Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14)

by Ashley Gardner

  “Of course not. If I had, I’d have told the coroner.”

  He held up a hand. “Peace, Captain. I came to you about this because you seem a decent fellow and genuinely puzzled about that night. You sipped your coffee and appeared to calm yourself. Then the publican handed you a paper. You read it and shoved yourself up and away very quickly. I watched you go, wondering, but you disappeared quickly. I assumed you’d received dire news.”

  A message? But from whom and about what? “What did I do with the paper?” I demanded.

  “Crumpled it in your hand, as far as I can remember.”

  “I didn’t throw it into the fire?” I asked in agitation.

  “There was no fire. It was a warm night. You had the paper when you rushed out, I believe. You might have thrown it away after that, of course.”

  “Which public house?” I rose, unable to sit still. “Can you direct me?”

  “The Fox and Hen, in a lane near the Quaker Meeting.”

  Which I must have entered after speaking to Mr. Bickley. Bickley had not mentioned I’d been reeling drunk when I spoke to him, and neither had Miss Farrow. Therefore I possibly had drunk something in that tavern—something in the coffee—that rendered me senseless. Hadn’t Marianne told me that coffee could disguise the taste of opium?

  And what on earth had been in the message that took me away?

  “Forgive me, Captain,” I said. “I must go there at once.”

  “Quite understandable. I will accompany you.”

  The captain generously left coin for the ale we’d barely touched and led the way out. Brewster dumped as much ale down his throat as he could before wiping his mouth and hurrying after us.

  Brighton was as cheerful as ever despite the sadness of the inquest—holiday-goers shopping and dining, locals haggling at the markets, vendors desperate to sell wares to tourists who might depart tomorrow and never return.

  The Fox and Hen, sporting a lively painted sign of a large hen chasing a frightened-looking fox, was steps away from the Quaker Meeting House. One of the Quakers, working in the garden, glanced up in curiosity as we raced past.

  While I wanted to charge inside and shake the publican until he told me what I wanted to know, I made myself calmly order ale for us all—I’d pay this time—before I addressed the man behind the bar.

  “Do you remember me from Monday night?” I asked.

  The publican, busy trying a broach a new keg, glanced up and grunted. “Can’t say I do.”

  “I sat …” I looked to Captain Wilks for guidance.

  “In the inglenook.” He pointed. “Near the fireplace.”

  The publican remained at his task. “Many men do. My taproom’s a busy place.”

  “I ordered a coffee, and then you brought me a note or letter,” I said. “I grew alarmed when I read it and ran out.”

  The publican shook his head, then he paused and turned his head to study me. “Oh, aye, I remember now. You gave me a crown for my trouble. Thank ye kindly.”

  “Excellent.” At least he recalled a good tip. “Do you know what the message said?”

  The publican straightened, resting his hands on the bar. “No. I don’t read, meself. Have me son do that for me. Why don’t you know what it said?”

  I warmed. “I cannot explain.”

  The publican’s face creased in a smile. “Far gone in drink, were ye? You were swaying a bit as you sat, I remember. Probably didn’t mean to hand me so much for nothing, did ye? Well, ye can’t have it back. It’s mine fair and square.”

  “I’d be obliged for your help.” I dipped into my pocket and brought out another crown. “Did anyone else read this message? Or did I drop it on my way out?”

  “How should I know? We sweep up all kinds of bits every night when we shut the doors. You wouldn’t believe the things we find. If you dropped it on the floor, it’s long gone to the rag and bone man.”

  I stifled my disappointment with effort. “Did anyone besides yourself see the message?”

  “That important, is it?” The publican frowned at me. “Sit yourself down, sir. I’ll ask me son.”

  I took the nearest chair, barely containing my restlessness. Brewster and the captain joined me, Brewster slurping this ale determinedly.

  The publican finished setting up his keg before he wiped his hands and disappeared through a door.

  “Is the place familiar to you?” Captain Wilks asked me. “Anything you remember?”

