The Bloodied Cravat (30 page)

Riding in Lady Crecy’s luxurious Town coach a few minutes later, I had time to think. Lady Crecy sat next to me, with Cecily Cranworth and Doctor Wendell opposite.

I had been so sure that Roger Cranworth had killed Lord Kendrick. Now Roger was dead. I still believed he had killed Neal. But who had given Roger poison? I refused to even consider that Freddie, desperate over the letter, had had anything to do with Roger’s death. That meant that the poison that killed Roger had been given to him prior to when he met her in the turret room. But how much earlier? My knowledge of poisons is somewhat limited, you understand, never having had occasion to use one myself.

Could Roger have been given the drug before the ball at Syon House? Or had someone slipped him a poisoned drink at the party?

Who wanted both Lord Kendrick
and
Roger dead?

I looked at Cecily Cranworth. She would have motive to kill Lord Kendrick, but not her brother. Despite Roger’s care-for-nobody ways, Miss Cranworth still loved him. More importantly, she knew her friend Lady Ariana loved him. Cecily would do nothing to hurt Lady Ariana.

What about Doctor Wendell? He would have knowledge of poisons. He had been at the Oatlands house party, angry at Lord Kendrick’s brutish treatment of Cecily Cranworth. But as for Roger ... When I arrived at Syon House, Cecily and Doctor Wendell had told me of their engagement. Roger, thinking himself soon to be rich by blackmailing Freddie, apparently had given the couple his blessing. Doctor Wendell would have no reason to kill Roger. He would not want Cecily hurt—as she appeared now—by her brother’s death.

Inside Lady Crecy’s grand house, we gathered in the drawing room. A footman was sent to Lady Ariana’s room to bring the lady down. Some minutes went by before the pale, wispy girl slipped into the room.

Cecily Cranworth promptly burst into fresh tears.

Doctor Wendell sat close to Cecily on the sofa murmuring words of sympathy.

Lady Crecy stood wringing her hands.

I said, “Lady Ariana, come and sit in this chair. I fear we have bad news to share with you.”

The girl obeyed. Lady Crecy seated herself and watched anxiously as I pulled a chair close to Lady Ariana.

“Why is Cecily crying?” Lady Ariana said in her child-like voice.

I took a deep breath. “Because something very sad has happened.”

Vacant eyes looked at me. “Sad?”

“Yes. Lady Ariana, I am afraid that Roger Cranworth partook of some wine or other drink which made him quite ill this evening.”

The girl looked at me with a benign expression.

“Lady Ariana, I am so very sorry to tell you this because I know how much you love Roger, but the illness was a fatal one. He could not be saved.”

“Dead?” She said uncertainly.

“Yes.” I tried to take her hand, but she pulled it back. She clasped her hands in her lap.

“No, you are mistaken. It is Connell who is dead,” she said, thinking of her cousin, Lord Kendrick. “And he deserved to die.”

Lady Crecy gasped and reached in her reticule for her salts.

On the sofa, Cecily Cranworth allowed Doctor Wendell to put his arm around her as she sniffled.

I tried again. “You are confused, Lady Ariana.”

She shook her head. “No, I am not. Connell deserved to die. He killed Uncle, you know,” she said referring to the old Marquess of Kendrick. “He gave him something to drink that caused an attack of Uncle’s heart. Connell did it so he could be marquess. After Maynard died, Uncle was the only one standing in the way.”

Good God! I knew Lord Kendrick was a dissolute criminal, but a murderer besides? Yet I remembered thinking it very convenient that a second son without prospects, dependent upon his father for a miserly allowance, should suddenly find himself the possessor of a title and wealth.

“Lady Ariana, listen to me carefully,” I said gently. “Please look at me. I am unaware of what Lord Kendrick did or who killed him. I am speaking now of your betrothed, Roger Cranworth.”

She smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “Yes, Roger and I are to be married. He was reluctant at first, but then I gave him the ticket to good fortune, and he said he would marry me.”

A chill ran through me.

“Ticket to good fortune?” I looked at Lady Crecy. She shook her head implying she knew nothing of any money.

Lady Ariana went on, “Connell had given it to me to hide in my room. It was a secret. A folded piece of paper. Connell told me not to look at it or he would send me away to a lunatic asylum. He said that I must be careful not to say anything about it because it was his ticket to good fortune.”

