The Tainted Snuff Box

by Rosemary Stevens

  * * * *

  Just before one o’clock, I made my way across the grassy Steine to the house Petersham and Munro were leasing. On the way, I bowed to Lady Kincade, a young matron in Society, and to the Creeveys, who were accompanied by Lady Bessborough. The latter was no doubt sharing every salacious component of the previous evening.

  Smelling the sea air, my thoughts turned to the young girl found dead on the beach yesterday. Now everyone’s efforts would be concentrated on finding the attempted assassin of the Prince of Wales. Her death would fade into obscurity.

  Or so I thought.

  The breeze picked up the folds of my black velvet greatcoat. The weather had grown colder today and no sun shone.

  I rapped on Petersham’s door with the handle of my new dog’s head cane, the one Freddie had given me.

  Mr. Digwood answered my knock. He is a portly fellow with brown eyes that tend to bulge. I fashioned my expression into one of apologetic chagrin. “Now, Diggie, I know precisely what you are going to say. Lord Petersham is still abed at this early hour.”

  “Indeed, sir. My lord is not receiving—”

  I crossed the threshold and handed Diggie my things. He looked aghast. “I am afraid I cannot announce you,” he said.

  I held up a forestalling hand. “You are simply going to have to look the other way while I make my way upstairs.”

  Diggie’s eyes popped. “It could mean my position, sir.”

  “Nothing of the sort, I assure you. I will tell Petersham that you had no choice in the matter, which you do not. It is for his own good.”

  Diggie spluttered, but I ascended the stairs, hoping I would not run across Lord Munro. Why had I not asked which room belonged to Petersham?

  Sighing, I slowly eased open the door at the top of the stairs, muttering a prayer that it was Petersham’s and that he was alone. A quick glance inside told me I had the room I wanted.

  Snoring at the top of his lungs, Petersham lay sprawled on his back in a four-poster bed. Thankfully, I had not had to peer behind bedcurtains to ascertain if the body sleeping in the bed was his.

  I approached the bed, stopped about a foot away and said, “Petersham, wake up.”

  Snore.

  “Petersham!”

  Snore.

  Fortunately I had retained my dogs head cane. I used it to tap Petersham on the arm. “Wake up, old friend!”

  An assortment of snorts and sniffles later, the viscount opened his eyes, shielding them from the light with a linen-clad arm. “Egad, Brummell, is that you? Where’s Diggie? Is the house on fire? Tell him to put it out.”

  “No, the house is not on fire. Try as he might, Diggie could not stop me from coming up. I need to speak to you.”

  “Oh,” Petersham said. He turned on his side and shut his eyes.

  “Petersham!” I employed the cane again.

  “What the devil is it?” he asked, running a hand through his hair. “Is it the Frenchies? Are we invaded?”

  “No. I want to talk to you about the snuff box.”

  “Love it dearly,” he mumbled sleepily. “Munro gave it to me. Go away now, Brummell. I’m trying to sleep.”

  “You cannot sleep now. We have to talk.”

  Petersham opened an eye and glanced at the bedside clock. The eye opened a fraction wider. “Is that one in the afternoon? You’re mad. Come back in about four hours.”

  “We dare not wait that long. Jack Townsend will be in Brighton before then and ready to question you. We need to discuss the new blend of snuff you mixed and then placed in the new box. Did you try it before you brought it down to dinner?”

  Snore.

  My patience tried, I tossed my cane on a nearby chair, sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over, and grasped Petersham by the shoulders. I pulled him to an upright position and glared into his startled face. “You nodcock, I am trying to help you! Sir Simon is dead. Had he not been first to try the snuff you mixed, the Prince of Wales would be dead. The most renowned of the Bow Street Police officers is on his way to the Pavilion to investigate. Do you understand? Your snuff has killed someone. Will you talk to me?”

  A trifle more conscious, Petersham said, “Very well, Brummell, I shall do as you ask.”

  At that moment, the door to the adjoining room crashed open and Lord Munro stood framed in the portal. His gaze swept over me as I sat on Petersham’s bed, holding the viscount about the shoulders.

  “And what exactly has Mr. Brummell asked you to do, Charles?” Lord Munro inquired in a dangerous voice.

