The Tainted Snuff Box (16 page)

That smile made me pause.  Not only did it brighten an already attractive face, but it seemed to convey the spirited signal that Miss Lavender considered herself my equal.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Brummell,” she said.  “I came as soon as I received your letter.”

I performed the introductions, all the while admiring the translucence of Miss Lavender’s porcelain-like skin and the sheer richness of her auburn hair in the candlelit room.  As is her custom, she wore a neat, serviceable gown, this one in a rust-coloured wool that complimented her hair.  I suddenly found myself feeling rather pleased that Tallarico had taken his leave before Miss Lavender arrived.

“How good of you to come,” Lady Perry said.  “Will you not sit down and have a cup of tea?”

Here is an example of what a kind person Lady Perry is.  Another lady of her rank may not have deigned to sit down and share refreshments with a social inferiour.  The daughter of a Bow Street man moves in an entirely different world than the one Lady Perry inhabits, and their worlds meet only on limited levels.  Those levels do not normally include taking tea.

Miss Lavender accepted the offer of a seat, I suspect because she did not wish Perry and me to remain standing.  She gazed about her elegant surroundings with interest, but declined the tea saying in a businesslike manner, “I’d like to hear more about this woman’s condition.  Has she been beaten?”

Lady Perry seemed taken aback at Miss Lavender’s direct approach.  I could have told her that the Bow Street investigator’s daughter was not one to engage in roundaboutation.

No pampered Society girl, Miss Lavender seeks to ease the wrongs women endure due to the limitations imposed upon them by the law, social customs, and the ruthless treatment they often suffered at the hands of men.  Or so she has told me.

Gazing into her green eyes, I suddenly wondered what actually motivated Miss Lavender.  Was there something in her past that led her to be so conscientious in helping other females?

To answer her question regarding the Frenchwoman’s physical condition, I replied, “No, Miss Lavender, the woman did not appear physically harmed, at least not that I know of.”  I raised an inquiring eyebrow at Lady Perry.

Her ladyship gave a little shake of her head.  “When Betty came up to help me change out of my travelling dress, she told me the Frenchwoman had not said a word about her situation.  Betty had all she could do to get a few sips of tea past the woman’s lips.  The woman said nothing, would accept no food, and is still frightened to death.  We do not even know her name.”

I nodded.  “As I told you in my letter, Miss Lavender, the woman seems terrified of men, specifically.  Had not Lady Perry been present, I feel the woman would have run off rather than go anywhere with me.”

“How lowering for you, Mr. Brummell,” Miss Lavender said.

Before I could deliver a reply to this saucy comment, she continued speaking.  “So we have no idea who she is or what happened to her.  Only that she has suffered some upset which has paralyzed her with fear.”  Miss Lavender sighed.  “Bring her to me, please.”

“Of course,” Perry said.  Lady Perry rang for Betty.  “Do you have room for her at your shelter, Miss Lavender?”

“I will not turn her away.”

“Do you have many women to look after?” Lady Perry queried.

Miss Lavender thought for a moment.  “We had a new arrival this morning, a fifteen-year-old girl heavy with child, who brings our number to nineteen.  A chambermaid, the girl had been turned out without a reference after the master of the house—the very one responsible for her condition—learned she was pregnant.  She’s been living on the streets for the past four months and only learned of my shelter when she was caught stealing an apple.  The grocer happens to be one I frequent.  Mr. Lavell took pity on her and rather than bring charges against her, he brought her to me.”

Lady Perry listened to this account with one hand placed protectively over her stomach.  “How dreadful!  And how good the merchant was to realize the poor child was merely hungry.”

“A rare man, indeed,” Perry concurred.  “Many would have had the chit hauled away to the nearest roundhouse.”

“Yes, Mr. Lavell is good,” Miss Lavender said with a fond smile.

Was that smile indicative of a warmer relationship between the two?  My brows drew together.  Miss Lavender could do better than a grocer, surely.  I reflected that one day soon I might decide to visit Miss Lavender’s shelter, and the surrounding neighborhood.  I am a curious fellow, you know.

At that moment, my attention was caught by the sight of Betty standing in the doorway with the Frenchwoman.  Betty, bless her, had provided what I suspect was one of her own dresses to the distressed female.  And distressed she most certainly remained.  The Frenchwoman shrank at the sight of Perry and me, clinging to Betty and making the sign of the cross.  Betty managed to inch her into the room.

