Rosemary Stevens (6 page)

I approved of his fastidiousness, but Robinson, on the other hand, could find no redeeming qualities in the feline. The valet spends countless hours removing cat hairs from every surface in my well-appointed chamber. Furthermore, he has a special cloth he uses to eradicate any cat hairs that dare attach themselves to my clothing. Robinson has his reputation as a valet to maintain, you know. Needless to say, he wishes the cat, and all his troublesome cat hairs, to be placed in a crate and shipped back to Siam.

I sat up in bed and accepted a cup of steaming hot tea. “A bad business last night, Robinson. Theobald Jacombe was murdered.”

Chakkri let out a low “reow,” stood up, turned around twice, then curled into a ball with one paw firmly across his eyes. This was unusual behaviour. Normally Chakkri watches his surroundings with acute interest.

Robinson averted his gaze from the cat and looked instead at me. “Sir, I know. I saw the whole thing happen.”

I replaced my teacup on the tray with a clatter. “What did you say?”

“When you gave me the evening off last night, I attended Vauxhall, just as you had said you planned to do. I went with Rumbelow, the underbutler—”

“Yes, yes, I know who your friends are. Get to the point, man.”

“We were standing in front of the Cascade, waiting for the exhibition to begin. Rumbelow began telling me how fig-leaves boiled in water were best for removing stains from silk handkerchiefs. When I pulled my handkerchief out to show him how much better spirits of turpentine are to achieve cleanliness, the silk slipped from my fingers. Then the wind picked up the material and I, er, had to chase the handkerchief. Rumbelow thought my predicament humourous.”

“All right, so you ended up behind the Cascade when the murder took place. Who did it?”

Robinson shook his head. “I do not know. I heard a popping noise, but thought it was part of the exhibition. The only thing I saw back there was a soldier and his ladyfriend. He was holding a gun.”

“Good God. Never say that is what you told Mr. Lavender?”

Robinson looked down his nose at me. “Was I to lie?”

I groaned out loud. Then it occurred to me that Robinson had been the “member of the Nobility” Molly had referred to as having seen her and Lieutenant Nevill. Of course she would think Robinson a peer, dressed as he was in my fine cast-offs and with his haughty demeanor. This would be funny if the situation were not so serious.

“No, you were not to lie. But, Robinson, think hard. Was there no one else?”

“No, sir. Except the drunken man employed to operate the Cascade. Why?”

“Because the soldier is a friend of mine, Lieutenant Nevill. He was to participate in a duel this morning with the deceased. I was to act as his second.”

“A duel?” Robinson’s eyes shone. He loves drama and a good gossip. In fact, I am surprised he had not already heard of the duel.

“Obviously there is no need for it now. Furthermore, the young lady he was with is a friend of Miss Lavender’s and, in fact, lives with her at the Haven of Hope.”

“Dear me,” Robinson said.

I raised my right eyebrow severely. “Do not take that tone in regards to Miss Lavender. She is a fine female, one worthy of your respect. And she is lovely, in addition to having a fine character. You should not judge her ill because she flaunts some of Society’s conventions. Recollect that she is not a member of the
Beau Monde
, but of the middle classes.”

“
I
remember, sir. Do you?”

I frowned. “Just what is that remark supposed to mean?”

“You do seem to enjoy Miss Lavender’s company. I do not think it will serve, sir.”

“You do not think what will serve?” I demanded.

“Falling in love with Miss Lavender.”

My heart performed an odd thump. “Of all the impertinence! I am not in love with Miss Lavender. Now go downstairs and have Ned and Ted help you bring the water for my bath. I have no wish to speak to you further. And find out from your league of butlers, maids, and footmen friends where Nevill is being held. I am certain London is talking of nothing else this morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Robinson said. Then, with a back as stiff as a tree trunk, he exited the room, closing the door none too quietly.

You may be wondering why I put up with such nonsense. Well, all I can tell you is that Robinson has been with me for some years now. He has a high moral character I admire, he is intelligent and loyal, has a remarkable sense of style, and excels in his duties. Naturally, I would not want him to know I feel this way, so pray do not tell him. He is haughty enough as it is.

While Chakkri slept peacefully—he knew breakfast would be forthcoming—I contemplated the valet’s involvement in the events of last night.

