A Body in Berkeley Square (15 page)

"Or the Frenchman has nothing to do with
Henry Turner at all. You are only guessing that he does."

"True. But he followed me, after I'd finished
searching Turner's rooms, and he was looking for something. Pomeroy
is now scouring the city for the Frenchman, and I hope to question
him before long." I touched my face gingerly. "And complain of his
very hard fists."

If anyone could find the man, Pomeroy could.
He had a tenacity greater than the Russians who'd driven Bonaparte
out of Moscow. Also, the Frenchman would not remain hidden for
long. A French officer of such distinctive appearance walking about
London would be noted and remembered.

There existed another reason a Frenchman
might profess interest in me. My wife, Carlotta, had eloped with a
French officer. I had never met the man or even seen him. Why
Carlotta's lover would come to London and ransack my rooms, I had
no idea, but I could not dismiss the fact that the connection might
be along those lines.

I kept this to myself, however, as Grenville
and I continued our discussion. Grenville brought up names and
wrote them down or rejected those who'd left the ball long before
Turner's death. Grenville's circle of acquaintance was vastly
greater than mine, so I let him speculate on the characters of
gentlemen of whom I knew nothing.

By the time we parted to seek our beds, we
had come up with a lengthy list. But I focused on only a few of
those as most likely: Imogene Harper, Mrs. Bennington, Mr.
Bennington, Basil Stokes, my mysterious Frenchman, and possibly
Leland Derwent.

I felt grateful that Grenville did not
suggest listing Brandon, but I knew, glumly, that I could not rule
him out altogether. He and Mrs. Harper still had the strongest
motives thus far.

I went to sleep in the soft bed in my chamber
and dreamed of Lady Breckenridge and her blue eyes.

*** *** ***

The funeral for Henry Turner was held the
next morning. The day dawned clear and fine, the air soft, the sky
an arch of blue overhead. It was a day made for hacking across the
downs on a fine horse, not for standing in a churchyard while a
vicar droned the burial service.

"Man that is born of a woman hath but a
short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut
down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow . . . "

I stood next to Grenville, both of us in
somber gray. Nearer the tomb stood Mr. Turner and his wife, several
young men I took to be Turner's friends, and a few older men, who
must be Turner's father's cronies. People from the town of Epsom
also attended, working people who had given Mr. and Mrs. Turner
respectful words of condolence when they arrived.

Henry would be buried in a rather private
corner of the churchyard where, Mr. Turner had informed me, his
family had been buried for generations.

"I thought the next person there would be
me," Mr. Turner said.

I'd had little comfort to give him.
Grenville spoke the right phrases, but I, whose mentor was even now
waiting in prison to be tried for the murder, could think of
nothing to say.

One of the mourners was Leland Derwent. He
had seen me when we all arrived at the church and had given me a
nod of greeting. Now he stared down at the grave, his young brow
furrowed.

Next to him stood a young man called Gareth
Travers. I'd met Travers during the affair of Colonel Westin last
summer. He was Leland's closest friend, but he lacked the complete
innocence of Leland and had a bit more worldly intelligence.

The vicar launched into the Lord's Prayer. I
heard Grenville murmuring along, although most of the attendants
remained silent. A soft spring breeze carrying the scent of new
earth touched me.

The service finished, and we turned away
from the graveside. In tacit agreement, Grenville and I hung back
while Mr. Turner led his wife away.

Leland and Gareth Travers waited for us at
the gate to the churchyard. "It was kind of you to come, Captain,"
Leland said as he shook my hand.

"I am afraid that my motive was not entirely
kindness," I said. "I came to obtain an idea of Turner's character,
and to find out who would want to kill him."

Leland looked puzzled. "I thought your
colonel had been arrested."

"He has, but his arrest does not mean he is
guilty. I intend to bring forth evidence that he is not guilty
before his trial."

I had expected, if anything, for Leland to
look interested, but his expression became troubled. "You think
someone else committed this crime?"

"Yes, but I'm damned if I know who. You went
to school with Henry Turner, I believe."

