Rosemary Stevens (8 page)

“We miss you in the Music Room, sir. Come sing for us,” the Count implored in his high-pitched voice. “I’ll stand on the pianoforte bench and turn the pages for Lord Perry to play while you sing.”

Unwilling to witness such a scene, I took my leave and went home in a thoughtful mood.

Chakkri was lying in the exact centre of my bed when I arrived, one brown velvet paw flung over his eyes.

My last thoughts that night before falling asleep were of Nevill alone in his cell. While I could only be happy that he was alone and not suffering at the hands of his fellow inmates, I felt a rising apprehension at the swiftness at which matters were progressing.

Would I be able to find anyone else in London who would want to see Theobald Jacombe dead before the hangman’s noose claimed the life of the young soldier?

* * * *

Wednesday afternoon I decided to pay a call at the Haven of Hope. My purpose was twofold: I wanted to see Molly, to find out how she was getting on and whether or not she remembered anything new about the figure she and the lieutenant saw behind the Cascade. The figure of the murderer.

Secondly, I wished to see Miss Lavender, to determine whether I could elicit information from her as to Bow Street’s findings. Specifically what her father knew about the operator of the Cascade.

This second task I was none too sure of accomplishing. Miss Lavender is careful to stay out of her father’s dealings as much as possible. She can be quite tight-lipped when it comes to Bow Street matters.

The day was pleasantly warm with the sun shining, as I traveled in my sedan-chair to Covent Garden. Ned and Ted were in a cheerful mood, having breakfasted that morning on their mother’s cooking. I expected that soon I would have to have a talk with Andre to make sure the French chef did not feel his territory invaded by the countrywoman.

Telling Ned and Ted to wait outside the Haven of Hope, I knocked on the door to the shelter.

Lionel opened the door to me. “Mr. Brummell, sir. Come on in.”

“Glad of some male company, are you, Lion?”

He chuckled. “That’s for sure. Bein’ round females all the time makes my ‘ead ache sometimes.”

“Where are Molly and Miss Lavender?”

“Back in the kitchens. I’ll let ‘em know yer ‘ere.”

“No, I shall not disturb their work by having them entertain me in the sitting room. Are the other girls at their lessons?”

“Yes. That’s where I’m supposed to be, too.”

“Well, you had better go then. You would not want Miss Lavender to be cross with you.”

“Before I go, there’s one thing,” Lionel said hesitantly.

I was immediately alert to the change in his mood. “And what is that, Lion?”

“It’s Miss Lavender. She’s not been ‘erself since what ‘appened at the Cascade.”

“In what way?”

Lionel scratched his head. “It’s ‘ard to say. She just seems quiet and far-away like. When she does talk, it’s all about the murder of that Jacombe fella’.”

“Hmmm. I shall see what I can find out. Thank you for telling me.”

“I don’t like seein’ her this way.”

“Nor do I. Try not to worry yourself over it.”

I saw Lionel into the room in front of the house where the girls took their lessons. I considered the boy’s words, remembering how Miss Lavender had indeed behaved in a manner quite unlike herself that night at Vauxhall. But who among us could be themselves had they just witnessed a dead body coming over a waterfall?

I wandered to the back of the house and found myself standing in a modest kitchen, watching Miss Lavender peel carrots for her special stew I imagined. Molly was kneading bread dough. This domestic scene was marred only by the talk of murder.

“Mr. Brummell, have you seen Nicky?” Molly asked upon seeing me enter.

“Yes, I have. He has his own private cell now and is doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

“A private cell? How could he pay—Oh, you must have done that for him, Mr. Brummell! Thank you,” Molly said.

Miss Lavender glanced up from the carrots. Today she wore a blue cotton gown, her dark red hair tied into a severe knot on the top of her head. “That was good of you, Mr. Brummell. The poor young man should not be made to suffer for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“I did what I could, but I want to do more. Molly, did you go to Bow Street this morning to give your statement?”

“Yes.”

“Were you able to find out anything more?”

“Not a thing,” she said, putting the bread into a baking tin. “That Mr. Read was there, as well as Miss Lavender’s father. I told them what happened, over and over. They kept acting like there was something I wasn’t saying, but there wasn’t.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

Molly turned her almond-shaped dark eyes on me. “What’s going to happen to Nicky, Mr. Brummell? How are we going to get him out of prison?”

