“That is hardly fair of thee.” Mr. Bickley had taken a step forward, the ladies on either side losing their hold of him.
The coroner gave him a sharp look. “Never mind, Mr. Bickley. You will have your chance to speak in a moment.”
Murmurs of sympathy rippled for Bickley, but I received only scowls.
“Captain Lacey,” the coroner continued. “What person do you suppose caused Master Bickley’s death?”
I opened my hand. “I have no idea. Perhaps Joshua came across men moving contraband. I hear smuggling is rife in this area.”
“Spoken like an ignorant Londoner,” the coroner snapped. “That is our affair. But I understand your reasoning. Your proposal is that Master Bickley stumbled upon some villains committing a crime, and they strangled him and put him into the boat and then overturned it to make his death look like an accident.”
“I can think of no other explanation. I have been told Joshua did not like boats and so likely would not be in one intentionally.”
“Thank you.” The coroner spoke firmly. “One speculation at a time, please.”
More laughter. Mrs. Morgan, Clement’s mother, remained stiff-lipped and disapproving.
“You are a rather strong man, Captain.” The coroner gave me a pointed look.
“But not nimble.” I tapped my leg with my walking stick. “If Joshua had run from me, I could not have given chase.”
The coroner did not look convinced. “If he trusted you, and if you came from his father, he might not run.”
I squared my shoulders. “I give you my word, sir, upon my honor, that I did young Master Bickley no harm. I never met the lad, and did not know it was he in the boat until told by the magistrate.”
“That you remember.” The coroner’s gaze was severe. “The wounds put his death late Monday night or very early on Tuesday morning. Do you remember anything else about that night through your inebriation?”
“I dined with my wife at the Pavilion, upon invitation. After that, I apparently spoke to Mr. Bickley but then was in bed asleep until late Tuesday afternoon.”
I spoke in a ringing voice, but my mouth was dry. I skirted the truth, but I could not very well blurt out in court that I’d wandered about Brighton and come to myself over Isherwood’s body. I’d find myself quickly locked away to wait for the Assizes. I doubted I’d have had time to kill Josh and put him into a boat, meet with the Quakers, and go on to kill Isherwood, but I wished I could remember.
The coroner sifted through his papers again and at last gave me a nod that I could go.
“Call Mr. Clive Bickley.”
I hated to see the poor man in his grief forced in front of all eyes, but Mr. Bickley moved forward without hesitation.
The coroner, ignoring me as I returned to my place against the wall, addressed Bickley in a gentle voice. “I know that you, as a Quaker, Mr. Bickley, will not swear an oath, so I will not ask it. You can sign an affirmation later to satisfy the lawyers, but I will take what you say as truth.”
“Thank you,” Bickley said in a near whisper.
“Now then. Please tell me what happened with your son—when did he go missing?”
Bickley cleared his throat. “Sunday last, after Meeting.”
“Did he give any indication where he was going? Something like, ‘I’m going out for a walk, Father?’ or ‘I’ll be with my mates at the seaside?’”
“No. Nothing like that.” Bickley swallowed, his cheeks staining red. “My son and I had quarreled. He was very angry with me.”
“About what?” The coroner’s pen hovered, ink arrested in the act of dripping from its tip.
“I’d prefer not to say. A private quarrel between father and son.”
The coroner’s eyes narrowed. “You understand that the quarrel might have led to his disappearance, Mr. Bickley? Perhaps even his death?”
Bickley acknowledged this with a nod. “I do know. But as it might have nothing to do with it, I will not speak.”
Another murmur from the collected crowd, this one of surprise. The coroner tried to glare Bickley into obedience, but the man proved stubborn.
The coroner heaved a sigh. “Very well, but be warned that the magistrate or I will have it out of you if it proves relevant.”
I too very much wanted to know what Bickley and his son had quarreled about, and why he’d not mentioned this to me.
