Rosemary Stevens (18 page)

He scanned the few lines, then looked up at me, his eyebrows raised. “Who sent this to you?”

“That is what I am trying to determine.” I placed the piece of paper with his handwriting down on the desk next to the note from the killer. “I thought you might be able to tell me.”

He glanced only briefly at the words he had written. “Why should I know?”

“The handwriting on that letter is remarkably similar to your own, Doctor Trusdale.”

A tense silence enveloped the room. Then the doctor relaxed back into his chair. “The handwriting is printed,” he stated with an air of finality. “Many people print in a similar fashion.”

“Perhaps. But I find it alarming that the handwriting of the killer should so closely match your own.”

He rose, suddenly impatient and irate. “Are you accusing me of murder? I have taken an oath to save lives, not destroy them, Mr. Brummell.”

I stood as well. “What was your relationship with Mr. Jacombe? You were business partners in a bear-baiting scheme, were you not?”

His face reflected surprise. “That was a long time ago. Jacombe convinced me to come in with him on the deal, but once I witnessed one of the events, I pulled out.”

“Was Mr. Jacombe upset by the termination of your partnership?”

“No. We had been friends for many years. He did not care.” He glared at me. “I am more than a little offended by this interrogation, Mr. Brummell.”

“And I am offended at the very idea of an innocent young soldier sitting in King’s Bench Prison with his life hanging in the balance.”

“It has nothing to do with me. I feel sorry for the young man, regardless of whether or not he killed Mr. Jacombe, I assure you, but there is nothing I can do.”

“Really? Let me tell you something else I have observed about you, Doctor Trusdale. I have noticed the
close
friendship you have with Mrs. Jacombe. I wonder at your very protective nature of another man’s wife.”

Red infused the doctor’s face. “Why, I should think you would be very much aware of what it is like to feel protective of another man’s wife. I have seen you with the Duchess of York.”

That barb hit home. I lost my temper and dropped any formality. “The handwriting on your instructions to the apothecary matches that of the killer’s note. That leads me to believe either you killed Mr. Jacombe or you are covering for Mrs. Jacombe or Mrs. Hargrove.”

Doctor Trusdale’s face was a mask of anger. “Get out of my office.”

“You are in love with Mrs. Jacombe. You saw how her husband was treating her, knew of his affairs, his shady business dealings, and saw the way he kept her removed from Society so that she might remain in ignorance of his true character, or lack thereof. So you went to Vauxhall that night and shot him.”

“Winston!” the doctor shouted to the clerk.

“You can throw me out now, Doctor Trusdale, but I shall find out what happened.”

“Then I have no need to worry about you any longer, Mr. Brummell, because it has nothing to do with me. Ah, Winston, this gentleman was just leaving.”

“I hope you are telling the truth, Doctor Trusdale. But if you are not, rest assured I will know.”

I left Doctor Trusdale’s office and went directly to King’s Bench Prison. I would see Mrs. Roucliffe soon, but the hour was still relatively early to call upon someone in her profession.

Molly was being questioned once again, the guard told me, so I was unable to see her. I sought Lieutenant Nevill’s cell.

The young soldier had altered considerably from the last time I had seen him. His cheeks and chin were covered with stubble, his hair looked as if he had repeatedly thrust his fingers through it, and he wore the general air of one stretched to the very limit of his tether.

“Mr. Brummell! I am glad you’ve come. What are we to do? I cannot bear the thought that they have Molly here. I have not even been allowed to see her. What news have you?”

The guard closed the door to the cell behind me. “I can only imagine how you must be feeling, Lieutenant Nevill. Molly is being questioned at the moment. I do know that Miss Lavender gave her father money for Molly to be kept in a private cell, as you are.”

“That’s a relief.”

“May I offer my condolences on the loss of your grandfather?”

“Thank you,” he replied, still in that agitated state. “I feel terrible that I can’t muster much grief for the old man.”

“That is quite understandable, given the circumstances. Once we have cleared your name and Molly’s, you might find it in your heart to forgive him for bearing evidence against her.”

“I expect you have the right of it. But who killed him? This is all an unbelievable tangle.”