“We must find someone else who wanted Mr. Jacombe dead,” I told her.

The knife Miss Lavender had been using to slice the carrots fell to the kitchen floor with a clatter.

“You did not cut yourself, did you?” I asked in concern.

“No, I am just clumsy today, it seems,” Miss Lavender said. Then she picked the knife up from the floor, put it in the sink, and got out a clean one. She resumed chopping the vegetables in a methodical fashion.

“As to having the lieutenant released from prison,” I said, “I went to see his grandfather. The man was not very helpful, I am afraid.”

“He’s a bitter, unfeeling old man,” Molly replied hotly. “He thinks only of his precious money.”

“And of his lost son,” I reminded her.

“It’s all the same, isn’t it? Mr. Nevill’s son, Nicky’s father, was involved in some banking deal that went bad. It almost cost old Mr. Nevill his fortune. Nicky told me all about it. His grandfather had to help his father, Mr. Nevill junior, out of it. In fact, I forgot all about this before, but I’m pretty sure Mr. Jacombe was involved somehow.”

“Mr. Jacombe?” I said, instantly alert.

Molly narrowed her eyes in concentration. “Yes. Yesterday at the prison, Nicky told me that the only time he’d even heard the name Jacombe, before he met the man at your club, was in a conversation he overheard between his father and his grandfather years ago. He thought it may not have even been the same Jacombe. At any rate, it all had to do with a bank Mr. Jacombe was operating at the time. This was all years ago. That’s all I know.”

“I wish I had known this before I went to see Mr. Nevill. It might be important. But no matter. I shall find out more about it.”

Molly shrugged. “I don’t see how it can matter now. Miss Lavender, I’ve finished with the bread. Can I go see Nicky?”

“Sure you may,” Miss Lavender said with a faint smile.

Molly took off her apron, thanked me for my help with the lieutenant, and hurried from the room, leaving Miss Lavender and me alone.

“Miss Lavender, how are you today?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Anxious about the lieutenant, like everyone else.”

I sensed there was more going on than worry over the lieutenant, but I could not put my finger on what it was. “I wonder what Bow Street found out about the operator of the Cascade.” I threw this out, not expecting the investigator’s daughter to share any Bow Street secrets.

“Seamus O’Toole. A known drunk. He didn’t see or hear anything, including the gunshot, he was in such a drink-induced fog. Father had to bring him round to consciousness when he found the lieutenant holding the gun. O’Toole’s been employed at Vauxhall for two years and hasn’t caused any trouble, despite his propensity for drink. Apparently he has his drinking timed well so he can still perform his duties before becoming oblivious.”

I stood stunned. Miss Lavender never reveals anything in regard to her father’s work. Yet here she was, telling me everything her father had apparently shared with her. Even her desire to see Nevill freed would not normally induce her to talk about Bow Street matters. Why was she so forthcoming now? Not that I am complaining, mind you. Merely curious.

She chattered on. “Father says he and Mr. Read are sorry for the young soldier, but believe him guilty. Both Father and your man, Robinson, saw the lieutenant holding the murder weapon. The gun was a common pocket pistol of no particular distinction, so worn that the maker’s name was illegible.”

“The kind that could be purchased anywhere.”

“Yes. But Bow Street thinks the lieutenant is the one, and that he acted out of passion. I tried to talk to Father, but he won’t listen to me, and it just turned into a big argument. Mr. Brummell, we have to do something to help Lieutenant Nevill. What is your next move?”

We?

She argued with her father over the case?

She wanted to help me in the investigation?

“Well, Miss Lavender, I own I am grateful for your help. I cannot think what to do, other than find out as much as possible about Theobald Jacombe in hopes that we might uncover an enemy.”

Miss Lavender studied the carrots intently. “Perhaps he had several enemies.”

“All the better. But who were they? Were they at Vauxhall Monday night? We need facts.”

She looked up at me, a flicker of light in her green eyes. “What can I do? I don’t believe the lieutenant killed Jacombe, and I must learn who did.
I must know
.”