Perhaps Joshua had tired of the constraints of the Friends, or fancied a young woman of whom Mr. Bickley disapproved. Or had Josh simply shown the rage against his father that many young men experience in their lives? Even if Bickley and Josh had maintained a pleasant friendship, at some point a youth wants to break free and live his own life, as I knew from bitter experience.
I pictured the young man storming out, his father sadly watching him go. Bickley would have reasoned Josh would return after he cooled down, and they’d discuss things more calmly. But Joshua hadn’t returned.
The coroner continued. “When did you become alarmed at your son’s absence?”
“I wasn’t.” Bickley’s voice wavered. “He has friends in Hove he visits from time to time. I assumed him there. But when I sent a message to those friends, they said they hadn’t seen him. He’d never been there.”
Bickley’s face crumpled into misery. The sympathy in the room was rife. The young woman—niece? cousin?—went to Bickley and caught him before he could collapse.
The coroner did not look happy that his witness could obviously answer no more questions, but he waved Bickley back to the cluster of Friends.
The coroner scanned the room. “Are there any more who can attest to the whereabouts of Joshua Bickley in the days before his death, or who can shed light on his demise?”
The whispering died down. Men and women glanced about, but none came forward to volunteer information.
“Very well.” The coroner gathered his papers with a heavy hand. “The jury will adjourn to conclude their verdict. Keep in mind I have more cases to go through today, gentlemen,” he said to the men in the corner.
The gentlemen of the jury looked put-upon, but huddled into a tight knot to discuss things.
As much as I wanted to go say a word of comfort to Bickley, I remained where I was. Miss Farrow was next to him now, speaking rapidly to him. The young woman, her eyes as full of tears as Bickley’s, held his hand.
Mrs. Morgan, after a long look at me, slipped out. I’d have followed her, but I wanted to hear the jury’s conclusion—though there was not much doubt what it would be.
The jury did not take long to deliberate. They approached the table, and the coroner asked for their verdict.
“Willful murder by person or persons unknown,” one of the men intoned.
Whatever the coroner said to that was drowned by the voices of the excited crowd. I left the room, putting on my hat as I walked out of the inn.
Brewster, who’d entered as the jury finished, fell into step beside me. “Looks like she wants a word.” He nodded at Mrs. Morgan, who waited at the end of the street. Clement, in his footman’s livery, had appeared out of nowhere to stand next to her.
I moved to them and tipped my hat to Mrs. Morgan. “The verdict was willful murder,” I said.
“I guessed that. What else could it have been?” Mrs. Morgan, her colorful shawl a bright note in that gray space of town, beckoned me to follow as she walked across the road to the promenade.
Clement hurried after her, looking uncomfortable, and Brewster and I followed.
“Well, tell them.” Mrs. Morgan gave her son a mother’s impatient glare. “Exactly what you told me.”
Clement was not happy, but he drew a breath and looked me in the eye. “You asked me to poke about and find out when His Royal Highness left the Pavilion Monday night. He had his things packed up earlier that evening, but he’d departed by three in the morning.”
My eyes became fixed on his, pools of deep brown framed by thick lashes. “And you and I found Isherwood’s body at …”
“Two in the morning, sir.”
My heart beat faster. “Then we have a new suspect.”
Chapter 16
Captain Lacey, you cannot run to the magistrate and accuse the Prince Regent of murder,” Mrs. Morgan said crisply.
Around us men and women drifted down the promenade, ignoring the clump of us blocking the way as they determinedly enjoyed the sunshine.
“I realize that.” I made myself say the words, because of course I wanted to hurry back to the court and tell Pyne and the coroner this very thing.
I could easily envision the Regent, spoiled and hedonistic, running Isherwood through in a crazed duel, and then making certain another was caught as his murderer.
I liked the idea, because it would mean I hadn’t killed Isherwood. But Mrs. Morgan was wise, and caution stilled me. First, I’d have difficulty explaining why anyone should not believe me a madman; second, I’d have to confess how much I knew about Isherwood’s death; and third, if I had been given a mind-blotting concoction beforehand, that spoke of careful planning. I could not imagine the impetuous Regent coolly coming up with such a scheme.
