The Bloodied Cravat (19 page)

Upon entering the next to last stop on my list, a shop whose weathered sign proclaimed it to be Kirkhead’s Fineries, I stopped just inside the door, staring in complete shock at the heavy-set man behind the counter. No doubt he was the proprietor, Mr. Kirkhead. His rheumy gaze fixed on me, then he beamed, revealing an incomplete set of teeth. “Come in, me fine gennelman! I ‘ave jest what yer lookin’ fer, and iffen I don’t, I’ll get it.” One sagging eyelid dropped in a wink.

“I believe you do have what I seek,” I replied in a muted voice, feeling my head spin from the atrocity I beheld. For stretched to the very limit the cloth would allow, and still not meeting across his huge stomach, atop a shirt Grimaldi the clown would shun, was one of Weston’s finest creations.

My Saunders-blue coat, to be exact.

Regaining my composure, I stepped up to the counter. “That coat you are wearing belongs to me. It was stolen.”

The small eyes narrowed. “Git out o’ me shop!”

I gripped my dog’s head cane and banged the tip down hard on the floor. “Do you know who I am?”

“Bloody ‘ell, what’s it to me? I won’t ‘ave nobody comin’ in my shop accusin’ me ‘o stealin’,” he blustered. But he made no move to evict me from the premises.

My gaze held his. “I am George Brummell.
Beau
Brummell.”

Mr. Kirkhead’s little eyes popped within the loose folds of his eyelids.

I continued smoothly, “Weston made that coat for me under my specifications. Shall I send for him, along with someone from Bow Street—”

“No!” The merchant howled. He raised his hands, palms outward. Then lowering his voice he let out a nervous laugh and adopted a friendly tone. “Lookee ‘ere, I don’t want no trouble. I didn’t steal the coat, I tell yer. I bought it fair and square. ‘Ere, ye can ‘ave it fer what I paid fer it.” He struggled to remove the garment.

“I think not,” I said, freezing him with my words.

A hurt expression spread across his fleshy features. “ ‘Twouldn’t be gennelman-like o’ ye to take it without payin’ somethin’ for it. I’d be losin’ money through no fault o’ me own.”

“You purchase stolen goods at your own peril. Now tell me where you got my coat.” 

“Where I got it?” Mr. Kirkhead said nothing for a moment, thinking hard. Then he slammed a meaty fist on the wooden counter. “I knewed ‘e would be trouble. Didn’t ‘e ‘ave the mark of the devil ‘isself on ‘is face? I shouldn’t ‘ave dealt with ‘im.” He licked his lips suddenly, then said, “Mr. Brummell, sir, I be a business man. I buy a lot ‘o goods and don’t ask no questions, see? This ‘ere was the only thing I did git off ‘im who came to me offerin’ it. Fancied it for meself, I did.”

Lying, I thought. Probably tallying up how much he could get for the rest of my things now that he could use my name in connection with them. But did he have the blue velvet book? I looked closely at the contents of the shop. A jumble of clothes, hats, some battered-looking canes. Not a book of any sort in sight.

“What is the man’s name who sold you my coat?”

“Didn’t get no name. Not the usual practice, yer know.”

“What did you mean when you said the man had the ‘mark of the devil’ on his face?” I asked.

Mr. Kirkhead looked frightened. Perhaps he believed in spells and curses and thought Lord Kendrick’s highwayman capable of inflicting them on him because of some birthmark.

“I am waiting for a reply,” I stated. “I want a description of the fellow. Give it to me, and I shall not apprise Bow Street of this misadventure.”

The merchant weighed his options.

“And you may keep the coat,” I added magnanimously. Not that I would wear the dirty thing now.

That settled it for Mr. Kirkhead. “‘E were black-haired, thin, an’ wiry but a tough sort. ‘Cross one side of ‘is face there were a red mark.” Mr. Kirkhead raised his hand and placed it flat against his cheek. “‘Bout ‘ere it were. Like ‘is skin were stained red by the hand o’ the devil.”

The tinkling of a bell announced the arrival of another customer. An older woman, obviously well-bred but in reduced circumstances, carried a pretty gown from the last century in her hands.

“One more thing, then I shall take my leave,” I said in a low voice. “Did the thief offer you a book to sell? One covered in blue velvet?”

