A Regimental Murder

Chapter Six

Grenville wrote to me the next morning that he had succeeded in discovering a manner in which to slip me into aristocratic society. Lady Mary Fortescue, sister of Lord Fortescue, a minor baron, had invited Grenville to the house she shared with her brother at Astley Close, in Kent, where both Breckenridge and Eggleston were to stay. Grenville had had no trouble persuading the lady to allow him to bring me down with him.

I was not surprised. Any house party that contained Grenville would likely be the most fashionable of the summer. Other hostesses would gnash their teeth in envy. We would leave on the morrow.

I replied that I would gladly accompany him. In happier times as a lad-which meant whenever my father was away or I visited a mate from school-I had reveled in the country. I remembered long, rambling walks through orchards and over gentle hills, fishing barefoot in the streams between grassy banks, following a buxom maid who would entice me with her smile before her father ran me off with a stout plank.

Retrospect made it more idyllic than it had been, but even so, the English country evoked the happiest memories of my life. I looked forward to sampling it again, even if I would be cross-questioning two former army officers, and even if a buxom maid's offerings would pale beside the cool, elegant beauty of Lydia Westin.

I also received a reply to the letter I'd penned to Lady Aline Carrington. In it she told me that she knew perfectly well where Louisa was, but had no intention of telling me. She said that Louisa was fine and well and that I should leave her the devil alone.

I felt a little better upon reading this. Lady Aline was a fifty-year-old spinster, a firm disciple of Mary Wollstonecraft and who believed women should involve themselves in politics and champion artists and writers. She had never married, but she had many male friends-friends only; she preferred a good gossip to any other activity. She had taken Louisa under her wing, and I knew she would protect her like the fiercest mastiff. Though it frustrated me not to know where Louisa was, at least I was reassured that she was in no danger. If Lady Aline was looking after her, all would be well. Probably.

I wrote a polite note back thanking her then wrote to Lydia, asking leave to call and look through her husband's papers. She granted permission by return messenger. I gathered shillings to pay for a hackney and set off for Grosvenor Street.

William the footman met me at the door. Yesterday he'd watched me in cool suspicion; today, he readily ushered me into the house and showed me into Colonel Westin's study on the first floor.

I did not see Lydia at all, to my disappointment, but William gave me the keys to Colonel Westin's desk and left me to it.

I settled myself and for the next few hours studied the recent life of Colonel Roehampton Westin. I learned two things about him that day. First, the colonel had been a very meticulous and careful man, noting in his diary the routines of a cavalry officer, most of which were quite familiar to me. Second, he had borne affection for his wife, but seemed to have regarded her as a comfortable family partner, not as a lover. His letters were warm, but never touched upon intimacy.

He spoke only once of the Badajoz event.

"I was sickened," he wrote, "as I have never been before, even through the carnage I have seen since I began soldiering. Spinnet was shot, poor fellow, in the face, by a marauder in an English uniform. Breckenridge raised a toast to him, which makes him a hypocrite; they had never liked one another."

After Badajoz, Westin's mood became black, and the letters for the remainder of 1812 were depressed. "I find home and peace so far from me in these times. Why have I traded walks through the dusk over the farms for this slaughter of men like cattle?"

He grew more hopeful later, as Wellesley and the English army began to push the French from Spain, but his letters still held formality: "Millar sends his respects. It is hard for him, poor fellow, to be far from home-and he is French, of course, which makes him the butt of many cruelties, though I try to prevent them. You did right not to open the Berkshire house this year. It is too much time and expense for only a few weeks. Give dear Chloe my warmest regards and my letter for her enclosed."

I sat back when I'd finished and neatly piled the letters together. From them I had seen that Westin had been an ordinary man caught up in a war he did not like, in a profession he had taken to satisfy the pride of his father and grandfather. Nowhere did I a find a man who would dream of drinking himself into a frenzy and gleefully rushing about a fallen city looting homes and raping its inhabitants. Unless he had painted a very misleading portrait in these letters to his wife, I had to agree with Lydia. It was unlikely that Westin had murdered Captain Spencer in a fit of drunken madness.

Lydia herself entered the room as I laid the letters back in the desk where I'd found them. I sensed her presence before I looked up, or perhaps her faint perfume had alerted me.

Rest and food had erased the ravages of the last few days, though she was still pale, and her eyes bore smudges like bruises beneath them. She wore a black silk gown trimmed with dark gray piping, and a white widow's cap fixed to her carefully curled hair. Against this monotone, her blue eyes stood out like patches of sky on a cloud-filled day.