Mrs. Morgan watched me. “It would be your word and my son’s to the Regent’s.”
I saw her worry about repercussions against Clement. I let out a breath. “Do not fear, Mrs. Morgan. I will hold my tongue—at least until I am very certain. Clement—can you find out why the Regent departed so late? And what he did in those hours between rising from the supper table until he left the Pavilion?”
“I already have.” Clement looked annoyed I wouldn’t think he’d done so. “He went to visit a lady right after supper. It’s why he was in such a hurry to excuse himself.”
“A lady.” Of course. “What lady?”
“Lady Hollingsworth. She has a house in Brighton—or at least, her husband does. She arrived here alone, and off he went to meet her.”
The Regent, despite his bulk and his gout, still indulged himself ardently with the fairer sex. While physically he might not be as active as he had been in the past, he still preferred the company of the ladies. I hardly blamed him on that score.
“Did he return to the Pavilion after visiting her?”
“Oh yes. Around one, it was. No one can tell me exactly where he was at that time.” Clement beamed in triumph. “And then he was off at three, heading for London. So he might have gutted the officer, sir.”
Mrs. Morgan remained skeptical. “No one knows exactly where the pair of you were either. Find out what His Highness was up to in those hours, Clement. Once you know everything, Captain Lacey, then make your report. The Regent’s not the best of men, we know, but he is the sovereign these days and could make life very difficult for you if he chose.”
I knew I would have to tread carefully. But at least it gave me a direction.
“Thank you, Clement,” I said in sincerity. “You have done me a great service.”
Clement continued to be pleased with himself, but his mother was more practical. “That remains to be seen. And Clement is only doing his duty—which he should get back to.” She gave her son a pointed look. “I’m certain you don’t have leave to be away.”
“I do,” Clement said, aggrieved. “They let me out for air once in a while, Mum.”
“Be that as it may, it’s time you were back inside, before you get that livery dirty. I imagine I’d be expected to pay for it.”
Clement gave a long-suffering sigh, kissed his mother resignedly on the cheek, and ran off across the road, heading for the Pavilion.
“He’s a good lad,” I said.
“You do not have to humor me, Captain. I know he is.” Mrs. Morgan’s dark eyes sparkled. “I would not be one bit surprised if His Highness committed this deed and then fit you up for it, but it is a sticky situation. I too will ask questions of my most gossipy friends about Lady Hollingsworth and the prince’s comings and goings that night.” She gave me an approving look. “I like you, Captain. You have been kind to Clement, and I will not let you down.”
I bowed. “Thank you, dear lady.”
She fixed me with a steely gaze. “But if I find you have done bad things, and are using Clement to cover up for you, may God have mercy on your soul.”
Her words rang with the certainty of a high court judge’s.
I gave her another bow. “I’d deserve your wrath, madam. I would require God’s mercy, indeed.”
Brewster had remained silent during the exchange, but he made his feelings known as we turned toward home.
“You going to step up to His Highness and accuse him of stabbing the colonel? If so, I’m asking His Nibs to give you a different nanny.”
“Do not worry,” I said to soothe him. “I realize the futility of trying to question the Regent. However, Grenville might be able to find out exactly what happened that night.” I pondered. “I also ought to write Colonel Brandon about this business.”
“This is the colonel what got your knee broken?”
I nodded. “Brandon remembers Isherwood and all that happened in Salamanca. He was not best pleased with me about my part in it, but he might have ideas regarding who would want to kill Isherwood—besides me, I mean.”
Brewster looked skeptical. “Surprised you’re still alive, guv.”
“So am I, believe me.”
We hadn’t progressed far down Bedford Row when a man stepped out of a side lane to confront us.
He was the cavalry officer who’d stared at me at the inquest. I remembered, with sudden clarity, that I’d seen him the afternoon I’d begun inquiries about Isherwood’s murder. After I’d conversed with Bickley and Miss Farrow, I’d spied this man in the street. He’d studied me as though he’d speak to me but then had not.
