Rosemary Stevens (4 page)

Molly coloured up. “Is he right, Nicky? Is the duel over me? You mustn’t fight it, darling.”

Mr. Nevill spoke, his voice raising an octave, before the lieutenant could answer. “You are the source of all this trouble, missy. You will ruin my grandson the way his whore of a mother ruined my son. He
is
fighting this duel because of you! He is trying to win money to marry you, and now feels compelled to defend your honour, what there is of it!”

Molly began to cry.

Lieutenant Nevill seemed torn between trying to comfort her and addressing his grandfather. Handing Molly a handkerchief, he turned to face his relative. “Sir, if it weren’t for the fact that you refuse to release my inheritance to me, then I wouldn’t have been trying to gain money by whatever means.”

“Bah!” the older man cried. “If you were not so hot to get a leg over this female, you would never marry her, hence you would not have been gaming! From the word going around, the place she lives in is nothing but a brothel, at any rate. Why must you marry her? Bed her and be done with her.”

At that moment, several things happened at once.

Miss Lavender and Lionel returned to my side. Miss Lavender heard Mr. Nevill’s remarks about her shelter. I saw her fists ball at her sides.

Molly burst into loud sobs at the idea that she might be considered a lightskirt.

The lieutenant shouted at his grandfather. “I won’t have anything said against Molly, do I make myself clear? Mr. Jacombe will meet me in the morning because he cheated at cards and for his insult against my fiancée. It’s bad enough that you don’t approve of the match between Molly and me and refuse to help us, but if you join Mr. Jacombe in bringing false accusations against her, I won’t visit you nor acknowledge you ever again.”

The old man’s face twisted, the lines creasing, his pale eyes hardening. “I leave you to your fate then, you stubborn boy. You are just like your father.” With these words, he swung around and disappeared into the crowd.

Lieutenant Nevill led a sobbing Molly away down one of the walks.

I turned to Miss Lavender. Her expression was a blank, as if she were in shock. Her hands were still balled into fists at her sides. She stood staring at the spot where the confrontation between the lieutenant and his grandfather had taken place.

“Miss Lavender, are you quite well?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she replied, looking anything but all right.

“She done ‘eard what that stupid old man said ‘bout the ‘Aven o’ ‘Ope,” Lionel said unhappily. “Don’t listen to ‘im, Miss Lavender. ‘E’s so old, ‘e prob’ly wouldn’t know a whorin’ place iffen ‘e was to walk right in the door.”

Miss Lavender turned in an odd, stiff manner to her young charge. “Stay here with Mr. Brummell. I’ll return in a moment.”

“Miss Lavender, where are you going?” I asked, anxious because she was obviously deeply affected by the scene that had just taken place.

“I have some business to take care of,” she said faintly.

This tone of voice and demeanor was so out of character for the independent Miss Lavender, that I felt even more uncomfortable.

Before I could stop her, though, she had turned her steps toward the supper boxes.

I stood alone with Lionel, frustrated with myself. Events were spinning out of control. First I had not been able to speak to the lieutenant, now Miss Lavender had witnessed the ugly scene between the young man and his grandfather. Her reaction to it, though, was what was bothering me. I would have thought that upon hearing a slur on the name of her shelter, the young woman would have been quick to rise to its defense. Instead, she seemed withdrawn.

I confess I do not always know the ways of the female mind—far from it—but this incident with Miss Lavender was particularly baffling.

My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of a bell.

“Ain’t that the signal for the Cascade show, Mr. Brummell?” Lionel asked.

“Yes. We had best procure a place now. Come.”

A mass of people were headed in the same direction, the northwest side of the gardens, to get a view of the Cascade. I looked for any sign of the lieutenant or Molly, but they had disappeared. Miss Lavender, too, was not in sight.

Twilight faded into darkness, causing the tiny lights that dot the garden to twinkle like the stars above us. The sounds of laughter grew louder, as the dim light incited the crowd to boisterous behaviour. A continuing breeze fluttered the green leaves of the trees all around us, sending the lanterns suspended from the branches swaying.

The Cascade exhibition boasts twenty-five-foot-tall arches, with curtains extending forty or fifty feet across the front. At precisely nine of the clock, the curtains would be drawn back to display a landscape scene illuminated by concealed lanterns. Though the exhibition only lasted a few minutes, it was popular.

