A Corpse in Shining Armour (21 page)

‘That’s the one. You know him then?’

I nodded, mind whirling. It must have been Handy who recruited them, but the note on Saturday couldn’t have come through Handy,
who’d been dead six days by then.

‘And you never saw this man again, after the first time in the public house?’

‘No, ma’am.’

I looked at Amos. We’d got as much from the man as we were likely to get, for the while at least, and I wanted time to think.
We thanked Stan, who looked wistful at the thought of no more sovereigns, and walked back towards the yard where we’d left
the phaeton.

‘That man he saw,’ I said, ‘he was the dead man in the crate. Handy.’

‘Certain of it?’

‘Certain. How many men have birthmarks that shape?’

‘What was his game, then?’

‘I’m nearly sure he was working for either Stephen or Miles. It makes sense, when you think about it. There he is, their father’s
old servant with a not very good reputation, kicking his heels and wondering what to do with himself. When this question over
the inheritance started, it must have occurred to one of them that it would be useful to have a spy in their mother’s house.’

‘He wouldn’t need two men and a cart for that,’ Amos said.

‘No, but suppose it didn’t stop at just spying? We know Miles played at least one nasty trick on Stephen that day at the Eyre
Arms.’

‘If the man Stan’s got it right, it was a while before that when Handy went looking for helpers.’

‘That would fit. Either of them might have been thinking up ways to annoy or humiliate his brother from weeks back.’

‘So why does Handy make himself as conspicuous as a rook in a dovecot, going to people from the circus?’

It was a fair point, and I’d been doing some thinking about it while we’d been walking.

‘Because I don’t think Handy was as clever or worldly wise as he thought he was,’ I said. ‘He might have boasted to whichever
brother was employing him that he had useful friends in low places. But after all, he’s spent most of his life abroad. Who
would he know in London? So when Stephen or Miles took him at his word, he had to do the best he could. He probably decided
that people who worked round circuses were not always models of respectability…’

‘He just might have been right there,’ Amos said.

‘…and didn’t realise he’d gone and recruited a clown.’

‘So which of ’em was he working for then: Miles or Stephen?’

‘Stephen, I’d say. Miles was angry that the armour had been carted away.’

‘Or pretended to be.’

I looked at Amos.

‘You really think Miles is that clever?’

‘I reckon there’s more under that one’s hat than he lets on.’

We were going up Haymarket on our way home when another thought came to me. I had to shout it to Amos above trotting hooves
and jingling harness, but with no danger of anybody outside our phaeton hearing because of the noise of the traffic.

‘Suppose it wasn’t one or the other. From what I’ve heard of Simon Handy, he was quite capable of double-crossing them and
working for both.’

‘Wondered when you’d get there,’ Amos said, looking straight ahead.

‘If he was, and if one of them found out, that might have been why he was killed.’

‘If it was Miles, he’d have been a cool customer, standing there while that crate was opened, knowing what they’d find inside.’

‘He seemed genuinely shaken. And Stephen’s the one who hasn’t been seen since Handy’s body was found,’ I said.

‘Reckon he killed him and done a bunk somewhere abroad, then?’

‘It’s possible, isn’t it? After all, by disappearing like this, he’s left the field open to Miles in every sense. There must
be some serious reason for that.’

When we got back to Abel Yard, I insisted on refunding to Amos the three sovereigns he’d given Stan.

‘No necessity for that,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry. It’s a lawyer’s money, not mine.’

He nodded and pocketed the coins.

‘Not many folks get money out of lawyers. Shall I be seeing you tomorrow then?’

‘Not tomorrow. I think I must go back to Buckinghamshire. I’ll be in touch.’

I didn’t want to leave Tabby to her own devices in the country for too long.

‘Staying in the same place as before?’

‘Same place. And thank you, Amos.’

