A Body in Berkeley Square

Chapter Eight

The next afternoon, Grenville and I journeyed to Epsom to attend the funeral of Henry Turner.

Grenville drove his phaeton, the weather being fine. His larger traveling coach followed us, bearing our servants and bags southward. The phaeton was light and fast, and we soon drew clear of the metropolis and headed across green downs for Epsom.

Grenville's persona today was that of horse-mad dandy. He sat upright, his gloved hands competently holding a complex configuration of reins. He occasionally touched his whip to the horses, encouraging them to hold a smart pace. In his black suit, knee-high boots, and fine hat, he was the epitome of the fashionable gentleman. His horses were perfectly matched grays, the phaeton nearly new and shiny black, the wheels and points picked out in gold.

Grenville navigated us swiftly through other vehicles and over the rutted roads. I held tightly to my hat with one hand and the seat with the other.

Remembering his motion sickness inside carriages on previous journeys, I remarked, "The movement does not bother you when you drive?"

"No." Grenville kept his gaze on the horses and the road beyond. "Don't honestly know why. Probably because I must concentrate on something other than my stomach."

Grenville evidently liked to focus on obtaining the speediest journey possible. I braced my feet on the footboard and concentrated on holding on.

When I'd mounted the phaeton this afternoon, Grenville's reaction to my bruised face was not as severe as could be, because Bartholomew had already told him the tale. He quizzed me on the particulars, however, as we rode south.

"Are you certain the Frenchman had connection with the Turner murder?" Grenville asked. "Perhaps he was looking for something else entirely."

"He had an inordinate interest in Mrs. Harper's letters," I said over the noise of our passage. "Why take them otherwise? No, depend upon it, he has something to do with Mrs. Harper, and probably with Turner."

We rode silently a few minutes, the rattle of the wheels over the road and the thudding of the horses' hooves making talking impractical.

"What I most wonder," Grenville said, when he slowed to drive through a village, "is why Marianne was there."

"She'd come to talk with me," I said. "She happened to get in the way of the Frenchman's fists, which she would not have if she'd run away like a sensible woman."

"She was hurt?" Grenville gave me a look of alarm. "Bartholomew did not tell me that."

"She was not much hurt. I made certain. And Marianne gave back as good as she received."

Grenville rarely grew angry, but he grew angry now. "Why the devil was she there to get in his way at all? If she wanted to speak to you, why not send for you to visit her?"

"She still feels a bit confined."

His mouth set. "I have told her she can come and go as she pleases. She can do what the devil she likes. I have ceased trying to hold her."

" Constrained, I should have said. Your servants would no doubt mention a visit from me to you, possibly telling you what they heard us discuss."

"Dear God," Grenville shouted at the countryside in general. "The woman will drive me mad. It is my own fault; I remember you warning me against her. I wish I had listened."

"You wanted to help her. It was kind of you."

He gave me a sideways glance. "Helping her was not my only reason, and you know it. Well, I suppose I have paid the price for my folly."

If Grenville had imagined that Marianne would be forever grateful for his charity and fall into his arms, he had certainly read her character wrong.

I wanted to ask him about Mrs. Bennington, and Marianne's speculations, but we exited the village and picked up speed, and I did not fancy bellowing such questions to him on the road. Time enough for that later.

I did tell him, when we slowed again near Epsom, about my encounter with Imogene Harper in Turner's rooms and the rest of my investigation until this point.

I had imagined we'd put up at an inn at Epsom and journey to Turner's father's home for the funeral the next day, but to my surprise, Grenville drove to a red-brick, Tudor-style manor a little outside the town.

When the phaeton finally rattled to a halt, a groom came out to greet us and hold the horses. Grenville said, "When I wrote to Mr. Turner to express my condolences, he invited me to stay at the house. You are welcome, as well."

A footman appeared at the front door and led us inside into a narrow, dark-paneled hall lined with doors. At the end of this hall, a staircase, its wood black with age, wound upward to a gallery.