The threat of Bow Street gone, the merchant’s eyes were on the brocade finery in the woman’s arms. “Book? Don’t carry nothin’ like that. Wouldn’t be able to sell it.”

I left the shop thinking that this particular book would certainly sell. And for a price higher than Mr. Kirkhead could ever imagine.

But even with his distinctive facial abnormality how would I ever discover the identity of Lord Kendrick’s highwayman and where in London he was? I was hardly familiar with thieves’ dens. Time was precious. Days could pass before I found the man. And were I to wander about in low places, my presence in the less-fashionable parts of London was certain to be remarked upon.

I hailed a hackney cab and sat down after wiping the seat with my handkerchief. The rhythmical sound of the horses’ hooves on cobblestone faded from my mind as I contemplated my dilemma. Robinson would hand in his notice on the spot were I to ask him to venture into low side of London to help me find the thief, though I could inquire if anyone fitting the description given had been seen about Oatlands.

Ned and Ted were apt to only find trouble.

Dash it. If only I could trust Mr. Lavender with this new information about the highwayman. He would have plenty of contacts among thieves. But I could not risk the Bow Street man’s tracing the blackguard and finding out about that blasted letter.

Then I thought of Miss Lavender’s Lionel.

* * * *

By the time I arrived home in Bruton Street, the hour was advanced. I would need to see if, from the mountain of invitations received, Robinson had discovered which entertainments were being held tonight.

My plan was to see Lady Crecy, in hopes of setting a time I could call on her and visit Lady Ariana. I was anxious to question the girl and see for myself how she was taking the death of her cousin. Of most particular interest was her mental state.

I also wanted to question Lady Crecy to find out where the Cranworths were residing in Town. The siblings might even be attending a party tonight, though Roger Cranworth did not move in the highest circles of Society.

Before I did any of this, I would need to try to speak to Lionel in private. I felt a bit of a cad, not letting Miss Lavender know I wanted the boy’s help. But that intrepid female would ply me with questions I did not want to answer at present.

 My best chance was to return to the shelter, perhaps with a bouquet of flowers for Miss Lavender and a note of thanks telling her I had located my clothes. I would deliver the tribute myself, but at the kitchen door where I was most likely to find Lionel. No doubt he would be thrilled to execute such a simple commission as asking in the neighbourhood about a thief with a particular birthmark, a commission for which I would be sure to reward him.

Pleased with these strategies, I closed the front door behind me and called for Robinson, wondering why he had not perceived my arrival in the hall.

There was no answer. I deposited my hat and stick onto the hall table. Robinson could not still be out with his lady friend, could he?

I walked into my book-room. Perhaps Robinson had left out the cards of invitation for tonight’s events.

Seating myself behind my desk, I was happy to see five invitations laid out for my inspection. Scanning the lines rapidly, I came to the conclusion that two of them were lesser parties given by newly rich members of the merchant class. The other three were all being held by members of the
Beau Monde
. I considered their hosts, knowing instinctively that Lady Crecy would choose the one whose standing in Society was the highest.

There was no question who that was: the Marchioness of Salisbury. I smiled. Lady Salisbury is one of my favourite people, and I am fortunate enough to call her my friend. She is also one of the patronesses of Almack’s, someone Lady Crecy would be sure to toady to.

Upon my soul, I thought suddenly, Lady Salisbury would give me a rare set-down if she learned I was in Town and did
not
attend her party. The matter was decided.

At that moment, Chakkri, who had entered the room soundlessly on his velvet brown paws, leapt onto my desk. This is a habit I cannot like. He invariably is interested in my letters, he adores sniffing and even nibbling at my quill pen, and his lashing tail has often threatened the inkstand.

Holding Lady Salisbury’s invitation in my hand, I spoke to the cat with heavy sarcasm. “Well, Chakkri, thank heavens I had this murder investigation and the matter of the missing letter inspiring me to go about tonight. Otherwise I would surely incur Lady Salisbury’s displeasure.”

Chakkri sat tall, with his tail curled around his hind leg in a “C.” He let out a loud “reow.”

Across the room, a gasp and a shuffling sound startled me. Rising, I saw Robinson stretched out on the long sofa which rests against one wall. He had been sleeping there the whole time I had been in the room!

