Rosemary Stevens (17 page)

“Do not be tiresome, Miss Lavender,” I said trying to dismiss the effects of the atmosphere in the room. “I am honoured to escort you.”

I wished desperately for the company of Lord or Lady Perry, whom I knew would be cordial to the girl, but they were occupied in greeting other guests.

At last salvation came in the form of the gruff Lady Salisbury. When I introduced her to Miss Lavender, she looked the girl up and down in quite a different way than Lord Munro had.

“I’ve heard of your father, John Lavender. He’s reported to be a good man, one who tries for justice in this city where there is little.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Miss Lavender said, dropping a curtsey.

“And what do you do with your time?” the marchioness asked.

“I run a shelter for women called the Haven of Hope.”

“Good for you. Someone’s got to help out these poor girls running about the streets. Do you accept donations for your work?”

“Gratefully.”

“Well, you can expect one from me. George, make sure you give me Miss Lavender’s direction.”

These words were said in the marchioness’s usual gruff way, but her eyes told me a different story. Even she knew it was not appropriate for Miss Lavender to be in this company, but she is a true lady and would not cut any woman on my arm. I had to admit to myself that I had acted selfishly in bringing Miss Lavender to a Society entertainment.

We sat through the singing of a fine tenor who entertained us with a variety of popular ballads, but, at Miss Lavender’s request, we took our leave before the dancing began.

In the hackney-coach on the way back to the Haven of Hope, I felt wretched and angry at myself. I should not have expected anything different than the closed door which had clearly been shown to Miss Lavender.

She interrupted these maudlin thoughts. “Have you thought any more about Mrs. Hargrove as our chief suspect?”

“I almost forgot. We have another suspect.”

“Who?”

“Doctor Trusdale, the physician. Quite by accident I obtained a sample of his handwriting. It was in the same printed, block style as the killer’s.”

“This is exciting news, but what motive could he have for killing Mr. Jacombe and Mr. Nevill?”

“I have thought about that. Doctor Trusdale has evidently served the Jacombe family throughout their marriage. He shows a fondness and a concern for Mrs. Jacombe that I believe crosses the line of the friendly family physician.”

“Oh, my.”

“Yes. He could have found out about some of Mr. Jacombe’s nefarious activities and sought to protect Mrs. Jacombe by eliminating him. This would also pave the way clear for his own suit of the lady.”

“Do you think he loves her, then?”

“I have only observed them together a few times, but, yes, I do.”

“Or the doctor could be writing the letters for someone else, Mrs. Hargrove or even Mrs. Jacombe,” Miss Lavender said.

“Possibly. I had not thought of that. You have your father’s powers of deduction, Miss Lavender.”

“Thank you.”

“Also, we must remember that Doctor Trusdale was involved in that bear-baiting scheme with Mr. Jacombe.”

“Yes, and there might have been trouble there. Two men who would involve themselves in hurting animals cannot have much character.”

“My feelings exactly. What I cannot understand is what motive Doctor Trusdale would have for killing Mr. Nevill.”

“Do we even know if they were acquainted?”

“No, we do not. I think we need to learn more about Mr. Nevill.”

“How are we—oh, never mind, I think I know how.”

I smiled in the darkness of the coach. “I will make sure you are back at the shelter before I break into Mr. Nevill’s room once more. That way, you cannot bear witness against me.”

She laughed softly, making me want to take her into my arms.

But I felt I could not. I make my way in the world through my connections in Society. If those connections were severed, I would have a difficult time keeping a roof over my head. If that were to happen, I could hardly continue my attentions to Miss Lavender. It would not be fair to her.

She must have perceived my conundrum, for she left me with only a soft “Good evening.”

Frustrated, I instructed the driver to take me to the end of the street where I paid him and sent him on his way. With my dog’s head cane, its deadly swordstick concealed in the tip, I waited to see if Miss Lavender was going to return to Mr. Jacombe’s grave with another swatch of material from her dress.

Indeed, after some twenty minutes, she emerged from the shelter clad in the hooded cloak that hid her red hair.

