Denis knew it too. He considered for a time, though I knew he’d already decided. “If I do this, you will undertake the task I have for you without argument.” It was a statement, not a question.
The favor would prevent me from being arrested for Isherwood’s murder and standing trial for it. Brandon was correct that Armitage was powerful.
I nodded, placing my fate in Denis’s hands.
I visited Mr. Quimby, catching him in his lodgings this time, and told him most of what I’d told Denis. Like Denis, Quimby was skeptical my plan would work, but agreed to help.
I went home—nothing more I could do in the meantime. Brandon had gone to visit Mrs. Gibbons, Bartholomew told me, and had not yet returned. I was curious to hear how the meeting went, but I would have to wait. Brandon, of course, would stay with us until he returned to London—no matter our past differences, it would be churlish indeed of me to deny him hospitality.
It was eleven of the clock. Donata was still abed, but Gabriella, dressed and energetic, waited for me, and we went for a walk on the shore. Peter came with us, playing near the water under Brewster’s watchful eye.
My time with Gabriella was precious. I’d lost her for so many years, and now she intended to marry a young man in Lyon. I’d visit her, of course, and she us, but marriage took one’s time and attention, and soon she’d bear children of her own.
“Tell me more about Emile.” I named the young man who’d stolen her heart.
Gabriella softened, with a look that sent a dart of pain through me. “You will like him, Father. He is clever, if a bit shy. Very hard-working.”
What every father wanted to hear—industrious, doesn’t speak much, isn’t a complete fool. “He cares for you?”
Gabriella flushed. “Of course.”
“No ‘of course’ about it. If he doesn’t worship the ground on which you walk, I will thrash him.”
Gabriella laughed uncertainly. “There will be no need for that.”
“I only want you to be happy, my daughter. Marriage can be uncertain, and I do not want you to experience a bad one.”
“You and Lady Donata are happy,” Gabriella said. “You shout at each other but enjoy it, and you make it up.”
I could not deny that arguing with Donata kept my blood warm and my spirits high. I doubted I’d do well with a cheerful wife who never contradicted me.
“My mama and papa are happy too.” Gabriella gave me a sideway glance. “Though I know you and she were not so well suited.”
“It worked out for the best,” I managed to say. I always felt awkward discussing Carlotta.
The truth was, I’d been a rotten husband to Carlotta—a timid yet spoiled young woman who’d expected to be wrapped in cushions and taken care of. Following the drum was a hard life, and not a good one for her. Donata, on the other hand, had the strength of a hard-bitten general. She’d have kept Isherwood in his place—and every other ranking officer as well—had she been on campaign with me.
We turned for home, Peter jogging at my side. People smiled at us as we passed, indulgent at my little family.
When we reached the house, Brewster went home, declaring he’d spend time with his Em before I put my plans into motion.
I’d settled down to coffee, meaning to tell all to Donata once she’d risen, when Bartholomew handed me a note.
“Delivered a few minutes ago,” he said. “By one of them Quaker lads.”
I broke the seal and opened it. “From Mr. Bickley,” I said in surprise, and read the short missive.
He’d returned to Brighton, reluctantly, to settle some business matters, and would like to speak to me.
This was fortunate, because I wanted to speak to him. There was a particular question I wished to ask him. I’d planned to write to him in Chichester, but this would save time.
“Tell Mr. Brewster I’ve set off to meet Mr. Bickley at this address.” I shoved the paper at him. “He can meet me there if he has a mind to.”
Bickley had listed a house on the road to Hove, which was not a long walk from our square. I took my walking stick and hat and left for it.
It had occurred to me as I read the note that Armitage could lure me to a lonely house by pretending Mr. Bickley had asked me to attend him there. However, the note had rung with Bickley’s voice, and I did wish to question the man—he might know more about this business than he realized. He could be the linchpin that held the entire case together.
The house I reached was set back from the road behind a colorful garden, rife with summer flowers. A sign on the gate read, Rooms to Let.
