The Bloodied Cravat (15 page)

“Jack Townsend, while well enough in his way and discreet, cannot be relied upon to get to the truth. Mr. Lavender’s excellent reputation for justice is precisely why I have asked him to Oatlands,” she replied, her bearing rigid. She swallowed hard. “I cannot bring scandal on this house. The murderer of Lord Kendrick must not, on
any
account, be left to go free. The Duke would want me to do everything possible to avoid scandal.”

I tensed at the mention of Freddie’s husband. “The Duke of York? Avoid scandal? While parading his mistress through the streets of London and, at the moment, the streets of Geneva?”

Freddie rose to her feet.

I followed suit, taking a step toward her. “I apologize. I ought not to have said that, Freddie. It is just that I do not want you to feel you must bear all this alone. I will find the letter and uncover the murderer. You can count on
me
to help. You can always trust that
I
will be available to you.”

Her Royal Highness looked at me through doubtful eyes. “Can I count on you, George? For the first time, I wonder if that is true. And if it is true, to what lengths will you go—”

Her voice broke off.

The appalling idea that she thought
I
might be responsible for Lord Kendrick’s death presented itself in my brain. I suppose I could not blame her, as I had threatened Lord Kendrick’s life just the night before in her bedchamber. Still, she should know me better. Before I could disabuse her of the notion that I had killed the marquess, the door to the drawing room opened and Signor Tallarico entered the room.

Freddie walked past me and held out her hand to him. “Victor, how glad I am to see you.”

The Italian murmured something close to her ear, and she nodded at him.

I marched from the room, more determined than ever to find the letter. And the killer.

“Sir! I have been awaiting your return. I have laid out your evening clothes,” Robinson said, his gaze running over me critically. “Er, would you like a bath first?”

“Yes. Immediately,” I replied, stripping off my coat and tossing it on the back of the chair where Chakkri rested. The cat sat with his tail curled around his hind leg.

“Robinson, which was Lady Ariana’s chamber? The one before or after Lord Kendrick’s?”

“After, I believe, sir. If you are looking for the lady, I am afraid she departed a short time ago with Lady Crecy’s party.”

“Thank you.”

Robinson exited the room to give orders for my bath.

I followed him out the door and stopped at Lady Ariana’s chamber. Done in cheerful shades of yellow and white, it nevertheless managed to depress me when I found nothing whatsoever of interest within its walls.

Shuffling back to my room a quarter of an hour later, I addressed the cat, “Well, old boy, now what? That scandalous letter is still missing, we have a dead marquess found in the dog’s grave, and Mr. Lavender on his way from Bow Street. If he discovers Lord Kendrick’s hold over Freddie and me ...”

“Reow,” Chakkri cried urgently, shifting his position a bit and re-curling his tail around his hind leg.

“Devilish bad situation in which to find oneself, I tell you.” I poured myself a measure of wine, drank it, then resumed my conversation with the cat. “What are you doing with your tail? Looks like an initial ‘C’ curled about like that. Is that ‘C’ for Chakkri?”

“Reow!” the cat said. He licked a spot over his left shoulder.

“A clever trick. You will be practicing it at Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre, though, if Mr. Lavender finds that letter and thinks I murdered Lord Kendrick to protect Freddie. As if I would ruin the marquess’s cravat while doing so.”

The cat made a garbled sound.

“Just so. I would not have killed him despite my angry threats. I believe the idea that I might have done away with Lord Kendrick has crossed Freddie’s mind. However, I cannot say with any certainty what Freddie has been thinking. Our relationship has been strained since I kissed her on her birthday.”

“Reow!” he said again.

“I suppose you think I should not have kissed her, eh? Ah, Robinson,” I said at the valet’s entry. “Good timing, man. I need a hot bath to clear my head.”

After bathing and dressing in black satin knee breeches, pristine white shirt and white waistcoat, I tied my cravat and glanced at the coat Robinson had selected. “No, let us have the Scotch-blue coat this evening, Robinson. Appropriate since we are expecting Mr. Lavender.”

Robinson hurried to the wardrobe and extracted the desired coat. “I heard in the servants’ hall that the Scotsman is on his way. He could use a hand in dressing.”

“I have tried, I give you my word. One can only make suggestions, that is all. Some people do not believe, as I do, that dressing is an art.”