I followed her the long way to St. George’s graveyard and watched from a distance as she repeated the ritual. I felt a deep sense of sorrow now that I knew what the whole business was about. Perhaps by doing this, though, Miss Lavender would be able to rid herself of the demon of Mr. Jacombe.

After seeing her safely hail a hackney-coach to take her, I assumed, home to Fetter Lane, I turned my steps in the direction of Mr. Nevill’s rooms.

This time, I was able to pick the lock rapidly and enter the darkened room.

The sitting room already had a musty smell about it. I dared light only one candle to see my way around lest someone be alerted to my presence.

I began my search in the most logical of places: the heavily carved mahogany desk. Here was a collection of papers, some dating back as far as thirty years ago. After a good hour of sifting through receipts from various merchants, records of property bought and sold, and a note written to himself regarding the large amount paid in that banking deal, I felt entirely thwarted.

I closed one of the smaller desk drawers with what might be deemed more force than strictly necessary, when the wood caught on another paper. I pulled the drawer open again and lifted it out of its compartment. There in the back was the culprit. I reached in and pulled it out.

Scanning the contents, I could hardly believe what I read. The paper was an agreement between one Elsworth Nevill and Arabella Nevill, his son Harry’s wife. The one he had told me was a heartless flirt who had left his son with a lover and fled to the Continent.

According to the paper I now held in my hand, that was not precisely the truth. Mr. Nevill had
paid
Arabella Nevill ten thousand pounds for her to leave England and never return. Nor was she to have any contact with her son, Nicholas Nevill. In addition, there was the matter of a diamond necklace in dispute. Conditions were set out where if Mrs. Nevill did indeed go against this agreement and return to England, Mr. Nevill would have Arabella Nevill prosecuted for the theft and subsequent sale of this family heirloom.

I sat back in the chair, hardly able to believe such perfidy on Mr. Nevill’s part. And what of this Arabella Nevill? What kind of a woman agreed to such conditions? I remembered how Mr. Nevill had told me his daughter-in-law’s actions had led to his son’s death. Well, he had certainly had a part in it!

Disgusted, I threw the document aside and paced the room.

This still gave me no clues as to why Doctor Trusdale would kill Mr. Nevill. It did not make sense.

The killer in this whole sorry mess was obviously remorseful, that was clear from the letters. But was he or she remorseful over the death of Mr. Jacombe or over the lieutenant being falsely accused? Assuming Doctor Trusdale was the killer and remorseful over the lieutenant, why kill the young man’s grandfather?

I had no answers.

Picking up the candle from the desk, I went into the small bedchamber, thinking to give it a cursory look. The dressing-table revealed nothing, neither did the wardrobe. The only thing unusual I found in there was a painting propped up against the back of the inside of the wardrobe.

Reaching inside, I pulled the painting from the wardrobe and laid it against the outside where I could see it. Holding the candle in front of it, I saw what appeared to be a family portrait.

Lieutenant Nevill, perhaps all of ten years old, sat between his mother and a man obviously his father. The resemblance was there. This must be the ill-fated Harry, I thought. The man who had no head for business nor good judgment when it came to a choice in wives.

I looked at the blonde-haired female I assumed was Arabella Nevill. She was pretty, but no great beauty. Her figure was good, if this painting were to be of any measure. Oftentimes artists, at the request of their paying customers, softened the lines of the face, or subtracted unwanted pounds from a lady’s figure.

One hand rested on the boy’s left shoulder. Around Arabella’s throat was a substantial diamond necklace, no doubt the one referred to in the agreement I had just read.

As I stared at the seemingly happy family portrayed in this likeness, I could not help but think of their fates. The wife to leave her husband and son for money, safety from the threat of prosecution, and perhaps a lover to flee to the Continent.

The father, a man literally destroyed by his wife’s betrayal, who drank himself to death a year after she left him.

And finally the young man who at this moment sat in King’s Bench Prison awaiting a certain death sentence.

No wonder Mr. Nevill did not have the painting on display and instead had it hidden.

About to replace it, I suddenly took another look at Arabella Nevill. I tilted my head. In my mind’s eye, I added lines to her face, another ten years to her features, and at least twenty pounds.