  I rose with dignity and faced Lord Munro. Clad only in an expensive pair of breeches—I recognize cashmere when I see it—he clearly had been woken from his sleep and donned the first available article of clothing. It was also clear he was furious.

  I felt my own temper surge. Time was running out. Jack Townsend could arrive in Brighton at any time. “Lord Munro, I have an urgent matter to discuss with Petersham. Please excuse us.”

  Lord Munro glanced at Petersham. The viscount was in the process of settling himself back under the bedclothes, his eyes closing.

  “Charles doesn’t converse at this hour. If you were truly his friend, you would know that,” Lord Munro said frostily.

  “Dash it! Damn and blast,” I said. “Do neither of you comprehend the enormity of what is happening here? Petersham, sit up at once and tell me whether you tried any of that snuff before bringing it to the Pavilion.”

  Petersham gave a cavernous yawn. “Brummell, I can’t think properly when I haven’t had enough sleep.”

  “Go back to sleep now, Charles,” Lord Munro advised.

  “Right. Eh, Brummell, you’re worrying about all this too much. Sir Simon’s death must have been an accident. No one will think me responsible. I’m a viscount, a peer of the realm. Don’t trouble yourself with it.” His eyes shut.

  Lord Munro took a step toward me. “I’ll thank you to leave. You have disturbed Charles enough.”

  “He is not as disturbed as he will be once Jack Townsend begins questioning him,” I ground out.

  Lord Munro’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t for the life of me think of why everyone admires you, Brummell. I hear you bathe in milk.”

  I stood with my head to one side. Milk? To bathe in? What a repugnant notion. But I am used to people making up the most ridiculous stories about me. I do not know why this latest one should surprise me. That Lord Munro believed it true told me something about his character.

  I was playing with the idea of confirming the story, and confiding that the milk came from a particular cow in Green Park who was fed roses so that the milk might be perfumed, when raised voices from the hall interrupted us. I recognized Robinson’s voice as one of them.

  The door swung open and Robinson stepped inside. His hair, normally in strict control, stood out from his head. But this was nothing compared to Diggie, who was breathing hard and quite red about the face and neck.

  “What the devil?” I exclaimed.

  “My lord,” Diggie said to Lord Munro, his breath coming in gasps. “I have tried to protect the peace of this house, but this person—” here he shot a look of loathing at Robinson

  “—pushed me, I say he pushed me out of the way. No true gentleman’s gentleman would behave thus, as I am certain you would agree, my lord.”

  Petersham snored away.

  Lord Munro’s face was a study in agitation.

  Robinson paid not the slightest attention. Instead, he addressed me. “Sir, I thought you would wish to be apprised of the arrival at the Pavilion of Jack Townsend. Also, the Prince is asking for you.”

  Without another word, I picked up my cane and walked from the room. The fat was in the fire now.

  Chapter Ten

  After passing an army of guards, I entered the Prince of Wales’s bedchamber to find a number of persons present. My jaw almost dropped when I beheld one of them, but I shall tell you about that in a minute.

  Dinner guests were to be questioned regarding the prev
ious evening’s events. The Prince, apparently too sick from worry to rise from his bed, but determined to be present at the inquisition, as it were, held court in his bedchamber.

  He sat propped up in his raised bed, wrapped in a purple robe, a starched white neckcloth cascading in front, his cherry brandy on a table near to hand. He clutched a Brussels lace handkerchief that I knew with a certainty cost forty-five guineas.

  Mrs. Fitzherbert sat in a chair by his side, a pretty shawl around her shoulders, ready to support her “husband” in any way.

  Jack Townsend, now well over forty years of age and for many years with the Bow Street Police Office, stood next to a rosewood desk with his hands clasped behind his back. “Beau Brummell!” he exclaimed in a hearty voice. “I haven’t clapped eyes on you since that sunny day during the last Brighton racing season. Made a tidy sum, didn’t you?”

  “Mr. Townsend, good afternoon,” I said by way of greeting. “As to my winnings at the race, they would hardly be enough to cover the cost of a new coat. Done in the first style, that is.” I eyed his clothing, a gesture that did not escape the sharp little rotund man’s notice.