Once properly clad, I was about to leave the room when the question I had been waiting for Robinson to voice all during the dressing process finally came out into the open.

“Sir, who do you think killed Lord Kendrick?”

I pulled on a pair of spotless white gloves. “I do not know. The marquess seemed to have more enemies than friends.”

“Sir, the thought presented itself to me that Cook or her niece might have done it.”

I swiveled around at that. “What? Oh, yes, I recall your telling me that Lord Kendrick had forced himself on Cook’s niece. Hmmm, that would be motive indeed.”

“I think so, sir. Shall I find out what I can? I know you do not like to discuss your part in resolving the two other murders that have touched our lives—”

“No, I do not want my investigations to become general knowledge amongst Society.”

“That is just as it should be, I am certain, sir,” Robinson agreed. “One would not want it known that you were associating with from persons at Bow Street, either.”

Or their daughters, I suddenly thought, remembering the Scotsman’s lovely daughter, Lydia Lavender. The Bow Street man did not want me near her, I think because of the difference in our stations in life.

“In truth, Robinson, I had not yet considered Cook or her niece as possible suspects. Other members of the house party have come to mind. Find out what you can and report back to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

I walked out of the room, noticing that Robinson positively glowed with pleasure at the idea of inquiring into the matter. For my own part, I felt my mind split in two. One part of me was preoccupied with finding the missing letter. The other part recognized that the letter was irrevocably tied up with the marquess, which made me more determined to find his killer. Adding to these motivations, I was incensed at the thought that the killer had struck at my dear Freddie’s Oatlands, had buried the body in her dogs’ cemetery, and appeared to be one of the very guests at her house party.

And that she might entertain the thought that I had been the one ...

I stopped that line of thinking. I must tread with the greatest of care in this delicate situation, and act from intellect without allowing my emotions to cloud my judgment.

Later that night after a quite unsatisfactory dinner, due to Cook’s upset I surmised, Old Dawe announced the arrival of Mr. Lavender. The bluff Scotsman was clad in his customary salt and pepper game coat worn over corduroy pants tucked into scuffed boots. Stockily built and past his fiftieth year, he entered the green drawing room and stood on the threshold, studying the occupants. I noted his clothes were exactly as I had expected. Indeed, I had never seen him in anything different. I let out a sigh, which alerted him to my presence. 

I thought I heard him utter a disgusted “ach” but he may have just been clearing his throat. He considers me naught but a foolish dandy. I admit I sometimes encourage this view to my own ends.

Freddie greeted him. “Mr. Lavender, how good of you to come. Please sit down.”

Mr. Lavender bowed to the Royal Duchess, then saw that every chair in the room was taken up by either a human or a canine. He moved to the chair where Humphrey lay and bent to scratch the top of Humphrey’s head. The hound gazed at him with soulful eyes. “Here’s a trusty lad,” Mr. Lavender pronounced in his Scottish burr. “Mayhaps he’d share this chair with me.”

“I am sorry,” Freddie said. “I did not even notice there was no empty chair. These past two days have been so distressing, I am afraid I am preoccupied.”

Old Dawe offered Mr. Lavender a glass of wine from a tray. The Bow Street man accepted it and took a sip. “There’s no need to be fretting yourself over me, your Royal Highness. I believe I met this fine hound in Brighton last autumn.”

“Indeed you did,” Freddie managed a smile. “How good of you to remember.”

“I have a head for remembering things.” Mr. Lavender had the dog out of the chair and placed at his feet within moments. “I may be acquainted with Humphrey, and I do know Mr. Brummell here ....”

Obviously the dog ranked higher in his opinion, but I nodded in the Bow Street man’s direction.

“... and I recollect meeting you also, haven’t I?” Mr. Lavender said to Signor Tallarico.

“
Si
, I am Victor Tallarico,” the Italian responded. “We also met at Brighton.”

Mr. Lavender nodded. He placed his wine glass on a nearby table. Then he pulled a tattered notebook from one of his coat’s copious pockets, extracted a stub of a pencil from another, and began making notes.

“Mr. Lavender, let me introduce Doctor Wendell and Squire Oxberry. The Squire is our local magistrate,” Freddie said.

The men half-rose, greeted one another and regained their chairs. You risk losing your chair to a dog at Oatlands if you leave it for long.

