A Regimental Murder

by Jennifer Ashley

  "What brings you to Kent?" I asked him sharply.

  He met my gaze, his eyes chilling. "I like the country."

  My anger rose. "Balls. You followed me down here. It was you skulking about the inn and the gardens, watching me, and then again this morning, was it not?"

  He did not answer, but his ice blue stare told me I'd guessed right.

  "Good God," I exploded. "Why?"

  "Why the devil do you think?"

  I balled my hands. To think I'd fretted about the tracker, wondering if it were Westin's killer. All this time it had been Brandon. It fit. He knew better than most how to follow someone about without being seen. Hell, he had taught me.

  My hands tightened. "You thought I knew where Louisa was. You thought I'd come down here to see her."

  "Can you blame me? Why else would you gallivant down to the country? You do not even know these people."

  "They were at Badajoz," I said. "Did it not occur to you that I was still poking into the question of Captain Spencer's death?"

  "Of course it occurred to me. You can never let well enough alone. But one conclusion does not preclude the other."

  I stared at him. "Did you think I'd brought her with me? How damned stupid do you think I am?"

  We faced each other, fists clenched. The sun shone down on us, the bright, soft morning belying the storm that ever roiled between us.

  Brandon was speaking again, rapidly. "I would have thought you'd had enough of scandal. If you have her hidden somewhere, I swear I will have you arrested."

  "You are an idiot. I do not know where she is."

  "Damn it, Gabriel, do not lie to me. I am surprised it is not all over the scandal sheets along with all your other adventures."

  I leaned to him. "It will be if you do not stop making such a pig's breakfast of it. You can follow me all over England and make scenes and look overjoyed when you think me dead, but I still do not know where your wife is."

  I watched him lose strength. A warm breeze stirred his hair, brushed a loose brown lock across his cheek. "Then where did she go? If she did not go to you, then tell me where she went."

  That question still troubled me as well. Lady Aline's letter had only told me she was safe, and I trusted Lady Aline to know that. But I wanted to know myself. I wanted to see her, to hold her hand, to reassure myself that all was well.

  "Louisa's note said she needed time alone," I reminded him.

  "Alone, where? Do you think she has gone to the continent?" He paused and would not look at me. "Or to a lover?"

  "She would not disgrace you like that. If she wanted to abandon you for another, no doubt she would look you in the face and tell you so."

  He did not appear convinced. But I knew that Louisa had no slyness in her, no deceit. She would rather face her husband with the truth than resort to trickery. She had left him for some other reason, a reason he could not see beyond his fear and jealousy.

  A dart of pain laced my heart. On the Peninsula, when Brandon had cast her out, Louisa had come to me. I had been dreaming of that hot night when I'd walked down to the bridge in the night I'd saved Lydia Westin. Louisa had come to me, ill with weeping, and had thrown her arms about me. Her golden hair had tangled on my shoulder, and for the first time since I'd met her, I dared furrow it with my fingers.

  This time, she had not turned to me. Whatever Louisa had needed or wanted, she had known I could not give it to her. This time, she had left me as well.

  I ended the futile quarrel by turning from him and walking back to the house in silence.

  *** *** ***

  The inquest of Viscount Breckenridge was held the next day at the public house, the Crow and Cross, in the village. The local magistrate had called in a magistrate from London, Sir Montague Harris, a rotund man obviously fond of his beefsteak and port, but one with a shrewd eye.

  Colonel Brandon stood up and described how he had found the body. He had been staying in the village, he said, in fact, here at the Crow and Cross. He had decided the morning in question to walk along Linden Hill Lane. He had wanted a brisk walk and thought it would be just the thing.

  This caused the coroner to ask why he was in their corner of Kent at all? To take the country air after the hot closeness of London, he replied. The Londoners in the crowd nodded in commiseration.

  Had he attended the exhibition of the pugilist, Jack Sharp? No, Brandon replied. He did not like blood sports. This caused a murmur of disapproval from all those who had flocked down for their fill of the blood sport.