"Have you found anything?" she asked.

I rose to my feet. She motioned me to sit again, but I remained standing, manners beaten into me long ago winning out.

"Only what you told me I would find. The letters of a moral, conscientious man who abhorred violence. He makes no mention of Captain Spencer, by name or otherwise."

She pressed her slim hands together. "I do wish he had confided in me."

I mused. "Who would he have confided in? A friend, a colleague? Millar, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "He was not one for confidences. Or even for conversation, for that matter. At least not with me." She laughed a little.

Not every man made a friend of his wife. I had not, to my own shame. I had always found it easy and natural to speak to Louisa Brandon on almost any subject, but speaking to my own wife had been most awkward. I had tried, but Carlotta had only regarded my speeches with glazed-eyed boredom if not trepidation.

"I dislike to ask this," I began. "Do you know if your husband had a mistress?"

I waited for the icy scorn that she did so well, but she did not look offended. "Because he might have confided in her?" She shook her head. "I have not seen any hint of one. But then, Roe was not a man who enjoyed pleasures of the flesh. He believed in moderation in all things."

I began to grow irritated with the man. He had been married to one of the loveliest women I'd encountered in my lifetime, and by all accounts had taken little interest in her. He had been either mad or blind.

But Lydia championed him. Perhaps he'd had some redeeming quality after all.

She left the room with me and saw me to the front door. It was all I could do not to linger, not to hold her hand longer than was proper when I said good-bye.

As I left, William nodded to me. "Good luck, sir," he whispered. I would need it.

In the morning, I composed a letter to Lydia to thank her. I had thought to pen it then dress and wait for Grenville, but two hours later, I had to hastily sign the seventh draft and shrug into my coat as a knock sounded at my door.

It should have been simple to tell her that I appreciated her letting me look through her husband's correspondence and that I would keep her informed of my inquiries in Kent. Such a note should have taken ten minutes to write, and the ink should have long since dried.

But I could not get the words right, no matter how often I tried. My hand would tremble over the paper, a drop of black ink would tumble from the nib onto the white, and I would just stop myself from writing, When may I see you again?

The knock startled me and ink blotted the paper yet again. I muttered colorful curses as I swiftly scribbled my name, sanded the page, and rose to open the door.

The large man who filled the doorway was not Grenville's footman. He was tall and wide and hard-eyed, and I'd seen him before, inside the subdued and richly appointed library of James Denis.

"What do you want?" I asked unceremoniously.

"Mr. Denis would like a word, sir."

I had suspected the man had not come to invite me to dance. "Mr. Denis can go to the devil."

His face darkened. I imagined Denis had given the man instructions to bring me, willing or no. Once upon a time, Denis's minions had lured me into a stupid trap, to teach me a lesson, to cow me, to show me my place. I had never been one for keeping to my place.

"Mr. Denis wants only to speak to you. He gives his word."

I had no idea what the word of James Denis was worth. Likely, he would keep it, at least when it suited him, but I was not moved.

"He is too late. I am leaving London on the moment."

The man glared at me. I knew he did not want to return to Denis empty-handed, but that was not my concern.

"Sir?" A blond head looked over the beefy man's shoulder, not an easy feat, but one that Grenville's footman, Bartholomew, could perform. Grenville had the best in footmen, two very tall, very blond, Teutonic-looking brothers who possessed intelligence as well as strength. I suspected the two brothers lived a far more comfortable and civilized life than I did.

"The carriage is waiting, sir," Bartholomew said. "Do you require assistance?"

I saw by the gleam in his blue eye that he would enjoy tossing Denis's man down the stairs, but then said minion might call for a constable and delay me, so I shook my head.

Denis's man glowered. I should pity him, returning to Denis alone and confessing he could not shift me, but I did not.

"Convey my apologies to Mr. Denis," I said coldly. I told Bartholomew, "My case is in my chamber."

I snatched the letter from my writing table, walked past Denis's man and down the stairs. Bartholomew's brother Matthias waited below. He escorted me down the narrow lane to Grenville's carriage. "Post that for you, sir?" he asked as he opened the door for me.

I dropped the letter into his hand, and let him assist me into the carriage. Grenville waited for me there. He was correctly dressed for traveling-well-fitting trousers and square-toed boots topped with a subdued brown coat and a loose cravat.

I had few suits to my name, so I simply wore breeches and boots with a threadbare brown frock coat. The dust of the road could hardly render it worse for wear.

