A Regimental Murder

Chapter Three

I hired a hackney coach to take us through the hot and damp bustle of London to Mayfair. Haze shimmered in the air, rendering the classical lines of the Admiralty a distant white bulk as we passed through Charing Cross.

We followed Cockspur Street, then commenced up Haymarket to Piccadilly, and thence into Mayfair through Berkeley Street and Berkeley Square. Even at the early hour, young ladies and gentlemen in their carriages, properly chaperoned, of course, were eating ices from Gunter's in the shade of trees in the oval park. These ladies were not the most fashionable-the grande dames would still be abed from their evenings out, not rising until perhaps three in the afternoon.

The hackney turned out of Berkeley Square into Davies Street, and so on to Grosvenor Street. We stopped before a plain brown brick house adorned with Doric columns that flanked a red painted front door. The door was missing its knocker, which would usually indicate that the family had left London. I knew the house’s simple facade was deceiving-the houses on this street held sons of lords, wealthy members of Commons, and gentlemen of high standing. My acquaintance Lucius Grenville lived but ten doors down in large and elegant splendor.

A footman in maroon livery hastened from his post and pulled open the door of the hackney as soon as it halted. He stared at me in surprise, then his footman's demeanor slammed back into place and he reached in to help his lady. I guided her out to him. Her perfume, diminished with the night, mingled with the scent of summer rain.

I descended after her and bade the driver to wait.

The footman looked a bit bewildered. He was young and tall and strong, as a good footman ought to be, and I was relieved to see devotion in his eyes when he looked at his mistress. He took his cue from me and led her to the door with as much tenderness as he might his own mother.

Before we reached it, a man halted on the pavement beside us. It was none other than the irritating journalist, Billings.

"Good morning, Captain." He tipped his hat. "Madam."

Mrs. Westin turned her face away. I gave her to the care of her footman, and approached Billings, walking stick firmly in my hand. "Leave now," I advised.

"Good morning, Captain Lacey," the man said. "Returning home with Mrs. Colonel Westin at such an interesting hour of the morning. Good gracious heavens. What will everyone think?"

"Now," I repeated, "before I call a constable to clear you out."

He only gave me an insolent look and said to the air, "He is as rude as they say."

I advanced on him. His sneer turned to a look of alarm as I caught him by the elbows and tossed him into the street.

He landed on his feet, stumbled, then scrambled out of the way of a rapidly moving curricle. Before he could recover himself, I entered the Westin house and closed the door.

Lydia Westin's house was like her, elegant and understated. In a world of ornate gilding and faux Egyptian furnishings, the Westin household had retained a more classical feel. Ivory paneling framed delicate moire wallpaper hung with landscapes. Tapered-legged tables stood in niches along the black and white tile flooring, and fresh flowers filled vases hung on the walls flanking mirrors.

A straight staircase spilled down into the hall beyond the foyer, its dark polished rail ending in a graceful spiral. At the foot of these stairs, Lydia Westin waited, supported by a woman with iron gray hair. She was Lydia's lady's maid, I guessed, by her fine dress and mobcap. She eyed me severely.

The footman, closing the door behind me, hurried past and took Lydia's other arm. The worry in these servants' faces reassured me somewhat. They would take care of her.

Even so I hated to leave. I lingered, hoping against hope that she would ask me to stay, to have breakfast, to speak with her. She would not, of course. She was tired and distressed and likely wished to see the last of me.

They were waiting for me to do something. I made a half-bow. "Good morning, then," I said. "I see that I leave you in good hands."

They turned her away, taking her upstairs. In a moment, she would be gone from my sight.

Between one stair and the next, Mrs. Westin stopped. She turned back, her hand on the railing. "William," she said. "Please take Captain Lacey to my sitting room. Bring him coffee. I should like to speak to him, at length, if he can spare the time."

Of course I could spare the time. I had no obligation, no one to go to. I could spend the entire morning and all afternoon with her if need be.

"Indeed," I said.

The maid looked unhappy and the footman, worried. They were ready to hustle their lady upstairs and out of sight, protecting her from my gaze, like an Indian woman to her purdah.

"But, madam, we must not- " the footman whispered.

Mrs. Westin interrupted. "I will speak to him, William. He can help us."

William snapped his mouth shut. The maid still looked reproving. Lydia gave her a cool nod and told her to take her upstairs.

As the two ladies ascended in a swish of silk, William returned to me. He had wide brown eyes and wisps of brown hair that stuck out from under his footman's wig. His gloved hands clenched and unclenched, as though he debated whether to obey his mistress or toss me out onto the pavement.