We did not meet Mr. Turner, but were taken upstairs to bedchambers that were low-ceilinged and dark, though warm and comfortable. The footman brought us hot coffee and hock and left us alone.

"I've stayed here several times," Grenville said. "Turner does fine house parties for the Derby. They are quite popular, and Turner is a good host."

I looked out the window across green hills toward the dusty road on which the Derby race was held. I had no doubt that house parties here were filled with gaiety and excitement. Sad that such a place would now have to be the site of so dismal a scene as a young man's funeral.

Not long later, our host sent for us, and Grenville and I descended to meet Mr. Turner in his study.

Large windows here overlooked a lush back garden where spring flowers pushed themselves up in the beds. The sun shone hard, rendering it a lovely landscape. On any other occasion, I would have stopped to enjoy the sight.

Henry Turner's father, Mr. Allen Turner, looked much like his son. His hair was straight and close cropped, but he had the same rather soft features as Henry and had probably been quite handsome in his youth. Mr. Turner was not very tall, standing only about as high as Grenville, and he had to look up at me. He shook my hand politely, showing no resentment of my intrusion.

"You are the captain who sometimes works with the magistrates, are you not?" he asked.

I admitted that I was. "My condolences on the loss of your son, sir."

Turner nodded in a resigned manner. "It came as a bit of the shock. When your only son dies, it is as if you lived your life for nothing. All this…" He gestured to the room, and I took him to mean the entire house and the estate as well. "Henry will not have any of it now. It will go to my second cousin and his son, and that will be the end of it."

His eyes were sad, but his back was straight, as though Mr. Turner determined to face the future, no matter how bleak it was. I remembered the frustration Brandon sometimes expressed that he had no son to carry on his name and his line, no one to inherit his money and his houses. I personally was happy not to bestow the ruin of the Lacey house in Norfolk on a son, but Brandon and Mr. Turner had much more to lose. An Englishman without a son was almost like a man without an appendage.

Brandon had been disappointed at Louisa's failed attempts to produce his hoped-for heir, but I believe Turner suffered worse. He'd had a healthy and robust son, who'd been cut down in the prime of his life. No matter what Henry Turner's character had been, he might have lived a long time and produced many children so that his father might see his line stretching to eternity. Now that possibility was gone.

Mr. Turner placed his hands behind his back. "I've offered a large reward for the conviction of the felon who killed my son. I understand from Grenville that you believe there is doubt that the colonel who's been arrested actually committed the murder."

"I'm trying to ascertain whether he did, but I am skeptical," I answered. "This might seem a strange question, sir, but could you tell me if there is anyone who could have been angry enough at your son to want him dead?"

Turner shook his head. "If Henry had been called out and died in a duel, I would understand it. This-the senseless killing-while he sat in a chair, at a society ball of all places, confounds me. No, Captain, I do not know whether he angered anyone in particular. My son had a wide circle of acquaintances, and he was not always the most polite young man, unfortunately. The young seem to find extreme rudeness to be fashionable."

He glanced once at Grenville, as though debating whether Grenville's famous disdain were to blame for the rudeness of young people today.

"Did he speak of anyone with particular emphasis?" I asked. "Or did he fear anyone? What I mean is, he must have known the person who killed him. He died without much struggle. The only comfort I can offer you is that he died almost instantly. It took him by surprise. He certainly would not have had time to feel fear or pain."

Mr. Turner's eyes were moist, but his mouth was tight. "I am afraid that Henry did not speak much to me about his acquaintance. His friends will attend his burial, tomorrow. Perhaps they will know whether Henry was afraid of anyone."

Mr. Turner excused himself before long, and Grenville tactfully suggested that he and I walk in the garden since it was such a fine day. We strolled along the flower beds, and the head gardener, who looked as morose as his master, pointed out the garden's more unique characteristics. The entire landscape had been laid out by Capability Brown, the brilliant garden designer from a century ago.

By the time we'd walked to the folly at the end of the grounds and back again, the dinner hour had arrived. Mr. Turner joined us for the meal, although his wife did not appear. Tuner was still quiet and apologized for his lack of conversation, and Grenville and I assured him that we understood.

