A Body in Berkeley Square

Chapter Thirteen

No, I had not known that. Both Denis and Colonel Naveau had omitted that interesting detail.

Exploring officers had been those men sent off in the night to do covert missions for Wellington or for Bonaparte's generals. They'd crept across lands held by the enemy and spied out troop movements, intercepted papers, or infiltrated the enemy camp itself. Men who could speak fluent French were prized by the English; likewise those fluent in English were prized by the French. So many Englishmen and Frenchmen had mixed blood, mothers from London and fathers from Paris, that it was difficult to decide sometimes who fought for whom.

Exploring officers had done a dangerous job, I knew, but they'd been more or less despised. Instead of standing and fighting in the open, they skulked about in darkness and lied and cheated their way into defeating the enemy. Commanders prized their exploring officers and found them distasteful at the same time.

Naveau had a fairly thick accent, so I doubted he'd ever infiltrated English lines, but he might have been a receiver of information.

My heart grew cold. The fact that Brandon and Mrs. Harper had written to Naveau during the Peninsular War filled me with foreboding. Why the devil should they have? That Colonel Brandon, a high stickler for loyalty, would send a document to a French exploring officer for any reason seemed ludicrous.

Something was wrong here, very, very wrong.

"Tell me about your master's visit to Paris," I said. "Now."

Hazleton rubbed his face and took another fortifying drink. "Well now, we went out to the Continent about a year ago. Mr. Turner likes to travel. Don't know why. The food is rotten, and I can't understand a word no one says, even excepting that some of the ladies in Milan and Paris are sweet as honey. Not that they wash as much as I'd like, but they're friendly. Mr. Turner met this fellow Naveau in Milan. After that, he tells me that we're packing up to go with Colonel Naveau to his home in Paris."

"What was the purpose of the visit to Naveau?" I asked. "Business?"

Hazleton barked a laugh. "Naw, Captain. It was sordid lust. My master was bent the wrong way, you know. Started when he was a lad, and he never gave it up. So long as he wasn't bent for me, I said, I didn't care what he did. He starts a fascination for this colonel, and there's nothing for it but we must go to Paris with him."

"They were lovers, then."

Hazleton gave me a glassy stare. "Never went that far. My master was keen for the colonel, but I do not think it went the other way. My master threw himself at him for nothing. The Frenchies, you know, they don't care when a fellow is bent. They just pass on by. But here now, you go to the stocks quick enough. But my master never got what he wanted from the colonel. The two of them argued much, never could agree about anything. One night, my master wakes me up and says we're going back to England. 'Why?' I asks. 'Tired of plying your charms?' He boxed my ears for impertinence, but I got up and packed his duds, and we fled back to England." He drained his glass and upended the bottle for more.

"What was Naveau like? Did you speak to him much?"

"Not I. Didn't have much to say to him, did I? But his own man, name of Jacot, had no complaints about him. Told me about the colonel being an exploring officer and what they did in the war. Naveau was decorated for services to the French army, he said. Very intelligent man, Jacot claimed. Good at soldiering. A bit at a loss in civilian life."

Such a thing had happened to many, including me. "Napoleon was deposed and the French king restored. Did Naveau remain a good republican?"

"Jacot said it seemed like he was glad all the fighting was over, no matter who was at the helm. I heard Naveau himself say that war was bad for France, that so many men had died for so little. But Mr. Turner didn't like to hear about the war and the colonel's career. Every time Colonel Naveau started going on about life in the army, Mr. Turner would change the subject."

I thought of Turner, young and fresh-faced with his soft curls of brown hair. I imagined that listening to stories of an old war horse had wearied him.

"About this paper Naveau was looking for," I began.

Hazleton shrugged. "Don't know much about it. Naveau came bursting in here and started going on about Mr. Turner being a thief and ruining him. He demanded I return a paper what Mr. Turner stole. I said I didn't know nothing about it, but that you had been up here for a time by yourself, so maybe you'd taken it. Then he ran off after you." Hazleton glanced at my fading bruises again. "Didn't know he'd pummel you."

