Rosemary Stevens (12 page)

He looked at the floor for a moment. Then, slowly he said, “I suppose anything is possible. But why leave me here in gaol? Why not turn himself in?”

“He’s hateful, that’s why,” Molly said.

“I have thought of that,” I said. “Mayhaps he wants to teach you a lesson. Could he just be putting his affairs in order?”

Lieutenant Nevill ran a hand through his hair. “His affairs are in order, as far as I know.”

“Do you inherit everything?”

He shrugged. “Unless the old man’s changed his will, yes.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to have left everything to someone else. He hates the idea of Nicky marrying me,” Molly said.

Lieutenant Nevill smiled at her. “You are the only thing I care about.”

I cleared my throat. “Does your grandfather keep a lot of guns?”

“Several. He’s always been worried about intruders since he likes to live alone.”

“But you did not recognise the gun you found in the grass as one of his.”

“No, but I’ve never looked at his pistols carefully.”

“Very well. That is enough for today unless you can think of anything else.”

“What will you do, Mr. Brummell?” the lieutenant asked.

“Find you a barrister. Keep investigating. Your grandfather is not the only person who did not like Mr. Jacombe. All I have to do is find the one person who disliked him enough to kill him.”

Saturday afternoon I went to pay a call on Miss Lavender at the Haven of Hope. Lionel met me at the door. He looked worried.

“Good afternoon, Lion.”

“Mr. Brummell, I’m glad to see you. I expect you’ve come to visit Miss Lavender, what with you bein’ sweet on her and all.”

“Ahem. I have told you before, I hold Miss Lavender in high esteem, but we are not, er, we are not—”

“Sure you ain’t.” He shot me a skeptical glance. “Anyways, she went shoppin’. I don’t think she’ll be back ‘til evenin’.

“Deuce take it. I did want to see her. Oh, well, I suppose I can call on her tomorrow. What is wrong with you, Lion? You look blue-deviled.”

The boy shuffled his feet. “Can you stay a few minutes and talk to me?”

“Certainly. Go ahead.”

“It’s private-like.”

“Oh, of course.”

I led him down to Miss Lavender’s cluttered office, where two upholstered chairs angled toward the empty fireplace. Motioning for him to sit opposite me, I said, “Now what is this about?”

Once settled in his chair, Lionel paused a minute before finally speaking. “Somethin’s still wrong with Miss Lavender. She’s been behavin’ mighty peculiar.”

“What do you mean? She witnessed a dreadful scene the other night at Vauxhall. We talked about this before. Naturally she is upset,” I said.

Even though I tried to reassure him, I knew myself that Miss Lavender had been very different since Mr. Jacombe’s body had come over that waterfall.

Lionel rubbed his hand over the arm of the chair. “Tellin’ things sure is ‘ard.”

I was immediately on alert. This was serious. The boy had something to confide, and he had chosen me to listen. I must show him respect and honour whatever he told me. Otherwise he would never trust me again. “I know it can be difficult to speak of private matters. I am honoured that you trust me enough to confide in me. I assure you, as a gentleman, that your trust is not misplaced.”

The boy fixed me with a serious look. “I been watchin’ ‘er. I know it ain’t nice, but I been that worried.”

“You are too hard on yourself. If you have reason to be concerned, then keeping an eye on someone you care about can be a good thing.”

“I can’t say whether it’s good or not.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Miss Lavender has been goin’ to Mr. Jacombe’s grave at night.”

“What?” Of all the words I thought might be ready to come from the boy’s mouth, this idea never crossed my mind.

“For the past two nights, she’s been doin’ it.”

“You had better tell me everything. Start at the beginning.”

“You know Miss Lavender has a small bedchamber ‘ere at the shelter.”

“No, I did not know that. I know she stays here some nights, but I did not know she has her own room.”

“Well, she does. A tiny room at the top in the attics. Anyhow, I went up there to talk to ‘er the night before last, just before she was goin’ ‘ome. When I got to the room, the door was open. The room was lit by a candle. I didn’t mean to spy or nothin’.”

“I understand.”

“I would ‘ave let ‘er know I was there, but she was kneelin’ down in front of ‘er bed. There was a steel box on the bed in front of ‘er, a locked box. I know because she ‘ad the key on a gold chain round ‘er neck.”