Mr. Bickley was truly there, no sign of Armitage or Desjardins. Bickley met me at the door a maid opened and took me through a bright passage to a parlor in the back of the house.
Bickley looked haggard. His plump cheeks sagged, colorless, and the sadness in his eyes was difficult to witness. His son’s death had taken all joy from him.
“I thank thee for seeing me, Gabriel.” His voice rasped as though he’d worn it out.
The room was sparsely furnished, with only a few hard chairs, though the tall windows let out onto a green with a splendid view of the sea, no houses to block it. A person could stroll from here to the water and enjoy the solitude.
“Not at all,” I said. “Are you settling in with your sister?”
“Indeed. She is most kind. She was fond of Joshua.” Bickley choked off at the name and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.
“My dear fellow, I am so sorry.” I went to Bickley and laid a hand on his shoulder. “There was a time when I thought I’d lost my daughter. A very long time. The days were dark. I understand.”
“But there is no more light for me.” Tears trickled down his cheeks. He opened his eyes and gazed at me sadly. “I am a grave sinner, Gabriel. I have asked thee here to beg thy forgiveness.”
I released him, awkward. “There is nothing to forgive.” We stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment, then I cleared my throat and asked my question. “Mr. Bickley, you told me that you’d lost a brother, in the war. Tell me, was he killed on the Peninsula? … At Salamanca?”
Bickley stared at me, stricken, then his expression became one of horrible guilt. “He was a cavalry officer,” he said in a near whisper. “He died as his troop charged a French one.”
My heart gave a painful throb. I hated that I’d guessed correctly. “His name?”
“Ensign William March. He was my half-brother, much younger than I was. He was not Quaker—my mother remarried years after my father died, and she left the Friends.”
I scarcely heard the last part of his statement. I recalled Ensign March, a young man, sandy-haired and restless, with plenty of jokes and a fondness for port and the ladies. He’d never mentioned his family beyond the usual remarks, and I could not remember if he’d ever stated where his home was. He’d had a south coast accent, and never said that his mother had once been a Quaker.
At Salamanca, we’d engaged with French cavalry, driving apart the line that had already been ragged so Wellington could make his sudden attack. March had raised his carbine, yelling and laughing, and he’d been shot out of the saddle.
“Ensign William March, of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons,” I said in a hushed voice. “Killed in courageous assault on Clausel’s division. One of my men.”
Bickley nodded, the bleakness in his eyes heartrending. “And so I was persuaded to take my revenge on thee. Anger was in my heart, opening the way to evil. Please forgive me.”
“You drugged me,” I said with conviction.
I had concluded that the only place I could have been given the concoction to render me insensible was when I’d halted to speak to the Quakers. Every other drink I’d taken that night had been shared with others or at a public place where someone could have seen it doctored.
“I did. They knew my grief, and fanned my anger. And I obeyed.”
“I understand,” I made myself say. “But I wish like the devil you hadn’t.”
“As do I. I thought remaining with the Friends would take the evil from me. But it did not.”
“How long had you plotted this revenge? Salamanca was seven years ago.”
Bickley looked confused. “I hadn’t. I was angry with my brother for joining the army, but I had fixed blame for his death on no one but war itself. But then they came to me, a few weeks ago, told me thou had been William’s commander and were a terrible man. They knew all about it—thee, William, that I was William’s brother—and said they would help me punish thee for not keeping Will safe. I said I’d take no part in any violence, but they assured me I did not need to. All I must do was give thee a cup of tea and make certain thou drank it. They would do the rest, and thou would be hanged ...” He trailed off, his voice breaking.
I reined in my anger with effort. Bickley had been a dupe, like me—like Isherwood—used and discarded. I could argue about his actions loud and long, but for now, I needed to turn to practical matters.
“What’s done is done, Bickley. But you are a witness to it. Are you willing—”
A sound behind me cut off my words. I felt a rush of air, and as I turned to meet the threat, pain exploded through my skull, sending me to my knees.
