm in arm with Donata, she staving off the bright sunshine with a parasol, Gabriella carrying a matching one. Peter ran about on the shingle, playing games only he knew the rules to. At one point, Donata and Gabriella walked out to meet Peter, but I preferred to remain on the road, not as easy on the shingle with my bad leg.
I reflected as I watched them that our dog, Oro, would have enjoyed running on the beach and into the water. However, we’d had to leave the fellow at Donata’s father’s estate in Oxfordshire, Donata rightly pointing out that our very small house in Brighton, which had no stables, had nowhere to put up a large dog.
As I waited for my family to return, a woman emerged from a nearby house and headed in my direction. Behind her came a gentleman in a well-made if not fashionable suit.
The woman had grown somewhat plumper than I remembered but there was no mistaking her. I stared in surprise as she halted before me, but she seemed not surprised at all.
“Captain Lacey, well met.” She held out a hand. “You recall me, surely? Marguerite Gibbons. At least, I have added the Gibbons since Spain.”
I should not be amazed, and yet I was. She’d written her friend that she’d settled in the south of England, and her former husband had just been murdered.
The woman who stood before me was Marguerite Isherwood, Colonel Isherwood’s rejected wife.
Chapter 9
Marguerite regarded me with a twinkle of amusement, relishing that she’d rendered me mute.
Seven years had not aged her much. Her dark hair held no gray, her face no lines. Gone was the bitter self-deprecation that had once marked her, but otherwise, her cheeks were as pink, her stance as upright, her smile as broad.
Her hand, covered in thin leather, remained outstretched. Awkwardly, I took it.
The man who’d followed her stepped to her side, extending his hand when Marguerite withdrew hers. “William Gibbons, sir, at your service.”
I made myself follow formalities. “Captain Gabriel Lacey.”
“An old friend from army days.” Marguerite’s voice held merriment. “When I followed the drum on the Peninsula.”
Her gaze dropped to my walking stick and the leg it supported, but she refrained from comment. I’d been a whole man when she’d last seen me.
Mr. Gibbons, like his suit, was plain, no handsomeness in his face. But it was a comfortable face, with brown eyes that were pleasantly crinkled, his hair brushed with gray. A man one would enjoy chatting with down the pub.
“Pleased to hear he is a friend,” Mr. Gibbons said to his wife. “Those were unhappy times.”
“They were indeed trying,” Marguerite replied. “Captain Lacey was ever courteous.”
I swallowed a cough. “Thank you,” was all I could manage.
Marguerite’s smile deepened. “I find myself in much more agreeable circumstances now.” She took her husband’s arm.
Mr. Gibbons gave me a nod, his pride obvious. “Yes, I am the most fortunate of men.”
Divorce, I well knew, carried a stigma for both the divorced wife and the husband, as well as anyone who married either. Scandal followed them, whispers continued. Yet Gibbons had been happy to marry Marguerite, scandal be damned.
Isherwood was dead now, making Marguerite a true widow.
Mr. Gibbons glanced at someone behind me and made an abrupt and deep bow. Marguerite released his arm and dropped into a respectful curtsy.
“Your ladyship,” she murmured.
I was aware of Donata coming to rest beside me, her warmth cutting the sudden chill of the summer breeze. She smelled of wind and the sun, dust from the shingle beach.
“Good evening,” she said politely.
Marguerite and Mr. Gibbons returned the greeting deferentially and then said nothing more. One did not converse freely with a daughter of the peerage unless they had been introduced. The fact that they knew she was an earl’s daughter and viscount’s widow did not surprise me. Our marriage had been announced and speculated about in every newspaper.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gibbons,” I explained awkwardly to Donata. “Visitors to Brighton.” I turned to them. “My wife, Lady Breckenridge.”
“Mrs. Lacey,” Donata corrected me as she gave the Gibbonses a neutral smile. “The sunshine is lovely, is it not? Such a change from London’s dreariness.”
A safe and expected thing to say. We all agreed the weather in Brighton was far superior to London’s smoky gloom.
Donata ended the conversation. “Enjoy your evening. Forgive me—I must ask the captain to drag our son from the water before he becomes a fish.”
After polite chuckles, another “Your Ladyship,” and a curtsy and bow, Donata nodded regally and led me
off.