I stared at her. What was going on here? Why was Miss Lavender suddenly not content to let her father handle Bow Street work? Why was she so passionate about finding out who the killer was? Was it all to do with Molly and the lieutenant, or was something else going on?

Behind us in the hall, the door to the teaching-room opened and girls spilled out, laughing and talking. There was no further opportunity for conversation.

Reluctantly, I left the Haven of Hope, but not before noting the deep circles under Miss Lavender’s eyes and the way her hands shook before she rubbed them clean on her apron.

On my way to the Jacombe residence, I thought of Miss Lavender’s peculiar behaviour. First at Vauxhall, now at her shelter. Clearly the murder had affected my friend deeply. But why? From the time she had overheard Mr. Nevill talk about her shelter—and mention of Mr. Jacombe’s name, I suddenly realised—through the ugly scene at Vauxhall and now at her shelter, Miss Lavender had not behaved like herself. She is a strong, independent woman, yet, in the face of these events, she had become withdrawn. Now she seemed almost obsessed with the killing. Even Lion had noticed.

I needed more time to draw her out, but at present, I wanted to pay a call on the new widow.

The Jacombe’s house off Portman Square was distinguishable by the black hatchment over the door. When I knocked, the portal was opened by a butler wearing a black armband. After giving him my card and asking for the mistress of the house, I was taken past a gleaming hall and into a pristine sitting-room. This room was reserved, I presumed, for guests waiting to be shown abovestairs to the drawing room.

I admired the green-and-ivory decorated room, which contained lovely pieces of furniture in the Chippendale style. Two green-and-ivory-striped chairs faced a green sofa. Oil paintings and a large gilt-framed mirror graced the walls. By the empty fireplace, pots of flowers stood.

The door opened after a few minutes, and a woman entered. My first thought was that she was not Mrs. Jacombe, and that I knew her from somewhere. I could not think where. She was a woman of average height and very neat. Everything from her heavy black bombazine gown, with its ring of keys worn on a cord about her waist, to her plain brown hair, dusted with grey, labeled her as housekeeper.

Perhaps that was why she seemed familiar. Because she looked like dozens of housekeepers I had seen before.

“Mr. Brummell, how good of you to call. I am Mrs. Hargrove, the housekeeper,” she said in measured tones.

She would be the type to know exactly who I was and what my position in Society was. It was her business to know members of Society and of the merchant class. One look into her cold brown eyes, and that one sentence spoken, told me I was dealing with an efficient woman whose entire life revolved around this household.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hargrove” I returned. “Is Mrs. Jacombe receiving?”

“I am afraid not. She is resting in preparation for tomorrow’s funeral and cannot be disturbed.” This was said in a calm tone, but one that clearly indicated that contesting her words would be futile.

“I understand. Please be so good as to let her know that I called.” I handed her my card and then made as if to leave the room.

“Would you like me to inform her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York, that you are here?”

Freddie? Here at the Jacombes’? I looked again at Mrs. Hargrove and marveled at the extent of her knowledge of the people in Society. “Yes, please do. I did not know she was visiting.”

“The Royal Duchess is an acquaintance of Mrs. Jacombe’s. I shall just be a minute. Would you care for a glass of wine while you wait?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mrs. Hargrove served me a full glass of excellent burgundy before leaving the room without a sound. Some ten minutes passed—more than enough time for me to finish the wine—then Freddie appeared in the doorway, dressed in a somber, dove-coloured gown.

“George! I did not realise you knew Lady Venetia.”

I bowed low. “Freddie, what are you doing here, and who is Lady Venetia?”

She sat down on the green sofa and indicated a place next to her. Nothing could have kept me from it. I gazed into her china-blue eyes, hoping to see a return of the warmth I could once detect there. Alas, while her expression was cordial, that invisible wall still remained.

 “Lady Venetia is Mrs. Jacombe. She comes from Weybridge originally, and I knew her father a little. I call on her most times when I come to London.”

Weybridge is the county where Freddie lives.

“She is a titled lady, then?”

“Yes, the daughter of an earl, long deceased. I should not call her Lady Venetia, as she chose to be known instead as simply Mrs. Jacombe out of respect for her husband when they married.”

“A touch unusual,” I mused. So Jacombe had married into the peerage. That could only have served to add to his consequence during his climb up the governmental ladder.