“Poor bugger,” Brewster said, watching him go. “A strange cove, but I feel that sorry for him. Can’t be easy, having his son murdered like that.”
“No.” I glanced at Peter who had returned to skimming rocks into the ocean. He was not the son of my body, but I was growing to care for him as though he were my own.
“He never mentioned Miss Purkis,” I said. “The Quaker woman who has also gone missing.”
Brewster nodded. “Noticed. You think she’s dead too?”
“I sincerely hope not.” I called to Peter. “Come, lad, let us go back. Your mother should be awake by now.”
This aspect did not excite Peter, but for my part, I was anxious to speak to Donata.
Jacinthe did not wish to allow me into Donata’s chamber. I planted myself solidly in the doorway and stared her down. As I was now head of the household, I could bodily move her aside if I chose and be considered justified doing so.
None of this disturbed Jacinthe, who’d been looking after Donata since Donata had been a girl. Donata’s own mother was not as fierce.
“Let him in,” my wife said wearily. “He will only stand there if you do not, and he is creating a draft.”
Jacinthe’s expression told me she considered me the loser of the battle, but she opened the door deferentially. As I entered, Jacinthe fetched a mending basket and walked sedately out.
Donata said absolutely nothing. She sat at her dressing table, peering into the mirror as she arranged curls of her hair with her fingers.
The windows giving to the sea were open and I moved to them. I gazed out at the beauty of the gray ocean, breathing in the clean air.
After the silence had stretched between us, I turned to her. “Grenville told me I ought to go down on my knees before you. But this one doesn’t bend well.” I tapped my leg with my walking stick. “So I will have to remain standing.”
Donata kept her eyes on the mirror, lifting a strand of gold to test against her throat. “Absolute nonsense,” she said in a quiet voice.
“The truth of it is, no lady can hold a candle to you.”
Donata at last glanced at me, but the spark in her eyes showed she was not appeased. “I did rather coerce you into marrying me, I admit. I remember not giving you much choice.”
I regarded her in amazement then returned to my contemplation of the sea.
“It astonishes me every day,” I said softly, “that you condescended to notice me at all. A most beautiful lady with a swift and intelligent mind, and you chose to favor me. I have been, all this time, humbled, and grateful.”
Another silence. When I turned again, she gazed at me, her mask of studied sangfroid gone. We regarded each other—anger and remorse, frustration and regret wafting through the space between us.
“Well, you are rather handsome,” Donata said lightly.
I went to her and peered around her into the mirror. I saw my hard face, too weathered by the sun, a long nose, unruly dark hair, and wide dark eyes.
“I will never believe you on that score,” I told her. “I married you before you could come to your senses and pass me over.”
Donata flushed, but instead of answering, she waved her hand at a folded paper on the dressing table. “Grenville sent me a note this morning. He told me what happened to you last night and why you fled.”
I would have to thank Grenville profusely for his intervention. “Then you know what a fool I was acting, confused and going off in all directions.”
Donata’s coolness vanished. “Good Lord, Gabriel, someone tried to shoot you. I have no doubt they were aiming for you, as you were alone at the time.”
“True,” I said. “Mrs. Gibbons only hailed me as Brewster and I chased after the scoundrel into the streets.”
“That was not what I meant.” Donata squarely met my gaze. “You need to have a care. Mr. Denis should assign three or four men to guard you—obviously Mr. Brewster cannot do it alone.”
“Mr. Denis is here in Brighton. He commandeered Brewster’s lodgings and sent for me last night, at midnight, if you please.”
“I know,” she said. “Bartholomew told me—that is, he told Jacinthe. What is Mr. Denis’s opinion of all this?”
“That a person from my past plans to end me.” I pulled a delicate chair next to her and sat down, rested my arms on my knees, and related my conversation with him. I ended with a weak smile. “Denis also ordered me to reconcile with you.”
“Ah.” Donata’s expression shuttered. “So that is why you were so eloquent.”
