Despite the fact that it was nearly three in the morning before I retired, I did not sleep well. At one point, I pulled out the portable writing desk I always have nearby and made a list of everyone present at the Johnstones’ when Petersham first spoke about his new blend of snuff. Then I made another list, this one of the people present at dinner last night.
Satisfied, I returned to bed only to toss the covers aside once more. Pulling out another sheet of paper, I made a diagram of the seating arrangements both before and after dinner.
Chakkri slept through all my tossing, turning, and getting in and out of bed. I vow the cat is determined to snub me for bringing him to Brighton, not to mention my petting Humphrey.
I slumbered until nine. Pulling the bed hangings aside, I was about to summon Robinson, when I spotted him sitting in a chair by the fire.
He sprang to attention. “Good morning, sir. Er, well, that is not quite accurate, is it, with the tragedy of last night casting a shadow over the Pavilion?” The valet’s eyes were bright with curiosity. No doubt the servants’ hall had been abuzz with gossip.
“A devilish bad business,” I said noncommittally, wondering what he knew.
“They all think Viscount Petersham tried to poison his Royal Highness, but I told them they had windmills in their heads. My lord would have no reason to wish the Prince harm.”
“That was good of you. I am sure Diggie would appreciate your defense of his employer.”
Robinson stiffened at the mention of Diggie. “Mr. Digwood was not my concern. Although I did hear that he is guarding Viscount Petersham’s house like a watchdog. He resembles a bulldog, come to think of it.”
You may know that Petersham’s valet, Mr. Digwood, or Diggie as he is called, and Robinson have a long-held rivalry. The enmity is made worse by the fact that Diggie tends to lord it over—if I may use that term—Robinson’s head that Petersham is a viscount while I am a plain mister.
On the other hand, Diggie knows that Petersham would replace him with Robinson if he could, a fact Robinson invariably uses to try to win the occasional disagreement with me. Most recently, he utilized it when trying to persuade me to return Chakkri to Siam.
I ignored Robinson’s pique. “Such devotion can only be to Diggie’s credit. Will you bring me some tea? Perhaps a few rolls to go along with it. And ask the footmen to hurry with my bath. I wish to bathe without delay.”
“Very good, sir,” Robinson said. He bowed, and with a back so rigid you could have bounced a ball off it, exited the room, disappointed. I was sorry for him, but had no time to gratify his need for scandalous details.
I had decided to begin my investigation that very morning. While it might risk our friendship, the first thing to do was speak to Petersham as soon as possible. Even if it meant storming Diggie’s defenses.
The viscount never leaves his house before six in the evening, and seldom rises from bed earlier than three in the afternoon. But this day would have to be an exception, no matter what.
I needed to try to impress upon Petersham the gravity of the situation he was in, and also try to find out if he had tested the snuff before bringing it to the dining room last evening. This would help narrow the period of time in which someone could have added the poison to the box.
I deemed it imperative to review the events with Petersham before Jack Townsend began questioning him. The lazy viscount might end up incriminating himself by failing to defend his snuff.
Robinson returned with the tea. I had only consumed one cup when the footmen brought in my bath. Nevertheless, I put aside my breakfast and bathed while the water was hot. As you know, I am a strong believer in daily baths, a conviction not shared by all my fellow members of Society, much to my dismay.
Afterwards, I had just donned my Florentine dressing gown and seated myself at the dressing table when Chakkri woke. The cat stretched his long, fawn-colored body and greeted me with a faint “Reow.”
“Joined the land of the living, have you Chakkri?” I said. Then, to Robinson, “Bring me another cup of tea, will you? I am always thirsty after consuming as much wine as I did last night.”
“Yes, sir. As to last night—”
He got no further. As Robinson reached for the teapot, Chakkri bounded from his spot on the bed, leaped across the table containing the teacup and my rolls, and sent the cup flying to the floor, where it shattered on the carpet. Robinson held the teapot high out of reach.
The cat never acknowledged the destruction he had caused. Instead, he walked calmly to the window to say good morning to his sea-gull friends.
Robinson tsked, glared at the cat, and began cleaning up the mess.
