Rosemary Stevens (16 page)

“How do you know she was here all evening?”

That seemed to ruffle her a bit. “Mrs. Jacombe would hardly have gone to Vauxhall, come home and gone to bed, knowing her husband was murdered. She was sound asleep when the constables came to tell her. Besides, Mrs. Jacombe rarely leaves the house. She has been quite sheltered in her marriage.”

Mrs. Hargrove was ever the loyal servant, I would give her that.

I tried once more for some sort of outburst. “So which one of them do you think committed these murders? Your daughter, her betrothed, or both of them?”

“I know nothing so cannot comment.”

Feeling a strong wave of frustration, I thanked the housekeeper for her time. As she showed me upstairs where I could see Mrs. Jacombe, I thought of Miss Lavender. I hoped she would have better luck in obtaining a sample of Mrs. Hargrove’s handwriting. Getting anything else out of the woman was about as easy as persuading Robinson to give Chakkri a kiss on the nose and about as likely.

Upstairs, Mrs. Jacombe, a small figure on the sofa near the table containing her patent medicines, looked fatigued. That air of sadness surrounded her like a shroud. Her greyhound lay at her feet, while the physician, Doctor Trusdale, hovered nearby. Freddie sat in a chair, working some embroidery. A scene with a dog in it, I surmised. She looked lovely in a lilac gown, but her manner toward me was as distant as ever.

I bowed to Mrs. Jacombe. “I hope you do not mind me calling.”

“Not at all, Mr. Brummell. I enjoy your company and know you are a dear friend of Frederica’s.”

The physician glowered a warning at me.

“How are you today, Mrs. Jacombe?” I asked.

“Doctor Trusdale is taking care of me,” she replied in a faint voice. “I am afraid I must not reflect positively on him, since I am not well. If only I were braver.”

“Now, Mrs. Jacombe, do not ever think that way. You have suffered a great shock and cannot be expected to be otherwise,” soothed the doctor.

“Yes,” she said in a sad voice, “it has all been a great shock. Now I understand the soldier accused of my husband’s murder has confessed.”

“He has,” I said, a little surprised she did not know the whole story, that which involved Molly. But then had not Mrs. Hargrove just told me that Mrs. Jacombe led a sheltered life? Perhaps they had kept the news about Molly from her. “The lieutenant’s grandfather, Mr. Nevill, went to Bow Street and said that he had seen his grandson’s betrothed, Molly, with a gun before the shooting.”

Mrs. Jacombe pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, dear. This is intolerable.”

Ignoring Doctor Trusdale’s warning look, I went on. “Yes, now they have Molly in gaol as well, because yesterday afternoon, Mr. Nevill was shot through the heart exactly the way your husband was.”

Instantly, I felt like a cad for blurting out this information. For Mrs. Jacombe gasped for breath like one about to have a heart seizure.

Freddie jumped from her chair to console her friend.

 Doctor Trusdale rapidly placed drops from one of the medicine bottles into a glass with a little wine and urged his patient to drink. She did, and gradually her breathing returned to normal.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Jacombe,” I said when she had settled. “I should not have spoken.”

“No, you should not have,” the doctor said shooting me an angry look.

Mrs. Jacombe clutched a handkerchief. “Do not blame yourself, Mr. Brummell.”

“If I could just ask one question before I take my leave. Was Mrs. Hargrove here in the house yesterday afternoon?”

“She was,” Mrs. Jacombe confirmed. “Why would you want to know?”

Receiving yet another hostile glare from Doctor Trusdale, I dared not explain my suspicions. “No reason other than curiosity. I shall take my leave now. I hope your health improves, Mrs. Jacombe.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brummell. You are most kind. Please call on us again.”

“Your Royal Highness,” I said, bowing low to Freddie.

“George, it is always pleasant to see you, even under these trying circumstances.”

My heart sank a little more at those formal words, ones without a hint of warmth in them.

Doctor Trusdale followed me into the hall. I knew he was going to read me a lecture on upsetting Mrs. Jacombe, and I was correct.

No sooner had we traversed the bottom stair than he said, “Some men do not have great sensitivity of feeling, Mr. Brummell, and I can only assume you are one of them. I am forced to tell you that speaking of matters relating to her husband’s death is upsetting, even dangerous to Mrs. Jacombe. She is a fragile woman who has suffered a great loss.”