It was not until Grenville and I had returned to Grenville's bedchamber to drink brandy alone that I could mention Mrs. Bennington.

When I ventured surprise that Grenville had told me he would be visiting Marianne when in fact he had gone to see Mrs. Bennington, his dark brows furrowed. "Does it matter?"

"It mattered a great deal to Marianne."

"My visit to Mrs. Bennington is my own business, Lacey."

I knew he resented my intrusion, but I did agree with Marianne on one point. Grenville had far more wealth and power than either of us, and if he chose to use us ill, there was not much we could do to stop him. However, I intended to prevent him from using Marianne ill if I could.

"I doubt it meant anything to Marianne," Grenville said, trying to sound offhand. "She was simply trying to plague you. I suspect she does not care whether I live or die."

"Not true. She was quite distressed when you were hurt in Sudbury."

He scoffed, an inelegant noise.

I tried another tack. "I remember when you took me to Covent Garden to see Mrs. Bennington perform. You did not sing her praises as everyone else in the theatre seemed to."

"What are you talking about? I said much that was complimentary."

"No, you simply did not disagree with what others said. That is a different thing."

Grenville gave me a tense glance. "Why this sudden interest in my opinion of Mrs. Bennington?"

"I am merely curious. She was at the Gillises' ball, and afterward, you sought her company. At her house?"

"Very well, Lacey, if you must know the entire story, no. I fully intended to visit Clarges Street, but as I journeyed home, I happened upon Mrs. Bennington's carriage-it had broken an axle, and she was wild to get home. I let her ride to her house in my carriage, and I stayed with her until she'd calmed down. Then I went home. That is all."

I drank brandy in silence, while he grew red in the face. He was annoyed, and trying to stifle it.

"I would like to meet Mrs. Bennington," I said.

"What the devil for?"

"If nothing else, to ask her what she observed at the Gillises' ball. If she saw something that would point to solving Turner's murder, I certainly want to hear it."

"I tried to ask her," Grenville said in a more even tone. "She noticed very little. She believes she saw her husband speak to Turner, but she cannot be certain."

I pushed my feet closer to the fire. "Who is this Mr. Bennington? Is he known for anything but marrying a famous actress?"

Grenville seemed to relax. "Bennington is one of those Englishmen who enjoy living most of the time on the Continent. Both she and Bennington are a little vague about how they met, but from what I understand, Bennington saw Claire perform one night in Milan and asked her to marry him the next day."

"A love match?"

"No, I do not think so," Grenville said. "The marriage was sudden, but I cannot believe love had anything to do with it. Bennington is sardonic about Claire if he speaks about her at all, and Claire never mentions her husband or even notices when he's in the room with her. I imagine that they came together for mutual convenience."

"Money?" I asked.

"That is the usual reason, but who knows? Bennington seems well off. Perhaps she needed money, and he wanted something pretty to look at." Grenville's mouth twisted in distaste. "Although he does not dance attendance on Claire, nor does he seem inclined to be possessive of her."

"Is it an open marriage, then?"

"I do not know why you should think so," Grenville began, then he caught himself. "Admittedly, they live almost separate lives. I imagine that they appeared at the Gillises' ball at the same time entirely by accident."

I had begun to construct a scenario in which Mr. Bennington killed Turner in a fit of jealousy when Turner had made up to his young wife, but at Grenville's answer, I discarded the idea. If they'd married for convenience and lived separate lives, Bennington might simply look the other way at his wife's affairs, and she at his.

"Did Mrs. Bennington know Henry Turner?" I asked.

"She says not," Grenville answered. "She has no reason to lie about that."

"But he was found murdered, and she is an actress. Perhaps her first instinct would be to lie."

Grenville gave me an unfriendly glance. "I know what you are doing, Lacey. You need a suspect other than Brandon. Do you plan to suspect everyone at the ball?"

"Every person in that house had the opportunity to murder Henry Turner. Including you."