  “What think you of my costume?” he asked, holding his arms out to display his white coat. I raised my quizzing glass. His breeches were also white, and he sported a flaxen wig. A white hat with a broad ribbon around the huge brim sat on the edge of the desk.

  “You are a pearl amongst men,” I prevaricated, letting the glass fall to my chest.

  He bellowed with laughter. “Ah, and you’re a knowing one. I count many knowing ones among my acquaintances.” He grinned, then his countenance sobered. “But we’re here today on a matter that doesn’t induce mirth, does it? Our Prince narrowly escaped being put to bed with a shovel—ah,” he interrupted himself. “Forgive me, I slip into cant too often. I meant that but for the sacrifice of Sir Simon, an assassin would have accomplished his aim.”

  A moan came from the bed. Mrs. Fitzherbert patted Prinny’s hand.

  Mr. Townsend nodded gravely. “His Royal Highness insisted you be present during my questioning of the guests present, Mr. Brummell. I’ve already discussed the poisoning with the good Doctor Pitcairn and know how Sir Simon died. Now we need to find out who put the poison in the snuff box. The Prince informs me that you are to help us discover the villain.”

  “I shall do my best.” The knowledge did not seem to affect the head of the Bow Street Police Office one way or another. But then, as he had just said, Mr. Townsend likes associating with the upper circles of Society.

  His colleague, on the other hand, did not seem in the least bit pleased at my arrival. That man’s complexion turned a dull red, and the freckles on his face darkened.

  “I’ve brought along a man from my office to assist us. This is John Lavender,” Mr. Townsend informed me. He gestured to the other side of the desk where the stockily-built Scotsman, whose bristly red hair was going to grey, stood.

  He need not have performed the introductions. I am already acquainted with Mr. Lavender. He was the Bow Street investigator assigned to the case of murder I had recently solved. My involvement in that incident had chafed the Bow Street man, to put it mildly. My acquaintance with his daughter did not sit well with the Scotsman either.

  I hold a grudging respect for Mr. Lavender’s dedication to his work, but he has a way of shaking his finger at me, usually during a warning to stay out of his business, that I cannot like. In addition, he always sports the same—unless he has a wardrobe full of them—salt and pepper game coat over worn corduroy breeches and scratched top boots. Worse, he wears bushy side whiskers and an enormous mustache. Frequently, a crumb of oatcake can be found in the latter.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Lavender,” I said blandly. I could not help but hope he held his tongue as to the nature of our past dealings. I did not want it known in Society that I had worked with Bow Street. My reputation as a foolish dandy might suffer, you know.

  “Mr. Brummell,” the Scotsman said casually enough, but the slight burring of the “r” in my name gave away his annoyance at my presence. Still, he seemed no more eager than I to reveal our knowledge of one another.

  “Now, the first thing I need to know is who exactly was present at dinner last evening,” Mr. Townsend said, approaching the royal bed.

  Mr. Lavender produced a tattered notebook.

  The Prince took a swallow of brandy. “Hard to think clearly, Townsend. I’ve been in a muddle since everything happened.”

  Mr. Townsend nodded, the yellow curls remaining in stiff place. “Understandable, sir, understandable.”

  “I can tell you,” I said.

  Mr. Townsend swung around to face me. “By all means, do so, Mr. Brummell,” he cried with a smile.

  “To begin—” I started.

  “We won’t be needing a description of what everyone was wearing. Just their names,” Mr. Lavender interrupted, a stub of a pencil poised over the notebook.

  As though I would resort to such an unnecessary narrative! I took a deep breath. “Besides his Royal Highness and myself, there was the Duchess of York, Lord and Lady Perry, Lady Bessborough—I am not going too quickly for you, Mr. Lavender, am I?”

  “Continue,” was the terse reply.

  “Lords Petersham and Munro, Signor Tallarico, Doctor Pitcairn, Arthur Ainsley, Lord and Lady St. Clair, and their two daughters. Oh, and Sir Simon, of course.”

  “The hero of the evening,” Mr. Townsend pronounced.

  “God rest his soul,” the Prince murmured, then took another swallow of brandy. Mrs. Fitzherbert removed the empty glass from his hand and put it firmly on the table. Prinny might remember things a little better if sober.

