A Body in Berkeley Square

Chapter Twelve

The statement was so unexpected that I started. "Of Grenville? Good Lord, why?"

Mrs. Bennington shuddered, her fingers trembling on my chest. "Please tell him to stay away."

"You needn't worry about Mr. Grenville," I said, trying to sound reassuring. "He might not show it at times, but he has a good and kind heart. There is no need to be afraid of him."

I felt as though I were stilling the fears of a child. Mrs. Bennington swung away from me. "Yes, there is need. He comes here, and to my rooms at the theatre, and remonstrates with me. He scolds me, grows angry when I speak to young men. Why should I not speak to young men? There is no harm in it. Mr. Bennington sees nothing wrong in my speaking with gentlemen. But Mr. Grenville will have none of it. He shouts at me." Her hazel eyes filled with tears. "He is so jealous that he frightens me."

"Jealous?" I had never seen Grenville behave like a jealous lover. With the exception of his obsession with Marianne, he'd always conducted his affairs coolly, never voicing any disapprobation of the lady, no matter how she behaved. When he ended the liaison, he departed from the lady just as coolly.

Only Marianne had ever angered him, and that was not jealousy, but frustration. Marianne could drive anyone distracted.

The idea that Grenville drove off Mrs. Bennington's suitors and took her to task for speaking to them was beyond belief.

"It is true," Mrs. Bennington said fiercely. "Ask Grady if you do not believe me. The last time he came to see me, he was in a horrible temper. He saw Mr. Carew try to kiss my hand. Mr. Grenville threw his walking stick across the room and threatened to give the poor Mr. Carew a thrashing if he ever came near me again."

Grenville had? These actions sounded more like me in a temper, not those of the man whose sangfroid London gentlemen tried to imitate.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Bennington, but I find this difficult to credit. Was this Carew behaving badly to you?"

"Indeed, no. Mr. Carew was quite the gentleman. But Mr. Grenville did not like it." Mrs. Bennington clasped her hands in a pleading gesture. "You must believe me, Captain. I am not lying. I do not know how to invent things. Mr. Bennington says it is because I have no imagination."

"Mr. Bennington should not be so rude to you."

She shrugged, as though her husband's jibes slid easily from her. "Mr. Grenville said so too. He also said that I should try to obtain a divorce from Mr. Bennington. Or an annulment. I have grounds, he says, because Mr. Bennington cannot father children." She mentioned this impotency without a blush. "But I did not marry him for children. I do not want children. I could not go on the stage if I were increasing. Mr. Bennington said he would allow me to continue acting, which is the only thing I like to do. I was very popular in Italy and Milan, but I had run into a bit of difficulty with debts, you see."

"And he offered to pay them if you married him?"

"Mr. Bennington has ever so much money, from a legacy, from the Scottish branch of his family, he says. He paid my notes as though they were nothing." She toyed with the frills on her bosom. "His name is not really Bennington, you know. That's my name. He said I ought to keep it because I'm already well known by it, but I'm not supposed to tell anyone that."

I wondered how many other people she'd babbled this to, and if Bennington knew she was the kind of woman who could not keep a thing quiet.

"What is his real name?" I asked.

"Do you know, I no longer remember. It has been five years since we married. I will be called Mr. Bennington, he said to me. And you are Mrs. Bennington. And none need to know any other. " She did a fair imitation of Bennington's drawling voice, which might have amused me any other time.

I wondered. Perhaps the reason Bennington had lived in Italy was that he dared not return to England under his own name. Trouble with creditors? Or over a woman? Or some more sinister crime?

Perhaps those long-fingered hands had held a knife before, knew how to thrust it with uncanny accuracy into a heart to stop it beating.

Bennington, or whatever his true name had been, had promised to take care of Claire's debts and let her stay on the stage that she loved. So that he might return to England under a new name? His wife so eclipsed him that most people thought of him, when they bothered to, as "Mrs. Bennington's husband." A good hiding place. But hiding from what?

This young woman seemed to find the arrangement perfectly acceptable, at any rate. She had what she wanted-freedom to remain on the stage and security from creditors. And she provided a blind for a husband for whom she cared nothing. Her seeming vacant-headedness when she said she no longer remembered his true name sounded sincere, but then, she was an actress.

"I am beginning to agree with Grenville," I said, half to myself.

Her eyes widened. "Please do not say that you will take his side. He has me very frightened. His jealousy will be the death of me, I think." Her voice rose to a fevered pitch.

"I will speak to him," I promised.

