A Regimental Murder

Chapter Twelve

Grenville and I left Astley Close half an hour later. We talked little on the journey to London because Grenville, though manfully remaining upright for the first few miles, soon had to drink a brandy and lie down again. He spent the journey up much as he'd spent the journey down, flat on his back on his makeshift bed, eyes closed.

I had not had the chance to speak to Brandon after the inquest. He had avoided me when we left the inn, and disappeared shortly after. But I did not need him near to speculate. The half-truths he'd told the coroner and magistrate worried me. I spent the journey deep in thought about his actions and about our past and present, while Grenville alternately dozed and woke, pale and preoccupied.

Grenville's carriage deposited me at the top of Grimpen Lane just at sunset. He bade me a feeble good-night and rolled away to be tended by his footmen. I returned to my rooms and spent a restless night worrying about Louisa, Brandon's lies, and Breckenridge's death.

The next morning's post included a letter from John Spencer. I perused it eagerly. Mr. Spencer informed me that he had returned from Norfolk and invited me to meet him and his brother on the morrow at a tavern in Pall Mall. The tone of the missive was rather cold. Mr. Spencer said that he did not see the point of such a meeting, but his brother had convinced him that we should speak.

I wrote a reply that I would attend, and turned to my other mail.

Someone, I did not know who, had sent me a page from the newspaper tucked into a blank letter. The page featured a another caricature of an overly lean-legged, overly broad-shouldered dragoon captain who pointed at a dead dog that had just been run down by a cart. The balloon from his mouth proclaimed: "It is murder, sir. We cannot let it lie." In the picture, a fancy carriage was just passing, and women in exaggerated bonnets stared out of the windows, open-mouthed, at the scene.

Beneath the picture ran the caption: "The Shortcomings of England's policing, or Murder not Recognized."

I tore it up and tossed it on the fire. The journalists who'd attended Breckenridge's inquest must have found it a perfect opportunity for more levity. I wondered if Billings had sent the cutting to make certain I'd see it.

Lydia Westin had also written. It was a simple note asking me to call on her the following evening, but I savored it a long time. At last laying it aside, I penned a reply that I would be delighted to attend.

I went out to post my letters, then turned my steps to Bow Street and the magistrate's house. The tall, narrow Bow Street house had been lived in by the famous Fieldings-Henry, the author, who had first established the Bow Street Runners, and Sir John, his blind half-brother who had succeeded him. From what I understood, Henry Fielding had taken the post for the money, since he rarely had any, but had grown interested in keeping the peace and detecting crime. The half-dozen men he recruited to help him were at first referred to simply as "Mr. Fielding’s People." Then Sir John had built his brother's Runners into an elite machine that now assisted in investigations all over England. The magistrate lived in private rooms at the top of the house, with the jail and court below. I often wondered how easily he slept in his bed of nights.

I asked for my former sergeant, Milton Pomeroy, and a clerk led me through the hall where the day patrol were bringing in their catches for the morning, to a small private room where he offered me muddy coffee.

I waited on a hard chair while Pomeroy finished his report of his previous night's arrests. He wrote slowly, his pen squeaking, his tongue pushed against his large teeth. A copy of the Hue and Cry lay at my elbow, and I idly studied the reports of various criminals or supposed criminals lurking about England.

Pomeroy shuffled out to deliver his report, then returned with more coffee. Pomeroy was a big man with bright yellow hair and blue eyes that twinkled. He seated himself heavily and sent me a grin. "I heard, sir, that you twitted the magistrate in Kent about Viscount Breckenridge. Ha. I'd have liked to see that. Why were you so certain it was murder?"

I explained my reasons and my speculations. Pomeroy nodded over his coffee, his round face serious. "Could be. Could be. I know you, sir, sometimes you're right. What did you come to me for? Hiring me to investigate it? Have to talk to the magistrate."

"I came to ask you about Colonel Westin. You were investigating him for John Spencer and his brother. I want to know what you found."