  “Not at all,” I said in disappointment as I looked around. “If I’d wanted coffee, why did I not step into the coffee house?” There was one nearby, which I’d passed when I’d tried to retrace my steps from Monday night.

  “You were muddled,” Brewster said. “Happens.”

  “Possibly.” I scanned the room, noting the fireplace with its bench built into the wall—the inglenook. My eye went to a cartoon pinned above the bench, of a popular actress of the stage, her curvy proportions exaggerated, her large cap balanced on an abundance of golden curls.

  One of my dreams returned from Tuesday morning, when I lay in a stupor—of my wife in such a cap, her hair changing from dark to pale, and then her face becoming Marianne’s. I’d heard Marianne’s voice telling me I was a lazy lie-abed.

  I stared at the cartoon, rising from my seat to study it. The image of the blond actress must have stuck in my brain and then transformed into my inebriated dreams.

  If I could remember that, could I remember other things?

  I scrutinized the taproom again, but nothing leapt at me. I slid onto the bench in the inglenook, where I could see the picture as I had then.

  “I remember that.” I pointed to it as Brewster and the captain followed me. “I must have stared quite hard at it.”

  “Course you did.” Brewster still held his tankard. “You’re ever one for the ladies, and she’s a fair specimen.”

  Or did the picture mean something else to me? I could not think what.

  “This must be the lad,” Captain Wilks said.

  The publican approached us, followed by a tall young man in his twenties, his lankiness just turning to harder muscle.

  “Do you know anything about the message delivered to me here this past Monday night?” I asked him without preliminary.

  The young man gave me a slow nod. “I do, sir. Dad tells me you don’t remember it.”

  “Did you happen to see what was in this message?” I tried to curb my impatience.

  “I did. Sorry, sir, but it were only a bit of paper. Couldn’t help but see what were written on it.”

  “Don’t drag it out, lad,” Brewster growled. “What did the bloody thing say?”

  The young man flushed. “I don’t recall exactly. But it said for you to go outside. To meet someone.” His color deepened. “I assumed a lady.”

  My throat tightened, making speech difficult. “Why did you assume that?”

  “’Cause I saw you with her. You ran out, and a lady with a large cloak and hat took your arm. You disappeared with her in the dark, and that’s the last I saw of ye.”

  Chapter 17

  I gazed at the publican’s son in astonishment, and the drawings on the paneling in the inglenook seemed to spin. “Did you see this lady? Who the devil was she?”

  The young man shrugged. “It were dark and she was all shrouded in the cloak.”

  I jumped to my feet. “How tall, how broad, or how thin?”

  The lad shook his head, bewildered. “Ordinary, I’d say. Not as tall as you. Not a rotund lady, but not small either. But then, I really only saw her cloak.”

  His description helped not at all. I stood taller than most men I knew, and I towered above women, which potentially made the wearer of the cloak anyone in Brighton.

  “Sorry, sir.”

  I sat back down, letting out a long breath. “Well. Thank you, in any case. It’s more than I knew before.” I drew a half crown from my pocket. “I appreciate your candor, lad.”

  The coin disappeared. “Tha
nk you, sir.”

  The publican’s son turned away as though dismissed, but I said, “Before you go, will you think about the note? Was it written neatly, in a fine hand, on good paper? Scribbled on a scrap? Anything is helpful.”

  The young man rubbed his stubbled face. “Paper was heavy and new, but not a whole sheet. Only one line, in printed letters, not written. That’s how I could read it. I can’t read handwriting so well.”

  He was a sharp observer, at least of things he saw close to. I couldn’t blame him for knowing no more details of a woman shrouded in a cloak on a dark night.

  “Thank you,” I said sincerely. “If you recall anything else, please send word.” I gave him the address of our hired house, and he nodded before he turned away with his father and ambled back to pulling pints.

  “Printed,” I said to Brewster and Captain Wilks. “To not give away who wrote it?”

  “How would you know who wrote the bloody thing?” Brewster demanded. “Would ye run around Brighton comparing everyone’s handwriting to it?”

