The Tainted Snuff Box (21 page)

There was no letter, only the spoken command that I present myself at Carlton House immediately.

Ned and Ted carried me in my sedan-chair to the royal residence after a slight delay.  Robinson had insisted on ridding my coat of cat fur.  A few of the hairs proved stubborn against his special cloth.  Seething, the valet had resorted to a pair of tweezers.  I stood for this as long as I could—noting the tweezers were the same ones he used on my brow!—then took my leave.

Arriving at Carlton House, I opened the door to my chair and told the twins to wait for me.

“Er, sir,” Ted said anxiously.  “Couldn’t we come in with you?”

Thinking the country boys wanted to see the inside of a royal palace, I shook my head sadly.  “I am sorry.”  I turned to go.

“Wait!” cried Ned.  “Mr. Robinson said we was to stay with you and protect you.  We are strong, you know.  Just look at these muscles.”

Before I could utter a protest, Ned stripped off his coat, tossed it on top of the sedan-chair, then turned and posed, muscles flexing.  

We were the object of everyone’s gaze.

“Ned, put your coat back on, please.  As much as I appreciate your sentiments, and those of Robinson, I can take care of myself.  Wait for me here.”

The twins obeyed reluctantly.  Approaching the door to Carlton House, I saw even more guards stationed about the grounds.  I spent thirty minutes cooling my heels while word was sent to the Prince of my arrival.

Finally, none other than Mr. Lavender came to collect me.

“Surely they have not reduced you to looking after his Royal Highness,” I said good-naturedly.

But the Scotsman grunted an indistinguishable reply and remained tight-lipped throughout our progress to the Rose Drawing Room.

When the doors to that room opened, it became clear that the Prince had assembled the principals involved in the investigation:  Jack Townsend, John Lavender, and myself, with the startling addition of William Pitt, Prime Minister of England, accompanied by his friend, Lord St. Clair.  Pitt nodded to me by way of greeting.  I thought he looked unusually pale and drawn.  With the exception of the Prince, everyone was standing.

“Brummell,” His Royal Highness began.  “There has been a development in the matter of the tainted snuff box.”

“Oh,” I responded equably, but feeling myself tense. 

Jack Townsend nodded at Mr. Lavender, who produced his notebook and said, “Bow Street believes Lord Munro withheld information from us the day we questioned him at the Pavilion.  Information about what he observed when Lord Petersham was mixing the snuff that killed Sir Simon.”

A great feeling of foreboding washed over me. 

“Mr. Lavender found out something about Petersham, Brummell,” the Prince said.  “Something I don’t like at all.”

“What could that possibly be, sir?”

Mr. Lavender looked to the Prince for permission, and at his nod, spoke.  “It seems that Lord Munro saw Lord Petersham grind a white powder and mix it into the snuff.”

Everyone knows snuff is brown.  Panic rose in my chest, and I forced myself to maintain my composure.  Otherwise, I might leave the room, find Lord Munro, and bang his head against the floor until he took back the damning words and promised to keep his mouth shut in the future.  

“Mr. Lavender, did you question Lord Petersham as to what the powder might be?” I asked evenly.

“Aye.  His lordship claimed it was sea salt,” the Scotsman said, a strong measure of disbelief attached to his words.

“Er, sea salt,” I said, my mind racing for a reason why Petersham thought sea salt would be a good addition to snuff. 

Lord St. Clair pulled up a chair for Prime Minister Pitt, since Mr. Pitt had grown paler.  I imagined the Prime Minister had enough on his mind with government matters.  The fact that England was at war no doubt complicated his duties.

“Petersham told Lavender that he thought sea salt would help my breathing,” the Prince said scornfully.

“I can’t say I like that excuse,” Jack Townsend said, speaking for the first time.  “It’s nonsensical.”

“Not at all,” I countered.  I looked at the Prince.  “Sir, you know Petersham suffers from asthma.  Perhaps he found that sea salt relieves his symptoms and thought it might help you with your occasional breathing problems.”

The Prince mulled this over.

Jack Townsend scoffed.  “How do you know that, Brummell?  Did Lord Petersham say anything to that effect before the box was passed to the Prince?”

“No,” I admitted.  “At least, not in my hearing.”