"Yes, but he was two years ahead of us." As
Grenville had indicated, Leland sounded apologetic.

The other mourners had dispersed, leaving us
alone. "Will you tell me about him?" I asked.

Leland fell into step beside me on a path
that skirted the edge of the churchyard and swung out across the
downs. Travers and Grenville came behind.

"There is not much to tell," Leland said. "I
do hate to say anything bad about Mr. Turner, now that he's lying
in the ground."

"I assure you, I will repeat nothing that is
not relevant to my problem. But I need to know everything I can if
I'm to discover who killed him."

Leland settled his curled-brimmed hat
against the breeze. "I admit that he was a bit of a bully. I didn't
fag for him, but I knew the lads who did. He put them through their
paces and was never happy with anything."

"Was he--forgive me for putting this
bluntly--a blackmailer?"

Leland looked startled. "A blackmailer? No.
No, I do not believe so. I never heard anyone say anything like
that."

"Did he ever seem desperate for money?"

"He liked money, that is true, but I do not
know that he was
desperate
for it. His allowance was plenty
for him, I would think."

I stifled my impatience at his nicety.
"Anything you can tell me will help us, Leland. I need details. Did
he have lovers? Did he keep to himself? Did he seem to have more
money than could be accounted for from a father's generous
allowance? Was he a gambler?"

"Yes, he did like to gamble." Leland seized
on my last question in seeming relief. "But he generally won. Chaps
always owed him money for some wager or other."

"And they paid him?"

"Oh, yes. Well, you have to, don't you? Pay
up your wagers. All in good sport."

"He played cards? Dice?"

"He was not so much a gamer," Leland said.
"I do not think he had a head for cards or hazard. No, he would
wager on other sorts of things. Something as simple as a horse
winning at Newmarket or as obscure as whether an ill housemaid
would get well on Wednesday or Thursday. He had an uncanny knack of
always being right."

"If he won so often, why did the other chaps
wager with him?"

"Couldn't resist." Leland flashed me a
smile. "One always wanted to best him. And betting whether or a cat
would walk to the left or right around the quad seemed safe. But he
still managed to win."

"Perhaps," Grenville said behind us, "he
enticed the cat with a bit of chicken or put ipecac in the maid's
tea."

Leland gave him a horrified look over his
shoulder. "Cheated?" He sounded as though we'd accused a heroic a
man of being a traitor. "I do not think he would have cheated, Mr.
Grenville. He was simply lucky."

"Perhaps," I conceded, more to calm him than
because I agreed. "Aside from his great fortune at games, was
Turner particularly liked or disliked?"

Leland shrugged. "Not particularly
disliked--or liked, I suppose. He had his friends, his circle."

"Did you particularly like or dislike him?"
I asked.

Leland started. "Why do you ask that?"

"You turned up for his funeral," I said. "Is
that because he was a great friend, or did you wish to make certain
he was buried?"

Leland gaped at me. "How can you say that? I
came out of respect, Captain. I was at the ball where he died. I
thought it well that I come to show his father how sorry I was."
His face had gone white, his lips, tight.

"I should not have said such a thing,
Leland. I'm sorry. I am simply trying to ascertain why someone
would want to kill him. You say he had no particular friends but no
particular enemies, that he usually won at wagers but that those he
bet against paid up without fuss. You paint a picture of a young
man with a gaming streak but of rather neutral temperament. But
this does not bear out what others have told me, nor does it
explain his appalling rudeness to Mrs. Harper at the ball."

"Well, I cannot help that," Leland said
weakly.

"What I am getting at is that someone might
have killed Turner because he owed Turner a great deal of money.
Suppose the Frenchman who attacked me was not looking for a letter,
but a note of hand, perhaps a ruinous gambling debt. My bruises
attest to the fact that the Frenchman was capable of violence."

"I saw no Frenchman in the Gillises'
ballroom," Leland said, bewildered.

"I know." I sighed. "The man seems to have
been inconveniently invisible at the critical moment. What did
you
see, Leland? Did you observe anyone trying to corner
Henry Turner, perhaps leading him to that little anteroom?"