The letter. She was talking about Freddie’s letter. It had been in Lady Ariana’s room at Oatlands, as I had suspected. I had just been too late to reclaim it.

“I did what Connell said. I did not want to be sent away.” Lady Ariana looked at me for approval.

“You did just as you ought,” I said.

“That is what Roger said. After Connell died, I told Roger I loved him. I asked him to take care of me.” She frowned. “At first, he said no. He said he could not afford a wife, but then I told him about the ticket to good fortune and what Connell had said. After I gave Roger the folded paper, he said that as long as I did not tell anyone about the paper, we would be married.”

The dastard, using someone fragile like Lady Ariana to launch a blackmail scheme. He probably never would have married her, finding some excuse to break the engagement.

Lady Ariana went on: “But since Roger has been in London, he hardly ever comes to see me. He still wants to marry me, does he not? I begin to wonder. It is wrong for a gentleman to go back on his word, you know.” She turned to me. “I have been very angry thinking he would not wed me after he promised.”

“Lady Ariana, I know that Roger loved you very much,” I lied. “He did want to marry you and would have, I am certain, had he lived.”

“But he is alive. It is Connell that is dead.”

“No!” Cecily Cranworth screamed. “Roger is dead, Ariana. They are both dead!”

Cecily began crying again. Lady Ariana’s face was a perfect blank. Try as we might, neither Lady Crecy, Doctor Wendell, nor I could get her to say another word. I think that Cecily’s words had finally penetrated, and the girl had retreated somewhere in her mind.

Doctor Wendell left Cecily in Lady Crecy’s care and motioned for me to join him in the hall. I took my leave of the ladies and followed the doctor.

“Mr. Brummell, it is of no use. Sadly I have seen cases like Lady Ariana before. She needs rest and the care of people who love her. I think she should return to the country.”

I nodded. “I expect you have the right of it.”

“Clearly the girl is not in her right mind, babbling on about that ticket to good fortune.”

“Will she be all right? Is she, in any way, dangerous?”

“There’s no way to really know. What I’ll propose is that Cecily and I wed immediately. Lady Ariana can live with us. Cecily will not want it any other way.”

I held out my hand to Doctor Wendell. “You are good. Write to me and let me know how matters progress.”

Though the hour was very late and I risked encountering a footpad, I walked the few streets home. I had to try to clear my mind of its jumbled thoughts and focus on who wanted
both
Lord Kendrick and Roger Cranworth dead. Although the idea that the killings were not related did occur to me, I dismissed it. Instinct told me the same person had committed the crimes.

Could it be Lady Ariana? The girl was out of her senses, that was plain to see. Doctor Wendell could not say with any certainty whether she was dangerous. Could she have been so frightened that Lord Kendrick would put her in that lunatic asylum that she killed him? Then, later, when Roger showed signs of abandoning her after he had promised to marry her, could she have killed again? She said she had been angry at the thought he would not fulfill his promise to marry her.

I entered Bruton Street with must have been a mighty frown on my face.

Robinson was all concern. “Sir, what is wrong?”

“Roger Cranworth was murdered tonight,” I said wearily, climbing the stairs.

“Heavens! His death does not have anything to do with the Royal Duchess’s missing letter, does it, sir?” he asked as we crossed into my bedchamber.

“I fear it has everything to do with that blasted letter,” I snapped, causing Chakkri, asleep on the bed, to raise his head and point his ears forward.

I immediately regretted my tone. Robinson became even more solicitous of my needs, real and imagined. When he asked if I wanted him to go down to the kitchens and warm some milk to help me sleep, I lost my temper. “When have I ever, in the time you have known me, drunk warm milk? Take yourself off. I can prepare myself for bed. I do not require, nor do I want, your help.”

Robinson’s face fell. In a quiet voice he said, “I am sorry, sir. Before I leave, if you will permit me to say one thing.”

“Go ahead,” I told him, pouring myself a large measure of brandy.

