Rosemary Stevens (21 page)

She tilted her head. “Then, suddenly, he pointed the pistol straight at me. For the first time, I was afraid. I lunged for the pistol and forced it toward him just as he pulled the trigger. Imagine that. He killed himself, really.”

“I was only defending myself,” Arabella went on.

Keep her talking, I thought, hoping Miss Lavender had heard the confession and had run for a constable. “Mr. Nevill was a most unpleasant man.”

She brandished her drink, causing the liquid to slosh over the top. “He made a big fuss over my selling a diamond necklace that belonged to me. Said he’d go to the authorities. I ask you, since when is it illegal to sell one’s own property?”

“I see your point. But as to Mr. Nevill’s death, I feel you should tell Bow Street what happened. Do you know they are holding your son’s betrothed, Molly, as a suspect?”

She pouted. “Let’s not talk of this unpleasantness any longer. Let’s talk about us instead.”

“What about Mr. Jacombe?” I asked, with the frail hope that she might have killed him as well.

“The man my son supposedly shot? What about him?”

“Did you know him?”

“Never heard of him in my life before I saw his name in the newspaper in connection to Nicholas. What was it, cards they argued over? Men can be so silly.”

A fierce knocking on the front door startled her. “I do hope that’s not Mr. Parker. I’ve decided I’m done with him and his dramatic scenes.”

The frightened maid admitted Miss Lavender and two constables. They were both beefy men, one so thickly muscled he looked as if he would pop out of his clothing.

The more muscular constable took charge. “Are you Arabella Nevill?”

Arabella rose unsteadily to her feet. “Yes.”

“We have two witnesses here who’ve heard you confess to the killing of Elsworth Nevill,” the constable said.

Arabella looked from Miss Lavender back to me, a flush of anger rising in her face. “You tricked me, Mr. Brummell. How did you know I’d killed him?”

“I assure you, I did not know until you told me,” I said.

At that moment, a harried Mr. Lavender entered the room and was rapidly informed by the second constable as to what had transpired. Mr. Lavender scribbled a few lines in his ever-present notebook, glancing up occasionally at Arabella.

The woman was fast becoming sober. “All I was doing was defending myself, I tell you. It was an accident, really. Elsworth took out the pistol and pointed it at me!”

Mr. Lavender spoke: “You’ll have ample opportunity to tell the court your story. Where were you on the night Theobald Jacombe was killed?”

“That was the night of the grand gala at Vauxhall, I remember from the newspapers. Mr. Parker, my friend, and I stayed here all evening. He didn’t want to go out.”

“What is his direction?”

Arabella gave a number in Jermyn Street.

“Right now, these constables are taking you into custody for the killing of Elsworth Nevill,” Mr. Lavender said after marking down Mr. Parker’s direction.

As the head constable reached for her, Arabella swiftly turned around and slapped me across the face. The blow stung.

“Trollop!” Arabella screamed at Miss Lavender.

The constables led her out of the house, protesting and swearing all the way.

Mr. Lavender, Miss Lavender, and I were left standing in the sitting room, the maid nowhere in sight.

“The two have you have been busy,” Mr. Lavender said, his expression telling me he was not pleased at my involvement.

“You can release Molly from prison now that we have Nevill’s real killer,” I said.

Mr. Lavender pointed his finger at me. “Don’t you be telling me what to do. You’ve meddled enough.”

“Father, how can you call it meddling, when all we did was uncover the truth!” Miss Lavender exclaimed.

“And you, Lydia,” Mr. Lavender rounded on his daughter. “The man that came for me said you’d been standing outside the window, listening to everything. Where is your sense? You could have been accosted, loitering about like that.”

Miss Lavender’s eyes shot sparks of disapproval at her father. “I’ve more sense than you have in this case. You’ve held poor Molly and not even tried to find out what happened.”

Mr. Lavender threw up his hands. “I can see I won’t be able to reason with either of you.”

“Will you have Molly released?” I asked.

“Yes, I’ll see to it now, since I’m not getting anything accomplished here. Lydia, I’ll escort you back to the Haven of Hope.”

“No, Father, I have things to discuss with Mr. Brummell.”