Prinny shook his head.  “Not one word about anything other than snuff being present in the box was said to me.  That is, not until Sir Simon died in front of my eyes!  Brummell, when Townsend and Lavender brought the news of Munro’s disclosure to me earlier in the day, I sent for you and Pitt.  I wanted you to know before . . . before further action is taken against Petersham.”

Pitt said, “I would never have thought a gentleman of Petersham’s background would commit such an unspeakable act.”

“Neither would I,” Lord St. Clair said regretfully.

I gazed at the company in astonishment, then spoke to the Prince.  “Sir, you cannot believe this, I know you cannot.  Petersham is your
friend
.  What could his reason be for hurting you?”

“I don’t know,” the Prince mumbled.

“The viscount said little to defend himself, when I asked him about the so-called sea salt,” Mr. Lavender pointed out.

“I can well accept that.  The viscount does not think anyone capable of believing him responsible for the poison.  He trusts his friends.  And most importantly, he has no motive,” I said, but my words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

“You make a good case for Lord Petersham,” Mr. Lavender said.  “But if not the viscount, then who added the poison to the box?”

“Yes, Mr. Brummell,” Jack Townsend remarked with a sharp edge to his voice.  “Let’s hear what you have to say.”

There was only one thing to do and that was express my new theory.  I disliked doing so before I had had a chance to explore the possibilities, but there was nothing for it.  From the atmosphere in the room, I judged it would not be long before Petersham would be formally charged with attempted murder, an act sure to set the Nobility on its ears.

I cleared my throat and began, “Your Royal Highness, as you know, I have been investigating this problem.  The only person present at your dinner table that night who had any sort of motive to wish you harm is Arthur Ainsley.  I shall continue to learn what I can of him.  In the meantime, another idea has occurred to me.  Perhaps we are overlooking the obvious.  Perhaps the poison was intended for Sir Simon all along.”

“What?” the Prince of Wales exclaimed.

Mr. Pitt looked thoughtful.

Mr. Lavender eyed me as if I were a small child, and he were the adult forced to listen to my ramblings.

Lord St. Clair gave me a look of pity.

Jack Townsend took a step toward me.  “All right, I’ve listened to you, Mr. Brummell.  Now let me tell you what I think.  I think this case is not over.”

Relief swept through me.  There was hope for Petersham yet.

Mr. Townsend continued.  “It’s true Lord Petersham had no motive of which we are aware.  But the fact remains that it was his snuff box that contained the poisoned snuff, snuff he admits to mixing.  As for Arthur Ainsley, he has been out of Town, and we’ve not questioned him yet.  I’m willing to hold off on further action in regard to Lord Petersham until Bow Street has spoken with Mr. Ainsley.”

“Excellent plan, Mr. Townsend,” I said approvingly.

Then his next words chilled me to the bone.

“However, what you said about Sir Simon, Mr. Brummell, seems the ravings of a desperate man.  Are you a desperate man?”

“A desperate man?  What do you mean by that?” I replied, sure I could not have understood him.  Gone was the usually gracious Jack Townsend.  In his place was an ill-mannered lout.

A tense silence enveloped the room. 

Mr. Townsend likes center stage.  He had it now. “You are very defensive of your friend, Lord Petersham.  You would not want him to suffer the consequences of something he did not do, would you?”

“Of course not,” I said, very much on my dignity.

“You are also anxious to turn Bow Street’s attention elsewhere, to, in fact, cast blame on Arthur Ainsley.”

“I did not say that,” I protested.  “I have yet to prove—”

“Failing that,” Mr. Townsend went on relentlessly, “you expect us to believe that the Prince of Wales was not the intended victim at all.  No, you would have us believe that the baronet who served as his Royal Highness’s food taster was meant to take the poison.”

“I think it is an idea worthy of consideration,” I said.

Mr. Townsend stepped toward me once again.  “Going along with this ridiculous theory for a moment, what, if you will be so kind as to tell me, Mr. Brummell, would the killer have done if Sir Simon had not intercepted the box?  Would he have let the Prince of Wales inhale the poisoned snuff?  Would he consider the death of the Prince a mere inconvenience in his quest to eliminate Sir Simon?”

My heart began to pound.  Not only would Townsend not consider my hypothesis, he was making a fool out of me in front of the Prince.  “I have not had time to investigate my theory to find out the answers to those questions.  I have been here at Carlton House this week past.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Townsend said.  He came closer to me.  “And you were at the table that night at the Pavilion, Mr. Brummell.”