I remained silent as I trudged clumsily across the shingle and a few paces into the sea to lift Peter from it. He was not happy to leave his impromptu swum, but he clung to me as I hoisted him to my shoulder and carried him out.
When I glanced to the promenade once more, Marguerite and her husband had gone.
Donata did not mention the encounter on the walk home. Though Gabriella was clearly curious, she said nothing, perhaps sensing my tension. When we reached the house, Donata admonished Peter for submerging his shoes and getting his trousers wet to the knees, then adjourned to her rooms to ready herself for supper.
I returned to my own to change myself, but Donata soon entered my chamber through the dressing room between.
“Gabriel?” she said as she threaded a diamond earring through her earlobe. “Are you quite well? When you were speaking to those people, you became an interesting shade of green. I thought you’d be ill. Are you still weak from whatever concoction you were given?”
I wanted suddenly to sit, but it would be discourteous while my wife stood. I leaned one arm on the mantelpiece, wishing the cold hearth contained a fire.
“She was Isherwood’s wife,” I said.
Donata froze, her fingers at her ear. She stared at me for several ticks of the clock before she slid the earring all the way in and did up the delicate clasp.
“I see.” Her voice was wintery.
“I could hardly point this out while we stood on the promenade,” I said. “Nor did I wish to say anything in front of Gabriella and Peter.”
“Quite.”
“I had no idea she was in Brighton.”
“Obviously not,” Donata said. “Your color indicated her presence was a blow. Mr. Gibbons is her second husband, I take it. Does he know you were her lover?”
Donata enjoyed being blunt. She’d once explained that it was much easier to voice unpleasant truths and be done than to dance around them for days.
“From his manner, I would say no, he does not,” I answered. “I did not enlighten him.”
“No reason you should. Interesting she has turned up now that Isherwood is dead.”
“Perhaps her stepson sent for her. He would naturally write her of the incident.”
“True,” Donata said.
She remained composed, but I saw the anger deep in her eyes. I considered apologizing, but I wasn’t certain how to word things or what I was apologizing for. I had no intention of taking up with Marguerite again, and likewise, Marguerite seemed happy with Mr. Gibbons. She obviously no longer had interest in me.
I’d never been an eloquent man, and as I struggled to wrap these thoughts into phrases that would not anger Donata further, Jacinthe glided in from the dressing room.
Only Jacinthe could interrupt a tȇte-à-tȇte between Donata and me, no matter how heated our argument. Donata turned away, her mouth a thin line.
“Message for you, sir.” Jacinthe held out a sealed piece of paper. She hovered as I opened the letter, no doubt waiting for a response.
“It is from Grenville,” I announced. “He wishes to meet. Or rather, he summons me to him.”
Donata’s voice was cool. “You ought to go then. He’d not write if it weren’t important.”
“True.” I nodded to Jacinthe, who curtsied and departed, answer received.
“Give him my best wishes,” Donata said stiffly.
Donata prided herself on pretending extreme indifference as to my comings and goings—a wife should not live in her husband’s pocket, she said—but I could see she was not pleased.
I would not mind at all having her next to me most of the time, but it apparently was not the done thing in our world. I took her hands, leaning to kiss her cheek. “I will return forthwith.”
I thought I saw a slight softening in her eyes, but I could not be certain. I kissed her again, and departed.
Grenville did not notice my agitation when I arrived at his house a quarter of an hour later. He waved a paper at me.
“I have set an appointment with a few of our companions from the Regent’s supper table,” he announced. “Comte Desjardins is home and will welcome our visit.”
Brewster, as usual, accompanied us as we set off on foot to Desjardins’ lodgings. Grenville rarely walked anywhere in London, using his carriage or phaeton to keep his pristine boots from the mud, but during this sojourn he was delighting in tramping everywhere.
Comte Desjardins had taken a residence not far from our square, in a new house on the west end of town. Brewster made his stolid way down the outside stairs to the kitchen while a footman admitted Grenville and me through the front door.
We followed the footman up a flight of stairs to a sitting room filled with light. The room faced the sea, and the late evening sunshine flooded it.
That sunlight touched the long barrel of a gun, which was pointed straight at us.
Chapter 10
I instinctively stepped sideways to my right, out of the line of fire. Grenville ducked aside as well. I noticed that the footman had quickly vanished down the stairs.