At last he sighed. "This way, sir," he said, and led me upstairs.

I waited in a drawing room whose windows faced a tiny patch of garden at the rear of the house. I sensed at once that this was her room, one she had created as her own sanctum. A small pianoforte stood in one corner, and the cream-colored walls were adorned with portraits of the family. The furniture had classical lines; its tapered-legged chairs matched the furniture downstairs. The divan, chairs, and cornices over the windows were decorated with gold studs laid out in simple scrolled patterns.

An hour had passed. William now led Lydia Westin in and seated her on a divan near the empty fireplace. He draped a rug over her legs and a paisley shawl about her shoulders. Her face was white, and the defiant sparkle that had shone in her eyes that morning had given way to quiet resignation.

She gestured me to sit and dismissed William.

"You were kind to stay, Captain," she said after William had closed the doors. Her voice was a weary slur.

I remained standing. "Not at all."

She toyed with the fringe of her shawl, as though gathering her strength to speak. Her portrait hung above her, painted, I guessed, when she'd been at least ten years younger. She had been extraordinarily beautiful then. Her painted face was a bit softer than the one that faced me now, and her eyes had lacked the pain I observed in them today.

Ten years ago, we had both been thirty. She had been an elegant Mayfair hostess, and I had been training cavalry in Sussex, preparing them, though I did not know it, to die on the battlefields of Spain. From what I knew of her, Lydia Westin, unlike my own wife, had not followed her husband to the Peninsula. She'd remained here in this fine house, attending the opera, hosting gatherings, keeping her skin soft and her slippers clean. She had lived the life my wife had longed for, the one I had not been able to afford to give her.

At last Lydia looked up at me. Her maid had combed out her dark hair, but had not dressed it, letting it lie loose about her shoulders. The girl-like style did not soften the brittle woman who watched me.

"Captain," she began. "I have decided to confide in you a matter which…" She sighed. "I hope I am not wrong. But you have proved to be kind. You had no need to help me, and you continued to, even when I…" She flushed. "Even when I threw myself at you. Please forgive me. I can imagine what you must have thought of me."

"I thought you hurt and in need of rest."

"I was. Quite a lot. What I had decided to do last night…" She stopped again. "I cannot speak of it. I am only grateful you were there to stop it. You have proved yourself a gentleman, and so, I have decided to trust you."

"I hope I will prove worthy of it."

"My servants disagree with me. They believe me foolish, but will stand with me." She gestured. "Please sit, Captain. This will be long in telling."

I obeyed, settling myself on a damask chair next to the divan.

"My husband is dead," she said. "I remember babbling that to you in your rooms, after you gave me so much brandy. I told you other things as well. They were all true." She paused. "What I am about to tell you must go no farther than this room. You must swear this to me, upon your honor."

"Of course you have my word," I said, my curiosity growing by the minute. "You told me that your husband had been murdered."

"I did. And he was."

Puzzled, I said, "But he fell down the stairs, at least the newspapers reported that he did."

"No." She stared into the middle distance, as though something there told her what to say. "My husband never fell down a staircase. Someone stabbed him, with a small, sharp knife through the base of his neck. Then they put him to bed. Or he was already there when they stabbed him, I do not know."

I stared at her, astounded. "Then why did the stories say-"

"Because we told them that." She switched her gaze to me. "Understand me, Captain. I and William, and my maid, and Millar-he is Roe's valet-told the journalists and Bow Street that my husband had fallen down the stairs. William and Millar lied themselves blue in the coroner's court, saying that they both saw him slip and fall. And so, the verdict was death by accident."

I frowned. "Why the devil should you try to hide the fact that your husband had been murdered?"

To my surprise, she smiled. "To save him the embarrassment of it, of course." The smile quickly faded. "I know you must think me mad, but I was afraid and so confused. This course seemed best."

"Afraid of whom?" Disquiet touched me. "Is it that you are protecting the murderer?"

"No, Captain, it is that I am protecting my daughter." She leaned forward. "You must understand. We had been so raked through the newspapers until Chloe was ill with it. When I found my husband, I was of course ready to send for a constable. Then I stopped myself. I thought, why should he be murdered? Let the world think him dead by accident-a happy relief for his family. If the newspapers began crying murder, we would never know peace again. So you see, this is why I beg your silence. I want no newspapers, no constables, no Bow Street. I have sent my daughter away to her uncle in Surrey, but I want nothing of this to touch her-ever."

I traced the carved gold pattern on the arm of my chair. The lady of despair and fear I had saved last night had vanished, to be replaced by a cool-headed woman who had dispatched her daughter and sworn her servants to secrecy when her own husband had been killed. "I can imagine your feelings. But I still do not understand why you have taken this step. Why would you not want to find your husband's murderer?"