My head and left leg seared in agony, but I managed to draw the sword from my walking stick. I only needed to hold off the enemy until Brewster arrived.
I struck out but missed the booted legs that sprang out of the way. Dizzy, I pulled back, but another blow landed on my temple.
I fell back, blackness taking me. The last thing I saw was the butt of a beautifully made Purdey fowling piece, heading straight for my face.
Chapter 22
I woke to damp, a briny smell, and sharp air. I shivered.
“Close the window, Bartholomew,” I tried to say.
The wind took my breath away. It was cold, damned cold, as though a gale had burst through my bedchamber. I reached for the blankets and touched only the stiff prickle of what felt like hemp.
I cracked my eyes open. Sunlight poured into them—I was outside, and lying on a hard surface. The world rocked and pitched.
A slap of cold water stunned me awake. I tried to sit up in alarm, but found myself bound fast to something unyielding.
“What the devil!” I shouted as loudly as I could, both in fear and the hope someone would hear.
Prying my eyes open all the way, I saw that I was in a boat, a small one, my hands and arms lashed behind me to a board on the bottom. My feet, I discovered as I tried to move, were likewise bound. My boots were gone, my ankles tightly gripped by thin rope.
“Bloody hell.”
Speaking out loud seemed to reassure myself that I was still alive. I cranked my head around the best I could to take stock of my situation.
The first sight I beheld was the soles of a pair of boots. Not mine—these were thick-heeled and well worn. I levered my shoulders as high as I could and followed the boots to homespun breeches and a wool coat on a round body. The wearer had an equally round face, red now from sun and wind.
“Bickley!” I shouted.
He was bound as thoroughly as I was. We were alone in this small craft, tossing on the waves, who the devil knew where. The boat was small, old—patches and holes in the sides met my eyes—and smelled strongly of fish.
With much struggling, I managed to lift myself enough to peer over the gunwale.
I saw nothing. Gray sea met my gaze wherever I looked, land nowhere in sight.
“Damnation.” I thumped back down, my head banging painfully.
Dizziness swamped me. My breath hitched, and as I tried to catch it, I recalled the gun, used as a club, that had rendered me unconscious. The hand that plied it had belonged to Comte Desjardins, his face lit with glee as he used his very costly Purdey to pummel me.
He must have trussed me up, or had help to do so, and trundled me out the open windows of Bickley’s back parlor. I had admired the unbroken way to the sea—so handy for spiriting us off to a waiting boat.
I’d been confident as I’d tamely walked to meet Bickley, certain Bickley had sent for me, not Armitage. Bickley had written the note, but he’d obviously lured me to the house so Desjardins could strike.
What had they threatened him with this time? Had they vowed they’d see him strung up for murder alongside me? Had Bickley decided to confess all, either to me or the magistrate? Bickley had a sister—I wagered Armitage had threatened to hurt her. Bickley would not be able to bear losing any more family.
But I supposed, from Bickley’s presence, that they’d decided to rid themselves of Bickley as well. They’d tricked Bickley today as much as they’d tricked me.
I also might have known that my plot—to have Denis imply he could deliver me to Desjardins and Armitage for a price—would not work. Either there hadn’t been time for Denis to get word to them, or they’d decided that their trap was the better one.
“Am I correct that they killed your son because he knew?” I croaked. “Joshua must have found out you were helping them with Isherwood’s murder, even if you were keeping yourself in the wings. Joshua was a good lad, by all accounts. I wager he tried to talk you out of giving me the opium. Did he vow to go to the magistrate?”
Bickley did not answer, did not move. I could not tell at present whether he was dead or alive.
I wriggled and thrashed, my left leg and head blasting pain through me in waves. I had to stop, breathe, and keep my roiling stomach from heaving up its contents.