I watched him drive out of the yard and went upstairs. Mrs Martley was posting snippets from magazines into her Queen Victoria
album at the kitchen table. We chatted for a while about nothing in particular, then I went up to my room, opened the window
and looked out over the rooftops towards the trees in the park. Somebody was growing sweet peas on a nearby balcony, in pots
squeezed behind wrought-iron railings two storeys above the street. The smell of them filled the air. A woman’s laughter rose
from the pavement, along with the music of a waltz, from one of the big houses fronting on to the park. I felt my feet twitching.
I had no business to want to waltz but, for a moment, I envied dancers with nothing more serious to worry about than whether
their shoes would last the night. That reminded me that I still had Celia’s ridiculous invitation cards in my reticule. I’d
had no real intention of using them. I hadn’t been invited, had no partner to go with and was not in a position to honour
Celia’s condition that I must carry whole slices of gossip to her.

I re-read her note:
you know who and you know who else, who have definitely been invited.
One of the
you knows
must be Miles. Was the other one meant to be his brother or Rosa Fitzwilliam? I needed to talk to Miles. In spite of their
long day, my feet needed to waltz. Quite wrong, of course, to let my frivolous feet have any influence on the matter, but
after all it was a June night in Mayfair.

The invitation card said
costume medieval
. There was nothing of that description in the wooden chest where I keep my best clothes, but it did contain my favourite
blue-green silk dress, the shade of the sea on a fine day, with long white lawn sleeves, gathered in a series of puffs all
the way down the arm and trimmed with ribbons to match the rest of the dress. It was an extravagance, compounded by matching
silk slippers with bows. I swept my hair up high at the back and pinned it in place with a dragonfly made of amethysts and
emerald-coloured enamel, a present from a satisfied client. Mrs Martley blinked as I rushed past.

‘Going out again at this hour?’

‘Yes. Don’t wait up.’

I slowed to an easy walk once I was outside, careful where I placed my silk slippers. It was past ten o’clock, but still almost
full light. The house where the ball was taking place was only a short walk away, quite possibly the one from which I’d heard
the music. I was gambling that by this time of night arrangements for greeting guests would be less formal than at the start
of proceedings. If there was a footman in the hall, announcing people as they arrived, a single woman with a second-hand invitation
card would not be welcome. The gamble succeeded. The double doors were wide open to Park Lane, light and music pouring out.
The road was half-blocked by a confusion of carriages: some people leaving already, others just arriving. Ladies and gentlemen
in evening costume congregated on the steps, chatting to friends or cooling their faces in the fresh air from the park.

I went up the steps into a wide hallway lit by hundreds of candles and draped with bright new heraldic banners. A footman
moved towards me but made no attempt to bar my way and instead offered a glass of champagne from a tray. I accepted it and
followed the sound of music through two more sets of double doors to the ballroom. A polite form of country dance was in progress,
three lines of people the length of the room, bowing, bobbing and twirling. The ladies were showing inventive variations on
the medieval theme, from muslins and conical hats with scarves that floated out as they danced, to stiff brocades, jewelled
stomachers and embroideries that would have weighed down a pack pony. The men had mostly opted for conventional black and
white evening wear, except for the few who considered their legs were shapely enough to risk doublet and hose. Miles Brinkburn
was one of that minority. I noticed him almost at once, dancing opposite one of the muslin girls, and had to admit that the
costume suited him. I could see no sign of either Stephen or Rosa.

‘Miss Lane, how delightful to see you.’

I turned to see one of my singing pupils and her husband. He was an amiable man who fancied himself as a poet, but was handicapped
by an indecently large annual income. They’d just left the floor and she was leaning on his shoulder, looking puffed.

‘Please do me a kindness and dance with Roderick,’ she said to me. ‘He positively loathes having to sit out, and I want a
chance to talk to my friends.’

The band struck up a waltz. Roderick bowed, offered me his arm and we were at once in a rainbow whirlpool of silks and satins.
Roderick danced well and steered us expertly round clumsier couples. I laughed, from the exhilaration of the speed and the
music, and a glass of champagne drunk too fast on an empty stomach.

‘I do believe we’re going as fast as the
North Star
.’

He misunderstood me and quoted a line of his poetry about shooting stars. I don’t think he’d heard of the locomotive. As we
danced past the orchestra, I recognised the flautist as one of Daniel’s friends and waved my fingers to him over Roderick’s
shoulder. He winked at me. We manoeuvred past Miles and his partner, a redhead in white satin.