"I would like to know why that document was worth pummeling me for."

"No idea, Captain. No idea at all. At any rate, it's not here."

"It seems it is not. You never saw it?"

Hazleton burped. "If I did, I wouldn't have paid it much mind, if it were in Frenchie talk, 'cause I don't know it, as I said."

"Then how did you communicate with your ladies in Paris?"

"Oh, I know enough for that." He grinned. "You don't need much language to tell a lady you fancy her, now do you?"

"No, I suppose you do not."

I asked him a few more questions, but it was clear that Hazleton did not know what the document was or where it could be found. I left him to finish imbibing the last of his master's claret.

Outside, I bought a bit of bread from one vendor and coffee from another. I chewed through my repast and thought about what to do.

The likeliest person to have that document, if it had not been destroyed, was Mrs. Harper. If Brandon had told me the truth, if he'd met with Turner at eleven o'clock and made the exchange-a bank draft for the document-and left the room again with Turner still alive, then he must have rid himself of the document between eleven o'clock and about one, when Pomeroy's patroller took him to Bow Street and made him turn out his pockets.

After meeting with Turner, Brandon had taken Imogene Harper aside in one of the alcoves in the ballroom. Had he passed her the paper and told her to hide or destroy it? Or had he strolled to a nearby fireplace and burned it himself?

It would have taken some time to push it into a fireplace and watch until it burned to ash. Brandon would have had to ensure that the paper actually did burn and didn't fall behind a log or into the ash grate. I could not fathom that no one would notice him doing this.

No, he must have passed it to Imogene Harper. But then, if Mrs. Harper had it, why had she come to search Turner's rooms? Either she did not have it, or she'd been looking for something else.

I ground my teeth in frustration. Nothing made sense.

Piccadilly ran before me, misty in the rain, skirting St. James's, the abode of clubs and hotels, as well as gaming hells where fortunes were lost on a single throw of dice. As I walked again in the direction of Green Park, I reflected on Mr. Turner's propensity for wagers and his keen luck.

Leland had told me that Turner would wager on whether a cat would walk a certain direction or whether a maid would be sick or well. Arbitrary events. I wondered if his machinations with the document were part of a wager-can Mr. Turner procure a document from a French colonel and blackmail an English colonel with it?

I found this farfetched, but I wondered how Turner knew that the document would be important to Colonel Brandon and Imogene Harper.

It was only ten o'clock, and few of the haut ton were up and about. The streets were busy with servants and working people scurrying about to make ready for when their masters rose that afternoon. I strolled into Green Park, observing nannies with children who'd been brought to London with fathers and mothers for the Season.

Seeing them made me think about my own daughter running about the army camps with little regard for danger, and her frantic mother railing at me to stop her. Carlotta had been raised by a nanny and a governess and had expected her daughter to be looked after in the same manner. I had hired a wet nurse, naturally, but after that, Carlotta was dismayed to find that she'd have to take care of the baby herself.

I had not minded looking after Gabriella and had not understood my wife's distress. Louisa, too, had lavished attention on the child. But Carlotta had been miserable, and I had not been patient with her.

I wanted to see Gabriella again. I could taste the wanting in my mouth. I wanted to see Carlotta as well. I wanted to end things cleanly with divorce or annulment or whatever solicitors could cook up in their canny brains. I wanted to be free so that I could turn to the rest of my life.

Lady Breckenridge had told me that any victory she would have with me would be hollow. I did not want that to be true. I was an impetuous man and liked to rush into affairs of the heart, but this time, I wanted to ensure that what I had with Donata Breckenridge was real.

She'd thought the reason for my hesitation was that my heart was engaged elsewhere. The truth was that I wanted to go to her a free man, so that if I offered her my heart, it would come with no impediments.

The surprising thing was that Lady Breckenridge seemed not to mind that I had nothing to offer her. She asked nothing from me but myself, and I knew better than to sneer at such an offer.