Robinson had given a statement to Mr. Lavender. Of all the coincidences in the world, why did my very own valet have to stumble upon the scene of the crime? How would his statement affect the investigation? Not well. For now Bow Street had Mr. Lavender, one of their top men, and Robinson as witnesses. Both had seen Nevill with the murder weapon in his hand.

But they had not seen him shoot the gun.

Perhaps that fact alone would give me enough time to figure out who had fired the pistol. Surely Bow Street could not rush to charge the lieutenant without more solid proof of his guilt.

Later that morning, after I was faultlessly attired in a slate-blue coat, buff breeches, white waistcoat and cravat, I breakfasted in the dining room. Chakkri dined as well, enjoying his favourite scrambled eggs in cheese sauce that my French chef, Andre, prepares for the spoiled feline.

Robinson entered the room.

I looked at him over the newspaper. “Yes, what have you found out?”

“Sir, Mr. Nevill is being held at King’s Bench Prison. Word is, his commanding officer released him into the custody of Bow Street.”

“I expect it was too much to hope for anything else. Still, it makes things even darker for the lieutenant that his military superior apparently did nothing to keep him from gaol. At least they did not take him to Newgate.” I shuddered at the thought of that terrible place. I must go at once to talk to the young man.

We were interrupted at that moment by a ferocious pounding at the front door. Robinson steeled himself and exited the room.

A moment later, I could hear a crusty female voice shout, “I’ll see my boys, and no starched up prig will stop me!”

I put down my newspaper and left the dining room. From the top of the stairs, I saw an astonishing sight: a tiny grey-haired woman in a homespun brown dress held a brown and white piglet in her arms. A portmanteau—if one could call the dusty, torn case that—stood at her feet. The hem of her gown ended several inches above her ankles, revealing men’s work boots.

Robinson’s face was as white as my cravat.

“What is going on here?” I asked, descending the stairs. “Who is this, Robinson?”

The valet turned to me with a stricken expression on his face. The pig squealed, the sound reverberating off the walls and black-and-white tiled floor. “Ned and Ted’s mother.”

I studied the country woman. So this was “Mum,” who the two country boys worshiped. They sent home their chairmen’s pay to her every quarter and often extolled the virtues of the woman who ran their family pig farm alone. Now here she was in London to see her boys.

“You must be Mr. Brummell,” she said in that crusty voice. Her gaze ran the length of me. She let out a loud snort. “I can’t see ‘ow the likes of you ‘as been takin’ good care of my boys.”

The pig squealed in agreement.

I managed to find my voice. “I assure you the twins are thriving.”

“That’s not what I ‘ear. They were fightin’ over some girl a while back. I ‘ear tell all is right between ‘em again, but I ‘ad to leave my farm to come up and check on ‘em. Boys will be boys.”

“Er, indeed,” I said, noting that Robinson swayed. “I beg your pardon, but I do not think I know your name, Mrs. . . .”

“I’m Edwina. But call me Ed. Everyone does.”

“Mrs. Ed,” Robinson uttered.

The piglet squealed again.

The sound brought Ned and Ted from the kitchen. There followed a scene of joyful reunion between a mother and her children. Ned and Ted are identical twins, both tall, blond, and with muscular physiques. Robinson says that between them they do not have the intelligence of a turnip.

Ted said, “You don’t mind if Mum stays with us a while, do you, Mr. Brummell, sir?”

Robinson cut me a pleading look, his blue eyes starting from his head.

“I won’t be no trouble to yer,” Mrs. Ed assured me. “Winifred here and I’ll jest sleep out back with the horses.”

Winifred? The piglet had a name?

“We do not keep horses,” I told her.

She drew back her head and looked at me as if I were a cave dweller. “Don’t keep horses?”

“No,” Robinson said. “We do not have a stable, so you see, it would be quite out of the question—”

Ned, the garrulous twin, interrupted him. “Oh, that won’t matter. Mum can stay in our room in the attic,” he said with a big grin. “We’ll ‘ave the best time. It’ll be like when we were younger, won’t it, Mum? You can cook for us, too. We’ve ‘ad to eat all that Frenchie’s cookin’. Not that I don’t like Mr. Andre, but ‘e ‘as to pour sauce over everythin’. Can’t make a plain plate of eggs nor a good piece of boiled beef. I don’t know why. Mayhaps sauce is in his blood.” Ned snickered at his own joke.