“I meant every word of it.” I lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I hate that I distress you because I can be a dolt. I hate that my past is rising to plague us. I hate that you believe my affection for you could ever wane.”
Her fingers tightened on mine the slightest bit. “I was raised to never show what I felt, no matter the circumstance,” she said softly. “You are happy to let the world know your true feelings.”
I tried a laugh. “I was raised badly, as you know.”
“I wish I could convey what you do so easily.” Donata’s mouth turned down. “I can only express myself in barbs and witticisms.”
“In public, yes.” I took up her other hand and laid both against my chest. “In private, you may pour out your heart. I will treasure every word and repeat them to no one.”
Donata bowed her head. When she looked up again, her eyes were wet.
She did not, however, unleash her soul and shower me with expressions of love and devotion. She only sighed and moved closer to me.
Soon we occupied the same chair, but I feared it collapsing, so I lifted her and moved with her to a sofa. There we ceased speaking, finishing the conversation without words. By the time Donata sent for Jacinthe again, I considered us well reconciled.
When I went downstairs, Donata still dressing, I spied Mr. Quimby approaching the house across the empty square. I bade Bartholomew show him in.
“What news, Mr. Quimby?”
The man somberly removed his hat and gave it over to Bartholomew. “I’ve come from the coroner. May we speak?” He glanced into the sitting room.
I gestured him inside and shut the door behind us. “Joshua Bickley?”
“Indeed.” Both of us remained standing, uneasy, in the middle of the carpet. “The lad did not drown in the boat. You were correct that he was killed, strangled from all appearances, and then placed there. That is the coroner’s opinion.”
I balled my fists. “You mean they tried to make it look like a boating accident? Josh didn’t like boats, according to Miss Farrow.”
“The coroner believes the man who strangled him was quite strong, with large hands.” Quimby glanced at the one resting on my walking stick. “Like yours, Captain.”
I took a step back. “I did not kill the lad, Quimby. I promise you that.”
Mr. Quimby did not seem to hear my declaration. “The inquest will be later today. You will be called to give evidence.”
“I assumed as much.” I calmed myself. “I will answer any questions put to me, but I do not have much more information.”
Quimby sighed. “Death by violence is a great horror for the Friends, but I know they do not believe in hanging murderers either. It is why they have invented such frightening jails. They believe they are being kind, but those places result in the death of souls instead of bodies, in my opinion.”
One of Mr. Denis’s men had described these reforming places to me—stark buildings built in a circle, monotonous exercise, men always watched, and menial and unrelenting tasks. The man had not told me whether he’d been in such a place himself, but he’d spoken of it with horror.
“Then we are looking for a strong man with large hands,” I concluded. “Unfortunately, I imagine we’ll find any number of candidates.”
“It could have been a hired murder,” Quimby pointed out. “A ruffian brought in to do the deed, who will be miles away by now.”
“True, but why would anyone wish to k
ill Josh Bickley? From what I have heard of him, he was a harmless young man, a friend to many.”
Quimby shrugged. “One never knows. He was a Quaker, but could have become discontented with that way of life, perhaps left them to fall in with a bad lot. Or he simply met a villain who killed him for whatever coins he had in his pockets.”
“Or he might have been trying to do a good deed and came to misfortune,” I said. “A Quaker woman, older than he, has also vanished, and I wondered if Josh had gone to discover what became of her. I fear harm has come to her as well.”
“Indeed.” Quimby looked unhappy.
“There is an opinion that these things are happening as part of an attempt to ruin me or take my life,” I said, carefully not mentioning Denis’s name.
“An interesting theory.” Quimby looked thoughtful. “Sir Montague has mentioned that you are quick to anger people.”
“Only those who are brutal to others. Though I suppose I put my nose into much business that doesn’t concern me.” I touched the offending appendage.
Mr. Quimby gave me a tolerant smile. “I will see you at the inquest, Captain. It will begin at two of the clock.”