With Lionel at my side, we reached a place very close to the front.

“‘Ere we are, Mr. Lavender, Mr. Read, sirs,” Lionel said.

I swung around to find that I had inadvertently chosen a place near the Bow Street men. A mistake on my part.

Mr. Lavender is a stockily built man over fifty years of age. He has thick red bristly hair which, over the recent past, has been turning to grey. He wears not only bushy side-whiskers, but an enormous set of mustachios. Tonight, he was clad in the only type of clothing I had ever seen him wear: a black-and-white speckled game coat with many pockets over well-worn corduroy breeches tucked into never-clean boots.

I wish he dressed better. He never obliges me.

He wishes I would leave his daughter alone. I never oblige him.

He eyed me with disfavor before grunting a greeting. “Mr. Brummell, I should have known you’d be here tonight, since the entertainments are under the patronage of the Prince. Where is your friend?”

Probably drinking and eating himself into a stupor somewhere, I thought uncharitably. “He should be here. The Cascade always appeals to him.”

“Why aren’t you with his Royal Highness?” Mr. Lavender asked.

“Because I knew you would appreciate my company more,” I retorted.

Lionel sniggered.

Mr. Lavender pulled an ivory toothpick box from his pocket—one I had given him after he saved my life, an act I am sure he sometimes regrets—and spit on it. He then began to clean the box on the sleeve of his coat. This is a procedure he knows reduces me to a state of cringing horror. He then opened the box, plucked a thin wooden stick from it and popped it in his mouth.

Apparently, having decided he had tortured me enough, Mr. Lavender introduced me to the man standing next to him. “This is Mr. James Read, our head magistrate at Bow Street.”

“Good evening, Mr. Read,” I said. He is a spare, short man, probably not three inches above five feet. His hair is completely white and, surprisingly for a man above sixty, not thinning. He wears the air of one in complete control of himself.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Brummell,” Mr. Read said without a trace of conviction behind the words.

Lionel rolled his eyes.

“Have you seen my daughter?” Mr. Lavender asked me in a tone that indicated he hoped my answer would be “no.”

Knowing how much he would dislike a reply in the positive, I said, “Yes, we were together a short time ago and are to view the Cascade together.”

Mr. Lavender growled. “Then where is she?”

I glanced around. “I am afraid I do not know. She said she had some business to take care of. I assumed she meant with one of her charges, since she brought the girls from her shelter here tonight.”

Saving me from any rebuke from her overly protective father, the lady in question walked up to us at that very moment.

“Lydia, where have you been? I was worried,” said Mr. Lavender.

Miss Lavender still wore that distant, withdrawn look on her face. I puzzled over it and could not understand what had caused it. Nevill’s damning words about her shelter would be more likely to bring an outraged reaction in the Scotswoman. Why was she behaving as she was?

“I’ve misplaced my shawl,” she said.

“The Norwich one that belonged to Mrs. Lavender, God rest her soul?” Mr. Lavender asked in a strong measure of surprise.

“Yes. I’ve looked and can’t find it. No doubt someone picked it up.”

“Where did you last have it?” I asked her.

“When father, Mr. Read, and Lionel and I were eating supper in one of the boxes.”

“I’ll go look for it,” Mr. Lavender said.

“Please do not trouble yourself,” I told the Bow Street investigator. He does not like my meddling in his affairs—neither his work in solving criminal acts nor his daughter—so naturally I try to thwart him at every turn. “The supper boxes are just around the corner. I shall go.”

Mr. Read ambled away, perhaps unwilling to watch Mr. Lavender and me cross swords. Lionel was not so faint-hearted and stood grinning.

“No, I will go,” the bluff Mr. Lavender insisted.

I assumed a nonchalant air. “Well, I hold myself honoured that you would leave Lionel and me here to protect your daughter in this crowd. There is Sylvester Fairingdale only a few steps away, I see. You know he can be relied upon for assistance should any of the rowdy young bucks take a fancy to your daughter’s stunning red hair and try to steal a kiss.”

A chuckle escaped from Lionel.

Mr. Lavender stood silently glaring at me. I imagined him grinding his teeth against the toothpick as that object jerked up and down in his mouth.