At these words, the Bow Street man flashed me a look of fiery anger. He shook his head vehemently and stomped out of the house.

“His pride is hurt,” Miss Lavender said.

“Perhaps. Let us go outside and hail a hackney,” I said.

We walked out into the July sunshine to the end of the street where we quickly found a willing vehicle.

Once settled inside, she said, “We’ve been looking at this whole thing as if the same person killed Mr. Jacombe and Mr. Nevill. It appears we were wrong.”

“Yes, a devilish coil. Even I cannot believe that Arabella killed Mr. Jacombe. There is no connection between the two. Since she was, ahem, otherwise occupied the evening of the Vauxhall gala, I cannot think she would even have learned of the proposed duel, no less been at the Pleasure Gardens.”

“True. Now what?”

“We are back to who killed Mr. Jacombe, that is what. And if we do not find out who the murderer is in short order, a young man’s life is over.”

At the Haven of Hope, we sat over cups of tea in Miss Lavender’s office. She was behind the tattered desk. I sat in the more comfortable of the two upholstered chairs opposite. Miss Lavender had tried to brighten the room with a bowl of yellow roses. They sat on the edge of the desk, their fragrance perfuming the air.

We had sent Lionel down to King’s Bench Prison to escort Molly home, certain that she would be released.

“Perhaps with Molly out of danger, Lieutenant Nevill could be persuaded to retract his confession,” Miss Lavender said.

“One would think. I shall go to him in the morning before the trial starts and try to convince him. But we cannot count on him doing so, nor can we count on the court believing him. We must force the killer’s hand today.”

“Those letters you’ve received. They show the killer has some sympathy for Lieutenant Nevill,” Miss Lavender mused.

“Yes. But not enough sympathy to come forward.”

“Should we show the letters to Father now? At this point, surely he will believe you.”

I raised a skeptical brow. “In case it has escaped your notice, your father does not hold me in the highest opinion, Miss Lavender. He would think I wrote the letters myself.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say he doesn’t respect you. He knows you’ve uncovered other murderers. He sees through your act of the carefree dandy.”

“I was not speaking of my mental abilities. Rather, I believe your father judges my character to be inferior to the one who should hold claim to your attention.”

“And who says you’ve claimed my attention, Mr. Brummell?”

“I beg your pardon.”

Dash it.

“So what are we to do now?” she asked.

“First I would like to inspect the physician, Doctor Trusdale’s, quarters. I believe he lives above his office.”

Miss Lavender looked puzzled. “Why do you think that might help?”

“I wish I could make some intelligent comment on why I want to see his quarters, but the truth is, I merely have a notion there is something in his rooms I should see. Searching other peoples’ property has proven beneficial.”

“Do you consider him to be our chief suspect? What of Mrs. Hargrove?”

“Trust me, I have not ruled out the Jacombe housekeeper. Both she and Doctor Trusdale had plenty of motive to kill the man. But stay, I have just had an idea,” I said, leaning forward in my chair.

“What?”

“As you said a few minutes ago, the killer has shown remorse for his or her actions. What if we could pit our suspects against one another.”

“You mean get them together, maybe at the Jacombe residence in front of the widow, and accuse one of them?”

“Exactly.”

“But what makes you think he or she will confess? The killer has sent you those notes but has allowed Lieutenant Nevill—and Molly—to languish in prison without coming forward. Here we are on the eve of the trial and still there is silence.”

“Think of it, though. Let us pursue your line of thinking. If we could get the doctor to visit Mrs. Jacombe, and that should not be difficult, we would have him and Mrs. Hargrove together in the presence of the murdered man’s wife. Both people are dear to Mrs. Jacombe. If we were to accuse Mrs. Hargrove, and Doctor Trusdale proves to be the killer, he might very well speak up. If we were to accuse the doctor, and Mrs. Hargrove is the killer, it might be enough for her to break down.”

“The scheme might work. We’ve no other plan, so it will have to do. But which one of them are we going to accuse?”

“We will have to consider the matter carefully. That is another reason for going to the doctor’s residence. We shall see if there is any clue there.”

Just then, we heard the sound of the back door open, closely followed by raised feminine voices. Molly had come home, and the girls were greeting her.