“I will be there,” I promised.
Mr. Quimby took his leave. I saw him to the door, and we parted cordially. Brewster turned up as soon as Quimby was gone—he’d likely been waiting until the Runner departed.
“His Nibs wants that list of your old enemies,” Brewster said. “He sent me to remind you.”
I made a noise of exasperation “I haven’t had a moment to do it. He can wait an hour, can he not?”
“I’ll not be delivering that message.” Brewster sat down on a chair in the hall. “Only the list. I’ll wait.”
Chapter 15
I gave up, retreated to the dining room, and rang for pen, ink, and paper along with my noonday repast.
Writing the list as I sipped coffee and ate bread and butter was disheartening. I started with those from my past who were now in Brighton—Major Forbes and Marguerite Gibbons. Forbes had disliked me intensely, certain I had helped destroy Isherwood’s marriage. It was highly unlikely he’d murder Isherwood himself to hurt me, but Forbes had always been a bit mad, in my opinion.
It was possible Marguerite nursed resentment with me for telling her to go back to England instead of taking care of her for the remainder of the war. Her new husband, though he seemed a genial fellow, might not be happy that I’d been his wife’s lover, plus he wouldn’t have any warm feelings toward Isherwood for divorcing her in the first place.
There were other men in the army I’d angered. I’d countermanded bad orders, shouting at colonels who were ready to take my men straight into slaughter. Colonel Brandon, my mentor, had been often been furious with me, for many reasons, enough so that he’d once tried to send me to my death.
I wished I could discount Brandon, but I slowly wrote his name. He and I had reconciled somewhat after I’d cleared him of murder, and still more after I’d married Donata, but Brandon knew how to nurse a grudge.
Then there were Donata’s cousins, as Denis had mentioned, who’d wished to marry her and keep her son’s money and estates in the family. Peter’s guardian would have great influence over him and control much of the funds until the lad’s majority.
Donata’s most odious cousin, Stanton St. John, had fled to the Continent after his last attempt to rule Peter, but he might have secretly returned. Stanton certainly hated me enough to cause my utter ruin.
I’d also helped bring murderers to trial in the past few years. If any had survived their conviction—perhaps returning after being transported—I could picture them taking their revenge. Or, if they had not survived, their families doing so.
It was a depressingly long list. I finished writing, sanded the sheet, folded and sealed it, and took it to Brewster.
“This is all I could think of.” I held out the paper to him. “Mr. Denis might be able to add more, including himself.”
Brewster rose, his bulk filling the small hallway. “You heard ’im. If His Nibs wanted you dead, you’d be gone before you knew it.”
“How cheering,” I said. “Tell him I said good morning.”
Brewster had the gall to grin. “Right you are, guv. Don’t stray a step without me.”
“I can’t obey that command. I must attend the inquest, which begins in a few minutes.”
Brewster heaved a sigh. “Go on, then. I’ll deliver this and run after you.”
He departed. I left word with Bartholomew to tell Donata where I’d gone, then fetched my hat and walked swiftly to the magistrate’s court at the Old Ship.
A room had been cleared in the back for the proceedings. Gentlemen filled the chamber, including Quimby and Sir Reginald Pyne, the magistrate I’d fetched when I’d found Josh’s body. A number of Quakers were present as well, both men and women, their plain, dark clothes blending with the everyday suits of fishermen and tradesmen.
Clive Bickley was there, supported on one side by Miss Farrow and on the other by a young woman in Quaker garb. The other Friends stood around him, holding themselves apart but in no way drawing curiosity. Dissenters had been in Brighton long enough to be an ordinary part of the scenery. None of the Quakers looked at me.
A stooped gentleman with an air of authority—the coroner, I gathered—took a seat behind a table and gave the room a stern look.
