A Body in Berkeley Square (28 page)

Lady Breckenridge added her wishes and the
message that she would visit again when Lady Gillis was feeling
better. Hawes saw us upstairs and the footmen brought our
wraps.

Before we departed, Hawes handed me a folded
piece of paper, written over in fine printing. The words were
English and the message seemed to be about cakes, so I dismissed
the idea that Hawes was handing me the document that Colonel Naveau
and I sought.

"Begging your pardon, sir," Hawes said. "The
cook asked leave to give you this receipt for cakes that Mrs.
Brandon admired."

"Mrs. Brandon?" I asked in surprise.

"Yes, sir. She expressed a liking for Cook's
lemon cakes when she visited, and asked for the directions, so that
her own cook might prepare them for her."

"I see." I took the paper. "I am certain that
Mrs. Brandon will thank her."

"Not at all, sir." He saw us out the door,
and then Lady Breckenridge's footmen took us in hand. I tucked the
paper into my coat and climbed into the carriage, trying to stem my
excitement.

Lady Breckenridge saw through me. "What is
it, Gabriel? You look positively triumphant."

I settled back and stretched my leg toward
the box of hot coals while she watched me. "I now know what became
of the letter."

Her eyes widened. "Do you? Shall you retrieve
it at once, then? What direction shall I give my coachman?"

"It will keep. First, I would like to return
to Bow Street and look at the scrap of lace that Pomeroy took from
the dead man's pocket."

Without waiting for explanation, Lady
Breckenridge told her coachman to drive to Bow Street. Then she sat
back and looked at me. "You are very interested in this lace. Do
you think a woman did this murder?"

"Not necessarily," I answered.

"But the lace was caught outside the door.
Perhaps a woman slipped through the passage and tore her gown on
the protruding nail."

"No, if I am correct, the lace was used to
mark the door to the anteroom. So that when the killer hastened
down the rather dark servants' passage, with the doors that look
all alike, he would know which to go through."

"Then that dismisses the idea that one of the
Gillis servants had anything to do with it," Lady Breckenridge
said. "They would have no need to mark the door."

I hadn't thought any of Lord Gillis's staff
had done this, thinking they'd be wise enough not to kill Turner
inside the house, where servants were well supervised and anything
out of the ordinary quickly noticed. Though when Leland had first
revealed Turner's proclivities, I'd briefly pictured Turner making
advances to one of the robust footmen, and said footman taking
exception, with Brandon's knife somehow convenient.

But then, if a hearty footman had grown angry
at me and picked up a knife, I'd certainly try to fight him off,
shout, or run away. No, Turner had not been expecting the blow,
which meant it was a person he thought entirely harmless.

"You seem to be sanguine suddenly about the
whereabouts of Colonel Brandon's letter," Lady Breckenridge said.
"This after your near despair when we could not find it in the
house."

"If it is not where I think it is, then it
has been destroyed."

"You believe Louisa Brandon has it," Lady
Breckenridge said with sharp perception. "You believe that she came
to retrieve it on her husband's orders. Perhaps she raved over the
cakes and demanded the recipe in order to slip down to the ballroom
and find the paper."

"I imagine she truly liked the cakes. Louisa
is fond of lemon."

She gave me a steady gaze. "Mrs. Brandon must
love her husband very much."

"She does."

Lady Breckenridge laid her hand on my arm and
did not speak further.

We rattled through the streets of London
against a breeze that held the promising warmth of spring. Still it
was chilly enough that I was grateful for the warm interior of the
coach. When we reached Bow Street, I told Lady Breckenridge to stay
inside the carriage. The rooms of the magistrate's house were no
place for a lady.

Pomeroy, luckily, was in. I asked him what he
had done with the things he took from Turner's coat. For a moment,
as he paused in thought, I feared he had rid himself of them, or
perhaps sent them to Turner's father.

"I still have 'em," he said, to my relief.
"Upstairs. Was saving them for the trial, in case they could tell
us anything about how Mr. Turner got himself stuck."