  “Yes,” I said impatiently, wondering where he was going with this line of questioning.

Mr. Townsend drew a slip of paper from his pocket.  To my annoyance, I saw it was the diagram of the table I had made for Mr. Lavender.  I darted a look at him, but the Scotsman refused to meet my eye.

Mr. Townsend, however, stared directly at me.  “If I am interpreting this drawing correctly, you were seated
next
to the Prince, were you not, Mr. Brummell?”

I clenched my fists at my side.  “What are you saying, Mr. Townsend?”

“Furthermore, if I have this right, you held the snuff box in your hand before Sir Simon took it back from you.  You are adept at opening and closing snuff boxes, as everyone knows.  Why, I’ve seen you do it myself.  Quite clever you are, Mr. Brummell.”

I assumed my most haughty mien.  “I fail to see—”

“Furthermore, I have it from a reputable gentleman that Lady Bessborough saw you and Lord Petersham talking at the entrance to the Eating Room and that you, Mr. Brummell, were holding the snuff box in your hand for several minutes.  Long enough to have added something to the contents of the box.”

The Prince of Wales gasped.  He looked at me, appalled.

Devil take Sylvester Fairingdale!

I returned Mr. Townsend’s probing look without blinking.  Ice dripped from my tongue.  “Are you accusing me of trying to poison the Prince of Wales?”

“No,” Mr. Townsend said mildly.  “Not yet.”

Anger welled in me.  I had to struggle not to let it overwhelm me.  “May I ask what my motive would be for such a despicable action?”

Mr. Townsend cocked his head.  “You are a man of great determination and resource, Mr. Brummell.  I think of your rise to the height of Polite Society and can only admire your tenacity.  The gentleman I spoke with says you covet the title of First Gentleman of Europe.  A silly nickname, perhaps, but he says you like to think yourself the supreme ruler over everything fashionable.  He thinks you resent sharing any of your position as Arbiter of Fashion.”

“How dare you, Mr. Townsend?” I said frostily.

The Prince looked at me aghast.  “It’s not true, is it, Brummell?  Tell me you don’t wish to be known as the First Gentleman of Europe,” he said, his voice shaking.

Before my astounded brain could form a reply and force it past my lips, the Prince clutched his wrist.  “Oh, my pulse!  How it gallops!  My physician!  Someone send for Pitcairn!”

My own heart felt like it would burst from my chest.

Attendants rushed to fuss over the Prince.

Feeling I could control my anger no longer, I strode from the room without another word.

In nothing less than a towering rage, I exited Carlton House.  I shouted the order for home to Ned and Ted, startling them with my tone, and settled into my sedan-chair.  Once my heart resumed a beat somewhat approaching normalcy, I realised my uppermost feeling was that of betrayal.

Mr. Lavender had run to his superiour with the diagram I had given him.  He had also remained silent as the head of Bow Street treated me like a chunk of bread he could toast over the fire.  I thought the Scotsman and I had formed a friendship of sorts—an uneasy one, perhaps—but nonetheless a rapport.

Jack Townsend was either under too much pressure himself, or did not give a shilling for my opinions.  Worse, he dared insinuate I would try to poison the Prince.  What a nonsensical notion!  Why would I kill the Prince?  I am not so conceited as to think my reign over London Society would continue without Prinny’s friendship. 

That brought me to his Royal Highness.  He had to be suffering a bout of mental disorder like the ones his father, the King, experiences to think me involved in a plot against his life.  I would call on him when we could be private and discuss Mr. Townsend’s offensive suggestions.  Suggestions made more offensive since there was a tiny grain of truth in them.  As you know, I do long for the title of First Gentleman of Europe.  But devil take it, that does not make me a killer!

Thank God Freddie had not witnessed the ugly scene.

Although I had agreed to meet Scrope at White’s for an evening of gaming, there was no question of my keeping the engagement now.  I doubt he would even notice my absence, the way that lad had been drinking and gaming lately.  Instead, I would accept Lady Hester Stanhope’s invitation to dinner so that I might finally be able to corner Arthur Ainsley.

With this goal in mind, I entered my house.  “Robinson!”

The valet came hurrying from his rooms.  “Sir, I did not expect you home.  Is everything all right?”