A Regimental Murder

Chapter Thirteen

I looked from the two of them to Grenville. Grenville was scowling at them, and the large man scowled back. The other wet his lips, his gaze flicking to me and back to Grenville.

"You must be mistaken," he said.

"I'm not," Grenville said flatly. "I saw you both. You watched the match. I did not know who you were, but I remember you."

I did not recall seeing either one of them in Kent, but then, I had backed out of the crowd, and later been distracted by Breckenridge and Eggleston. My pulse quickened with my speculations. These men certainly had motive to murder the officers from Badajoz, and now we knew they had been on the spot for Breckenridge's death.

The smaller man shot his brother an anxious glance. "Shall we sit down, gentlemen? And discuss this?"

He pulled back a straight-legged chair with trembling hand and sat down. Grenville took the seat next to him. His larger brother waited until I'd seated myself, then he joined us. I noted he chose a chair with the least obstructed path to the door.

The smaller gentleman offered his hand. "I am Kenneth Spencer. My brother, John."

I shook his hand. John Spencer did not offer his. He sat with arms folded, regarding us in deep suspicion. He certainly looked strong enough to break a man's neck, even a man as muscular as Breckenridge had been.

Keeping my expression neutral, I said, "So you did not go to Norfolk, after all."

"We had," Kenneth answered. John shot him a glare, but Kenneth plunged on. "But John discovered that Lord Breckenridge was traveling to Kent and decided we should go there to speak to him."

"Why?" I asked.

John Spencer unfolded his arms. "By all accounts, Lord Breckenridge was present at my father's death. That makes me interested in him."

"And did you speak to him?"

His lip curled. "No. Their lordships do not take kindly to being approached without introduction."

And the two of them had no doubt closed ranks against Captain Spencer's sons, just as they had against Pomeroy.

Spencer fell silent as the proprietor brought port for Grenville and coffee for the rest of us. We sipped in tense silence for a moment, then Kenneth took up the tale. "We left Kent immediately after Mr. Sharp had fallen at the end of his match, and reached London that night. We found Mr. Grenville's letter, sent on from Norfolk, waiting for us. I believed that meeting Captain Lacey would be a good idea." He glanced at his brother, who scowled back. "Perhaps together we can see an end to this matter."

"There will be no end until my father's murder is avenged," John said fiercely. "Colonel Westin escaped justice, and now Lord Breckenridge has as well."

"I consider Colonel Westin's death a blessing," Kenneth said quickly. "It saved us all from being dragged through the courts. The newspapers were bad enough."

John frowned at me. "If you gentlemen have come here to convince me to give up my search for the truth, save your breath. I am not satisfied that Colonel Westin killed my father, much as he was ready to admit to it." He shot his brother a stony look.

"I agree with you, Mr. Spencer," I broke in to what sounded like a long-standing argument. "I think the conclusion too pat, and it does not tally with what I have learned of Colonel Westin's character."

John lifted his brows in surprise. "You share my assessment? I assumed you friends of their lordships."

Grenville gave a half-laugh. "Good heavens, no."

I looked at John. "I would be interested to know how you discovered that your father's death was murder at all. That he was not a random and unfortunate victim of the rioting at Badajoz."

"Colonel Westin himself," Kenneth said.

I stared at him. "I beg your pardon? He told you?"

John sipped his coffee, face dark. "He wrote a letter to our mother. Just after my father's death. We did not know; she kept it to herself, and I found it among her papers after she died last winter. In it, Colonel Westin apologized profusely for our father's death at Badajoz. As though an apology could ever suffice."

His brother broke in. "Colonel Westin was kind to write. He said the incident had been unfortunate, and those men who had caused it deserved to be punished, but he was powerless in the matter. He was trying to console her."

John snorted. "It was not kindness. Guilt, rather. I wondered why the devil he had chosen to write at all. He was not my father's commanding officer; they were not even in the same regiment. I concluded that he must have been present at my father's death, and had known how utterly wrong it had been."

I watched him pensively. The remorse that moved Colonel Westin to pen the letter fit with what I'd learned of his character so far.

"The letter made me decide to discover just who had actually killed my father," John continued. "I asked questions of officers I knew and then of the soldiers and officers they directed me to. I even advertised in the newspapers. I at last found one man and a woman who had been eyewitnesses." He took another sip of coffee. "The man, an infantry corporal, told me that he had seen my father at Badajoz, running toward a group of officers who had been drunk and shouting. There was much smoke and glare of fire, and he could not see precisely what happened, but he heard a shot and then saw my father fall dead to the ground."