I stood watching the nannies herd the children for a while longer, then turned my steps toward a hackney stand. I needed to consult Pomeroy, discover where Mrs. Harper lived, and then pay her a visit.

When I left Bow Street after speaking to Pomeroy, a lad in the street tried to pick my pocket. My hand closed around a bone-thin wrist, and the small, dirty-faced boy attached to it cursed at me.

I released him and gave him a thump on the shoulder. "Clear off and go home."

He jumped and fled as fast as he could, no doubt thinking me stupid for not marching him off to the magistrate on the spot. He must have been desperate-or else highly confident-to try to rob me just outside the Bow Street office.

Mrs. Harper, I'd learned from Pomeroy's clerk, had lodgings in a small court north of Oxford Street, near Portman Square. I decided to take care of another errand on the way, and took a hackney back to Mayfair and South Audley Street. At one o'clock, I was knocking on the door of Lady Breckenridge's townhouse. Barnstable opened the door to me.

"Has her ladyship arisen yet?" I asked.

"She has indeed, sir." He looked critically at my face. "Healing nicely, sir. Always swear by my herbal bath. If you'll come this way, sir."

He led me upstairs to Lady Breckenridge's sitting room and left me there while he ascended to her rooms to inform her I'd called. I steeled myself for Lady Breckenridge to send me away, but before long, I heard her light footsteps approach.

I turned as Lady Breckenridge entered the room. She looked awake and alert, but she did not smile at me. Today she wore a light green morning gown and lace shawl and had pinned her hair under a white lace cap.

"I apologize for visiting you at such an appalling hour," I said.

She lifted her brows. "I would have called it a beastly hour myself, but never mind. My cook informs me that she has prepared tea for me. I can offer that and cakes if you like."

"I am full of bread and coffee, thank you. I have been wandering about London eating from vendors' trays."

She gave a slight shrug as though she did not care one way or the other. "I assume you had some reason for this call."

"I did." I hesitated. I'd thought it a good idea to come when I'd made the decision, but Lady Breckenridge did not seem happy to see me. After the manner in which we had parted the last time, I could hardly blame her.

"I came to ask if you might give me an introduction to Lady Gillis," I said. "I would like to speak to her about the night Turner died, and I would like to look over the ballroom again."

Lady Breckenridge folded her arms, and the lace shawl slid down her shoulders. "I see." Her voice was cool; her stance, unwelcoming.

"I have presumed," I said quickly. "I beg your pardon. I did not mean to take advantage of you."

"You do presume." She gave me a quiet look. "But I am happy that you did."

Something inside me relaxed. "The last thing I want is to take advantage of you."

She gave me a humorless laugh. "The last thing? I do not believe you, you know. There must be plenty of other things that you do not want more than that. But very well, I will take you to visit Lady Gillis, so that you may once more look at the scene of the crime. Give me a day or two to speak to her. From what I've been told, Lady Gillis is most distraught about the murder, and has refused to leave her bed."

"I am sorry to hear that. I do not wish to distress her, but I truly need to see the anteroom and the ballroom again."

"You will," Lady Breckenridge said, tone confident. She trailed her long-fingered hands down her arms. "I will give you a bit of advice, however. If you wish to speak to courtesans by the pillars at Covent Garden Theatre, you should not speak so loudly or so obviously."

Her face was very white, and I saw something flicker in her eyes. Hurt, I thought, and anger.

"Damn it all," I said feelingly.

I had hoped that my conversation with Marianne would go unnoticed, but I ought to have known better. My face warmed. "As I have observed before, you are a very well-informed lady."

"Good heavens, Gabriel, it is all over Mayfair. I could not stir a step last night without someone taking me aside and asking me whether I knew that my Captain Lacey had been pursuing a bit of muslin under the piazza."

"They should not have spoken to you of such a thing at all," I said indignantly.

"Yes, well, my acquaintances are a bit more blunt than necessary. They seemed to believe that I would find this on dit interesting."