“I was hoping we could talk about that. Have you had any ideas as to who might have harboured a grudge against your grandfather?”

The lieutenant let out a short laugh. “He was ruthless in his business dealings, but I don’t know that anyone would have been driven to murder him. He was shot through the heart, they say, so I assume it was done by the same person who killed Mr. Jacombe.”

“Two suspects come to mind. One of them is Doctor Trusdale.”

“Who?”

“He is Mrs. Jacombe’s physician. I believe him to be in love with her. I have found out that Mr. Jacombe was a most immoral man in every sense of the word. In order to protect the woman he loves, Doctor Trusdale might have killed Mr. Jacombe. The death of a husband would also clear the way for him to pursue the widow.”

“I see. But why would he kill Grandfather?”

I sighed. “That is what I was hoping you would tell me. Did you ever hear your grandfather mention his name?”

“No.”

“Do you know the name of your grandfather’s physician?”

“Yes. Mr. Cawley.”

“So you know of no connection whatsoever between the doctor and Mr. Nevill?”

“None. You said you had two suspects?” the young man reminded, a strong measure of desperation in his voice.

I could appreciate how he must be feeling, with a trial that was sure to be the shortest on record, then the word of the Lord Chief Justice being the only thing between him and a hangman’s noose.

Unless I could uncover the killer.

And we were running out of time. Again this morning the
Times
was full of news about the Jacombe killing and the Nevill killing. Molly’s name was given in connection with the latter.
The Morning Post
went so far as to report that Lieutenant Nevill had confessed to the murder of Mr. Jacombe. I had probably only a day or two left before the Lord Chief Justice would act.

Though I was loath to do so, I must tell Lieutenant Nevill about Mrs. Hargrove. If there was anything he knew about the woman, I must be informed. I could try to avoid telling him that she was Molly’s mother, but I thought the young soldier loved Molly enough to realise it would not be in her best interests to know of the relationship. He would protect her.

“Yes, there is a second suspect. The housekeeper at the Jacombe residence, Mrs. Hargrove.”

A gleam of hope appeared in Lieutenant Nevill’s blue eyes. “What of her?”

“What I am saying is confidential at the moment, you understand?”

He nodded.

“She bore Mr. Jacombe a child many years ago.”

Lieutenant Nevill’s brows came together. “Why would she kill him now? And why my grandfather?”

“Because Mrs. Hargrove is Molly’s mother.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. I had hoped to keep the information from Molly, and will still do so if possible. Mrs. Hargrove is a cold woman who cares nothing for Molly. Or so it appears.”

“As we all know, appearances can be deceiving.”

“Exactly. Mrs. Hargrove is the only person I can determine who would have motive to kill both Mr. Jacombe and your grandfather.”

“She would kill Jacombe because of what he’d done to her and possibly because he was to fight a duel with me, her daughter’s betrothed,” he said in dawning understanding.

“Precisely. Then, Mr. Nevill had to be eliminated because he pointed the finger at Molly. What it all comes down to is whether or not Mrs. Hargrove truly cares for her daughter. She certainly acts as though she does not.”

“How can that be?” the lieutenant asked in wonder. “Molly is the dearest of girls.”

“We cannot ever truly know what goes on in another’s mind. I trust you will do with this information what you deem best in regards to Molly.”

“I may not have much of a chance to do anything. I may not even get to kiss her goodbye before they hang me.”

“Will you not consider retracting your confession? Can you not see that they have Molly in custody anyway?”

“If I recant my confession now, they are sure to convict Molly.”

“Their evidence is not as strong without a living witness. Mr. Nevill may have given a statement to Bow Street saying he saw Molly with that pistol, but he is no longer able to face the Lord Chief Justice and convince him of the truth of his words.”

The lieutenant shook his head. “I’ll not put Molly in any more danger than she is already in.”

There was one more piece of information I needed from the lieutenant, but I must tread carefully. “Is there no one else who might come to your aid? What of your mother?”

“Surely you jest. My mother has had nothing to do with me, not even a letter, since she left when I was but four-and-ten.”