His voice was flat, toneless, as though he had recited this story time and again. "The woman told a similar tale. She saw my father peering through smoke at a group of officers. According to her, he went suddenly still, looked horrified, then began running toward them. Just before he reached the officers, he fell dead. Where the shot had actually come from, neither could say, but they were certain one among the group of officers had fired it."

I wondered what Captain Spencer had seen. I was ready to believe that with Eggleston and Breckenridge, anything was possible.

"I at last pieced together the identities of the officers," John went on in a hard voice. " Westin, Breckenridge, Eggleston, Connaught, and a Colonel Spinnet, although Spinnet died there himself. Colonel Spinnet's journal told me much about the others, most of which I found disgusting. I hired a Bow Street Runner, and began to investigate them."

Kenneth fingered his cup nervously. "I expected them to bring suit against us."

John frowned at him. "They would not have dared. The Runner could not discover much, but then suddenly, Colonel Westin offered to confess. The newspapers took up that sensation, and the other gentlemen faded back into the moldings."

His brother broke in gently. "I was pleased he came forward. He was ready to pay for what he had done."

"Kenneth is too quick to finish the business," John said to me. "The more I learned about the other gentlemen, the more I decided Colonel Westin was unlikely to have pulled the trigger. He may have been about to tell us the entire truth of the matter himself."

I fingered the handle of my cup. "Why do you say that?"

"He made an appointment with us. One he never kept."

I came alert. "Appointment?"

John nodded. "The night before he died. He wrote to me and begged to see us."

"For what purpose?"

Kenneth said, "We will never know. He asked us to meet him at a coffeehouse in Conduit Street at an early hour of the morning. We appeared and waited. He never arrived."

Because he'd likely been dead by then, I thought. Tucked up in his bed waiting for Lydia to find him.

"We assumed he had changed his mind," John continued. "Too cowardly to tell us the truth. And then the next day, we heard he'd fallen to his death. I could not help but think it served him right. If he knew the truth, he ought to have told it at once."

He looked grimly satisfied. His brother sent him an uneasy glance.

"Colonel Westin was an honorable man, by all accounts," I said. "He did not deserve to die."

"Neither did my father," John snapped back.

I had to agree. "I, too, am interested in the truth. And now Breckenridge is dead."

"And can tell no tales?" John asked. He lifted his cup, his dark eyes glittering. "Well, all we need do is wait and see which is the last man standing."

Kenneth shot him another look, worried and nervous.

"I hope it will not come to that," I said. "If you discover anything more, please write to me."

John nodded tersely. Kenneth tried to be pleasant.

After an uncomfortable leave-taking, Grenville and I left the tavern.

"Interesting," Grenville said as we walked up Pall Mall, past shops and booksellers. "I noted that Kenneth Spencer made bloody certain we knew he and his brother had departed Kent before Breckenridge died."

"Yes," I mused. "I wonder if that is the truth. Did you notice them after the match?"

He shook his head. "I was busy watching you get bandaged. I wish I had known who the devil they were then, because I could have kept an eye on them." He looked glum. "I can always send someone back to Astley Close to nose about the village and discover when they did depart, I suppose. Of course this widens the range of suspects, rather than narrows it."

I greeted this fact with relief, because it lessened my worry about Brandon.

Grenville stopped. "What do we do now?"

I considered. "Do find out when the Spencer brothers departed Astley Close. I would be interested to know also if their appointment with Westin was in fact at his house rather than a coffeehouse. He could have let them in himself, unknown to the servants. I can quite imagine John Spencer killing Westin in anger. He does not strike me as the most self-controlled of men."

"I agree with you." We reached a hackney stand, and Grenville shook my hand in parting. "On with the investigation, then. Here is to swift results."

We said good-bye, and I hired the hackney to return me home to prepare for my evening call on Lydia.

I thought over what the Spencers had said, as well as what I'd discovered in Kent as I brushed my dark blue regimentals and asked Mrs. Beltan for a bit of thread to repair a torn silver braid. I fussed more than usual about my appearance, wishing for a fine suit of clothes and hair that lay flat, but at last I left my rooms and took myself back to Grosvenor Street.

To my great disappointment, I found Lydia in the company of her daughter’s fiance, Geoffrey Allandale.