"True. I was close to the room when he was found. I could have slipped in and out without anyone noticing. Although most people notice what I do. Some person usually has their eye on me, which makes things dashed difficult at times. I cannot take a private walk across a remote country meadow without it being reported in full in every London newspaper the next day."

"The curse of fame," I said.

"You wonder why I travel to the corners of the earth. Escaping newspapermen is one motive. But you are correct, I could have killed Turner. I had no reason to murder him, however, except that his cravat knot was appalling. But I am reasonable enough to simply look away and swallow when I see such abuse of a cravat."

He spoke lightly, but I sensed his tension. I also noted that he'd turned the conversation neatly away from discussion of Claire Bennington.

"Who else would have reason to murder him?" I asked. "Either because of his cravat, or something else?"

Grenville at last began to show interest. He dropped his dandy persona and went to the writing desk to search for paper and pen and ink.

"Suppose I make a list of all present at the ball who knew Turner and who might have reason to dislike him?" He began writing, his pen scratching softly. "The most obvious person, of course, is Imogene Harper. She found Turner, she admitted that she searched his pockets for her love letter to Colonel Brandon, and Lady Breckenridge confirms that she saw Mrs. Harper doing so. Turner was apparently blackmailing Mrs. Harper about the letter, which gives her quite a strong motive."

"Yes, but why kill him in so public a place as a ballroom?"

Grenville waited, pen poised. "Because she was angry and frightened, and in such a crush, there would be a chance someone else would be accused of the crime. As indeed, happened."

"Yes," I said. "Who besides Mrs. Harper?"

"Lady Breckenridge?"

I raised my brows. "She did not know Turner well."

"So she says. And she was quite close to the room when Mrs. Harper went in. I remember seeing her standing very near the door. Not speaking to anyone, just looking about."

"Donata is an unlikely murderess. If a gentleman angered her, she would dress him down, in no uncertain terms, no matter who listened."

Grenville chuckled. "The lady has a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. I include her only because she was so near the room. And she told you she'd seen Mrs. Harper bend over Turner-Lady Breckenridge might have invented the story to make you more suspicious of Mrs. Harper. However, I admit that such a thing seems unlikely."

"We are looking for people who knew Turner well," I said.

"Indeed. Lord and Lady Gillis, then. They invited him."

"Lord Gillis says he knew Turner only in a vague way. The friend of a friend of his wife's, he told me."

"Yes, Lady Gillis is the connection there," Grenville said, writing. "You did not meet Lady Gillis. She can be a charming woman when she wishes, and she is very much younger than Lord Gillis. About Turner's age, I put her."

"Hmm," I said. "And Bartholomew puts her arguing with Lord Gillis earlier that day about someone she'd invited. I wonder who the object of this argument was."

"We can but ask her."

"Any other names?" I said.

"Leland Derwent," Grenville said. "He and Turner were at Oxford together. Leland often mentions this, usually in a tone of apology."

"I doubt Leland Derwent would commit murder." Leland was one of the most innocent young men I'd ever met. He looked upon life with the unworldly eyes of a puppy and had the enthusiasm to match. I dined regularly with his family, where Leland listened to my stories of the war in the Peninsula with flattering eagerness.

"I would agree with you," Grenville said. "The thought of Leland Derwent as a murderer stretches credulity. I saw Leland speak to Turner at length that evening, however, angrily, and he was quite troubled when Turner left him."

"I see." I didn't like that. "Very well, write his name, and we will ask him about this conversation with Mr. Turner. Mr. Bennington next, I think."

Grenville hesitated, looking annoyed, but he nodded and wrote again.

"You said it was accidental that he and Mrs. Bennington were there together," I said. "Were they invited separately, or together?"

"I do not know, but thinking it over, I wonder why Bennington came at all. He tends to sneer at social gatherings. Where we stand about and pretend interest in the cut of Mr. Teezle's coat and whether Miss Peazle's come-out will be a success, he says."

"And yet, he arrives at a grand ball and stays most of the night."

"Precisely," Grenville said. "I must wonder why."

"Very well, make a note of him. Any others?"