Miss Lavender remained aloof from the conversation. So unlike her.

“Oh, do as you want, Mr. Brummell,” Mr. Lavender finally said, burring his “r,” a sure sign of irritation.

I nimbly made my way over to the nearly deserted supper boxes. After a careful search, I could find no shawl. Expecting any moment to hear cheers from the crowd at the Cascade exhibition, I was surprised as the minutes ticked by and no such sound occurred.

When I returned to the Lavenders and Lionel some fifteen minutes later, it was to see the Prince standing by the side of the exhibition, just about to announce its opening. I had not missed anything. Except Mr. Lavender’s scorn when I returned empty-handed.

By some unheard signal, the crowd suddenly went silent. The Prince of Wales’s voice rang out over the night. “Ladies and gentlemen, as we stand here in the greatest city in Europe, nay, in all the world, in the middle of summer, I offer you a glimpse of the Alpine mountains in all the glory of winter. Let the Cascade begin!”

A cheer went up.

Slowly, the heavy curtains were pulled aside revealing, to everyone’s pleasure, a large backdrop painted in startling, vivid colours. The scene was of a snowy mountain, the green trees laden heavily with bright white snow. A tiny village had been carefully painted in the foreground.

However, it was the exquisite waterfall that held one in its thrall. Made of tin, it had been bent, shaped, and hammered to give the illusion of water flowing. This illusion was made more realistic by the softly glowing lights and chunks of tin painted white and embedded with chips of glistening glass which lined the sides of the waterfall.

From somewhere behind the display, a mechanism began to turn the roll of tin so that water appeared to be flowing down the mountainside. Shaved flakes of what I guessed were soap rolled down along with the “water” to resemble snow. Murmurs of approval went through the delighted crowd as the illusion charmed everyone.

But then I thought our pleasure might be spoiled as an odd bumping sound came from behind the waterfall. The clamour sounded like the mechanism was grinding and tugging on something. Others heard it too, as the crowd’s din of approval ceased.

Our attention flew to the top of the waterfall where a grey bulky object was poised at the summit, ready to come down.

And down it came revealing itself to all and sundry as the body of a man. Down the glimmering waterfall the body fell in a twisted, tumbling heap, sprinkling spots of red on the glossy tin in its path. Down to the pool of snow at the bottom where brilliant red bled into the icy white.

Over the stunned silence of the crowd, a single scream sounded from somewhere behind the exhibition.

Mr. Lavender rushed forward and turned the dead man over.

Theobald Jacombe had been shot through the heart.

A chorus of echoing screams erupted from the crowd.

Ladies fainted.

A gabble of panicked voices rose around me.

James Read pushed past people who had surged forward for a closer look at the macabre scene. A few quick words passed between him and Mr. Lavender.

The Scotsman then hastened toward the rear of the exhibition, no doubt to find the source of that other scream. Mr. Read kept the curious from getting too close to the body. Constables patrolling the gardens rushed to aid him.

I looked first to Miss Lavender. Her mouth was open, her eyes fixed on the dead man. I placed my gloved fingertips through the crook of her arm. “Miss Lavender, let us move away.”

“Is he dead?” she asked faintly.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

She tilted her head, her emerald gaze riveted on Mr. Jacombe’s body.

I gently tried to pull her in my direction, but she remained rigid.

On her other side, I could see Lionel swallow hard. “‘E’s dead, Miss Lavender. ‘E won’t be walkin’ the streets again, I can tell you, ‘cause I seen a lot durin’ my life.”

“All thirteen years of it,” I said, placing some emphasis on the words. I hoped the reminder would serve to break the spell the scene in front of us had over Miss Lavender.

The ploy worked. She turned slowly to him. “Lionel, find the girls. We must all leave together. That would be best,” she told him haltingly, as if it were an effort to form coherent thought. “Have everyone gather at the entrance to the gardens. Run now.”

“Not yet,” the boy protested. “I ‘ave to keep you safe. As to that man, good riddance to bad rubbish is what I says.”

“It’s Theobald Jacombe who’s been killed!” Sylvester Fairingdale shouted the obvious to those who could not see. Another instance of him only wanting to start trouble.