I am sorry that I was taken in by that girl, Fanny. I should have known better, since she was employed by that odious Sylvester Fairingdale. I am afraid, sir, that I was duped by a pretty face. She seemed respectable and caring, though she did try to get me to reveal the secret ingredients of the blackening I use on your boots. I never dreamed the tisane she gave me would cause such ill effects. She explained that all the herbs and such were of the first quality as she obtained them from the very same apothecary that her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York uses to mix potions whenever she is in London. I was a fool to believe Fanny. Please forgive me.”

I had been standing with my back to him. At these words, I turned around to tell him to forget the matter. But he had left the room soundlessly.

I picked up my brandy and looked at the cat. “Well, I shall tell him in the morning. I should not have been sharp with him.”

Chakkri let out a faint “reow.”

The brandy slid down my throat and I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth invade my body.

Then my eyes snapped open. “Good God!”

I placed the brandy on a side table with a sharp click. “I am the fool, Chakkri, not Robinson. The answer has been right in front of me the whole time! I just did not want to consider it. I did not want to believe it. I did not want it to be so. Dear God.”

“Reow!” shrieked Chakkri. Then he laid down and curled his tail into a “C.”

I remained awake most of the night, trying to decide what to do. Before dawn I had an idea, but it was not in the least pleasing.

Without waking Robinson, I dressed and traversed the streets between my house and Curzon Street. There was something inside Roger’s rooms I wanted. No one answered my knock. Mr. Gilpin must have fled upon hearing of his employer’s death.

I have never broken into anyone’s residence before, so I hope I will be excused for taking quite half an hour to defeat the lock.

I had what I wanted and hastened back to Bruton Street just as the sun came up. The fickle English weather had turned chilly. Under the coverlet, I fell into an uneasy sleep and woke a few hours later, feeling as if my mind was still grappling with what I had deduced the entire time I slept.

Freshly bathed, groomed and attired in a true blue coat made of Bath superfine atop light-coloured breeches, I was about to place my gold-framed miniature of Freddie in my pocket. I paused and looked down at her face. Then I opened a drawer and laid the miniature inside where it would rest from now on.

A few moments later, I stepped down to my book-room.

I had explained to Robinson that he need not feel guilty any longer regarding Fairingdale’s plot to discover my secrets. The valet had accepted my words and had gone so far as to criticize the length and style of my hair. Recall that he had not been happy when Diggie had fashioned it in the new way.

Freddie’s compliment of the style had prompted me to tell her I would keep it for her. Today I gave in to Robinson’s objections and allowed him free reign with his scissors.

Seating myself at my desk, I prepared to write three letters. The first was to a King. I chose my words with the greatest of care, hoping to appeal to his appreciation for loyalty.

The second letter proved even more of a challenge, for I was not writing it in my own hand, but of that of Roger Cranworth. On my pre-dawn mission, I had obtained a sample of Roger’s handwriting and even managed to find blank sheets of his stationery. The message was short, but I am no more a forgerer than a lock-picker, so the task was time consuming. When I was satisfied with my handiwork, I took the failures over to the cold fireplace and burned them.

Then I drew a sheet of paper out and wrote Mr. Lavender a brief note. I reiterated my petition that the Bow Street man keep Freddie’s letter confidential and allow me the day to uncover the murderer, before taking further action.

“Robinson, deliver this personally to Mr. Lavender.” I gave directions to the Bow Street man’s residence, as well as the names of taverns he would likely frequent for a mid-day meal. As a last resort, he was to deliver the note to Miss Lavender at the Haven of Hope. On no account was he to go to Bow Street. I did not want to take the smallest chance of someone I knew seeing my valet there.

As it was, Robinson assumed his Martyr Expression when faced with travelling to areas of London he pretended did not exist.  “Where will you be, sir?”

“St. James’s Palace, then perhaps the depths of the Serpentine River. No, I believe I shall visit the British Museum.”

When Robinson left the house in high dudgeon a few minutes later, I reflected that he was back to his old self.

Removing a large sum of money from a locked drawer in my desk, I could only hope that my plans to reveal the killer would succeed so that Robinson would still have a master to serve.

* * * *

I entered St. James’s Palace, noting two burly men I recognised as being from Bow Street outside the gates. Did Mr. Lavender think Freddie would attempt to flee London?

Ushered once again into the large gold and white drawing room where her Royal Highness receives guests, I bowed low.