His eyebrows climbed. "Do you, sir? That's interesting. I stopped at his death, saw no reason to go on. Can't prove anything one way or another, but I found eyewitnesses that put Colonel Westin at the shooting at Badajoz." He grimaced. "That was a bad time, eh, Captain? Nasty goings-on."

I had to agree. "Do you think Westin was the true culprit?"

Pomeroy shrugged. "Couldn't say. He was there, all right, but I found little more than that. Truth to tell, Colonel Westin was a fine and quiet-spoken gentleman. When I first asked him about Captain Spencer and Badajoz, he behaved like he'd never met the man. And then one day he asked me to call on him." Pomeroy leaned forward, eyes bright. "He said he'd thought it over, and he believed that he had, in fact, shot Captain Spencer. He'd been drunk after the siege, he said, and couldn't remember, but now he was having flashes of it in his mind. He was upset like, sorry he'd caused Spencer's sons so much pain."

"And what did you think?"

He pursed his lips. "Ain't paid to think, am I?"

I eyed him severely. "Yes you are. You are a Runner, an elite investigator."

"Fancy names for sergeanting. All right, sir, yes, it sounded a little too easy. But the magistrate says, we gather some proof, and then we go and arrest him. But before we can get there, Colonel Westin up and falls down the stairs."

He sat back, thick hands cradling his cup of coffee, his eye on me.

"Conveniently avoiding the dock," I finished. "And what truths he might tell there."

"I thought of that, sir. Bit too convenient, eh?" He slanted me a glance. "Think his wife pushed him? Would have gotten him out of her life and just in time, too."

"No," I said sharply.

But the possibility that Lydia herself had killed her husband had occurred to me, much as I disliked the idea. Westin had died quickly, by Lydia's account, without struggle, and she'd found him in bed. We assumed the murderer had killed him then put him there.

But what if Colonel Westin had already been in bed, perhaps with Lydia by his side. She could have stabbed him in the neck and rolled him onto his back once he was dead. I couldn’t help imagining her rising up, her dark hair snaking about her, her body naked and beautiful, with a thin knife in her slender hand.

I tried to banish this vision, but I could not. It had been she who had decided that her servants should not report the murder, she who had decided to tell the world it had been an accident, she who'd pointed the finger at Breckenridge, Eggleston, and Sir Edward Connaught.

"His fall was witnessed by the footman and the valet," I said carefully. "He slipped and fell."

"Could be." Pomeroy grinned. "Widow's a bit of a stunner, eh, Captain?"

I eyed him coldly. "Keep your remarks respectful, Sergeant."

His grin was wide. "Might have known you'd have noticed. You're always one for the ladies."

I ignored him. "What about Breckenridge and colleagues, who were with Westin at Badajoz? Did you discover anything interesting about them?"

He shook his head. "Not much, except they were present when Captain Spencer was shot. But they're lordships. Didn't like a Runner poking about their business, did they? No, Colonel Westin was a gentleman about it, but the others did everything but set their dogs on me."

This information did not surprise me. Breckenridge and Eggleston might have continually insulted each other, but I remembered how they had closed ranks to confront me at the boxing match. I had not yet met Connaught, but I would not be surprised to find him cut from the same cloth. "Poke some more," I suggested. "If you cannot speak to the gentlemen themselves, speak to their servants or friends, or even their enemies. I want to know everything about them, where they go, who they meet, what they eat every day." I was certain Eggleston had plenty to do with both Spencer's and Westin's deaths, and I damn well wanted to prove it. Breckenridge's death I had different ideas about.

Pomeroy grinned. "A tall order, sir. You want me to do this as a favor?"

He knew bloody well I could not pay him. "Yes, Sergeant. As a favor to your old captain."

He was laughing at me. "'Twill be a pleasure, sir. I always like the look on your face when I tell you something interesting. I'll be sure to let you know."

I left Bow Street deep in thought and returned to my rooms.

A note from Grenville had been hand-delivered in my absence to say that he felt much better and would send Bartholomew with the carriage for me that evening. His note was short, only four lines on an entire sheet of heavy white paper.