He took me to a small room on the second
floor and removed a wooden box from a cupboard. Pomeroy emptied the
contents onto the table and separated what he said were Henry
Turner's belongings. They consisted of a snuffbox, a few silver
coins, and the scrap of lace that Mrs. Harper had mentioned.

I picked up the lace. As I'd suspected, the
ends were blunt, not raveled. It had been cut. The lace was stiff,
because, I saw when I examined it, strands of real gold had been
woven through the silk thread.

I closed my hand around it. I knew which lady
at the ball had worn this lace, because I had seen her in the gown
after the ball was over. "May I take this?" I asked Pomeroy.

"It ain't much use to me," he said. "Mr.
Turner didn't pull it off the coat or dress of his killer. It was
tucked, nice and safe, inside his waistcoat pocket. Can't imagine
what for."

"Thank you."

"The trial is in four days, Captain," Pomeroy
said. His usually jovial face was grim.

"I know. But Brandon did not murder Mr.
Turner. He is only guilty of misplaced honor."

"Best you come up with a way to prove it,
sir, or the colonel will swing."

"I am proving it now, Sergeant. Good
afternoon."

I descended through the house and outside to
the carriage. "Did you find it?" Lady Breckenridge asked, her eyes
animated with interest.

I climbed in next to her, took her gloved
hand, and laid the scrap of lace into it.

She stared at it. "Good Lord." Her face lost
color. "You said
this
was found in Mr. Turner's pocket? How
on earth did it get there?"

"I hoped that you would tell me," I said.
"This lace is from the ball gown you wore to the Gillises' last
week, is it not? I remember seeing you in it that night when I
arrived at Mrs. Brandon's."

* * * * *

Chapter Seventeen

Lady Breckenridge looked up at me,
bewildered. "Yes, this is from my gown. But I never gave this lace
to Henry Turner. I confess to be amazed."

"I would be less surprised if it looked to be
torn," I said. "Anyone might have found a bit of lace that had
fallen from your gown while you danced. But this was deliberately
cut-- "

"I know," Lady Breckenridge broke in
impatiently. "I cut it myself. For Mrs. Bennington."

It was my turn to be amazed. "Mrs.
Bennington?"

"Yes. We were in a withdrawing room--my maid
was helping me into my dancing slippers, and Mrs. Bennington
expressed rather gushing admiration for my gown, especially the
lace. She asked me for a snippet so she might have her dressmaker
find some like it. So I cut a little bit off where it would not
show and gave it to her."

I took the lace back from Lady Breckenridge
and laid it on my glove. The innocent scrap glittered with wires of
gold against my glove's cheap leather. It was feminine and pretty,
yet strong, like Lady Breckenridge herself.

"This killer is of ruthless and nasty mind,"
I said. "He does not mind using another man's dagger to do the
deed, nor stealing from an innocent woman to assist him. Every clue
left behind will point to a different person, each completely
removed from the crime. The killer planned this with deftness and
care then sat back and laughed while we scrambled about to solve
it."

Lady Breckenridge watched me with intelligent
eyes. "What will you do?"

I thrust the lace into my pocket. "Speak to
Mrs. Bennington. I wish to ask her why she wanted a piece of your
lace and what she did with it after you gave it to her."

"She is performing tonight."

"I will make an appointment to see her after
the play. She invited me once before; she might be persuaded to
invite me again."

"She will."

"You seem confident," I said.

Lady Breckenridge smiled. "My dear Gabriel,
you are handsome, polite, and unattached. She will see you."

"But penniless," I reminded her.

"Some ladies do not mind this. Sit in my box
tonight, and we will visit her afterward. We are in Russel Street
now. Shall I have my coachman set you down here?"

I agreed, and she ordered her coachman to
stop.

"Until this evening, then," she said as I
descended. "And tell your Miss Simmons not to accost you under the
piazza." She chuckled as the footman closed the door behind me, and
then the carriage pulled away.

I smiled to myself and tapped my way down
Grimpen Lane to my rooms.

Bartholomew greeted me with hot coffee, and I
reflected, as I often did, what a luxury it was to have a valet in
training.

I found a letter from Sir Montague Harris
waiting for me. As I read it, I mused that I envied his network of
resources. He'd managed to find, through inquiries, a man who'd
known Mr. Bennington on the Continent.