"They ought to have better things to talk about."

"I agree. I did tell them quite clearly to mind their own business." She was rigid, her eyes glittering.

"Gossip is misinformed, in this case," I said. "She was not a bit of muslin. She was Marianne Simmons."

Her brows arched. "And what, pray tell, is a Marianne Simmons?"

"Hmm," I said as I thought about how to explain Marianne. "Miss Simmons is an actress. She occupied rooms above mine for a time, and made the habit of stealing my candles, my coal, my snuff, and my breakfast whenever she felt the need. I let her; she never had enough money. She is shrewish and irritating, intelligent and bad-tempered, and has fallen quite in love with Lucius Grenville, although I must swear you to silence on that last point. She has a habit of accosting me whenever she perceives something wrong between herself and Grenville, which, unfortunately, is often."

As I spoke, Lady Breckenridge relaxed, and by the end of my tale she even looked amused. "So you have become the peacemaker."

"To my dismay. I do not know how effective a peacemaker I am. I generally want to shake the pair of them. I can hope the storm has died down for now, but I know better."

Lady Breckenridge strolled to me. "Poor Gabriel. Besieged on all sides. Your colonel and his wife; Grenville and his ladybird."

"True. They resent my intrusion, but they also expect me to have answers for them."

"That must be difficult for you." She spoke as though she believed it.

"It is difficult. And my own fault. If I minded my own affairs, I would not get myself into half the predicaments I do."

"No, you would sit at a club and play cards until numbers danced before your eyes. It is your nature to interfere, and you have done some good because of it." Lady Breckenridge laid her hand on my arm. "Besides, if you did not poke your nose into other people's business, you would not have journeyed down to Kent last summer."

She did not smile, but her eyes held a sparkle of good humor. Last summer, I had gone to Kent to investigate a crime and had met Lady Breckenridge in a sunny billiards room, where she'd blown cigarillo smoke in my face and told me that I was a fool.

I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed her fingers. Her eyes darkened.

"Here is where things grew complicated on your last visit," she said.

I kissed her fingers again. "And I very much wish everything to be simple."

She grew quiet. Slowly, I slid my arm about her waist. The lace cap smelled clean with an overlay of cinnamon. She always smelled a little of spice, this lady.

I truly wished that things were simple, that I could come here, as though I had a right to, and sit in her parlor and hold her hand. I wanted more than that, of course. I wanted to love her with my body and drowse with her in the comfortable dark. I wanted things to be at ease between us-no secrets, no jealousies, no fear. I leaned down and gently kissed her lips.

She allowed the kiss then smiled at me as we drew apart.

"You must continue prying into other people's business until you put everything aright, Gabriel," she said, touching my chest. "It is your way."

"I wish I could put it aright. But this affair is a tangle."

"You will persist." Lady Breckenridge stepped from my embrace, but slid her hand to mind. "Who are you off to see this afternoon?"

"Mrs. Harper. I must discover what happened to that piece of paper she and Brandon were willing to pay Turner for."

"How exhausting for you. Go in my coach. No need to take a horrid hackney."

"I had decided to walk."

She gave me a deprecating smile. "Your stay in the country has made you terribly hearty, has it? There is a dreadful damp. Take the carriage."

I gave her a mocking bow. "As you wish, my lady."

She lifted her brows again, then she laughed. "Oh, do go away, Gabriel. I will send word when I have smoothed the way with Lady Gillis. And remember not to speak to your Miss Simmons under the piazza again, or tongues will continue to wag."

She mocked me as only she could, but as I departed, I thought only on how much I liked to hear her laugh.

Lady Breckenridge had apparently given orders to Barnstable to prepare her coach before she'd even offered it to me, because I found the carriage waiting for me outside the front door. Barnstable helped me inside, and Lady Breckenridge's coachman drove me straight to Mrs. Harper's lodgings.