How long had I been here? I’d departed to visit Bickley near noon, and the sun was on the horizon now. The wind was cold, but did not hold the iciness of dawn, so it must be evening, not morning. Sunset these days came about nine of the clock, which meant I’d been here nearly eight hours. I reasoned that I’d be wetter, more stiff, or possibly dead from my head wound and exposure if a night and a day had passed.
What was the idea? I wondered as I continued trying to loosen my bonds. To send us out to sea to sink, drown, or simply die of thirst and cold?
An inefficient way to kill us, but then again, possibly a wise one. Who would know, upon finding our bodies, what hands had thrust us into the boat and pushed us out to sea?
They’d done a similar thing to Josh, I realized, except he’d been strangled before being put into the boat. He must have fought his captors much harder than Bickley and I had. Josh had been killed on Monday night, soon after Isherwood or possibly even before, when he’d threatened to reveal the plot.
“Your son knew you’d dosed me or were planning to,” I told the inert Bickley. “I imagine he, an upright lad, was appalled at what you wanted to do. Then he stormed off. You weren’t worried enough about him that night to refuse to help stitch me up for Isherwood’s murder, so I wager you truly did believe he’d gone to visit friends in Hove. You had no idea they would kill him, no idea they were such monsters.” I paused, running my tongue over my parched lips. “You wouldn’t hurt me yourself, or even Isherwood, and so not violate the letter of your beliefs. But you’d be happy to see me disgraced, ruined, even hanged for murder. I deserved it, in your eyes.”
Bickley lay motionless. I thought I saw his chest rise, but it could be the dazzling light and my hopes.
I continued my struggles. “Men die in wars, Bickley. Your brother knew that. The battle at Salamanca was a confusion, and your brother fought honorably. He was a good officer. I always tried to keep my men as safe as possible, but there was only so much I could do. My orders were to skirmish with the French lines, to add to the confusion, and we did that. I lost several men that day. I hated it, but I knew at every battle it was a risk.”
No response. My words were taken by the uncaring wind, the boat rocking on waves I’d once thought beautiful.
“I am glad Grenville is not with me,” I said with grim humor. “He is terribly sick on boats.”
The thought of Grenville gave me some hope, as did thoughts of Brewster. Brewster would have reached the house where I’d met Bickley and realized I
’d been abducted from it. He’d have sent word to my friends and family, and Denis.
Unless Armitage and Desjardins had waited for him and simply killed him. I prayed I was wrong about that.
The bonds around my arms began to loosen. More struggles and plenty of skin off my hands, including nearly wrenching my shoulder out of joint, broke one of the ropes.
An abler man would have thrown off his bonds, leapt overboard, and swam robustly to shore, whichever direction shore lay. I collapsed to the bottom of the boat, panting, wretched, and willing the feeling to return to my limbs.
“Bickley!” I shouted over the wind. “Wake up, damn you.”
I heard a faint moan, which reassured me he was still alive, but he remained unmoving.
The boat heaved on a swell and ran hard down its other side. The sky above us was mostly clear, thankfully, but wind could churn up the sea in a bad way. Our little boat might founder, and I doubted either of us would make it to back to land in that case.
After a long time of lying still, during which I nearly fell asleep, I pried myself up on my elbows. My legs were well wrapped, my boots gone, though they’d let Bickley keep his. My walking stick, needless to say, was nowhere in sight.
The bottom of the boat held no tools—they’d have cleared out any such useful items as hooks, fishing poles, the oars. A few old boards lay there, which looked as though they’d come off the hull.
I lifted a piece of board, splintery and rotted, and wedged it beneath the ropes that held my legs. I grimaced as I dug in, my trousers ripping as well as the skin beneath them. Grenville’s tailor had designed this suit for me, and I imagined the tailor’s anguish upon seeing its tatters.
I pulled and squirmed, fought and kicked, until the ropes loosed enough for me to begin unwinding them. I had to cease and rest from time to time, my injuries hurting like fury.
Once I finally freed myself of the ropes, I gathered them up and coiled them carefully—I might need them later.
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 21