Did I envy a man who could afford to throw away an expensive piece of paper on a short note, or think him a fool? In any case, I carefully tore the clean end of the sheet from the written area and tucked it into my drawer to save for my own letters.

I spent the day thinking about what Pomeroy had told me, and about the character of Colonel Westin. When Bartholomew arrived later that afternoon, I was dressed and ready. We arrived at the Grosvenor Street house just as clocks were striking eight. As Bartholomew helped me descend and led me to the house, I was very aware that Lydia Westin reposed only ten doors down.

Grenville greeted me and informed me I was to take supper with him. After we had enjoyed a few glasses of excellent port, he led me to the dining room.

"Anton is experimenting again," he said as we entered. "I have no idea what he will offer us, but please tell him you like it, no matter what you truly think."

Anton was Grenville's celebrated French chef. The man was an artist with food, as I had come to know to my delight.

"He has been doing this all summer." Grenville informed me in a low voice. "He spends the day creating a dish then brings it to me to sample. If ever I say it is not his best, he crumples into tears and refuses to cook for a week." He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "So praise him and swallow it, even if it tastes like sawdust."

I assured him I would dissemble, though, as I suspected, he needn't have worried. Anton brought us a delicate mussel bisque, so smooth and light it flowed like silk on the tongue. He followed this with grouse in a wild raspberry sauce, then a salad of cool greens, and ended with a lemon tart, not too sweet, and a rich chocolate soup.

I ate every bite and sang his praises without compunction. He beamed at me and glided away, back to his sanctum to no doubt create more delectable feasts.

Once left on our own with brandy, Matthias entered the room bearing a tray stacked neatly with papers and two ledgers. He set this down before his master, bowed, then departed.

To the questioning look on my face, Grenville said, "I did not invite you here simply to soothe Anton's temperament. I managed to procure Colonel Westin's financial papers, in hopes that they might tell us why Eggleston and Breckenridge might have blackmailed him into confessing to Spencer's murder."

I leaned forward, my interest quickening. "How did you get them?"

He gave me a modest look. "I know people. Some of whom owe me favors. Shall we begin?"

We divided the stack between us and sorted things out across the dining room table. Matthias and Bartholomew kept us in brandy and also brought in black coffee as rich as chocolate.

For the next several hours, we leafed through papers, passed ledgers back and forth, and discussed our findings. The Colonel Westin I found here had been as meticulous as the one I'd come to know in his private papers in Lydia's house. He or his man of business had kept strict accounts for everything: for the country house and the London house, for servants' wages and clothing, for food, for fuel, for horses, for his wife's clothing and jewelry.

My fingers felt a bit sticky as I turned over the pages describing Lydia's personal finances. These were none of my business, and yet, I desperately wanted to discover anything that would point away from her and to Eggleston, Breckenridge, or the elusive Connaught as her husband's murderers.

I found that Lydia was just as careful as her husband in the matter of finances. Her bills for her dressmaker, her glovemaker, her milliner, and her shoemaker were high, but not extravagant, and well within Colonel Westin's means. Likewise her household budget bore the marks of a woman who could spend wisely and still manage to live in elegance.

The Westins appeared, by all accounts, to have been a model couple of moderation, good taste, and financial sense.

Grenville sat back as the clock struck one. "Well," he said. "We have learned that Westin had no heavy debts, gambling or otherwise. Pity."

"Yes," I answered, subdued. "It seems that he led a blameless life."

Grenville sighed and tossed down the sheet he'd been perusing. "So why would he suddenly sacrifice this blameless life for Breckenridge, Eggleston, and Connaught?"

"He would sacrifice his family as well," I remarked.

"Perhaps Breckenridge and Eggleston were instrumental in persuading Allandale to propose to the daughter. Then Allandale could look after both daughter and Mrs. Westin after Westin had been tried and executed."

"Is Allandale such a catch?" I asked. The opinion I'd formed upon meeting him in Lydia's house had not been high.