‘Just as well the brother isn’t here tonight,’ Roderick said cheerfully. ‘We don’t want blood on the dance floor.’

‘What about Rosa Fitzwilliam?’ I said.

There was no point in being discreet and avoiding the subject, since the whole town would be talking about it.

‘Came with her aunt and left early. Didn’t dance. My wife says she looked out of spirits.’

I wondered if she was regretting that impulsive gesture at the jousting. The waltz came to an end. Roderick escorted me to
where his wife was chatting with a group of other ladies and suggested we might all go through to the dining room for a buffet
supper. I said I’d stay in the ballroom for a while. I’d noticed Miles returning his partner to her group of friends or family.
He was now lingering on his own at the edge of the dance floor, looking thoughtful.

There were two questions above all that I wanted to ask him: Was Simon Handy working for you? Were you the dark-haired gentleman
disturbed by a constable while trying to break into Pratt’s? I decided to ask the second question first. The fact that I had
information from the police might scare him into some unguarded reaction. I began walking over to him, but I’d only taken
a few steps when two gentlemen appeared in the ballroom. They’d come from outside. The elder of them, an upright gentleman
with steel-grey hair, was still holding his top hat and walking cane. The younger man beside him, with dark flowing ringlets
and a gold brocade waistcoat, might have fitted in more appropriately with the other guests, except there was a purposeful
air about the pair of them that made it clear they hadn’t come to dance. The elder man was Oliver Lomax. The even greater
surprise that stopped me in my tracks was the identity of the younger one–Benjamin Disraeli. Our eyes met. He said something
to Lomax and started walking towards me. Other eyes had turned his way as well. He always had that effect on people. Various
men and women greeted him and several obviously wanted him to stop and talk. He smiled and nodded, but kept walking towards
me.

‘Good evening, Miss Lane. What a coincidence to find you here.’

Nothing in the words would cause surprise to anyone overhearing, and it looked as if a few bystanders were trying. But a glint
in his dark eyes signalled conspiracy, inviting me to admit the intimacy of a shared secret. Those eyes weren’t missing anything
about my appearance, from silk slippers to swirled-up hair.

‘You’re looking very well, if I may say so,’ he said.

I guessed he was wondering if I’d arrived with a male escort or female chaperone, and possibly how I came to be on such a
distinguished guest list. He could never quite place me in the scheme of things and that piqued him.

‘A useful coincidence,’ I said. ‘I want to speak to Mr Lomax. I think he’s avoiding me. Could you persuade him to come over,
do you think?’

He placed a hand gently on my sleeve and guided me towards a great vase of lilies on a pedestal, away from the throng of dancers.

‘What do you want to know from him?’

His voice was more serious now.

‘I want to ask what he knows or suspects about the murder of Lord Brinkburn’s valet. He made it very clear that I wasn’t supposed
to meddle with that, but it’s no use. I’m sure it’s linked with the other question.’

‘And have you made any progress with the other question?’

‘Yes. I’ve spent some time with Lady Brinkburn. I don’t understand what she’s doing, but she’s not mad. Did you know Mr Lomax
was trying to put blinkers on me?’

‘I assure you, Miss Lane, no man in his senses could mistake you for a cart horse.’

‘It’s no joke. When you recommended me, did you tell him that I could be relied on to find or fabricate the evidence he wanted
to keep everything tidy? Was I being paid to make sure the House of Peers could go on dozing comfortably, with no vulgar scandals?’

He raised his eyebrows, refusing to be annoyed.

‘No. I recommended you as a person remarkably skilled at discovering awkward truths.’

‘Then hiding them?’

He looked me in the eyes for a moment before answering. We both knew that our association had started with something that
must stay hidden.

‘I told him you could be discreet, when necessary.’

‘There’s a long distance between that and lying to order, and I want to tell him so. So will you please ask him to come and
speak to me.’

Another waltz was in progress, the floor full of whirling couples. Oliver Lomax was working his way round the fringes with
some difficulty, barged into by dancers, blocked by groups of people laughing over their champagne. He seemed to be trying
to get to where Miles Brinkburn was standing, still on his own. Disraeli’s eyes followed mine.