Said gentleman, a solicitor by trade, had
moved from Italy to London shortly after Bennington had.
Bennington, the man had told Sir Montague, had come to Italy from
the north of England. That interested me, because Bennington
certainly did not have a north country accent.

The next statement interested me further.
This man who'd known Bennington said that Bennington had been known
as Mr. Worth, but at his marriage five years ago had changed his
name to his wife's family name, Bennington. Why he'd wanted to, the
man did not know, but then, Bennington--or Worth--had always been
whimsical.

Armed with this knowledge, Sir Montague had
found the man of business of this Bennington-Worth and visited
him.

Yes, Mr. Worth had spent years in Italy, said
the man of business, and arranged to have his name changed on his
marriage. Mr. Worth did have a legacy; he'd inherited a fortune
about ten years ago when a Scottish gentleman, Mr. Worth's fourth
cousin, had died. Mr. Worth drew a large sum--how much, the man of
business refused to specify--every quarter, a substantial
living.

The man of business had of course asked Mr.
Worth why he wanted to change his name. Mr. Worth had explained
that his wife was already so famous, it would avoid confusion if
she were to continue to be known as Mrs. Bennington, and her
husband as Mr. Bennington. The man of business had been skeptical
but had not pursued it further. No, Mr. Worth was not heavily in
debt. He paid his bills regularly and so was not hiding from
creditors or moneylenders.

Mr. Worth seemed to have a stellar
reputation. And yet, the drawling, sardonic man had married a woman
he despised and insisted on taking her name.

Make of that what you will,
Sir
Montague had finished his letter.
I am certain you will come to
some interesting conclusions.

For some reason, I imagined that Sir Montague
had already formed his own conclusions and was waiting for me to
catch up. I could see him smiling as he wrote.

I read the letter again, shook my head, then
sat down to pen a note to Mrs. Bennington, asking to see her again
that night.

*** *** ***

Later, I lounged in Lady Breckenridge's box
with Lady Aline and a few other ladies and gentlemen of the
ton
with whom I'd become nodding acquaintances. Mrs.
Bennington had granted me leave to visit her an hour after the
performance, at her house in Cavendish Square. Grady would admit
me, the note delivered to me in the box said, even if Mrs.
Bennington were running late.

The play seemed to take a long time tonight.
As usual, the audience talked to each other while the drama dragged
on; they paid attention to the stage only when Mrs. Bennington
stepped upon it. She was particularly brilliant tonight, her voice
clear and ringing, the character coming to life through her.

Grenville's box remained dark and unused. I
heard people speculate on where Grenville was hiding this evening.
I ventured the opinion, when asked, that he'd chosen to have a
quiet night at home, but no one believed me. Because I had no idea
where he was myself, I could not elaborate.

After the performance, Lady Breckenridge
offered her carriage to take me to Mrs. Bennington's in Cavendish
Square. She accompanying me, of course. I accepted. I knew that
Lady Breckenridge was as curious as I, and she deserved to hear the
explanation of how her lace got into the pocket of Mr. Turner.

I wanted also to bring Grenville. Something
was in the wind between Grenville and Mrs. Bennington, and I did
not want to chance that it had nothing to do with Turner's murder.
Grenville would not thank me, but in the choice between saving
Colonel Brandon and not offending Grenville, I had to choose
Colonel Brandon's life.

Lady Breckenridge acquiesced and told her
coachman to drive first to Grosvenor Street. Grenville, however,
was not at home. Matthias, who answered the door, informed me that
Mr. Grenville again was spending the evening in his house on
Clarges Street.

I spent a few moments wondering whether I
should intrude upon Grenville's privacy, then I decided to intrude.
I told Lady Breckenridge's coachman to drive us to Clarges Street,
and in ten minutes' time, we stopped before the house.

"I will have to ask you to remain here while
I go inside," I said to Lady Breckenridge. "There are reasons."

She laughed. "My dear Lacey, it would hardly
do for a lady of the
ton
to enter a house in which a
gentleman keeps his mistress."