Mrs. Ed eyed her boys. “Ye both do look like yer in need of feedin’ up. My arthur-itis hasn’t been givin’ me trouble lately. Reckon I could ‘elp out while I’m ‘ere. I’ll teach the Frenchie about good English cookin’,” she said with a smile that revealed all four of her teeth.

Robinson clutched the door frame in one white-fisted hand.

The twins looked at me expectantly.

I addressed Mrs. Ed. “Certainly, I have no objection to your paying your sons a visit. I hope you will be comfortable upstairs with them. Er, do you wish my man to make provisions in the back garden for, er, Winifred there?”

Robinson put a hand to his heart.

Mrs. Ed shook her head. “No, sir. She’ll do fine with me in the attics. She was the runt of the litter. I’ve taken a fancy to ‘er. She can sleep in my bed.”

Robinson reeled from this blow.

I judged it best to make my escape now before another moment passed. “Well, I shall leave you to settle in. Robinson, make sure Mrs. Ed has everything she requires. I must go to King’s Bench Prison.”

Mrs. Ed swung around to face me, a suspicious look on her withered features. “King’s Bench Prison? Yer not in any trouble, are ye?”

I took one look at Robinson’s seething countenance. I thought of Andre being instructed in the fine arts of cookery by Mrs. Ed. I thought of my fashionable Town house housing a piglet.

Most importantly, I thought of the young soldier imprisoned for a heinous crime I knew he had not committed. I thought of how all of London was crying for conviction of Mr. Jacombe’s murderer, and I feared for Nevill’s life.

“No, I am not in any trouble. None at all.”

During the Gordon Riots, King’s Bench Prison had been burnt to the ground, then quickly rebuilt. Arriving in St. George’s Fields, I noted the large new, but cheerless, building with its open courtyard surrounded by a high wall.

When I inquired about Nevill, the blustery guard informed me that many had asked to see him, but he had orders to keep the curious away. Only after several coins changed hands was I admitted.

I walked down the damp, evil-smelling hall, listening to the cries and ravings of the prisoners. My heart sank when the guard showed me where the young soldier had been placed. A square cell, no bigger than my dining room, held two dozen souls in squalor.

Every sort of rough customer was represented. A beefy man held a skinny ruffian against one wall, methodically pummeling the latter’s stomach with blows. Insects marched across the floor toward a tray of soured food.

Nevill sat in a far corner, dressed in his shirtsleeves, his back to the wall, his knees drawn up against his body. He held his head in his hands.

“Nevill!” I called.

All eyes turned to me. A rush of bodies came toward the iron bars. Hands extended out to me, but I kept myself out of reach.

“A shilling or two, sir, please?” an older man begged.

“Would ye need a valet? I didn’t kill me last master, I swear.”

“Gin, I just need a swallow or two.”

The lieutenant pushed his way to the front. His shirt was torn down one sleeve, his left cheek was bruised and the knuckles of his right hand were caked with blood. “Mr. Brummell, sir! How glad I am to see you.”

“Ooooh, the famous dandy,” a voice cried.

Several men executed mock bows. I gripped my dog’s head walking stick, the one Freddie had given me that contains a deadly swordstick. “I shall return in a moment, Nevill.”

I went to find the guard. He sat on a high stool at the end of the grey hallway, drinking from a tin cup. He ignored my approach.

“I want a private cell for my friend, Nevill,” I stated.

That got his attention. “It’ll cost yer.”

There followed a round of negotiations, the intensity of which could have rivaled any talks of peace between England and France. At last, a price was agreed upon, which included decent meals for the young soldier.

We walked back down to the grimy cell. With much pushing, swearing and shoving, the guard extracted the lieutenant from his fellow inmates. He led us through a set of equally depressing halls until we reached a quiet one. Wooden doors with iron locks lined the area. Selecting a key from a large ring, the guard opened one of the doors and let us in.

While not exactly the sort of accommodations found in St. James’s Palace, the room was relatively clean. A small bed was even tucked against a corner.

“Return in half an hour,” I told the guard.

He left us alone, locking the door behind him.

“Mr. Brummell, your generosity is very sincerely appreciated. Thank you,” the young soldier said.

“Let us hope we can remove you from this unpleasant situation as quickly as possible,” I replied.