  So far Brandon had delivered his answers in a strong, matter-of-fact voice. But when he began to describe how he had found the body and what he had done, his hands clenched into hard fists, and he kept his eyes firmly fixed two feet to the right of the coroner.

  He had gone walking, as he'd said, about nine o'clock that morning. Upon reaching the crest of the hill, he'd notice that branches to the right of him had been snapped and broken, as though someone had tried to force a path through the undergrowth. Upon investigating, he had spotted the body of Lord Breckenridge lying facedown in the brush. The man had been dressed for riding, but no horse was about.

  Had he gone down to the body? No? Why not? Because, Brandon said, he could see at once that the man was dead and Brandon would likely need help to lift him back to the road. Thought it more sensible to go at once for help.

  The coroner shrugged, but Sir Montague Harris leaned forward. Why had Brandon made for the manor house rather than the village, which was closer? Brandon, reddening, answered that he had been acquainted with members of the house party there and naturally turned to people he knew.

  Sir Montague sat back, satisfied. Then Brandon, as if suddenly remembering, said that of course he had sought out Astley Close because Lord Breckenridge had been a guest there and of course his friends would want to know if he'd been hurt.

  The coroner, looking uninterested, nodded. Prompted, Brandon continued that he'd entered the stables where the grooms and stable hands had been readying horses for exercise. Brandon had reported the death and asked to be taken to the main house. Upon reaching the house, he'd found the only guest awake had been Mr. Grenville, to whom he had repeated the account of the accident.

  The coroner carefully noted all this and dismissed him. Brandon visibly relaxed as he walked back to his chair. He hated to lie, and was bad at it, just as I was. And he was certainly lying about how he'd found the body. Not about all of it, but about a good part, if I were any judge.

  Grenville and the stable lad and I all concurred with Brandon's story of his first going to the stables and then to the main house. We each related how we'd gone up the hill with Brandon and found Breckenridge together. Neither Brandon nor Grenville mentioned Brandon's certainty that the dead man had been me, and I did not volunteer the information.

  I did mention the saddle. I explained my reasoning, that Breckenridge would have used his own cavalry saddle, which he'd said he preferred, when it was so close to hand. Sir Montague listened, his eyes fastened on me, taking in every word. I used the opportunity to mention the marks I'd found on the road, and concluded that, in my opinion, the death warranted further investigation.

  The coroner eyed me in dislike. He was sitting on the body of a viscount--a peer, not an unfortunate farmhand. He wanted a simple accident, and here I was trying to complicate things.

  Once all statements were made, a doctor was consulted who agreed that Lord Breckenridge had died when his neck was severed early on the morning of his death. The coroner finished his note-taking, and then instructed the jury.

  Notwithstanding Captain Lacey's remarks, he said, they must decide whether they thought this a clear enough accident. There was nothing to stop a man from changing his mind and using a different saddle if the whim took him. The marks on the road could have been made at any time. The horse was found, Lord Breckenridge had been dressed for riding, and for what other purpose could he have gone up the hill?

  The jury did not deliberate lon
g. To the coroner's obvious relief, they returned with the verdict I expected--Lord Breckenridge had died while accidentally falling from his horse.

  Everyone in the hot room, from the coroner to Eggleston to Brandon to the stable lads, looked pleased with the conclusion.

  I kept my feelings to myself.

  When we returned to Astley Close, Lady Mary closeted herself with her brother, whom she had summoned home, and left her guests to fend for themselves. The house party over, Grenville ordered his carriage made ready to take us back to London.

  I encountered Lady Breckenridge in the downstairs drawing room--entirely by accident; I had been looking for Grenville. I had not seen her since finding her in my bed two nights before. But much as I hadn’t gotten on with her, Breckenridge's death had been sudden and shocking. I paused.

  "Please accept my condolences on your husband's death," I said. "I am sorry."

  She studied me with glittering eyes that masked emotion. "My son is now Viscount Breckenridge," she said. "Why be sorry about that?"

  While I searched for a way to respond, she went on, "Tell your friend, Mr. Grenville, that his company was most pleasing."

  I supposed this meant mine had not been.

  "I will." I bowed. "Good afternoon."

  * * * * *

  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 mu
rder, 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.