“Now, your Royal Highness, I received your missive and came straight out. I’d be pleased to help you with this matter. You wrote that your footman found the body of the Marquess of Kendrick buried in your dogs’ cemetery earlier today.”

“One of the Royal Duchess’s dogs had passed away this morning and Old Dawe went to prepare a grave,” I said.

Mr. Lavender slowly turned his head in my direction. I was the only one standing, refusing to sit anywhere other than at Freddie’s side. Since Tallarico had beaten me to the coveted place, I stood next to a marble pedestal, one arm propped next to a dog statue.

The look Mr. Lavender gave me spoke volumes, volumes on letting him have control of the interview, but I have suffered those looks before and survived in one piece. Thus far.

“Unseemly place for a marquess to be buried, and a great deal of trouble,” Squire Oxberry pronounced. “A great deal.” Clearly the Squire disliked trouble of any sort. Why he had agreed to the position of magistrate, I cannot tell you.

“Old Dawe found the body, reported it to us, and we went out to inspect the scene,” I said.

“What time and who went?”

“Myself, Sylvester Fairingdale, Roger Cranworth, Tallarico, and the Royal Duchess. It was shortly after noon. We were all preparing to visit some local ruins.”

“I know Fairingdale: who is Roger Cranworth?”

“One of my neighbours, as were Lord Kendrick and his cousin,” Freddie told him. “Mr. Cranworth and his sister were here for my house party.”

“House party?” Mr. Lavender repeated, a bleak note in his voice. “Were there many people here?”

“Not really,” Freddie mused. “Only about a hundred for my birthday celebration on Wednesday. Less than half of those were actually guests at Oatlands.”

The Bow Street man looked like he had swallowed a lemon. “Where is everyone now?”

“The murder cut short our entertainments. People went back to Town, of course,” Freddie answered, surprised at the question. “We are in the middle of a Season.”

“Parties, assemblies, afternoon breakfasts, trips to Vauxhall and the theatre are all so much more amusing than dead people buried where they are not supposed to be,” I pointed out, shooting a mocking look at the Scotsman.

“One day there’ll be a law against people leaving the vicinity after a murder has been committed,” he muttered. “Let’s get back to the body. How had the marquess been killed?”

Freddie looked at the floor.

I adjusted the sleeve of my coat.

“Hideous way to die,” Squire Oxberry mumbled.

Doctor Wendell spoke up. “I examined the body, Mr. Lavender, and can tell you that a sharp instrument was impaled in Lord Kendrick’s neck.”

“What sharp instrument?” Mr. Lavender asked.

Freddie moaned. Tallarico took her hand.

I gritted my teeth.

Ulga appeared from her corner, poured her mistress a glass of wine and handed it to her, causing Freddie to remove her hand from the Italian’s. Freddie took a swallow and waved the maid away. “The murder weapon was a hair ornament that belonged to me, Mr. Lavender.”

“Antique Roman they are, made of solid jet,” Tallarico said. “I know because I gave them to the Royal Duchess for her birthday.”

“Them?” Mr. Lavender inquired.

“Yes, there was a matching pair,” I said. “The Royal Duchess had left them right here,” I indicated the top of the pedestal next to which I stood. “We found one. The other, well ... you know where that one was discovered. The problem is, anyone could have come into the drawing room and slipped the thing into their pocket.”

“Anyone with a motive to kill Lord Kendrick,” Mr. Lavender stated.

“That is what I meant,” I said, noting that more of the Scotsman’s red hair had gone to grey since the last time I had seen him. I wondered if I had anything to do with the loss of colour. If so, his hair would be as white as snow before this investigation was over.

Doctor Wendell said, “I wonder why the hair ornament was selected as the murder weapon.”

“The choice of weapon is interesting, I agree. Perhaps the killer acted on impulse. He or she noticed the hair ornament, and saw an opportunity,” Mr. Lavender said. “Who do you think wanted Lord Kendrick dead, Doctor?”

Doctor Wendell looked startled. “I’m sure I don’t know. I did think the murder happened outside, near the makeshift grave. There was blood on the grass and dirt around the grave, but no trail of blood leading from the spot. I find it impossible to imagine the killer could have thrust the hair ornament into Lord Kendrick’s neck in the house without leaving a trail of some sort. Surely there would be evidence. Squire Oxberry and I looked around and could find none.”