  “Perhaps I knew that person well, or had seen their handwriting before.”

  Brewster shrugged and sipped his ale, skeptical.

  Captain Wilks broke in, “The greater question is, who was the lady? Not your wife, I take it.”

  Chills settled over me as I realized who the lady, if it had been a woman, might very well be.

  Marguerite had had every reason to hate Isherwood and want him dead. He’d cruelly abandoned her at Salamanca, leaving her to her fate.

  I remembered the Spanish sunshine on the walls of the old city, the wide space of the Plaza Mayor, its sandstone a warm, golden hue. I’d loved the town when we’d ridden in after the battle in the hills, soldiers seeking comfort and drink. Bells of the cathedral had silvered the air, and heat shimmered on the stones, the sky arching high and blue.

  Isherwood and Marguerite had performed their final quarrel in the square, he turning his back on her and striding away. She’d never wilted, only glared after him as he’d marched off with a sneering Forbes.

  Then Marguerite had turned, flung out her arms, and declared at the top of her voice that she was free.

  The plaza had teemed with life, the people of the ancient city relieved that the French army, who’d used the town as a garrison, had been chased away, but mistrusting of the English who’d taken their place. They’d been disapproving of Marguerite spinning in the middle of the square, laughing. A group of nuns had eyed her severely, but I’d seen Marguerite’s bitterness, her near despair.

  Marguerite had been left alone, without protection, in a country strange to her, in the middle of an army.

  As Donata had said, I’d had to be gallant. Marguerite and I had taken up residence in a hostel down a sloping back street near the cathedral, with a cheerful landlord and his wife to look after us. Our room had overlooked the Tormes that flowed languidly past the city, and the many-arched bridge the ancient Romans had left in their wake.

  Forbes had found out about our liaison and taken me to task. It had nearly come to a duel, but Colonel Brandon had intervened and sent Forbes off. Brandon had then given me a scathing dressing down, but I’d laughed at him. Marguerite had been a warm, giving, charming woman, and the brief time I’d spent with her had become a happy memory.

  Isherwood, of course, had made certain her reputation was blackened. I never discovered why the devil the man had put her aside in the first place, except that he was a selfish bastard—possibly his commanding officer disapproved of her, which would mean Isherwood might not be promoted.

  The man had been made a colonel, so obviously the divorce had not ruined his career.

  Lord Armitage had posited another reason Isherwood had shunned her, his claim that Marguerite had been a spy for the French.

  For any of these reasons, Marguerite could very well have wanted Isherwood murdered. Had she decided I should be the man to kill him for her?

  Or had she sent the note to ask for my help? Perhaps I’d become angry at Isherwood for threatening her, and we’d tracked him to the Pavilion. Or perhaps Marguerite had killed Isherwood before I could stop her, and I’d taken the sword from her.

  She’d fled, and I’d been left standing with the sword, swimming out of my stupor.

  “Damnation,” I whispered.

  “The machinations of a lady do not mean you killed the Quaker lad in a drunken rage,” Captain Wilks said. “I would find the lady—she can tell the magistrate you were with her instead of Josh Bickley. Embarrassing for your wife, no doubt, but it would save you from the noose.”

  “Pardon?” I blinked. I’d been a long distance from thoughts of Bickley’s son—how could the note and Marguerite have anything to do with him?

  Brewster took a noisy sip of ale. “Could have been a bloke waiting for you. Bundled up in a cloak in the dark—might have been a man, pretending to be a lady to draw you out. Once you were with him, he could have taken you anywhere. Be best if you remembered all what happened, guv.”

  “Thank you, Brewster. An excellent suggestion.” I gave him an ironic look, pulling myself out of my thoughts. “Thank you in truth, Captain Wilks. This has been helpful. I believe that once I track down this lady, all will become clear.”

  Wilks firmly shook my hand. “If I discover anything more, I will send word.” His grip tightened. “I feel it only fair to warn you that if I discover you did murder young Master Bickley, I will go straight to the magistrate.”