The officer was a few years younger than I, and tall, his bearing straight. He wore the same regimental colors as young Isherwood and Major Forbes—blue coat with gold facings and gold braid. The jacket was trim, the trousers neat over his boots.
Brewster positioned himself watchfully next to the officer as the man gave me a perfunctory bow. “Captain Christopher Wilks, at your service.”
I held out my hand. “Captain Gabriel Lacey, at yours. Thirty-Fifth Light. You are in the Forty-Seventh?”
“Indeed.” Captain Wilks shook my hand. “I saw you at the inquest today.”
“And I you.”
Brewster looked back and forth between us, frowning at our politeness.
“A bad business,” Wilks went on. “Perhaps we can speak?”
Brewster and I had come as far as West Street, near the Customs House. In a lane beyond this was a small tavern. I noted that a few gentlemen walking along this street wore small black caps on the crowns of their heads—the Jewish synagogue was near.
Captain Wilks and I agreed to enter the tavern. The regulars lifted their heads and regarded us with suspicion when we walked in, but soon went back to their ale and quiet muttered conversation.
Wilks raised his brows at Brewster, who took a stool against the wall near the table where we seated ourselves.
“He is trusted,” I told Wilks. “Whatever you say to me will not be repeated.” That is, to anyone but Denis, should Brewster believe Denis needed to know it.
Not until we had full tankards in front of us did Wilks come around to what he wished to say.
“I heard the coroner ask you to account for your whereabouts the night—the early morning rather—when Joshua Bickley was killed.”
I nodded. “I was at supper at the Royal Pavilion. With my wife, several friends, many acquaintances, and the Regent himself.”
“Including men of my regiment,” Wilks acknowledged. “Colonel Isherwood and Lord Armitage. Colonel Isherwood is now dead, from a sudden fever, his son says.”
“Lord Armitage is one of the Forty-Seventh?” I asked in surprise.
“Nominally.” Wilks looked disapproving. “He was at Austerlitz, as he no doubt will have told you. After Armitage returned to London with his wife, he bought hims
elf a commission and joined our regiment on the Peninsula just before Ciudad Roderigo.”
Ciudad Roderigo had been a very bad business, and the fact that Armitage had been there startled me. “I was at Salamanca,” I said. “The Forty-Seventh combined forces with my regiment there, but I never met Lord Armitage.”
“Because he stayed in the rear, dining with other aristocrats in Spanish noble houses.” Wilks’s disgust was plain.
“You mean he wanted the credit for fighting Napoleon without actually having to soil his gloves.”
“Indeed,” Wilks said. “Lord Armitage and Colonel Isherwood were friends, I believe, or at least acquaintances. They were often in each other’s company. However, I do not like to gossip about the colonel, especially now that he is deceased.”
“I understand.” I took a sip of ale to indicate I would not press him. I wanted to, very much, but I understood the sort of man Wilks was—one who obeyed the rules of honor. I had quarreled with Colonel Brandon for years, but I would never disparage him in front of a man from another regiment.
“Is this what you wished to ask me about—the supper at the Pavilion?” I inquired.
“No, you misunderstand. You told the coroner that you dined at the Pavilion and then went home and slept after you spoke Mr. Bickley. But you did not. I saw you.”
My heartbeat quickened, and my hand tightened on my tankard. “Did you? Where?”
“In a public house. One very near the Quaker Meeting. It’s a friendly place and I take an ale there on nights I am off duty. You came in alone, sat down in a corner and asked for coffee. I could see you were in a bad way, which is no doubt why you wanted the coffee. You told the coroner you were inebriated.”
“I was,” I said cautiously. “I must have imbibed too well at supper.”
“You were befuddled, yes, but in a strange way. I’ve seen many a drunken man in my time, but you seemed more alert and aware, your speech not slurred.”
I had absolutely no memory of walking into this pub, let alone drinking coffee. “Is that all I did?” I asked, my tone sharp.
Wilks watched me carefully. “You truly do not remember?”
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 15