“Steady on,” Grenville said sternly.
Comte Desjardins, his round face flushed under a shock of pale hair, did not move the shotgun. “It is no matter,” he answered in French. “It is not loaded.”
He pulled the trigger to demonstrate.
An explosion sounded, gunpowder bursting from the firing pan. A scattering of shot whizzed between me and Grenville and out the open doorway, pockmarking the hall’s paneling.
The comte, a tall, well-muscled man, tanned from the outdoors, blinked blue eyes at the gun. “Ah. I am so very sorry.” He’d switched to English, his accent heavy, and now returned to French. “It is a Purdey. A gift for me from the Regent. I hear they are very fine guns for hunting.”
He lowered the piece, and I breathed out, lingering gunpowder stinging my eyes and throat. How the devil the man hadn’t realized the gun was loaded was beyond my understanding. He was either a liar or a fool.
Pounding footsteps sounded on the stairs and seconds later, Brewster tumbled into the room. “Guv!”
Before I could stop him, Brewster lunged forward and wrested the gun from the startled comte’s hands, pointing the barrel to the floor.
“What daftie would shoot off a birding gun inside a parlor?” Brewster demanded.
Desjardins began snarling at him in French, and Brewster backed away, still holding the gun.
“Can’t understand a word he says,” Brewster said. “Same below stairs.”
Grenville came forward to interpose. “Forgive our servant,” he said to Desjardins in French. “He feared we’d been killed. He’ll take the gun away and clean it for you. As you say, it is a fine piece.” Grenville touched a gloved finger to the barrel in Brewster’s arms.
Even I’d heard of James Purdey, a manufacturer of fowling pieces and guns in a shop in Princes Street near Hanover Square. His weaponry was highly praised and widely sought after by the haut ton.
Desjardins relaxed. “It was a mistake. I said I was very sorry. The man who delivered it from the Regent never told me it was loaded and primed. A joke, I think.”
“One in poor taste,” Grenville said tightly.
I translated to Brewster what Grenville had said and advised him to take the gun to the stable yard behind the house for the task. Brewster gave me a sour look.
“Not leaving you alone with a bloke what aimed a gun at you. He wants the thing cleaned, I’ll sit here in this room and do it. He might pull out a knife next.”
Ordering Brewster to do a thing he did not want to was useless, I knew. Grenville, always the diplomat, asked leave to ring for a servant, whom he bade bring tools so Brewster could begin, as well as a sheet to protect the carpet.
The bemused footman, the same who’d showed us upstairs, complied, and Brewster fell to it, taking apart the gun with the dexterity of a professional.
The comte sent him a worried look. “That shooter is quite fine. Will the oaf ruin
it?”
The “oaf” did not understand French, and continued with his task. “I trust Mr. Brewster,” I answered.
Brewster glanced up as I said his name and scowled, not trusting me.
“A splendid gift,” Grenville said. “The Regent was generous.”
“He was.” Desjardins lifted his chin, his pride apparent.
I was not certain what to make of the man. At supper, Desjardins had sat several seats down from me and had devoted most of his conversation to Lady Armitage. When he had joined in with the rest of us, he was loud about keeping the lower classes in their places and mourning that he’d had to leave a large estate in France because of said lower classes.
He regarded us both affably now, chagrined about his mistake in firing the gun, but with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Grenville watched him coolly.
“You’ve lived in England many years,” I remarked to Desjardins. His suit resembled Grenville’s and must have been made by a Bond Street tailor. He also wore scent, a dark spice that spoke of the best perfumery in London.
Desjardins flushed, his amusement dying. “A bit rude of you to point out my exile, sir. I feel it keenly.”
“Your pardon. I only meant you would have had time to cultivate the Regent’s friendship.”
“Ah. Yes, that is so.” Desjardins brightened. “The prince has been good to me and my family.” He glanced out the window. “I have never grown fond England, if you must know. There is much rain, and I am not used to the dreary flatness of the land. In the south of France, we have high mountains and deep valleys, so dramatic.”
He could not have traveled much in Britain, then, which had plenty of mountains and valleys in the north and the west. I’d grown up in Norfolk, very flat country, which I’d too found dreary as a youth, though I appreciated its beauty these days.
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 10