She sighed, putting every ounce of her stage presence into the throaty little moan. "Thank you, Captain Lacey. I knew you would not fail me."

She flung herself away from me, the skirts of her peignoir swirling. Then, rather anticlimactically, she stopped and rang for her maid.

"You attended the ball at the Gillises' the night Henry Turner died," I said, trying to bend to my true purpose for visiting.

Mrs. Bennington's dramatic expression faded, and she made a face, much like a girl who has been given porridge when she expected thick ham. "Yes, that was quite horrible."

"It was. Did you know Henry Turner?"

"No. I'd never heard of him until he got himself killed." She sounded sublimely uninterested.

I asked a few more questions about Turner and whether Mrs. Bennington had seen him or Colonel Brandon enter the anteroom, but it soon became clear that she had noticed nothing. Mrs. Bennington noticed only the people who noticed her.

Grady entered the room in answer to the summons and frowned at me.

"Grady," Mrs. Bennington said. "Tell Captain Lacey how Mr. Grenville behaved the other night."

Grady looked me up and down, like a guard dog eyeing an intruder. "He did rail at her, sir, that is a fact. I was afraid I'd have to call for the watch."

"And he threw his walking stick?" I asked, still surprised.

"Yes, sir. Look." Grady marched to the wall and put her hand on the cream silk. "Just there. It's left a mark."

Below her work-worn hand was a faint black mark and a tear in the fabric. "The footman couldn't quite get it to come clean. Have to do the whole wall over, like as not."

I straightened up, very much wondering. "I will speak to him," I said.

Grady gave me a severe look. So had my father's housekeeper looked at me when I was a small boy and came home plastered from head to foot with mud. "See that you do," she said.

I would have smiled at the memory if the situation had not been so bizarre. I thanked Mrs. Bennington for her time, promised again that I would look into the matter of Grenville's strange tempers, and departed.

Grenville and Marianne had gone from my rooms by the time Bartholomew and I returned to Grimpen Lane.

I felt I could hardly look up Grenville that night to make him explain what he meant by terrorizing the feeble-witted Mrs. Bennington, so I went to bed, conscious that not much later, I would be breakfasting with James Denis and my Frenchman.

In the morning, I dressed with cold fingers and rode across London in a gentle rain to number 45, Curzon Street. The facade of this house was unadorned, and the interior was elegant and understated, in a chill way. Mrs. Bennington's sitting room had reminded me a bit of this house-cool and distant.

Denis's butler let me in and took me to the dining room. I'd been in this room before, but not for a meal. Two people now sat at the table, Denis and the Frenchman who'd attacked me in my rooms. A third setting had been placed at one end of the table, for me, I assumed.

James Denis sat in an armchair at the head of the table, elegant in dress as usual, betraying no sign that he'd stayed up very late last night and had risen relatively early this morning.

As I sat, I reflected that I had never seen James Denis do anything so human as eat. I'd always imagined that he must exist on water alone. However, he had a plate of real food before him-eggs and beef, a half-loaf of bread, and a crock of butter.

The Frenchman's plate held thick slices of ham, which he was shoveling into his mouth. He shot me a look of defiance over his fork.

"Captain Lacey," Denis said in his cool voice. "May I introduce Colonel Naveau."

Colonel Naveau nodded once, his eyes filled with dislike. His close-cropped hair was a mix of gray and brown, and his eyes were dark. He wore a suit tailored to his lean body, a fact that spoke of expense. His emperor might have lost the war, but this colonel still had his fortune.

"Colonel Naveau is quite the pugilist," I remarked, as a footman slid a plate of steaming sausages in front of me. "Gentleman Jackson might be interested in some of his moves. Were you cavalry?"

Naveau watched me a moment, then inclined his head. "A hussar."

I had guessed he was light cavalry because of his lean muscles, which spoke of hours in a saddle. French hussars had been known for their not-always-prudent courage. They'd been fond of throwing away their lives in some act of bravery that usually cost the English dearly.

"They fought hard at Talavera," I said. "I was there. In the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons."

Naveau grunted. "The Thirty-Fifth Light did well at Waterloo." He barely moved his lips when he spoke.

"So I hear." I lifted my fork and cut a bite of sausage. "I had retired before then. I'd been injured."

Denis broke in. "Captain Lacey's commander was Colonel Aloysius Brandon. The one who now awaits trial for the murder of Henry Turner."

"I read of Monsieur Turner's death in the London newspapers." Naveau's tone was clipped.