"I do want to find them. I do indeed. And make them pay."

"They?" I repeated. "Last night, you said you knew they had murdered him. You called them the triumvirate."

"Yes, that is how I think of them, the three most devious and horrible men in existence. I am not afraid to name them. They are Lord Richard Eggleston, Viscount Breckenridge, and Major Sir Edward Connaught. The three of them murdered my husband, depend upon it."

"Why should they?" I asked. "Who are they?"

Her fine blue eyes glittered in anger and defiance. "They are officers of the Forty-Third Light Dragoons. They murdered an officer called Algernon Spencer at Badajoz and forced my wretched husband to take the blame for it."

Her words rang with conviction. The Spartan room echoed with it.

She smiled faintly. "Possibly you think me a madwoman, Captain. I cannot blame you after my behavior last night."

"Not mad," I said slowly. "You must have some reason for believing they killed him."

"No one else would have been wicked enough. And they feared him. He knew the truth, and who knows what he may have said in the dock or on the gallows? Safer to have him dead."

"Do you have proof of this? What I mean is, did they visit him the day of his death, did anyone see them commit this act?"

She sighed. "No. Millar and William say he had no visitors at all that morning, but that must be a mistake."

"If they were not here," I began.

She glared at me, a fine lady gazing with scorn upon a disobedient servant. "I know they did this, Captain. I need no proof."

But a magistrate might, I forbore to point out. "Please tell me what happened that day-who discovered him, how you knew he'd been killed."

She was silent a long moment, then her gaze went remote again. "I found him. I wanted to speak to him. I wanted to tell him…" She paused, and I saw her rearrange her words. "I had a topic of importance to discuss with him. I wanted to tell him everything, the entire truth. It was ten; Roe was usually awake then, and waiting for Millar to bring his breakfast tray. I went to his bedchamber. He was still in bed; I thought him asleep. But when I reached his bed, I saw that he was dead."

"I am sorry," I said.

"He looked so peaceful. I thought he had died in his sleep. And do you know, I was glad." She looked up at me, her eyes glittering. "Glad for him. I thought, now no one can ever hurt him again. Not me, nor anyone else. And then I…" She paused, spots of color appearing in her cheeks. "I embraced him. I told him how sorry I was, how stupid I'd been."

I wondered very much about what. "Why did it occur to you that he'd been murdered?"

She pressed her palms together. "When I straightened from the bed, I noticed that I had a stain on the sleeve of my gown. It was not very large, and it looked black. I knew the gown had been cleaned before my maid dressed me, so I must have come by the mark recently. I could not get it out of my head that it must be blood, my husband's blood. So I leaned down and embraced him again, and then I knew where I'd obtained the stain.

"I sent for William, my footman. He is a trusty lad, and I wanted to spare Millar as long as I could. William was shocked when he saw my husband, of course, but he is remarkably well trained and resourceful." She smiled a little. "If ever I asked him to move a pet elephant into my upstairs chamber, I believe he would only say, 'Yes, my lady,' and fall to it."

I thought of the besotted look in William's eyes and agreed with her.

"He raised Roe's head," she said. "And I found it. A small mark on the back of his neck." She touched a spot just below her own ear. "Someone had stabbed him, Captain. Straight through the neck and up under the skull."

Such a wound could kill a man outright. I imagined he'd died quite quickly, and the absence of much blood bore out that theory.

"What did you do then?" I asked.

"My first instinct was to have William run for the constable. But something stopped me. I realized that if he ran out like the house was on fire, the journalists who hung about waiting for my husband to emerge every day would latch themselves on to him. They would know everything, and write every word. I just could not bear for Roe to die in the flame of notoriety. I wanted his death to be given some respect. So I called Millar and Montague, my lady's maid, and told them what I wanted to do. They were as angry as I at his death, and they also hate the newspapers. They agreed to keep silent how he had died, even from my daughter and Mr. Allandale, her fiance."

She subsided. Her lips trembled and she pulled the shawl closer about her.

"And now you have told me," I said. "Why?"

"Because I need help. Roe died in shame and disgrace, and he did not deserve that. I want that to change."

"What do you want me to do?" I asked. "Prove that these three men killed your husband?"

Her eyes held anger and determination. "No. Prove that they murdered Captain Spencer at Badajoz. Make the world know my husband had nothing to do with it. And when they die on the gallows for that murder, they will equally pay for my husband's."