Miss Lavender and I entered the kitchen in time to see the girl receiving hugs all around. Miss Lavender rushed forward to embrace Molly.

“Oh, but you mustn’t touch me,” Molly protested. “I need a bath after being in that awful place.”

The other girls hurried to make preparations while Miss Lavender, Molly, Lionel, and I stood huddled together.

Molly said, “What are we to do about Nicky? I have worried myself to flinders over him. Tomorrow is the trial!”

“We are still working on the case, Molly,” I soothed.

“But time is running out! The word around the prison is that they are sure to convict Nicky because of his stupid confession, and then they’ll waste no time in hanging him.”

“We have two suspects and a plan,” I told her. Then I turned to Lionel. “Lion, run over to Chandos Street and see if there are any lights on in number ten. That is where Doctor Trusdale has his office. I want to search his quarters.”

“Right. I’ll be back as fast as I can,” the boy said and raced out the back door.

“Pray God all is dark and we can get in,” Miss Lavender said.

Molly began to cry. “You must find something tonight,” she said between sobs. “You must.”

Lionel soon returned with the news that all was dark at Doctor Trusdale’s. “It don’t look as if anybody is there. No lights inside anywhere. Even in daylight, the place would need a light or two.”

“Excellent. Thank you, Lionel. I shall hurry over right now.”

“I’ll come with you,” Miss Lavender said.

“You most certainly will not,” I said. “I am walking a fine line where your father is concerned. It is bad enough he knows we are working together on this case. I shudder to think what he would do to me if he found out you were breaking into people’s rooms with me.”

“I don’t like being left out of things,” Miss Lavender replied with a stubborn set to her delicate jaw.

“You will not be. Meet me at my house in two hours’ time. We shall go to the Jacombe residence together, to the devil with the conventions. Hopefully, Doctor Trusdale is there. He seems to live in Mrs. Jacombe’s pocket.”

“How will you account for my presence? You remember the reception I received from members of Society at the Perrys.”

“I shall say you are Miss Lydia Lavender of the Lincolnshire Lavenders. I would have employed such a ruse the other night, but the Perrys already knew who you were.”

“All right,” Miss Lavender said reluctantly.

I left the shelter at about six of the clock. I took a hackney-coach to save time and lessen the chance of the physician returning while I was in his office.

I had not counted on finding Winston, Doctor Trusdale’s assistant, opening the door to the building just as I arrived.

My mind scrambled to find a reason why I was there at that hour, but then I noticed the young man’s face. He looked as panicked as I felt. I assumed a superiour tone.

“What are you doing here, Winston? I have an appointment with Doctor Trusdale. We are to have a private consultation. He assured me no one would be about.”

“I forgot something, that’s all.”

Covering for his own error. How fortuitous for me. “Well, open the door and let us in. You can retrieve whatever it is and then leave.”

He looked uncertain. “Doctor Trusdale doesn’t like anyone left alone here. I’d better stay until he returns.”

I assumed my haughtiest demeanor. “Do you know who I am?”

He gulped. “Yes, sir.”

“Then do as I say.”

He opened the door and scrambled over to his desk behind the counter. I sat in a chair in the waiting area, confident that he would obey me.

And I was right. With only a few more words of protest, and a glance up the stairs, Winston left.

Amazing, is it not, that if one simply assumes control, others will follow with little or no questioning.

I waited a decent five minutes or so before slipping up the stairs. Here I was immediately confronted with a locked door.

Despite daylight outside, the stairway and the door area were dimly lit. I pulled out my pocket knife and set to work on the lock. After a few minutes, I had the door open. I must admit I congratulated myself on my handiwork. Surely a career in lock-picking could be mine should I wish it.

The door opened into a rather large sitting area decorated with more taste than I would have given Doctor Trusdale credit for. Some fine paintings graced the walls. A mahogany upholstered settee, done in dark blue, stood next to a lovely library table with several leather-bound volumes on its smooth surface.

I took a few minutes opening drawers and studying the contents of a personal desk in one corner of the room. This contained nothing more interesting than Doctor Trusdale’s tailor’s bill. I am always fascinated by what others pay for their clothes, you know.