“I see. I know this is easy for me to say, but do try not to think of the worst. I have not ceased in my efforts to find out who committed these crimes. And I shall not until the killer is revealed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brummell,” the soldier said in a low, defeated voice. “I owe you my life.”

I hoped he would be alive long enough to continue to feel in my debt.

After I left King’s Bench Prison, Ned and Ted carried me in my sedan-chair to the luxurious shop of Messrs. Rundell, Bridge and Rundell.

My visit to the jewellers had everything to do with Mrs. Roucliffe. I felt a little bauble might loosen her tongue and allow me to extract information about Arabella Nevill, or Angelica Nunn as she was calling herself.

Mr. Rundell greeted me at once. “Mr. Brummell, we are delighted to have you visit our shop. How may I serve you?”

Though Mr. Rundell is the soul of discretion, purchasing jewellery from those in need of funds, keeping quiet about a man’s purchase for his latest mistress, and rarely dunning those who had not paid him, I could not count on any passerbys who might see me and report the fact around Town.

With Mr. Rundell’s help, I made a hasty decision on some coral earbobs. They cost a bit more than I wanted to spend, but they were sure to please, being of that shade close to that favoured by Mrs. Roucliffe.

While Mr. Rundell wrapped them up for me, I browsed the shop displays. A delicate gold heart suspended from a feminine chain caught my eye. I thought at once of Miss Lavender. The pretty filigree work was not so ornate as to offend her simple tastes, yet the golden piece was tastefully elegant.

“Here you are, Mr. Brummell,” Mr. Rundell said. “I hope this gift will please, but if it does not, you have only to return it to me.”

I thanked him and walked out of the shop. I told myself that a present of jewellery would not be appropriate for Miss Lavender. It flew in the face of the conventions for an unmarried gentleman to give an unmarried respectable lady such a personal gift.

Ned and Ted stood at the ready with my sedan-chair.

I thought of how Miss Lavender’s heart had been crushed by Mr. Jacombe, and how I hoped she was reclaiming it by burying the pieces of that dress and her memories.

Devil take the conventions.

I turned and walked back into the shop.

A short time later Ned and Ted carried me to Half Moon Street.

Mrs. Roucliffe was only too happy to receive me. “My
cher ami
, how happy I am that you have returned to visit! Sit by me,” she invited, still adopting her French accent. Her dark hair was down, a riot of loose curls about her shoulders.

“Thank you for seeing me without, er, an appointment,” I said, trying to keep my gaze from the clingy, diaphanous peach-coloured robe she wore that so closely followed her form at each move. Worse, I suddenly thought of Miss Lavender in such a garment. I sat down abruptly.

“But you are always welcome here, Beau. I may call you Beau, may I not? And you will call me Cammie. For we are to be very close, like this,” she said, moving close to me with her thigh pressed up against mine.

“I, er, thought you were under the protection of Lord Fogingham. And my name is George. Beau is but a nickname—”

She leaned toward me and ran a finger under the top of my starched cravat. “Fogingham is a very nice man, but you are nicer, no?”

“Well, I—

“This is a very complicated knot. What do you call it?”

“I do not have names or, rather I should say, a name, for this knot. Others like to create elaborate cravats and give them names, but I—”

“I understand. You like things simple. You are a man with much
savoir-vivre
,
and as such, you have elegant, expensive tastes. That is why you have come to me. I think, though,” she said, giving a little laugh, “that I could untie this knot, no?”

“No! I mean, that is not what I came here for.”

Her red lips curved. “Are you sure about that?”

“Quite. I came to talk with you.”

“Ah,” she said in the manner of one who has dealt with such reluctance many times before and knows just how to overcome it. “We can talk, yes. I know lots of ways of talking. You like the baby talk, or maybe talk like this.”

She whispered something in my ear that I do not wish to repeat to you. Gentlemen do not repeat such things.

I tried to ease away from her. “I wish to speak about Angelica Nunn.”

“You like blondes? And she is older than me. I am very hurt that you would prefer her to me.”

“You misunderstand.”

She crossed her arms across her chest. “I don’t think so,” she said, the French accent slipping.

“Really, I simply want her direction—”