I wondered briefly if she had loved her husband. Society marriages could be contracted with gain alone in mind-an heiress married an impoverished lord; a lady of a titled family married to lend connections to a wealthy nobody. My own marriage had been made for neither of these reasons, hence the complete rage of my father.

I shook my head slowly. "What you ask is- "

She flung back the blanket and got to her feet. Her maid had dressed her in a dark gray gown, against which her white skin seemed even paler. She began pacing unsteadily through the blocks of sunlight that poured through the windows.

"He did not kill that captain, I know it. Those three spoiled aristocrats did not want an ounce of shame to touch them, so they forced my husband to confess to something he did not do. He was willing to go to trial, ready to admit that he'd killed that officer in Spain rather than let others in his regiment be disgraced. That was the kind of gentleman he was. But he was wronged. Utterly wronged."

I thought again of the newspaper accounts, the stories, and Pomeroy's impartations on the affair. Westin, by all accounts, had been contrite and apologetic in the face of Spencer's sons’ accusations. Lydia was now insisting that he had bowed his head so that the honor of others would not be tarnished, that his fellow officers would not be stained.

I found it all a bit odd. Would a man truly give up his life for the honor of others? And were those others so lacking in honor that they would allow him to do it?

"He was ready to admit to it," I said as gently as I could. "And he was the ranking officer."

She turned on me in fury. "Those three gentlemen cared nothing for rank," she snapped. "It was they who murdered Captain Spencer, you can be certain of it."

"Your husband told you this?"

"No. Nor would he. The honor of the regiment must be preserved at all costs, even when speaking of it to your own wife." Her mouth turned down. "But imagine it-three pampered, inebriated aristocrats let loose on the streets of a conquered town. They must have been delighted. Then when Captain Spencer tried to spoil their amusement, they killed him. I know it in my heart. My husband would have tried to prevent it, but they would not have listened." Her eyes sparkled, defiant, bitter.

"But Colonel Westin never confided in you."

She glared at me. I was a toad, waiting to be stepped on.

I did not tell her that I'd be honored to be trampled by her elegant foot.

"My husband was a moral man, Captain. Moral in the real sense of the word, not in the manner in which some preach morality while beating their servants black and blue with the other hand! He no more would have shot Captain Spencer than the Thames would flow backward. He abhorred violence and violent acts."

I was puzzled. "If he abhorred violence, why did he purchase a commission in the cavalry?"

One of the most violent professions I could think of. Cavalry charged, breakneck and reckless, down the throats of the enemy, chopping apart lines and boiling up dust and chaos while musket fire rained around them. Light Dragoons technically were not used to charge lines-that was the job of the heavy cavalry-but in practice, if any cavalry were at hand, they were thrown at everything. Some officers led their men so far through enemy lines that they were too winded to get back and were cut down one by one. At the beginning of the campaign, I had been just as reckless, but time had taught me the value of prudence.

Even so, after each battle, I had always been surprised to find myself still upright and walking.

Lydia Westin would not be cowed. "My husband was a colonel because his father was a colonel. The honor of the regiment again. Following in his father's footsteps. Roe was like that. He would sacrifice his happiness, his peace of mind-everything-for honor."

"Many do," I said dryly. "We live in honorable times."

"My husband's honor was true. It was the most important thing in the world to him."

Her eyes flashed. I could not tell if she had admired or despised her husband. Both, probably.

"He was prepared to admit to the murder," I pointed out.

"Oh, yes. How could he stand by and let those with great names be sullied? They asked it of him. When they heard that John Spencer was near to discovering the truth, they visited him. Here. Upstairs in his chamber for hours and hours. They played upon his sense of honor, knowing he'd agree. And he did it. He was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. For them."

"But if he were willing to do so," I pointed out, "why do you believe they murdered him? Surely they would want him to go on to be arrested and tried."

"I thought of that." Her brow puckered. "It is one thing to agree to take the blame for a crime. But another when one actually stands in the dock. Who knows what he might have said? Would he have told the truth about what happened to Captain Spencer? Perhaps he would not have been believed, but then, some magistrates are quite canny. They might have asked awkward questions." Her eyes dared me to tell her she was wrong.

I sat silently. Again I was struck by the incongruity of this woman traveling to the dark bridge in the rain. She believed her husband's innocence, would fight like a lion to preserve the honor he'd held so precious. This was a woman who would glare down her enemies and dare them to stop her.

So would she, in despair, decide to walk to an unfinished bridge and fling herself from it? Or had she gone for another purpose? Either action simply did not fit.

"Find these gentlemen," she said. "And make them admit that they murdered Captain Spencer."