“I understand, Doctor Trusdale. I have no wish to cause Mrs. Jacombe any further distress. It is merely that I want to find out who really killed her husband. I need to have the answers to certain questions, like the one I posed about Mrs. Hargrove’s whereabouts.”

“You do not think the soldier guilty, then?”

“No.”

“I suppose you have a point, especially now that there has been another murder. The lieutenant could hardly have committed that one from gaol.”

“I do not believe he killed either person.”

The doctor ran a hand through his dark hair. “What a coil. You must see how it is my duty to protect Mrs. Jacombe from anything that could bring on an attack of nerves. Her heart is not strong. I fear for her. I fear for her life.”

“You have my word that I will only call on her again if it is absolutely necessary.”

“Thank you.”

I turned to go, then suddenly thought the physician might help me with another problem. “Er, Doctor Trusdale, forgive me if I overstep my bounds. No doubt you have people ask for your professional advice at the most unlikely of times.”

He gave a slight smile. “Go ahead, Mr. Brummell.”

“This is quite unusual, I am embarrassed to say.”

“There is nothing I have not heard.”

“The mother of two of my servants is staying in my house along with her pet piglet. The piglet has developed a rash. Mrs. Ed is in an uproar because she cannot procure something called Smith’s Swine Salve here in London.”

The doctor chuckled. “Oh, they only make that in Dorset, but it is a simple enough compound.” He drew a pad of paper from his pocket and wrote out the names and measures of some ingredients. “Have an apothecary make this up and give it to the woman. She will find it to be the very same thing as Smith’s. Her piglet will shortly be in fine health.”

I folded the paper and placed it in my pocket. “I am obliged to you, Doctor Trusdale.”

“Happy to help. Just bear in mind what I said about Mrs. Jacombe.”

I took my leave and started out for the nearest apothecary. Then I glanced at my pocket-watch and noted the hour lacked only ten minutes until three, the appointed time for me to meet Miss Lavender at my house.

I redirected my steps and arrived in Bruton Street just as Miss Lavender was about to knock on my door. I dismissed Robinson—his look plainly told me he did not approve of yet another visit from her—and took her into my bookroom.

“What did you find out?” she asked.

“Everyone was snug at the Jacombe house both the night of the murder in the Pleasure Gardens and yesterday afternoon. I still think Mrs. Hargrove is our chief suspect though, Miss Lavender. You would not believe the coldness of this woman.”

“Yes, I would.” She pulled out a piece of paper with a flourish. “It took some persuading, but I was able to get her to sign this petition.”

I took the paper from her hand. At the top it said, “A Plea For The Streets Of London To Be Cleared Of Prostitutes.”

“What a good choice. And this is her signature at the bottom. Let me get out my letters.” I retrieved the two letters from the killer and compared the writing with that of Mrs. Hargrove. “Deuce take it.”

“They don’t match?”

“Well, it is difficult to say. The letters from the killer are printed, whereas Mrs. Hargrove has signed her name in a script writing.”

“Let me see,” Miss Lavender said. “You’re right, it’s next to impossible to tell. The handwriting of the killer looks deliberately printed in a block style that could be duplicated by anyone. Now what?”

“I shall think of something.”

“While you’re thinking, I want to go visit Molly and make certain she is as comfortable as possible, given that she’s in gaol.”

“Find out, if you will, whether they are going to release the lieutenant, despite his confession, or if they plan to keep two people in gaol for the same murders.”

“Very well.” She turned to go, but I stayed her with a light touch on her shoulder. I angled my way in front of her. “I was wondering if you would accompany me tonight to a musical evening at Lord and Lady Perry’s house. You know them, so I thought you would not feel uncomfortable. Please say yes.”

She looked at me, and I hoped my grey gaze reflected the proper amount of desire for her company.

“There are bound to be Society people there, though, Mr. Brummell. Are you certain
you
would feel comfortable with me there?”

I reached out and brushed a dark red curl from her white skin. “I would be honoured.”

She leaned closer to me. “In that case, I should like it very well indeed.”

“I shall come for you—”

“At the Haven of Hope. No need to worry Father.”