I sat in open-mouthed astonishment. The feline was not in charity with me, true. But Chakkri was a graceful creature if there ever was one. It was not like him to be clumsy. Why had he knocked the teacup over?
* * * *
Just before one o’clock, I made my way across the grassy Steine to the house Petersham and Munro were leasing. On the way, I bowed to Lady Kincade, a young matron in Society, and to the Creeveys, who were accompanied by Lady Bessborough. The latter was no doubt sharing every salacious component of the previous evening.
Smelling the sea air, my thoughts turned to the young girl found dead on the beach yesterday. Now everyone’s efforts would be concentrated on finding the attempted assassin of the Prince of Wales. Her death would fade into obscurity.
Or so I thought.
The breeze picked up the folds of my black velvet greatcoat. The weather had grown colder today and no sun shone.
I rapped on Petersham’s door with the handle of my new dog’s head cane, the one Freddie had given me.
Mr. Digwood answered my knock. He is a portly fellow with brown eyes that tend to bulge. I fashioned my expression into one of apologetic chagrin. “Now, Diggie, I know precisely what you are going to say. Lord Petersham is still abed at this early hour.”
“Indeed, sir. My lord is not receiving—”
I crossed the threshold and handed Diggie my things. He looked aghast. “I am afraid I cannot announce you,” he said.
I held up a forestalling hand. “You are simply going to have to look the other way while I make my way upstairs.”
Diggie’s eyes popped. “It could mean my position, sir.”
“Nothing of the sort, I assure you. I will tell Petersham that you had no choice in the matter, which you do not. It is for his own good.”
Diggie spluttered, but I ascended the stairs, hoping I would not run across Lord Munro. Why had I not asked which room belonged to Petersham?
Sighing, I slowly eased open the door at the top of the stairs, muttering a prayer that it was Petersham’s and that he was alone. A quick glance inside told me I had the room I wanted.
Snoring at the top of his lungs, Petersham lay sprawled on his back in a four-poster bed. Thankfully, I had not had to peer behind bedcurtains to ascertain if the body sleeping in the bed was his.
I approached the bed, stopped about a foot away and said, “Petersham, wake up.”
Snore.
“Petersham!”
Snore.
Fortunately I had retained my dogs head cane. I used it to tap Petersham on the arm. “Wake up, old friend!”
An assortment of snorts and sniffles later, the viscount opened his eyes, shielding them from the light with a linen-clad arm. “Egad, Brummell, is that you? Where’s Diggie? Is the house on fire? Tell him to put it out.”
“No, the house is not on fire. Try as he might, Diggie could not stop me from coming up. I need to speak to you.”
“Oh,” Petersham said. He turned on his side and shut his eyes.
“Petersham!” I employed the cane again.
“What the devil is it?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “Is it the Frenchies? Are we invaded?”
“No. I want to talk to you about the snuff box.”
“Love it dearly,” he mumbled sleepily. “Munro gave it to me. Go away now, Brummell. I’m trying to sleep.”
“You cannot sleep now. We have to talk.”
Petersham opened an eye and glanced at the bedside clock. The eye opened a fraction wider. “Is that one in the afternoon? You’re mad. Come back in about four hours.”
“We dare not wait that long. Jack Townsend will be in Brighton before then and ready to question you. We need to discuss the new blend of snuff you mixed and then placed in the new box. Did you try it before you brought it down to dinner?”
Snore.
My patience tried, I tossed my cane on a nearby chair, sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over, and grasped Petersham by the shoulders. I pulled him to an upright position and glared into his startled face. “You nodcock, I am trying to help you! Sir Simon is
dead
. Had he not been first to try the snuff
you
mixed, the
Prince of Wales
would be dead. The most renowned of the Bow Street Police officers is on his way to the Pavilion to investigate. Do you understand? Your snuff has
killed
someone.
Will
you talk to me?”
A trifle more conscious, Petersham said, “Very well, Brummell, I shall do as you ask.”
At that moment, the door to the adjoining room crashed open and Lord Munro stood framed in the portal. His gaze swept over me as I sat on Petersham’s bed, holding the viscount about the shoulders.