Grenville tapped his lips with the end of the pen. "It is difficult to say. Turner was not well liked. Snubbed people at Tattersall's and so forth. But he always paid his debts at White's when he lost and everywhere else for that matter, and always stopped short of mortally insulting a fellow so that he would not be called out. Not very brave, was our Mr. Turner."

I half listened to him, while I contemplated what I'd learned from Lady Aline, Louisa, and Lady Breckenridge. "What about Basil Stokes?" I asked. "Louisa and Lady Aline mentioned him, but I know nothing about him."

"Stokes?" Grenville raised his head in surprise. "Why would you suspect him?"

"Because Louisa said he stood very close to Colonel Brandon when they entered the house. I am looking at the possibility of someone stealing Brandon's knife-picking his pocket. Louisa said the closest persons to them in the crush were Mrs. Bennington and Basil Stokes."

Grenville shrugged and made a note. "Very well, then, Basil Stokes. We will easily find him at Tatt's or the boxing rooms-he is mad for sport."

"In all frankness, I cannot imagine why Mr. Stokes would murder Turner, but I hate to leave any stone unturned."

"If nothing else, we'll get good tips on what horse will win at Newmarket or which pugilist is likely to be a champion this year. Now, what about this French gentleman who assaulted you?"

I took a sip of brandy, letting the mellow taste fill my mouth. "I had not forgotten him. He had a rather military bearing, an officer, I would say, not one of the rank and file."

"He was not at the ball," Grenville said. "I would have noticed a lean man with close-cropped hair, a military bearing, and a thick French accent. I knew everyone there. There were no strangers."

I cradled my brandy goblet in my palms. "Lord Gillis likes military men, which was why he invited Colonel Brandon and the Duke of Wellington. Supposing this Frenchman had been a guest in the house but did not come down for the ball. Suppose he was someone Lord Gillis had invited to stay so they could discuss old military campaigns. The Frenchman spies Turner entering the house for the ball and kills him-for reasons of his own. The French officer took Imogene Harper's letters, but if he had not looked at them closely, he would not know what they were. Perhaps he thought they were something of his that Turner had taken."

"Or the Frenchman has nothing to do with Henry Turner at all. You are only guessing that he does."

"True. But he followed me, after I'd finished searching Turner's rooms, and he was looking for something. Pomeroy is now scouring the city for the Frenchman, and I hope to question him before long." I touched my face gingerly. "And complain of his very hard fists."

If anyone could find the man, Pomeroy could. He had a tenacity greater than the Russians who'd driven Bonaparte out of Moscow. Also, the Frenchman would not remain hidden for long. A French officer of such distinctive appearance walking about London would be noted and remembered.

There existed another reason a Frenchman might profess interest in me. My wife, Carlotta, had eloped with a French officer. I had never met the man or even seen him. Why Carlotta's lover would come to London and ransack my rooms, I had no idea, but I could not dismiss the fact that the connection might be along those lines.

I kept this to myself, however, as Grenville and I continued our discussion. Grenville brought up names and wrote them down or rejected those who'd left the ball long before Turner's death. Grenville's circle of acquaintance was vastly greater than mine, so I let him speculate on the characters of gentlemen of whom I knew nothing.

By the time we parted to seek our beds, we had come up with a lengthy list. But I focused on only a few of those as most likely: Imogene Harper, Mrs. Bennington, Mr. Bennington, Basil Stokes, my mysterious Frenchman, and possibly Leland Derwent.

I felt grateful that Grenville did not suggest listing Brandon, but I knew, glumly, that I could not rule him out altogether. He and Mrs. Harper still had the strongest motives thus far.

I went to sleep in the soft bed in my chamber and dreamed of Lady Breckenridge and her blue eyes.

The funeral for Henry Turner was held the next morning. The day dawned clear and fine, the air soft, the sky an arch of blue overhead. It was a day made for hacking across the downs on a fine horse, not for standing in a churchyard while a vicar droned the burial service.

"Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow… "

I stood next to Grenville, both of us in somber gray. Nearer the tomb stood Mr. Turner and his wife, several young men I took to be Turner's friends, and a few older men, who must be Turner's father's cronies. People from the town of Epsom also attended, working people who had given Mr. and Mrs. Turner respectful words of condolence when they arrived.

Henry would be buried in a rather private corner of the churchyard where, Mr. Turner had informed me, his family had been buried for generations.

"I thought the next person there would be me," Mr. Turner said.

I'd had little comfort to give him. Grenville spoke the right phrases, but I, whose mentor was even now waiting in prison to be tried for the murder, could think of nothing to say.

One of the mourners was Leland Derwent. He had seen me when we all arrived at the church and had given me a nod of greeting. Now he stared down at the grave, his young brow furrowed.

Next to him stood a young man called Gareth Travers. I'd met Travers during the affair of Colonel Westin last summer. He was Leland's closest friend, but he lacked the complete innocence of Leland and had a bit more worldly intelligence.

The vicar launched into the Lord's Prayer. I heard Grenville murmuring along, although most of the attendants remained silent. A soft spring breeze carrying the scent of new earth touched me.

The service finished, and we turned away from the graveside. In tacit agreement, Grenville and I hung back while Mr. Turner led his wife away.

Leland and Gareth Travers waited for us at the gate to the churchyard. "It was kind of you to come, Captain," Leland said as he shook my hand.

"I am afraid that my motive was not entirely kindness," I said. "I came to obtain an idea of Turner's character, and to find out who would want to kill him."

Leland looked puzzled. "I thought your colonel had been arrested."

"He has, but his arrest does not mean he is guilty. I intend to bring forth evidence that he is not guilty before his trial."

I had expected, if anything, for Leland to look interested, but his expression became troubled. "You think someone else committed this crime?"

"Yes, but I'm damned if I know who. You went to school with Henry Turner, I believe."

"Yes, but he was two years ahead of us." As Grenville had indicated, Leland sounded apologetic.

The other mourners had dispersed, leaving us alone. "Will you tell me about him?" I asked.

Leland fell into step beside me on a path that skirted the edge of the churchyard and swung out across the downs. Travers and Grenville came behind.

"There is not much to tell," Leland said. "I do hate to say anything bad about Mr. Turner, now that he's lying in the ground."

"I assure you, I will repeat nothing that is not relevant to my problem. But I need to know everything I can if I'm to discover who killed him."

Leland settled his curled-brimmed hat against the breeze. "I admit that he was a bit of a bully. I didn't fag for him, but I knew the lads who did. He put them through their paces and was never happy with anything."

"Was he-forgive me for putting this bluntly-a blackmailer?"

Leland looked startled. "A blackmailer? No. No, I do not believe so. I never heard anyone say anything like that."

"Did he ever seem desperate for money?"

"He liked money, that is true, but I do not know that he was desperate for it. His allowance was plenty for him, I would think."

I stifled my impatience at his nicety. "Anything you can tell me will help us, Leland. I need details. Did he have lovers? Did he keep to himself? Did he seem to have more money than could be accounted for from a father's generous allowance? Was he a gambler?"

"Yes, he did like to gamble." Leland seized on my last question in seeming relief. "But he generally won. Chaps always owed him money for some wager or other."

"And they paid him?"

"Oh, yes. Well, you have to, don't you? Pay up your wagers. All in good sport."

"He played cards? Dice?"

"He was not so much a gamer," Leland said. "I do not think he had a head for cards or hazard. No, he would wager on other sorts of things. Something as simple as a horse winning at Newmarket or as obscure as whether an ill housemaid would get well on Wednesday or Thursday. He had an uncanny knack of always being right."

"If he won so often, why did the other chaps wager with him?"

"Couldn't resist." Leland flashed me a smile. "One always wanted to best him. And betting whether or a cat would walk to the left or right around the quad seemed safe. But he still managed to win."

"Perhaps," Grenville said behind us, "he enticed the cat with a bit of chicken or put ipecac in the maid's tea."