  “Is everyone on this list present at the Pavilion?” Mr. Lavender asked.

  “No. Lord and Lady Perry have returned to their rented house in Brighton, as have Lords Petersham and Munro,” I responded.

  Mr. Lavender’s bushy eyebrows came together. “What a pity witnesses were allowed to leave the scene of the crime.”

  “Everyone is still in Brighton, I assure you.”

  “Your assurances mean everything to me, Mr. Brummell,” Mr. Lavender said. “Mr. Townsend, we’ll be questioning these people now, won’t we?”

  “Yes, Lavender. You,” he said pointing to a footman. “You will consult with my associate, request the presence of all the people on the list, and have them assembled in the Long Gallery. No sense in telling them they can’t talk to one another. They’ve had all night.”

  The footman hurried to Mr. Lavender’s side.

  Mr. Townsend addressed the Prince. “We need not involve the local magistrate, Mr. Kearley, any further, had we?”

  “No, indeed not,” the Prince proclaimed. “He’s a simpleton and has his hands full with a local matter. A drowned girl.”

  “A murdered girl,” I reminded him.

  Prinny looked annoyed. “Brummell, how can you pick over small points when we are discussing an attempt on my life?”

  I shook my head in a manner that suggested I could not possibly be in my right mind to have thought of anything but his Royal Highness.

  Mr. Townsend said, “Lord and Lady St. Clair visiting, eh? I know his lordship, a fine orator in Parliament from all accounts. I’d value his opinion on what is going on here.”

  He had his opportunity a few minutes later as Lord and Lady St. Clair were escorted into the room. Lady St. Clair, dressed impeccably, stood to the side as her husband greeted the men. Amidst much bowing, Mr. Townsend managed to elicit Lord St. Clair’s opinions.

  I took up a position next to the fireplace to listen, a short distance away from where Mr. Lavender stood with his notebook.

  “I have thought this matter over carefully,” Lord St. Clair said slowly. “And I find that I hesitate to point a finger at anyone without hard evidence of his or her guilt. Doing so would be irresponsible, since I saw no one put anything in the snuff box.”

  “Admirable sentiments, St. Clair,” Prinny said, impatie
ntly. “But give us your opinion anyway.”

  Lord St. Clair could do naught but answer. “Well, then, I think that though he seems the logical suspect, Lord Petersham cannot be responsible. He simply has no motive.”

  I gazed upon his lordship in admiration. Thank God someone else would come to Petersham’s defense.

  Lord St. Clair continued, “In light of the fact that Napoleon, already Emperor of France, crowned himself King of Italy last May, I say it is deuced odd to suddenly find an Italian, namely Victor Tallarico, in our midst.”

  I repressed a groan.

  The Prince and Mr. Townsend looked at one another. “He has an excellent point, your Royal Highness,” the head of Bow Street said.

  Prinny grimaced. “I knew it! Did I not tell you there were threats to me from foreign soil, Brummell?”

  I struggled to maintain my famous cool countenance. “You did, indeed, sir. But in the case of Signor Tallarico, I must say that Lord St. Clair cannot be remembering that the Italian is Lord Perry’s cousin.”

  “Unfortunately, I do remember,” Lord St. Clair said regretfully. “And while I agree wholeheartedly that Tallarico is from a good family, I must point out that the two men have not seen each other for years. That fact, combined with a lack of other suspects, forces me to consider him as suspect. I grant you, though such an action might be repellent to Tallarico’s good bloodlines, perhaps the new environment of Napoleon’s influence may have been enough to sway a weak man to new opinions.”

  “A wise deduction, my lord, and one that merits our scrutiny,” Mr. Townsend said approvingly. “We are in your debt.”

  Lord St. Clair held up a hand. “Again, I must repeat that I have no evidence on which to base my speculations, and that they are merely that: speculations.”

  “We are grateful, St. Clair,” the Prince said, then turned to Lady St. Clair. “Do you have anything to add to what your husband has told us?”

  Lady St. Clair looked surprised to have her opinion consulted. “No, your Royal Highness.”

  “You will ask your daughters if they saw or heard anything that may be of use to us?” Mr. Townsend asked.