“So she was unlocking the box with the key around her neck?”

“‘Zactly. That’s how I knew it was a private thing. I should ‘ave left then, but I didn’t.”

“I expect you should have. But then we are only human. Curiosity got the better of you, is that it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But that is all right under the circumstances, you understand.”

Lionel nodded.

“Go on, then.”

“I was in the shadows where she couldn’t see me. She unlocked the box, and in the candlelight I could see what was in it.”

I found I was holding my breath. Miss Lavender is such an open, frank girl. The whole idea of her having a secret she wished locked away was intriguing.

Lionel looked at me, his eyes rounded. “The box ‘eld scraps of material. All of it looked the same, a bluish colour. I scratched my ‘ead, expecting love letters or somethin’, I suppose. But, no, all that was in the box were these squares of cloth.”

“Squares of cloth? What can this be about? What happened then?”

“Miss Lavender took one of the squares and put it in ‘er pocket. Then she locked the box, put it under ‘er bed, and put on a ‘ooded cape. She was going to leave the shelter. I decided to follow ‘er.”

“And she went to Mr. Jacombe’s grave?”

Lionel nodded. “And worse, you won’t believe what she did, but I swears it’s true.”

“What did she do?”

“She got to the grave, took the square of material out of ‘er pocket and buried it in the fresh mound of dirt.”

I drew back. “Lionel, are you absolutely certain of this?”

“I told you you wouldn’t believe me!”

“Calm down now, I do believe you, I give you my word. It is just that I am surprised and cannot think of an explanation for Miss Lavender’s actions.”

“Me neither, that’s why I’m tellin’ you. ‘Cause she went and did the very same thing last night.”

“Good God!”

“It’s true. I watched ‘er upstairs, then followed ‘er to the grave again. She’s buryin’ pieces of that material in Mr. Jacombe’s grave, I tell you. And it don’t make no sense to me.”

“Nor to me. What time did this happen?”

“Both nights it were about eleven of the clock. What should we do?”

“I shall follow her tonight and see what I can discover. Let me handle it.”

“I want to come with you.”

“No, Lionel. There are some things I should do on my own. This is one of them.”

“Miss Lavender will be all right, won’t she?” Lionel asked, his face reflecting his concern.

“We shall make sure that she is.”

* * * *

I made the rounds of White’s—avoiding Fairingdale’s insinuating remarks—and Watier’s that evening, but I was really just biding my time until I could follow Miss Lavender.

At Waiter’s, I found Lords Petersham and Munro. They had finished dinner and were enjoying white port and brandied cherries.

Petersham eyed me with sympathy. “Looks like your young friend is up to his ears in trouble.”

“His neck is what will be experiencing the most difficulty, I expect,” Munro quipped. “When they put the rope around it.”

“Is there some new information? Nevill hasn’t been found guilty has he?” I asked, picking up a cherry and popping it into my mouth.

Petersham took a sip of port, then said, “You know, Brummell, all of London is crying for Nevill’s head. I shouldn’t be surprised at a speedy trial at King’s Bench.”

“And the Lord Chief Justice is not one to tarry when it comes to handing down a sentence. Especially when we are speaking of such a heinous crime,” Munro said.

He was right, deuce take it. Unless I could soon find out who really pulled the trigger and killed Mr. Jacombe, I could find myself up against a trial and an even faster execution of Nevill.

I contented myself with telling them a lot could happen between now and then, before changing the topic to that of the food at the club.

Afterward, I conversed with several other members of Watier’s, finding opinion universal that the young soldier would find himself at the end of a rope before a week had passed. There were pages of wagers in the Betting Book over at White’s on it.

Putting these glum predictions aside for a while, at half-past ten I positioned myself across New Street from where the Haven of Hope is located. I remained in the shadows so that Miss Lavender would not perceive I was following her. The streets, lit only by oil lamps, were dark, but my gleaming white cravat might stand out in the darkness and give me away were I to get too close to her.

At precisely eleven of the clock, Miss Lavender emerged from the shelter. Clad in a lightweight, dark-coloured hooded cloak, exactly like Lionel had reported, she made her way through the streets in a westerly direction with me behind her.