Leland gave him a horrified look over his shoulder. "Cheated?" He sounded as though we'd accused a heroic a man of being a traitor. "I do not think he would have cheated, Mr. Grenville. He was simply lucky."

"Perhaps," I conceded, more to calm him than because I agreed. "Aside from his great fortune at games, was Turner particularly liked or disliked?"

Leland shrugged. "Not particularly disliked-or liked, I suppose. He had his friends, his circle."

"Did you particularly like or dislike him?" I asked.

Leland started. "Why do you ask that?"

"You turned up for his funeral," I said. "Is that because he was a great friend, or did you wish to make certain he was buried?"

Leland gaped at me. "How can you say that? I came out of respect, Captain. I was at the ball where he died. I thought it well that I come to show his father how sorry I was." His face had gone white, his lips, tight.

"I should not have said such a thing, Leland. I'm sorry. I am simply trying to ascertain why someone would want to kill him. You say he had no particular friends but no particular enemies, that he usually won at wagers but that those he bet against paid up without fuss. You paint a picture of a young man with a gaming streak but of rather neutral temperament. But this does not bear out what others have told me, nor does it explain his appalling rudeness to Mrs. Harper at the ball."

"Well, I cannot help that," Leland said weakly.

"What I am getting at is that someone might have killed Turner because he owed Turner a great deal of money. Suppose the Frenchman who attacked me was not looking for a letter, but a note of hand, perhaps a ruinous gambling debt. My bruises attest to the fact that the Frenchman was capable of violence."

"I saw no Frenchman in the Gillises' ballroom," Leland said, bewildered.

"I know." I sighed. "The man seems to have been inconveniently invisible at the critical moment. What did you see, Leland? Did you observe anyone trying to corner Henry Turner, perhaps leading him to that little anteroom?"

Leland shook his head. "I am sorry, Captain. I saw nothing out of the ordinary."

I hadn't thought he would have. "What is it about Turner that you do not wish to tell me?"

Leland stopped walking, his walking stick arrested in midair. "I beg your pardon?"

"Mr. Grenville says that you had a conversation with Turner at the ball, in which you became angry with him. What did you argue about?"

"Nothing. Nothing in particular. I'd lost a bet with him on a London-to-Brighton race recently, and perhaps he gloated a bit."

"But you paid up your wager, without fuss?"

Leland flushed. "Of course I did. Why would I not?"

I knew I was being hard on the boy, but I was frustrated, and Leland was holding something back. "You knew Turner in school, but you did not like him, that is obvious. Why not? What is it about Henry Turner that would drive someone to murder?"

Leland looked at me with wide eyes, disconcerted. "Please, I cannot answer any more questions. The air is too warm, and I am tired. I- " He broke off, flushing. "I must rest. Good day."

He spun on his heel and set off back the way we'd come. His long and hurried stride belied his claim that he was tired. He would quickly cover the three miles back to the village at that pace.

Grenville watched him go, brows raised. "Good Lord."

I feared I might have spent my last pleasant evening at the Derwent's home. Leland would tell his father, Sir Gideon, that I was a bully, and gone would be the lovely meals and warm conversation I enjoyed once a fortnight. Worse, I feared that Leland's nervousness meant he had something to do with Turner's death, and I desperately hoped I was wrong.

I expected Gareth Travers to rush after him, or to berate me for browbeating his friend, but Travers simply stood and watched Leland go. He leaned on his walking stick, the April breeze stirring the brown curls beneath his hat.

"Do not mind Leland," he said. "He is embarrassed, that is all."

"Embarrassed?" I looked after the retreating figure. Leland was putting all his strength into getting away from us as fast as he could.

"There are certain things that Leland does not like to speak about. It is no great secret; most chaps at Oxford knew, although one never said anything, of course."

"Knew?" I queried. "About Henry Turner?"

"Indeed. What Leland does not wish to tell you, Captain, is that Henry Turner did not keep the company of women. He preferred young men, if you understand me." He smiled. "I trust that little on dit will go no further than the three of us? One does not like to gossip about the dead."