“Robinson! Good God, man, what are you doing?” I stepped across to peer down at him. His hair was mussed, his shirt was not tucked into his breeches properly, and his neckcloth was straggly. One foot was shoeless. In short, he had been sleeping in his clothes and looked like it.

He struggled, but it seemed an effort for him to open his eyes. “Sir? Th-that you?”

Chakkri leapt onto the side table. He stretched over the arm of the sofa, his neck elongated, and stared down at the valet. That Robinson did not even react to this movement on the cat’s part should tell you just how far out of his senses Robinson was.

“Have you and your lady friend been drinking?” I asked in a severe tone, though he did not smell of spirits.

“No. Fanny gave me a tisane. For my nerves,” he murmured, closing his eyes as if against a bright light.

Fanny!

“A tisane for your nerves! What nerves?”

Robinson’s eyes opened again. “Fine in a few moments. Help you dress for the evening.”

“The devil you will! Sleep off whatever your ladylove has given you. I shall dress myself.”

At this, Chakkri turned his attention from the supine valet to look at me skeptically.

“And I do not wish for any comment from you!”

“Reow!”

With that, I marched upstairs to my bedchamber, chose a dark blue coat, the colour of the midnight sky, and laid it on the bed. I turned back to the wardrobe, selected a crisp shirt, a white waistcoat with faint lines of silver thread running through it, and a pair of black breeches.

When I turned, musing that I would have to either try to rouse Robinson or heat water for washing myself, a sight met my eyes which caused me to shout, “You devil-cat! Get off my coat this instant. That is a bad-cat thing to do!”

Chakkri yawned.

A complicated manouever ensued, where I extracted the cat from the coat without his claws nicking the expensive cloth, the feline muttering the whole time.

Suffice it to say, the hands of the clock were striking nine before I was ready to be seen in public.

First, I needed to visit Lionel. This presented a bit of a problem in the form of transportation. I did not want Ned and Ted possibly seeing Molly and fighting over her. Thus, I instructed them to wait for me outside my town house, sedan-chair at the ready, to take me to Lady Salisbury’s after I returned from an errand.

Hailing yet another hackney, this one thankfully cleaner than the last, I gave the direction to the Haven of Hope. I instructed the coachman to drop me at the entrance to the alley behind the shelter, and commanded him to wait for me. Coins changed hands, and the driver agreed. On the way, we stopped once at a flower-stall.

Reaching my destination, I rapped on the back door with my dog’s head cane. I hoped Miss Lavender would not be the one to answer my knock. I had the excuse of the flowers, though that would not explain my coming to the back entrance.

Luck was with me. After a furtive glance from behind the curtains, Lionel himself opened the door.

I pressed a finger to my lips and motioned him to step outside.

“Who’s there, Lionel?” an unfamiliar female voice called from inside the house.

“Er, jest a friend o’ mine. Be back in a trice to wash out the big stewpot.” He eased the door almost closed behind him.

“Well done, Lionel. I see you are awake on every suit, and have realised I wished to speak with you privately,” I praised the boy. My gaze travelled to his neck. What looked like kitchen linen had been twisted and wrapped around the boy’s throat, the ends tied, in an imitation of my own cravat. I suppressed a smile. My style of cravat is often copied, but never had I felt so honoured.

The boy’s mouth dropped open as he took in the glory of my evening dress. One hand reached up to the linen around his own neck. He blushed and made as if to take it off.

I tucked the flowers in the crook of my arm. “No, no, do not take it apart.” With one hand, I gently stayed him, the other reached for my quizzing glass. I studied the attempt, allowed the glass to fall to my chest, then made a few rapid adjustments to the boy’s “cravat.” “Your fingers are nimble, Lionel. I have no doubt that with the proper linen, the result would be one that would not disgrace a nobleman.”

The boy’s eyes shined. “Truly, sir? My hands are quick, that I know.”

They would have to be in his former profession as pickpocket. “Truly.”

Lionel looked at the flowers. “Have you brung those for Miss Lavender?”

“Indeed I have. I wanted to thank her for her assistance this afternoon.”

“She’s gone home already, but I reckon I could give ‘em to her in the mornin’ when she comes in.” Lionel glanced up to see my reaction to this idea.

“Thank you.” The floral bouquet changed hands. I pictured Miss Lavender in the neat little set of rooms she shared with her father in Fetter Lane. He would be smoking one of his pipes and she would be making tea or coffee.