Miss Lavender rose from her chair.  “Good afternoon, my name is Lydia Lavender.  What is yours?”

The Frenchwoman did not respond.  Her rounded eyes remained focused on Perry and me as if at any moment we might attack her.

The next few minutes were all confusion.

A voice with a Scottish lilt sounded from behind where Betty and the Frenchwoman stood.

“Lydia!  What are you doing here?” Mr. Lavender demanded.

The sound of a male voice so close at hand startled the Frenchwoman into a scream, followed by a rapid repetition of the word “no.”  She stood rooted to the spot, her entire body trembling.

Betty and Miss Lavender rushed to comfort the woman.  Lady Perry would have joined them, but her husband placed a gentle hand on her arm in a restraining manner.

Mr. Lavender abruptly became aware of my presence and shook his finger at me, a mannerism I feel he employs to put me in my place.  “What’s this all about?  What are you doing here, Mr. Brummell?”

I eyed the Bow Street man with mock gravity.  “We are holding a tea party.  May I see your invitation?”

Lord Perry took command of the situation.  “Mr. Lavender, I did not hear you announced,” he said in glacial tones.

“How could you with all that caterwauling going on?” Mr. Lavender said.

“Father, please!  I am trying to help this woman.”

“At whose request, Lydia?”  A muscle in Mr. Lavender’s jaw flicked angrily.  “Wait, don’t tell me.  Mr. Brummell’s, no doubt.  We’ll have to have another talk about your

hob-a-nobbing with him.” 

“Now there is something for you to look forward to, Miss Lavender,” I said in a perfectly pleasant voice.

“If I might ask you, Miss Lavender,” Lord Perry said, “are you willing to take this lady to your shelter?”

“Yes, I am, and we’ll leave at once, my lord,” Miss Lavender said.  “Lady Perry, may I beg the assistance of your maid?  I think it will ease this woman’s coming to me if Betty sees her settled in.  I assure you I will return Betty to you safely this evening.”

“Of course,” Lady Perry agreed.  “I shall walk to the door with you.  Oh!  I daresay we need another cloak.  Betty, would you . . .”  The four women exited the room, Miss Lavender informing her father he might take his evening meal at Ye Olde Cock Tavern, as she expected to be home quite late.

This news did nothing to improve the Bow Street man’s temper.  “I’ve some questions for you, Lord Perry.”

“I expect you had best sit down,” Perry said in a resigned tone as we resumed our seats.  “I suppose this is about the attempt on Prinny’s life?”

Mr. Lavender looked uneasily at the plush chair Perry indicated before seating himself.  “Is your cousin here?”

Lord Perry was every inch the earl.  “Victor?  No, he has gone to look for a hotel.  If you have come to question me about him again, you are wasting your time.  I have nothing further to say.”

The two men’s gazes met and held. 

Mr. Lavender looked away first.  He pulled his tattered notebook from his pocket.  “Very well, my lord,” he said, burring his “r.”  “Let us discuss Lord Petersham.”

The wave of disapproval emanating from me would have cowed a lesser man.

Lord Perry snorted a laugh.  “First my cousin, now Petersham?  Surely you do not think the viscount capable of concocting an assassination?”

“Lord Petersham tries to give the impression of one lazy beyond comprehension, but I’m not fooled by the act.  No man,” Mr. Lavender said, tapping the notebook with emphasis, “can be that slothful, my lord.”

I chuckled.  “You obviously are not well acquainted with the viscount.”

“When I said ‘my lord’ I was addressing Lord Perry, Mr. Brummell,” Mr. Lavender barked.  He rarely misses an opportunity to remind me of my rank.  Or lack thereof.

“Brummell is right,” Lord Perry stated.  “Petersham is content with the usual gentleman’s pursuits, and he enjoys mixing blends of snuff.  Tea, as well, I believe.  There is not an ounce of harm in him.”

“There was certainly more than an ounce of harm in that snuff he mixed,” Mr. Lavender said. 

“But he did not intend for there to be,” I said.

The Bow Street man ignored me.  “Lord Perry, how long have you known Lord Petersham?”

Perry thought, then said, “As long as I can remember.”

“And in that time, have you ever heard him speak ill of the Prince of Wales?  Ever heard him say England would be better off without his Royal Highness?”

Perry looked at Mr. Lavender with contempt.  “This is ridiculous.  Of course not.  You will never convince me that Petersham had any intention of poisoning the Prince.  That snuff box was on the sideboard in the Eating Room for a good part of the evening.  Anyone present could have added poison to the contents of that box.”