“And what exactly has Mr. Brummell asked you to do, Charles?” Lord Munro inquired in a dangerous voice.
I rose with dignity and faced Lord Munro. Clad only in an expensive pair of breeches—I recognize cashmere when I see it—he clearly had been woken from his sleep and donned the first available article of clothing. It was also clear he was furious.
I felt my own temper surge. Time was running out. Jack Townsend could arrive in Brighton at any time. “Lord Munro, I have an urgent matter to discuss with Petersham. Please excuse us.”
Lord Munro glanced at Petersham. The viscount was in the process of settling himself back under the bedclothes, his eyes closing.
“Charles doesn’t converse at this hour. If you were truly his friend, you would know that,” Lord Munro said frostily.
“Dash it! Damn and blast,” I said. “Do neither of you comprehend the enormity of what is happening here? Petersham, sit up at once and tell me whether you tried any of that snuff before bringing it to the Pavilion.”
Petersham gave a cavernous yawn. “Brummell, I can’t think properly when I haven’t had enough sleep.”
“Go back to sleep now, Charles,” Lord Munro advised.
“Right. Eh, Brummell, you’re worrying about all this too much. Sir Simon’s death must have been an accident. No one will think me responsible. I’m a viscount, a peer of the realm. Don’t trouble yourself with it.” His eyes shut.
Lord Munro took a step toward me. “I’ll thank you to leave. You have disturbed Charles enough.”
“He is not as disturbed as he will be once Jack Townsend begins questioning him,” I ground out.
Lord Munro’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t for the life of me think of why everyone admires you, Brummell. I hear you bathe in milk.”
I stood with my head to one side. Milk? To bathe in? What a repugnant notion. But I am used to people making up the most ridiculous stories about me. I do not know why this latest one should surprise me. That Lord Munro believed it true told me something about his character.
I was playing with the idea of confirming the story, and confiding that the milk came from a particular cow in Green Park who was fed roses so that the milk might be perfumed, when raised voices from the hall interrupted us. I recognized Robinson’s voice as one of them.
The door swung open and Robinson stepped inside. His hair, normally in strict control, stood out from his head. But this was nothing compared to Diggie, who was breathing hard and quite red about the face and neck.
“What the devil?” I exclaimed.
“My lord,” Diggie said to Lord Munro, his breath coming in gasps. “I have tried to protect the peace of this house, but this person—” here he shot a look of loathing at Robinson
“—pushed me, I say he
pushed
me out of the way. No
true
gentleman’s gentleman would behave thus, as I am certain you would agree, my lord.”
Petersham snored away.
Lord Munro’s face was a study in agitation.
Robinson paid not the slightest attention. Instead, he addressed me. “Sir, I thought you would wish to be apprised of the arrival at the Pavilion of Jack Townsend. Also, the Prince is asking for you.”
Without another word, I picked up my cane and walked from the room. The fat was in the fire now.
After passing an army of guards, I entered the Prince of Wales’s bedchamber to find a number of persons present. My jaw almost dropped when I beheld one of them, but I shall tell you about that in a minute.
Dinner guests were to be questioned regarding the previous evening’s events. The Prince, apparently too sick from worry to rise from his bed, but determined to be present at the inquisition, as it were, held court in his bedchamber.
He sat propped up in his raised bed, wrapped in a purple robe, a starched white neckcloth cascading in front, his cherry brandy on a table near to hand. He clutched a Brussels lace handkerchief that I knew with a certainty cost forty-five guineas.
Mrs. Fitzherbert sat in a chair by his side, a pretty shawl around her shoulders, ready to support her “husband” in any way.
Jack Townsend, now well over forty years of age and for many years with the Bow Street Police Office, stood next to a rosewood desk with his hands clasped behind his back. “Beau Brummell!” he exclaimed in a hearty voice. “I haven’t clapped eyes on you since that sunny day during the last Brighton racing season. Made a tidy sum, didn’t you?”
“Mr. Townsend, good afternoon,” I said by way of greeting. “As to my winnings at the race, they would hardly be enough to cover the cost of a new coat. Done in the first style, that is.” I eyed his clothing, a gesture that did not escape the sharp little rotund man’s notice.