  “I would expect no less.” I gave Wilks a nod as he released me. “I would do the same.”

  “Gentry is different from ordinary folk, ain’t they?” Brewster made this observation as we walked through the lane toward Ship Street, my stick ringing on the cobblestones. “All polite and cool, shaking hands while promising to have you arrested. If I said that to a mate, I’d be fighting for me life. Or laughed at.”

  “He will not find evidence that I had anything to do with Josh’s death,” I said, then I sucked in a breath. “At least, I damn well hope not.”

  “Then where are we off to in such a hurry?”

  I hesitated. If I told Brewster my thoughts, he’d report all to Denis. Denis might decide to interrogate Marguerite himself, and his methods were not always gentle.

  “Someone I need to speak to,” I said. “I will be perfectly safe—no need to come with me.”

  “Huh. Not bloody likely.”

  Brewster hunkered into his coat, though it was a warm afternoon, and prepared to follow me.

  I gave up and let him, knowing I’d never shake him if he wanted to stick with me. Not long later, I knocked on the door of the house where I’d left Marguerite with her husband the night before.

  “They’re out, dear,” the landlady said to my inquiries. She had a pleasant pink face and a kindly smile. “Enjoying the weather, no doubt. Shall I tell them you inquired?”

  “Please do.” I handed her a card, which she held close to her face to peer at. “Ask them to call on me at their earliest convenience.”

  “I will, dear. Good day to you.”

  She was inside, shutting the door before I could so much as respond to her polite farewell.

  “See what I mean?” Brewster continued his observations as we turned for Bedford Row. “This is who you think lured you to the Pavilion that night, yes? You leave a card and ask them to call, instead of pushing in and tearing up the place until you find your evidence.”

  “They may have nothing to do with it,” I said severely.

  “That’s not what your face tells me. You’re convinced. Want His Nibs to find them for you?”

  “No.” I made the word hard. “I said I don’t want Denis involved at all. That is why I will ask you to say nothing until I’m certain.”

  We were almost to the square. Brewster put a heavy hand on my shoulder and pulled me to a halt.

  “Understand summat, guv,” he said, his face grave. “His Nibs wants you cleared of all this murder business, whether you did it or not. He
’s not having one of his best men strung up for murder or transported to Van Diemen’s Land—if that got about, it would weaken him in the eyes of some, and that could spell disaster for him. He’s got friends in high places, and he’s prepared to use them to keep you from the muck. But you have to trust him to do his bit.”

  I did not back down. “I know all about the corrupt magistrates who bow to James Denis. It is a reason I have fought all this time to stay away from him. Likewise, I do not want to be known as one of his best men. I am not a criminal.”

  “It’s a bit late for that. He’s done you far too many favors for you to spit on him now.”

  “I know he has.”

  Denis had done me the greatest favor of all—saved my beloved wife from death. Under the hands of any physician or surgeon but the one Denis had sent, Donata would have been lost, possibly Anne with her, and I knew it.

  “Then don’t keep things from him,” Brewster said. “Let him help. He’s good at it.”

  I growled in my throat, ducked away from his hand, and strode on. “At least let me speak to the woman before he does.”

  “Unless she’s fled town,” Brewster said behind me. “Her deeds done.”

  With Isherwood dead, would Marguerite consider she’d achieved her end? She could return to her blissful existence as the wife of an ordinary gentleman in an ordinary town and forget the past.

  I wondered if her husband, Gibbons, was in on the plot. They seemed close, so he might very well be.

  “If I fail to lay my hands on her, then I will ask Denis to run her to ground,” I said, turning. “Only if he promises that I can speak to her. I will know what questions to ask.”

  “We’ll see.” Brewster’s words were final. “Where to now? Discover if the woman is sea bathing?”

  “First I must speak to another lady,” I said. “The most important one.”

  Brewster understood, and gave me a nod. “Ah. Wise of you, guv.”

  Upon our return, I was pleased to find that Donata had not gone out on calls but sat in her boudoir, writing letters.