Grenville thought a moment. "I would not have chosen him for my own daughter, but yes, Geoffrey Allandale is, from what I have heard of him, a catch. He has money and he has connections and the beginnings of a political career. Everything a father could want for his daughter."

What about a mother? I wondered. Lydia disliked Mr. Allandale. I read that in her tone when she spoke of him and in her face when she'd looked at him. And yet, she'd not opposed the match. Or perhaps she had, and had been overruled. I wondered if the daughter, Chloe, had been happy with the choice.

"Providing an excellent marriage for the daughter would fit," Grenville speculated. "Westin let his friends set up the marriage knowing he would go to the gallows. His daughter and wife would simply be absorbed into Allandale's family."

I could sincerely hope not. Perhaps another reason Lydia had expressed relief at her husband's death was that she would no longer be at the mercy of Allandale. Westin had died technically a free and innocent man, and she would come into whatever money and property he had left her absolutely. His sudden death had saved her from the fate of living in Allandale's household.

"We should find a copy of the marriage settlement," I said, "before we draw a conclusion."

"Agreed. But I cannot imagine what else it could be. Westin certainly was a man without vices…" He broke off, his dark eyes riveting to an entry on a ledger page. "A moment. I spoke too soon. This is interesting."

Nothing else had been all night. I waited impatiently.

"I am not certain whether this counts as a vice," Grenville said. "But at one time in his life, our Colonel Westin was in the habit of purchasing cantharides." He sat back and looked at me.

"Spanish fly?" I asked, surprised.

"On more than one occasion. But this was a long time ago. 1798, to be precise." He turned back a page. "No, wait, a few years before that as well."

"Anything more recent?"

Grenville flipped forward through the book. I took up the other ledger and gently turned its pages. We had been looking for things of recent memory, but perhaps we ought to examine the man's deep past as well.

"I looks as though he gave it up," Grenville said presently.

I frowned. "Why on earth would a man married to Lydia Westin need an aphrodisiac?"

Grenville shot me a thoughtful look. "Some take it for the stimulation. It adds a spice, shall we say, to the performance. Though one must have a care not to poison oneself with it."

I leafed through the ledger, baffled. Westin did not seem the type of man to try something as dangerous as Spanish fly simply for the adventure of it. Especially in light of Lydia's assertion that her husband had disliked pleasures of the flesh. Were I married to Lydia Westin, I certainly would not need a dose of Spanish fly to convince myself to take her to bed.

I searched for another explanation. "I have heard that it is sometimes used for the skin, as well." I touched an entry. "This ledger shows he was seeing a doctor for an unnamed affliction in the past. Perhaps he used the cantharides for that."

"Possibly. But I hardly believe B and E would convince Westin to go to the gallows to keep the secret of a skin condition."

I did not either, but I needed something. "He made payments to this Dr. Barton for a number of years."

Grenville suddenly came alert. "Barton? Jules Barton? Of Bedford Square?"

"Yes. Why?"

He gave me a curious look. "There is only one reason a gentleman consults Dr. Barton of Bedford Square." He watched me as though I should know damn well why without being told.

"I have never heard of the man."

His eyes flickered. "Hmm. Well, I doubt any gentleman would confide to you he'd made a visit to Dr. Barton. At least not in another's hearing."

"Why? Who the devil is he?"

Grenville pressed his fingertips together. "One consults Dr. Barton when… Well, to put it delicately, one consults him-discreetly-when one cannot make one's soldier stand to attention."

My brows rose. Lydia's faint smile, her rueful look when she explained why she doubted her husband had a mistress, became suddenly clear. "So," I said, "you believe Westin was not so much unattracted by pleasures of the flesh as unable to enjoy them."

"That would explain the Spanish fly," Grenville said. "Perhaps Dr. Barton suggested it. Poor beggar. To be married to such a lovely woman, and not be able to- "

"They had a child," I pointed out. "Miss Westin is of marriageable age now, so could well have been conceived near to 1798. Perhaps he was cured."

Grenville seemed determined to throw cold water on everything. "One child. A girl. Most gentlemen would keep trying until his wife produced a son. Did he continue to see the doctor after her birth?"