I began to grow exasperated. While I'd listened, I'd allowed my senses to bathe in her beauty, but her vehemence was becoming unreasonable. "Not an easy thing to do. And you cannot tell me for certain that they did kill your husband." I held up my hand as she drew a breath for angry protest. "Think, Mrs. Westin. If they did not kill him, and you pursue them, the true murderer gets away with it."

She stared at me, startled, and I saw she had not thought of that. "But they must have done it."

I tried another tack. "What time did your husband go to bed that night? The usual?"

"Yes. Millar undressed him and left him in bed at half-past eleven, his usual time to retire."

"And no one saw him until ten the next morning, when you entered his bedchamber, and no visitors came to the house and were shown up to see him."

"No." She said the word reluctantly.

"But that implies, does it not, that someone inside the house could have killed him. Such as one of your servants."

"No!" The cry rang sharply against the portraits. "They would not. They were devoted to him, and to me."

Perhaps. But once upon a time, my acquaintance Lucius Grenville had hired a well-trained, efficient butler who had come with glowing recommendations from the Duke of Merton, to whom said butler had been most devoted. The butler had, three months later, organized a gang of thieves to rob Grenville blind. This had happened during a huge gathering at New Year's at his house, which I had happened to attend. Grenville and I had caught the robbers together, and thus we'd begun our odd friendship.

"What about this Mr. Allandale, your daughter's fiance?"

She shook her head, but with less fervor than she had when defending her servants. "He was not staying in the house. He hired a house in Mount Street."

A house in Mount Street must be ruinously expensive, I mused, even now that the Season was over. I wondered if the good Mr. Allandale had asked to marry the Westin daughter because of her parents' obvious wealth.

"Did it not occur to you," I said, "that the newspapers would remark upon the convenient timing of his accident? Sparing you the disgrace of an arrest, trial, and conviction? Please do not be offended, but did none of them speculate that it was your hand that pushed your husband to his death?"

She smiled a fey, feral smile. "William and I thought of that. We contrived it so that Millar and William claimed to see him fall when I and Chloe were well out of the house. Chloe was on her way to Surrey, to her uncle, and I had dressed and gone out to attend a morning garden party given by Lady Featherstone in Kensington. Everyone who had not yet scattered to the countryside was there. They all saw me. While I was gone, William and Millar arranged my husband's body at the bottom of the stairs and ran for a constable. They also brought back a doctor, an elderly man. The wound was tiny and Millar cleaned it so it could barely be seen. No one else found it."

Clever. No doubt she had chosen a garden party full of gossips who would all clamor that Mrs. Westin had been with them when news of her husband's accident was brought to her. I imagined them describing her emotion, her paling face, her tear-filled eyes.

I said, "Does Mr. Allandale know the truth? Would he not ask why you had suddenly sent your daughter away?"

She shook her head. "I explained to him that Chloe was ill and needed to take the country air. He asked no questions, and said it was a mercy she had not been here to witness her father's death."

"This Mr. Allandale seems to be quite understanding," I remarked. "He stood by you and your family, even through the scandal of Captain Spencer?" A lesser man might have cried off, saved himself from being touched by the shame.

"Oh yes, he has stuck by us," Lydia said. "Like a cocklebur! He is most devoted." The derision in her tone was unmistakable.

I puzzled on this, but went back to the main problem. "But you believe that these three gentlemen, or at least someone hired by them to do the deed, entered your house sometime in the night and killed your husband."

"I do." She gave me a cold look, then relented. "I am sorry, Captain. I know it sounds ridiculous. But equally I know they must be responsible. I ask you-I am begging you-to help me."

I absently traced my forefinger. "I wonder that you would trust me. My own colonel was ready to swear that your husband was drunk enough to have committed the crime at Badajoz. Why do you believe I do not agree with him?"

She gave me a tight smile. "Because you would have already said so. And Mrs. Brandon told me that you had helped a young woman escape from her tormentor earlier this year. And that you brought a murderer to justice."

I wondered what edited version of the tale Louisa had imparted. True, I had helped a girl return to her aunt after she had been used by her purchaser for his amusement, but Louisa and I were the only two who knew the entire truth of the matter.

"Mrs. Brandon is too quick to sing my praises."

Again, the white smile. "She did not praise you. She claims you are highly exasperating. But that you are honest, and more interested in truth than in pleasing lies."

I was not certain whether to be flattered or annoyed.

"Make them tell the truth, Captain," Lydia Westin said. She caught and held my gaze. "Make them clear my husband's name and pay for all they have done."

I found myself agreeing. The story stirred my hazardous curiosity. They had known, Louisa and Lydia between them, that I could not have refused.