 All of a sudden, she became the woman introduced to me at Mrs. Roucliffe’s house as Angelica Nunn.

Wednesday morning, I gave Mrs. Ed the salve the apothecary made up per Doctor Trusdale’s instructions. While she looked at it dubiously, no doubt wondering if any London preparation could equal Smith’s Swine Salve, she reluctantly took it and agreed to try it on Winifred.

Meanwhile, Chakkri seemed to be feeling the presence of another animal in the house. He kept to my bedroom and, of course, the dining-room where a shrimp might fall his way. I tried to speak with him about the matter.

“You know, Chakkri, old boy, Winifred is only here temporarily. And she is ill with a rash. Where is your sense of compassion? There is no need to keep yourself so rigid about the matter.”

“Reow,” he replied noncommittally.

“Between you and Robinson, I wonder how I ever have any peace in my own home.”

“Reow.”

“Well, in case you did not know, I have the devil of a situation on my hands. Perhaps you could show a little sympathy. First Mr. Jacombe is killed, and now Mr. Nevill too has been shot through the heart. Bow Street has both Lieutenant Nevill and Molly in gaol. Lieutenant Nevill is sure to hang—God knows what they will do with Molly—unless I do something like produce the real killer for Bow Street. Do you not understand the gravity of the situation?”

Chakkri put both paws over his eyes.

“What do you mean by that, covering your eyes that way? I have noticed you have been doing that a lot recently. Is this your way of telling me you do not wish to have any part of my troubles? If so, I must say it is not very sporting of you. How would you like to be cut down in the prime of your life for a crime you did not commit, eh? That is what Lieutenant Nevill is facing.”

The cat made no reply. What could he say to this, after all?

Robinson entered the room. He held a handkerchief to his nose. “Sir, Mrs. Ed is down in the kitchens with the piglet. She has smoothed that salve all over the animal and placed him in the tub used for your baths.”

“Good God! In my tub. Whyever did she do that?”

“I suppose she did not want a greased pig running about. We must be grateful for that much, I expect,” Robinson intoned at his most sanctimonious.

“Make certain the tub is cleaned thoroughly before it is brought up for my bath, which I am wanting now.”

“I shall endeavour to do my best under these trying circumstances, sir.”

Do I have to tell you that a considerable amount of time had passed before I left the domestic concerns of my home behind?

 I was faultlessly groomed and attired in a Turkish-blue coat and light tan breeches when I set out for Doctor Trusdale’s office in Chandos Street. I had one of the killer’s letters in my pocket, along with the instructions for the apothecary that Doctor Trusdale had written.

The latter I had been able to persuade the chemist to return to me. I could not wait to hear what Doctor Trusdale would say when confronted with the two handwriting samples.

Later on, I planned to visit Mrs. Roucliffe and find out where “Angelica Nunn” was staying. I wanted to have a word with that woman, as well.

Arriving at the physician’s, I entered a reception area of Doctor Trusdale’s office. A long counter stood as a barrier between visitors and the physician. A sandy-haired clerk with a thin, sallow face took my name and scurried off to announce my arrival.

Two doors stood behind the counter. One was open. This was the examining room, cluttered with steel instruments. I cringed a bit, thinking of the things that went on in there. The other door was closed, and that was where the clerk knocked and was admitted.

To my right was a staircase. I surmised that Doctor Trusdale lived above his office. The idea that I would like to survey the premises upstairs presented itself to me. This inspection of other people’s property was becoming an alarming habit of mine, do you not think so? But how fruitful it usually turned out to be. 

At last, the clerk returned and told me that Doctor Trusdale would see me. I was ushered in to the physician’s office where he sat in a leather chair behind a large desk.

“Mr. Brummell, I did not expect a visit from you. I am afraid I am expecting a patient any moment. Is this in regard to your friend’s piglet?”

“Not directly. Although it does involve the instructions you wrote out for the salve.” I watched him carefully, noting that his hands gripped either side of his chair, as if he would rise at any moment and send me on my way.”

“What is it, then? I am a busy man.”

Without taking my eyes from his face, I withdrew the killer’s letter from my pocket and tossed it on the desk. “Read this.”