I examined the page of payments to Dr. Barton. Several were dated a mere nine years previously, shortly before the Peninsular campaign began. "Yes," I answered.

"A lucky shot, then. Or…" Grenville paused. "This is not a nice speculation, but perhaps…" Again he hesitated. "Perhaps Miss Westin is not Westin's daughter at all."

Silence fell. I traced a pattern on the ledger page. My finger shook once. "What are you suggesting?"

"Something sordid and vulgar, I am sorry to say. But we are looking for reasons that Breckenridge, Eggleston, and Connaught might have blackmailed Colonel Westin."

"If we were speaking of Lady Breckenridge," I said, keeping my voice quiet, "I might agree with you. But Mrs. Westin does not seem the type to have a sordid affair and then force her husband to accept her child. I do not believe it is in her character."

"I know." He studied me for a time. "But perhaps when she was young, and wanted a child, and her husband could not give it to her.."

"She sought it elsewhere?" My fingers tightened on the ledger. "Colonel Westin's letters are filled with great affection for his daughter," I pointed out. "Would he have doted on her if she were another man's child?"

Grenville shrugged. "We live in odd times, Lacey. I know men who grew up in nurseries with half-brothers and — sisters and the illegitimate by-blows of either parent. Lady Oxford is rumored to have borne children by a number of different fathers, and yet her husband keeps the pretense that they are his own, and no one says a word. Hell, my own father brought home a little girl he called my cousin, and we both discovered much later he had fathered her with his mistress. It happens. Mrs. Westin may simply have wanted a child too desperately."

I looked at him. "This line of speculation is distasteful."

"I know. It is a distasteful business, all of it. But such a secret might be enough for Westin. Breckenridge could have threatened to reveal that shame to the world."

I let out my breath. "Such a predicament would certainly give Breckenridge, Eggleston, or Connaught hold over Colonel Westin." I took a draught of my now-cold coffee. "But dear God, Grenville, I do not want it to be true. I pray we find a better explanation."

I pictured Eggleston's glee at knowing a sordid secret about the impeccable Colonel Westin. But would they have loosed that hold by murdering him?

Grenville rested his elbows on the table. "Even if what we have speculated is true, that still does not prove who killed Captain Spencer at Badajoz. This is a most baffling problem you have become tangled in, Lacey."

Well I knew it. Lydia Westin had asked me to clear her husband's name. So far, I was only succeeding in tarnishing it.

As much as we tried, we could find nothing else that night to explain why Colonel Westin might have offered to die on the gallows. Defeated, we closed the ledgers, and Grenville called his carriage to take me the long way back home.

Grenville had asked leave to accompany me to my meeting with the Spencer brothers and I had agreed. He had an uncanny knack for asking the right questions, and his head was a bit clearer on the entire Westin affair than was mine. The next afternoon I met him at Pall Mall and we made our way to the appointment together.

The facade of the tavern had been refurbished to complement the modern buildings surrounding it, but the interior remained dark with age. The paneled walls and spindle-legged tables were nearly black, the beamed ceiling bowed, and the floorboards creaked. A blurred sign in one corner proclaimed that the house had stood since 1673. I felt surprised that it had not burned down at least once during that time, but perhaps it had, and the sign reposted to reassure patrons that it was as traditional as any other tavern.

Only a few men sat about sipping thick coffee or eating beefsteak this afternoon. We were in St. James's, where clubs had become far more the fashion than taverns or coffeehouses. But political liaisons were still cultivated here and old friends still met. I was pleased to see, however, that no journalists lingered here today.

As we halted just inside the doorway, blinking to adjust to the dim interior, two gentlemen rose and advanced upon us. One was slight of build and had a thin brown hair, a fringe of which hung limply on his forehead. The second man looked much like him, but larger, and his hair was thicker.

I advanced to shake hands, but Grenville stopped, staring. "A moment," he said in an odd voice. "I remember you. You were in Kent, at Astley Close, four days ago. I saw you there, at Jack Sharp's boxing match."