However, when I reached the fashionable house near Portman Square in which Mrs. Harper resided, the lady was not at home. "You may leave your card, sir," said a flat-faced maid, holding out her hand. I put one of my cards into it, and she backed inside and closed the door. That, for now, was that.

I found myself at a standstill in my investigation, so I took care of more personal business on Oxford Street, such as paying some debts and purchasing a new pair of serviceable gloves. Lady Breckenridge's coachman obliged me in this too, saying it was her ladyship's orders to drive me about. I tried to call on Grenville, but he, too, was not at home. Matthias told me that Grenville had sent word he was be staying at the Clarges Street house. He winked knowingly.

I hoped that the news meant a closing of the breach between himself and Marianne, although I was disappointed that I could not speak to Grenville himself.

I told Lady Breckenridge's coachman to leave me there, seeing no reason for him to transport me across the metropolis to my appointment with Sir Montague Harris, and took a hackney to Whitechapel.

After Lady Breckenridge's cozy rooms and the luxury of her carriage, the room in the Whitechapel public office was a cold and austere place. The fire smoked and burned fitfully, and the wine Sir Montague offered me was sour.

I told him all I'd discovered since I'd last written, from Turner's funeral to my interview with Hazleton this morning.

"What you say about Bennington interests me," Sir Montague said. He shifted his bulk in his chair, which had grown to fit him. "If he is so clever, why does he tell his featherheaded wife to keep secret that he's changed his name to hers?"

"I cannot say. Either he is not as clever as he pretends to be, or he counted on Mrs. Bennington spreading around that secret, for his own purposes. Although what that is, I cannot imagine."

"Why change his name at all?" Sir Montague asked.

"Fleeing from creditors?"

"Or the law. I will focus my eye on this Mr. Bennington. Dig into his past, find people who knew him in Italy, and so forth. I will enjoy it."

I had no doubt he would. Sir Montague was shrewd and intelligent and little got past him.

He turned that shrewd eye on me. "Anything else you wish to tell me, Captain?"

I had avoided talking about Colonel Naveau and the paper he wanted me to find. I was not yet certain what it meant for Brandon, and I somehow did not want Sir Montague examining the matter too closely.

"No," I said.

His eyes twinkled, as usual. "This is where I, as a common magistrate, have the advantage over you, Captain Lacey."

I tried to look puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that when I investigate crime, I am purely outside it. I can look at the facts without worry, without knowing that a suspect is a dear friend."

I barked a laugh. "I hardly call Brandon a dear friend these days."

"But you are close to him. His life and yours are tied in many ways. You feel the need to protect him, for various and perhaps conflicting reasons." He spread his hands. "I, on the other hand, see only the facts."

I could not argue that he viewed things more clearly than I did where Colonel Brandon was concerned. "And what do the facts tell you?"

Sir Montague gave me a serious look. "That Brandon was mixed up in something he should not have been. That the death of Turner was an aid to him. That Mrs. Harper knows more than she lets on. That you are afraid to trust yourself."

The last was certainly true. I had some ideas about Brandon's involvement that I did not like. I had admired Colonel Brandon once, and some part of that admiration lingered. He'd disappointed me-as much as I'd disappointed him-but I still wanted my hero of old to exist.

"What do I do?" I asked, half to myself.

"Discover the truth. The entire truth, not just what you want to know. Did Saint John not say, The truth shall make you free? "

I looked at him. "Will it?"

"It will." Sir Montague nodded wisely. "It always does."

I left Sir Montague more uncertain than ever and returned home. I thought about all I had learned that day over the beef Bartholomew brought me, and then tried to distract myself with a book on Egypt that I'd borrowed from Grenville.

That evening, I put on a thoroughly brushed frock coat and traveled to Gentleman Jackson's boxing rooms in Bond Street to meet Basil Stokes.

When I entered the rooms at number 13, I saw the unmistakable form of Lucius Grenville. He detached himself from the gentlemen he'd been speaking to, came to me, seized my hand, and shook it warmly.

"Well met, Lacey," he said. "And thank you."