Due north of Hyde Park, we reached the St. George’s Burial Ground at the back of St. George’s Row. I had attended the burial of Mr. Jacombe, so I knew where his grave was located. Therefore, I was able to stay back and allow her to enter the graveyard well ahead of me. Then I followed. I walked slowly and with care as to where my steps took me. I did not want the crunch of my boots to give me away.

Many of the headstones were large enough to conceal me. Thus, when I was in sight of Miss Lavender, I simply positioned my body behind one of them, giving a silent apology to the deceased beneath me.

Again, exactly as Lionel had described, Miss Lavender removed a scrap of cloth from the folds of her dress. In the eerie light of the cemetery, she knelt beside the grave, and using her bare hands, she moved some of the dirt aside, placed the material in the hollow, then covered it with earth.

She stood and paused for a moment, gazing down at the grave. My imagination might have been at work, but I swear I thought I could see her green gaze staring with uncharacteristic loathing at Mr. Jacombe’s headstone.

Then, with a swirling of cape, she turned and retraced her steps out of the burial ground.

I remained where I was, torn between confronting her and some deep feeling of dread.

What was this all about?

Did I really want to know?

Of course, I chastised myself, I must know, for it might have bearing on the investigation. Yet, I had to admit that my feelings for Miss Lavender went beyond the casual. I found that I did not want to uncover something that might alter those feelings.

Still, I would at least follow her home to be certain that she was safe.

With that object in mind, I hurried out of the graveyard and down the street, only to see her climbing into a hackney-coach.

I felt sure she would go home to Fetter Lane now, and that was too great a distance to walk.

I watched the coach move off in an easterly direction until I could no longer hear the noise of the horses’ hooves on the stone road.

I walked back to Mr. Jacombe’s grave, stripped off my gloves, and parted the earth with my fingers. I found one of the scraps of material without much effort.

Folding the fabric neatly in half, I wrapped it inside my handkerchief and placed it in my pocket before heading off on some private pursuits.

No, I do not wish to tell you about them. Recall that I wanted to avoid my own home for the rest of the evening. That is all I care to divulge. A gentleman’s code of honour, you understand.

As for what Miss Lavender’s secret was, I would not uncover it this night.

Sunday morning after church services were over, I took myself to the Jacombe house. I had little interest in seeing the widow or her trusted physician at the present moment. Instead, I wished to question the housekeeper, Mrs. Hargrove, to see if my suspicions where she was concerned were correct.

The butler admitted me and showed me once again to the green-and-ivory sitting-room. Mrs. Hargrove’s face reflected no surprise at being asked to attend me.

“You must be wondering why I asked to see you, Mrs. Hargrove,” I said.

“How can I serve you, sir?” she asked. Ever efficient.

“I have a delicate matter to discuss with you. Will you sit down, please?”

The housekeeper sat at the edge of a chair facing the sofa. The idea that it might well be a rare occasion for her to sit in this room took hold in my head. I sat down opposite her and studied the tidy woman for a moment. There was no anxiety in her expression at this unusual circumstance. I marveled at her self-control. I judged her to be the type not likely to be tricked into admitting anything she wanted to conceal. Thus, I came directly to the point.

“Mrs. Hargrove, Mrs. Jacombe told me that you were with child during the first year of your employment in this household.”

A tiny flicker of surprise, quickly extinguished, was the only show of emotion on the housekeeper’s face. “I was.”

“Molly has your eyes.”

There was no reaction to the name of her daughter. I realised I had made a statement, one Mrs. Hargrove obviously felt she need not respond to. I tried again. “Molly, the girl betrothed to Lieutenant Nevill, is your daughter, is she not?”

Mrs. Hargrove’s face remained a mask.

“May I remind you, there is a murder investigation going on, Mrs. Hargrove? Bow Street might find even the most remote piece of information, such as the names of Molly’s parents, of interest. I propose that we keep the information between ourselves for the moment.”

“I am of the understanding that Bow Street has Mr. Jacombe’s killer in custody,” she said.

“And I am of the opinion that they do not,” I told her. “Now, if we can return to the topic of Molly’s parentage.”