"You knew I had searched Turner's rooms," I said. "And you thought I'd found the letter with which Turner had been blackmailing Colonel Brandon and Mrs. Harper. You followed me home and waylaid me in my own lodgings in an attempt to find it."

"I did." He seemed in no way ashamed.

"I have puzzled and puzzled why on earth you would want a letter between Brandon and Mrs. Harper," I said. "Was Mrs. Harper your mistress? Your wife, perhaps?"

Naveau's brows drew together. "I have no wife. And what is this letter you speak of? I was not looking for a letter; I was seeking a document. A very important document. Mr. Denis says you will know where to find it."

I looked from him to Denis. "What is this about?"

"Mr. Turner stayed for a time in Paris, as a guest of Colonel Naveau," Denis said. "After Mr. Turner had departed for London, Colonel Naveau discovered a document missing from his house. He searched and concluded that Turner had absconded with it. Naveau came to London as soon as he could and learned of Turner's death after he arrived."

So Henry Turner had stolen a document from Naveau. "What has this to do with Colonel Brandon?" I asked.

"Because your colonel knows where it is," Denis said. "Or at least, where it last was."

The footman came forward to pour more hot coffee into my cup. "Why should Colonel Brandon know anything about a French document?" I asked.

Naveau made a noise of exasperation. "Because Monsieur Turner was blackmailing your colonel for the document. I know this."

"Turner was blackmailing Brandon over a love letter to or from Imogene Harper." A letter that would make their affair embarrassingly public. But as I sat there I realized I'd been thinking about this all wrong.

"No, no, Captain," Naveau said. "Not a love letter. A letter he and Mrs. Harper wrote while we were in Spain. A letter to me."

"To you?"

"Yes." Naveau seemed annoyed at my disbelief.

"What is this document?"

"Nothing of concern to you," Naveau snapped back. "It is in French."

"I read French."

"Still you would not understand it."

"And Colonel Brandon would?" I asked.

"Mrs. Harper would."

"Why Mrs. Harper?"

Naveau looked at Denis. "You told me he would help without question."

"No," Denis replied. "I said that he would find the document, but Captain Lacey must always ask questions. It is his nature."

"It is an inconvenient nature."

I ignored Naveau. "Why did you promise him that I would find it?" I asked Denis.

Denis laid his knife and three-tined fork carefully across his plate. "The matter is simple. Colonel Naveau needs this document. He has entered a bargain with me to restore it to him. You are close to your colonel and can persuade him to tell you where it is. If it has not turned up among Turner's things, that means Henry Turner either destroyed it or passed it to someone. Most likely, to Colonel Brandon."

"Colonel Naveau has paid you," I said, my eyes narrowing.

"Yes," Denis said.

"In that case, you should have told him that one of your own men would find the document for him."

Denis looked at me. Nothing existed behind his cold expression but more coldness. "I did."

Damn him. From the first, James Denis had informed me that he wanted me to work for him, and that I would, in the end. I refused, because Denis was a criminal, no matter how well he lived or what help he'd given me. Any deed he'd done for me had been to suit his own purposes and to make me beholden to him. I would pay him back, he'd said, in his own coin.

He knew that I wanted to find the document in order to clear Colonel Brandon. He was holding my feet to the fire.

"I do not work for you," I said.

"But you need this paper. Colonel Naveau will remain here as my guest, and you will bring it to him."

My temper stirred. "I want the paper only to help prove Brandon's innocence."

Denis lifted his slim shoulders. "If you wish, but you will bring it to me and not give it to the magistrates."

His gaze, if anything, had become colder. I remembered what had happened to a young coachman who'd once disobeyed Denis. Denis never discussed the matter, but I knew that one of Denis's lackeys had murdered the young man.

"I searched Turner's rooms thoroughly," I said. "I also paid a visit to his father in Surrey and looked over his rooms there. I found nothing. No documents, no letters of any sort. What makes you believe I can find it?"

"Because you have an uncanny knack for turning up things that need to be found. You will do this."

I promised nothing. Denis watched me steadily, but damned if I'd bow my head and obey.

I pushed away my now cold sausages and rose to my feet. The butler appeared in an instant, understanding that I was going.

"I have no doubt that the man you have following me will report my every action to you," I said.

Denis's face was expressionless. "Yes."

"Then I need make no vows to you that I will find and return the paper. You will know what I do."

Denis inclined his head. He had no need to answer.

Colonel Naveau looked blustery, but I ignored him. I departed the room without taking leave or saying goodbye, and followed the butler down the stairs again to the street.