The room was full, with not enough seats. The jury, a group of gentlemen in the corner, jammed against each other on benches. I ended up standing along the back wall with others who’d crowded in. Brighton saw its share of death by drowning, but by now I imagined the word had leaked that Joshua had been murdered, an altogether different prospect.
The coroner cleared his throat, and the muttered conversation in the room ceased. The coroner rumbled through a preamble, naming the court, the date, and the case.
The coroner called a surgeon to give his evidence first. This surgeon, a portly man with pince-nez on his nose, consulted his notes. “I examined the body and found that death was caused by strangulation. Two bones in the neck were broken and the trachea crushed. There was no water in the lungs.”
The gatherers murmured and shuffled until the coroner glared them to silence.
“Thank you, sir. You may step down.” The coroner made a note on one of the papers in front of him. “I call Sir Reginald Pyne.”
The magistrate rose and made his slow way to the front of the room. He swore his oath to speak the truth and drew himself up to his full height.
“Yesterday afternoon, a gentleman came to me and said he’d found a body in a boat. I went along with him to the shore near Charles Street and saw that he’d pulled the boat up on the shingle. Inside was the body of a young man, pinned to the gunwale on the bottom by the seat and a few boards. That young man turned out to be Joshua Bickley, one of the Society of Friends.”
All eyes turned to Mr. Bickley, who dropped his gaze. The young woman at his side held tighter to his arm, and Miss Farrow patted his shoulder.
The coroner nodded his dismissal to the magistrate. “Call Captain …” He lifted a paper to examine it in better light. “… Lacey.”
I limped to the front amid stares. An officer in a cavalry uniform frowned at me, and I looked him over, trying to place him. He was familiar, but the association did not come to me at the moment.
The coroner eyed me sharply. “Full name?” he barked.
He had it on his sheet, but I said, “Captain Gabriel Lacey, of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons. On half pay,” I added for explanation as to why I was not in uniform and on duty.
The coroner barely nodded. “On the seventh of July you went sea bathing with your family. Please describe what you saw.”
I leaned on my walking stick and told him how Peter and I had spied the boat and towed it to shore before I sent him home and went for the magistrate.
“And the magistrate identified the young man as Joshua Bickley.” The coroner made notes then pinned
me with his hard stare. “Were you acquainted with Master Bickley?”
I shook my head. “I had no idea who the young man was until the magistrate announced his name.”
“But you are acquainted with his father.”
“Briefly acquainted. We have spoken a few times.”
The coroner tapped a paper. “You spoke to him on Monday night and again on Tuesday afternoon.”
The man was well informed, but I imagined Mr. Bickley himself had mentioned this when initially questioned.
“Yes …” I said hesitantly.
The coroner gave me an impatient look. “Did you speak to him, or did you not?”
“The trouble is—I believe I spoke to him Monday evening but I have no memory of doing so.”
The coroner’s thin white brows went up. “What do you mean you have no memory of doing so? You very clearly remember finding the boat with young Joshua’s body inside it. Or was Monday too long ago for you? You do not seem to be in your dotage, young man.”
Amid titters around me, I swallowed, uncomfortable. “I might have been inebriated.”
A general laugh filled the room. I glimpsed Clement’s mother in a blue striped shawl and large bonnet on the edge of the crowd. She did not smile.
The coroner scowled. “I see. Well, Mr. Bickley tells me you did speak to him, and I must take him at his word. He also told me he asked you to help him find out what had become of Joshua, as he was growing concerned. Do you remember that?”
“Not from Monday night,” I said, my face heating. “Mr. Bickley repeated the request on Tuesday, when I spoke to him again.”
“And did you try to discover what had become of Master Bickley?”
I grew still more warm. “Not right away. I had other duties to see to.” I hardly wanted to confess I’d been busy trying to clear myself of the murder of Colonel Isherwood.
“Including sea bathing,” the coroner said. “Frolicking in the waves while a young man was dead and a father worried.”
I could only flush again. “I am afraid so.”
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 14