I smiled. “I shall be there at eight.”

Now at that moment, I felt compelled to conduct a bit of an experiment. You may recall me telling you how pleasant it felt to kiss Miss Lavender’s lips. One cannot be absolutely certain of a sensation, I think, unless it is repeated with the same results.

Thus, I leaned down and brushed Miss Lavender’s lips with my own. Just a light touch, you understand. Nothing scandalous.

Until I tasted the sweetness of her mouth and felt her response.

Then, er, well, the kiss I gave her was anything but proper.

Let us just leave it at that.

We were both rather breathless when it was over. Somehow we made it to the front door where Miss Lavender went on her way. I picked up my hat and my dog’s head stick and walked to the apothecary. I cannot report who I saw on the way or anything much other than the day was fine. My head felt a trifle disordered from that kiss.

One might say it was something of a miracle then that, as I was passing Doctor Trusdale’s list of ingredients to the apothecary, I noted the handwriting was the same block print as the killer’s.

 The ballroom at the Perrys’ Town house in Grosvenor Square was large and perfumed with the scent of hundreds of roses in a riot of colours. The ivory walls with their gilt-framed, floor-length mirrors reflected the selected assembly. At one end of the room, a pianoforte gleamed in the candlelight. Gilt chairs stood in rows, waiting for their occupants once the entertainment began.

At the other end, a trio of musicians anticipated their turn. I suspected that we would listen to a singer accompanied by the pianoforte first, then later there would be dancing. I said as much to Miss Lavender.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in such a grand room in my life,” she said.

“Where did you tell your father you were going?”

“I didn’t exactly say. I just went home, gathered this dress and some other things in a case and left. Oh, I did find out that there are certainly no plans to release Molly just yet, even with Lieutenant Nevill’s confession. The matter of who killed Mr. Nevill is still up in the air. There are some at Bow Street who believe Lieutenant Nevill killed Mr. Jacombe, then Molly killed Mr. Nevill to protect herself.”

“I see. What a mess. But we shall contrive.”

Miss Lavender’s gaze flicked from person to person in the room. “I confess I am a little nervous here.”

“But you know the Perrys.”

“They were most kind and gracious when they greeted us.”

I observed that despite her acquaintance with our host and hostess, Miss Lavender did appear ill at ease. Her lashes dropped at the approach of any stranger—and they were all strangers to her except for the Perrys—and her slim white fingers trembled on her crystal wine glass.

She certainly looked beautiful enough to grace any ballroom. Clad in a deep forest-green gown with a golden floral pattern trimming the bodice, sleeves and hem, and gold leaves woven through her dark red curls, she was the beauty of the room.

Lord Petersham, in company with Lord Munro as usual, hailed us, and I performed the introductions.

“Charmed to meet you, Miss Lavender,” Petersham said. “Know your father a little. Bow Street man, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Munro’s mouth puckered. His gaze raked Miss Lavender from head to toe. He spoke not a word to the girl. To me he said, “I see you are toying in Bow Street work in all manners these days, Brummell.”

I cut him a scathing look. “I want to see justice done in the Jacombe murder case. I cannot believe Nevill guilty.”

“Nonetheless, he’s sure to be sentenced to hang by the end of the week with all London crying for it,” Munro went on. “Unlike some, the Lord Chief Justice is not a man to be diverted by anything,” he finished, giving a pointed look at Miss Lavender.

I steered her away from them after telling Petersham I would see him at Watier’s. I was indignant at Munro’s thinly veiled insult to Miss Lavender.

As I introduced Miss Lavender to various people, the result was universal: a slight nod of the head, if anything. She was being snubbed. I overheard Lady Crecy say to a friend that I must have brought the girl here as some sort of jest since she was a Nobody. Luckily, I do not think Miss Lavender heard this cruel remark.

I felt terribly guilty. I, above anyone, should have known that the snobbery in Society would shut the girl out even if she appeared on my arm. In Society’s eyes, it was a
mésalliance
, an undesirable match with one of lower social standing.

She felt it as well. “Mr. Brummell, while I know you meant well, it was a mistake bringing me here tonight. I do not belong at a
Beau Monde
entertainment. What’s more, it’s doing no good to your reputation to have brought me here, and since I know you live on your reputation—”