Still seething, I walked the length of Curzon Street through Clarges Street to Piccadilly. As I walked, I again went over the extraordinary conversation I'd just had. A document, written by Brandon and Mrs. Harper to Colonel Naveau, in French.

My temper began to cool as worry took over. James Denis had been strangely insistent that I pursue this. Why? So he could make me do a job for him? Or for some other reason?

And why the devil should Brandon care about the document? What was he trying so hard to keep from me? The only thing certain was that there was more to this than any party let on. Denis had not asked me to find the paper to please Colonel Naveau, no matter how much the man had promised to pay. Denis did things for his own reasons, and not all his reasons involved money.

I wiped rain from my face. I had searched Turner's rooms and found nothing. But I might as well do so again. I must have overlooked something.

As I passed through Clarges Street, I wondered whether Grenville was in his house there with Marianne. I deliberately turned my gaze away from the windows, as though to give Grenville his privacy, even from the street.

Grenville was another person I was not happy with. Why had he gone to Mrs. Bennington and berated her so? I might be able to accuse Mrs. Bennington of exaggerating his behavior, overdramatizing it, but then her plain and very sensible maid had said the same thing.

My friends, I reflected, were busily driving me mad.

I turned onto Piccadilly, making my way past Berkeley Street, Dover Street, Albemarle Street, and Old Bond Street. I passed Burlington House, a huge edifice that had dominated Piccadilly since the reign of Charles II. Owned now by Lord George Cavendish, the interior was lavish, I'd been told, with no expense spared on decoration. Grenville had pronounced it excessive.

Turner's landlord looked puzzled when I said I wanted to see Turner's rooms again, but he led me upstairs. The sitting room was a mess. Open crates stood about half-filled. The furniture had been lined up along one wall, apparently waiting for men to load it into a wagon and drive it to Epsom.

In the bedroom, I found similar disarray, along with Hazleton, Turner's valet. The man lay across Turner's bed, fully clothed, snoring loudly. Two empty bottles, which had likely held more of Turner's claret, stood on the night table.

I approached the bed and shook Hazleton's booted foot.

The man snorted. He fumbled his hand to his face and rubbed one eye. "Wha-? Devil take it, man."

"Hazleton," I said, shaking the foot more firmly.

Hazleton blinked, trying to focus on me at the foot of the bed. He sat up, then groaned and pressed his hand to his forehead.

"What a head I have," he mumbled.

"Emptying bottles of claret by yourself will do that." I dragged a chair from a corner and sat down. "While you are recovering, I want you to tell me everything you know about a Colonel Naveau, and Turner's last visit to Paris."

"Ah. You know about that, do you?"

"Not as much as I'd like. I have met Naveau. These bruises on my face are courtesy of him. You would have saved me much trouble if you'd told me about him from the start."

Hazleton gave me a belligerent look. "Well, you didn't ask, did you?"

"Did he come here the same day I did, looking for something?"

"That he did. Not two minutes after you departed."

"And you helpfully told him that I had already been here, and anything the colonel needed to find, I no doubt had?"

"Yes," Hazleton said defiantly. "I didn't know he would crack your face. I couldn't, could I?"

"What was he looking for?"

Hazleton looked surprised. "Well, now, you'd know about that."

"No. I looked, and I found nothing. Naveau has found nothing. I know the document is a paper written in French, but I do not know what it is."

He shrugged. "I don't know either. I can't read Frog-speak."

"Tell me why Turner went to Paris, what he did there, and why he came home."

"Persistent, aren't you, Captain?" Hazelton pressed his hand to his head again and climbed down from the bed. "I'll need a bit of something to settle my head. So I can remember."

I watched impatiently as he opened the armoire and drew out another bottle. He uncorked it and poured ruby liquid into a glass. "Have some, Captain?"

I declined. I craved coffee, not claret, and I would reward myself with some after I finished with Hazleton.

Hazleton drank then let out a satisfied sigh. "That's good, that is. I'm knackered from straightening out my master's affairs. And then, once I'm finished, that is the end for old Bill Hazleton. Mr. Turner-senior, that is-said he'd look after me, but a man needs only one valet. So what is to become of old Bill?"

"Perhaps Colonel Naveau can avail himself of your services," I said, wanting him to get on with it.

Hazleton took another long gulp and sat on the bed. "Oh, no, never him. That man frightens me, and not just because he's a Frenchie. And anyway, he was a spy. You did know that, didn't you? That he was an exploring officer during the war? For the Frogs?"