Bartholomew arrived with my case and secured it in the compartment beneath the coach. Denis's minion was nowhere in sight, and Bartholomew had a slightly satisfied look on his face. He joined his brother on top of the coach, and our journey began.

As we made for the Dover road, I told Grenville what I had discovered in Westin's letters, which had not been much. He listened with interest then related that he had made inquiries about John Spencer and found that the man and his brother had left London. This was not surprising; most families departed the hot city for cool country lanes in the summer. The Spencer brothers apparently made their home in Norfolk. Grenville suggested we travel there after we found what we could in Kent.

The Dover road led through pleasant countryside, the most pleasant in England, some said, although I, used to the rugged country of Spain and Portugal and before that, France and India, found the endless green hills, ribbon of road that dipped between hedgerows, and emerald fields dotted with sheep and country cottages a little tiring.

But it was high summer, and the soft air, cooler than the baking heat of London, soothed me. I watched farm laborers bending their backs in the fields, hoeing and raking, following strong draft horses behind plows.

Grenville confessed to me as we started that he did not travel well. We had journeyed together in his coach as far as Hampstead that spring, but a longer journey like this one, he said, brought out his motion sickness. I offered him the seat facing forward, but he declined it as manners dictated. I thought this damn fool of him because as soon as we began rocking along the country road, he turned green and had to lie down.

He smiled weakly and assured me that it mattered little whether he sat facing front or rear; his illness was not particular. Besides, he had fashioned his carriage to cater to his malady-the seat pulled out to offer him a cushioned platform upon which he could lie.

"Odd thing in a gentleman who enjoys travel as much as I, is it not?" he observed shakily.

"How do you fare aboard ship?" I asked.

"I moan a great deal. Strangely, though, a ship in storm does not affect me as much as a ship on waters calm as glass. Odd, I think, but there it is."

He spent most of the day lying on his back with his hand over his eyes. I perused the stack of newspapers provided for us and served myself the smooth and velvet-rich port contained in a special compartment in the paneled wall. Silver goblets and a crystal decanter reposed there, along with snowy linen and a box of sweet biscuits. Everything the pampered gentleman traveler could want.

I wondered, uncharitably, how Grenville would have fared crossing water in the naval ships I had boarded that transported my regiment across the Channel and down through the Atlantic to our destinations. Officers fared only slightly better than the men on these trips-which was to say, we had room for a hammock and a box and had first choice of rations.

Many times, what we ate and where we slept depended entirely on the competence and charity of the ship's captain. I'd voyaged with captains who were intelligent and competent, then again, I'd sailed with those who spent the time drunk and dissolute, locked in their cabin with their whore of choice, while their lieutenants ran the ship like a pack of petty tyrants.

As we rolled onward, I regretted my speculations. Grenville did not sleep but remained still, breathing shallowly, obviously miserable. I supposed a strong stomach was something to be thankful for.

The newspapers I read contained several more spurious stories about Mrs. Westin and her new devoted dragoon, the friend of society's darling, Mr. Grenville. How long would Mrs. W- remain a widow? they wondered.

I threw the newspapers aside, the country air spoiled for me.

We paused for lunch at a wayside inn near Faversham. Grenville hired a private parlor, and we were waited on by the publican himself. I feasted on a joint of beef and a heaping bowl of greens, while Grenville watched me shakily and took only brandy and a few sweet biscuits.

Grenville wanted to rest before we departed again, so I took a short walk through the village to stretch my cramped leg. The publican's daughter, a plump young woman with a space between her front teeth, sent me a hopeful smile, but I resisted her charms and simply enjoyed the country air.

In the village square I indulged myself in a few fresh strawberries, picked that morning, then strolled back to the inn, hoping Grenville was ready.

As I entered the yard, I spied a furtive movement, as though someone had ducked back out of sight behind the wall. As a light dragoon, I had become very familiar with signs that someone wished to observe without being seen.

Silently, I retreated through the yard gate and moved as quickly as my bad leg would let me to the corner of the wall. I stopped and peered around it, then made a noise of annoyance. I had thought the inn wall connected to the end house of the village, but closer examination showed me a narrow passage between house and inn, one of those crooked, windowless paths between buildings. I heard a step at the far end, but by the time I hurried through and emerged on the other side, no one was in sight.

Trying to suppress my feeling of disquiet, I returned to the inn yard. I might simply have disturbed a stable lad who was shirking his duties or the publican's daughter, whose smile may have won her success elsewhere. But I did not think so, and I could not shake my feeling of foreboding the rest of the day.