“That is precisely what I tried to tell Townsend and Mr. Lavender yesterday,” I said to Perry, then turned to the Bow Street man.  “Petersham had a public conversation with the Prince about his new blend of snuff.  A number of people knew the Prince was to be the first to try it.  As Perry said,
anyone
in that room could be responsible, even the servants.  Logic will tell you Petersham is not that person.”

“Logic, eh?” Mr. Lavender said.  “Let me tell you, laddie, logic doesn’t often play a part in crimes like murder.  Passion, greed, and revenge, they are the ones.”

“There you are,” I said triumphantly.  “Even though Bow Street thinks it logical that Petersham is responsible because it was his snuff, he is not.  You must look for the person with one of the motives you yourself outlined for us, Mr. Lavender.”

The Bow Street man was not convinced.  “You have a way of muddling things, Mr. Brummell, I’ll give you that.”

“I am not muddling anything!  What could possibly be Petersham’s motive?  There is none, I tell you.” 

Mr. Lavender pocketed the notebook and rounded on me.  “You are very protective of your friend.”

“Yes, I am.  I have no wish for his name to be bandied about in such a disgraceful manner.  And I don’t want you going about insinuating Lord Petersham is responsible.”

“And
I
don’t want
you
involved in another murder case,” Mr. Lavender said, his voice well above the level of normal conversation.

“
The Prince of Wales
does want me involved,” I shot back. 

“Madness runs in his family.”  With that, Mr. Lavender shoved a hat shaped like a coal-scuttle on his head and stomped from the room.

“I do not think we convinced him of my cousin’s or Petersham’s innocence,” Perry said ruefully.

“Neither do I,” I said, with growing concern.  “May I have some of that Madeira?”

Robinson opened the door to No.18 Bruton street upon my arrival home.  “Good evening, sir.  I trust everything worked out to your satisfaction regarding that strange woman you found on the London Road.”

I crossed into the black and white tiled hall.  “Miss Lavender is taking her in.  Remember, the Bow Street man’s daughter runs a shelter for women in trouble,” I said, handing him my greatcoat, gloves, and hat.

I retained the dog’s head walking stick Freddie had given me, reflecting that I missed the Royal Duchess already.  I would write to her in the morning, telling her about the Frenchwoman.

Robinson followed up the stairs behind me.  “Will you be dining at home this evening, sir?”

“No, I am not hungry at the moment.  I shall be spending the evening at White’s and will order something there later.  You may bring me some tea, though,” I said as we entered my bedchamber.

This room contains every luxury a gentleman of fashion might require.  The floor is covered by a red, blue, and ivory floral-designed Persian carpet.  A set of large mahogany wardrobes line one wall.  A tall, mahogany-framed dressing glass, one that rests on casters and can be moved about the room at will, stands in one corner.  In another corner, a black lacquered screen is set up, Chakkri’s private sand-tray resting behind it.  Engravings and paintings make my walls a delight to ponder, while my most prized Sevres porcelain collection sits on a

crescent-shaped side table.  The room is dominated by a tented bed with ivory silk hangings.

Er, perhaps I should amend that to read as follows:  The room is dominated by a compact bundle of Siamese fur named Chakkri.  Asleep in the exact center of the bed, the cat woke at my entrance, let out a low “reow,” and stretched until it seemed he was a yard long.  Then he stood up.  Looking at Robinson, the cat made as if he would knead his sharp claws on the ivory silk coverlet.

The valet sucked in his breath on a horrified gasp.

Satisfied, Chakkri sprang from the bed without so much as a claw nicking the costly material.  I am not surprised the animal did no damage.  The cat has shown me from the day he arrived in my house that he holds an appreciation for the finer things in life.  He slinks around fragile crystal, purrs at my delicate Sevres, and rolls in delight on the fur rug of my sedan-chair. 

“Good evening, old boy,” I greeted him, placing my stick across one of the chairs.  I bent and petted his incredibly soft fawn-coloured fur.  “Are you happy to be home?”

But Chakkri was not inclined toward conversation at the moment.  A new article had entered the house and must be inspected.  He rose on his hind legs to sniff every inch of the dog’s head walking stick.  Despite the canine motif, the cat appeared to approve the new addition, rubbing his whisker pad against it, giving the silver dog a playful nip on the nose.  Finished with his examination, Chakkri moved to a position in front of the fire and began toasting his fur.