Leland shook his head. "I am sorry, Captain.
I saw nothing out of the ordinary."

I hadn't thought he would have. "What is it
about Turner that you do not wish to tell me?"

Leland stopped walking, his walking stick
arrested in midair. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mr. Grenville says that you had a
conversation with Turner at the ball, in which you became angry
with him. What did you argue about?"

"Nothing. Nothing in particular. I'd lost a
bet with him on a London-to-Brighton race recently, and perhaps he
gloated a bit."

"But you paid up your wager, without
fuss?"

Leland flushed. "Of course I did. Why would
I not?"

I knew I was being hard on the boy, but I
was frustrated, and Leland was holding something back. "You knew
Turner in school, but you did not like him, that is obvious. Why
not? What is it about Henry Turner that would drive someone to
murder?"

Leland looked at me with wide eyes,
disconcerted. "Please, I cannot answer any more questions. The air
is too warm, and I am tired. I-- " He broke off, flushing. "I must
rest. Good day."

He spun on his heel and set off back the way
we'd come. His long and hurried stride belied his claim that he was
tired. He would quickly cover the three miles back to the village
at that pace.

Grenville watched him go, brows raised.
"Good Lord."

I feared I might have spent my last pleasant
evening at the Derwent's home. Leland would tell his father, Sir
Gideon, that I was a bully, and gone would be the lovely meals and
warm conversation I enjoyed once a fortnight. Worse, I feared that
Leland's nervousness meant he had something to do with Turner's
death, and I desperately hoped I was wrong.

I expected Gareth Travers to rush after him,
or to berate me for browbeating his friend, but Travers simply
stood and watched Leland go. He leaned on his walking stick, the
April breeze stirring the brown curls beneath his hat.

"Do not mind Leland," he said. "He is
embarrassed, that is all."

"Embarrassed?" I looked after the retreating
figure. Leland was putting all his strength into getting away from
us as fast as he could.

"There are certain things that Leland does
not like to speak about. It is no great secret; most chaps at
Oxford knew, although one never said anything, of course."

"Knew?" I queried. "About Henry Turner?"

"Indeed. What Leland does not wish to tell
you, Captain, is that Henry Turner did not keep the company of
women. He preferred young men, if you understand me." He smiled. "I
trust that little
on dit
will go no further than the three
of us? One does not like to gossip about the dead."

* * * * *

Chapter Nine

"Well, Gareth Travers has given us quite
another motive," Grenville said as we rode back to London in his
phaeton that afternoon. "Perhaps Turner was killed by a lover, one
who did not want him to reveal the true nature of their
liaison."

"Or a lover jealous of another," I said. "Or
a man who felt threatened by him."

"Leland himself? He and Mr. Travers are very
close. Perhaps Turner concluded that they are closer friends than
seems. Perhaps Turner even made advances to Leland, possibly
threatened to expose Leland if he refused. Leland claimed that
Turner wasn't a blackmailer, but Turner was certainly trying his
best to blackmail Mrs. Harper and Colonel Brandon. Leland seemed to
protest too much. Of course, he'd not dare to admit anything, true
or not. Far too dangerous if someone got hold of the wrong
idea."

True. Sodomy was a hanging offense, though
difficult to prove. Penetration had to be witnessed. But a man
could be accused of buggery and sentenced to stand in the pillory,
left to the mercy of the mob. A sodomite in the stocks at Charing
Cross could be killed by an angry enough crowd. Leland, the son of
a well-respected gentleman might not suffer the stocks, but his and
his father's reputations would be ruined, his sister's chances at
making an advantageous match spoiled.

"I have difficulty imagining Leland killing
Turner to shut him up," I said. "He would try to appeal to Turner's
better nature, whether Turner had one or not. Leland is very much
in the same mold as his father."

Grenville shook his head. "I sometimes pity
Leland. I must be difficult being the son of so moral a man."

"I cannot say. My father was a man of rather
confused morals." I stretched my leg, which had become sore, trying
to find comfort on the small seat.