The Tainted Snuff Box

by Rosemary Stevens

  “Everything is shut tight against the cold. Oh, Mr. Brummell, you are clever, thinking of bringing the cat. The Frenchwoman adores that stray Lydia feeds. We named him Marmalade.”

  “Let us hope Chakkri will calm her as Marmalade does. Perhaps when the Frenchwoman sees how my cat approves of me, she will allow me to speak with her.”

  “May I see him before you go in?”

  I opened the lid of the basket a few inches. Miss Ashton peered inside, then drew back. “I have never seen a cat like him.”

  “He comes from Siam. Now, here is what I want you to do. Allow me to enter the sitting room with Chakkri. If I need you, I shall let you know.”

  “All right. I wish you good luck. I will just be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  The Frenchwoman sat forlornly in the same chair by the fire. When she saw me, her eyes widened and she yelped a cry. Before I could say a word, Chakkri let out a loud “reow” and raised his head from the basket. The Frenchwoman quieted immediately and stared at the cat. I bent and put the basket on the floor.

  Picking the cat up and holding him in my arms, in French I said, “His name is Chakkri. I brought him specially to see you. What is your name?”

  The woman made no response, but neither did she scream again. I held Chakkri close, stroking his incredibly soft fur. “I am going to sit in that chair near you so you can see him up close.”

  She sat still and made no protest to the plan. I slowly made my way to the chair and sat down. “Would you like to hold him? He will not scratch you.”

  The Frenchwoman remained silent. Chakkri decided the matter by hopping from my lap to hers balancing himself across her thighs almost as if he knew she needed his comfort. He looked at her expectantly, and she raised one hand tentatively and petted his back. Her other hand clutched a cross.

  Chakkri sat down and began to purr.

  “I promise I only want to help you,” I ventured in a low voice. “Will you not tell me your name?”

  “Marie. My name is Marie,” she whispered in French after several minutes of silence.

  I drew a deep breath. “Madame Marie, I am George Brummell, a friend of Miss Lavender’s. She is the lady who owns this shelter. Remember when I found you on the road outside Brighton?”

  Marie’s hand stilled. An expression of horror appeared on her face at the memory. I cursed myself for pressing her. But devil take it, I could not chance Miss Lavender getting herself hurt, and minutes were ticking by.

  “Listen to me, Madam Marie. I know you are under some great strain, that something terrible has happened to you. You are holding a cross. Will you not pray for relief? There are others who may be in danger and need your help.”

  Marie began to cry. Not a wailing cry, but a silent expression of grief. I remembered Miss Lavender telling me the Frenchwoman had not cried over whatever was troubling her. Clutching the cross in one hand and resting the other on Chakkri’s back, Marie wept now.

  I reached into my pocket, drew out my handkerchief and passed it to her. She accepted it.

  Then she spoke in an anguished voice, “My lady, she wore the cross and died anyway.”

  As much as I sympathised with her for her loss, whatever it had been, my anxiety over Miss Lavender’s safety overcame all other thought. “I am sorry. Will you try to help me protect another lady? I need to know about the house by the sea.”

  She looked up then, the tears ceasing and the look of fear coming back into her eyes. Chakkri stood up and brushed the top of his head against her chin.

  “Just the location—” I said hastily. “Please, if you could only tell me where the house is, or what it looks like.”

  “The animals are there,” she hissed.

  “Animals?”

  “At the house of evil by the sea.” She crossed herself.

  A chill ran through me at her words. I wanted to shake her, force her to tell me instantly what I wanted to know. But that would never do. “Tell me what the house looks like. Please. It is important.”

  Her breathing reminded me of Petersham’s at the beginning of one of the attacks of his asthma, fast and shallow. “It has many rooms, many corridors. Some of them stone. I could smell the sea.”

  “What about the outside of the house? What does it look like?”

  She gazed past me as if remembering. “It was dark when they took me there. I could not see. Red, perhaps. Red brick with a dark door. Oh!”

  I leaned forward. “What? What is it?”

  Her face crumpled. “There was a brass knocker on the door. A big ugly thing. The head of a jackal. The animals, the animals,” she sobbed, then burst into tears.

  This time her crying was a loud, harsh sound. Miss Ashton came hurrying into the room.

  Chakkri jumped down from Marie’s lap as Miss Ashton went to hold her.

  “I am sorry to be abrupt, but must take my leave. Miss Lavender needs me. I shall send word to you,” I said, bundling Chakkri into the basket. Miss Ashton turned and nodded at me, then whispered reassuring words to Marie.

  Outside the shelter door, I gave orders for Ned and Ted to take Chakkri home to Bruton Street, admonishing them to be certain the cat did not escape into the streets.

  I hailed a hackney to take me to the nearest posting house where the heavy purse I had collected when I went home for Chakkri enabled me to hire a private coach. After a short conversation with the driver, during which I promised him a handsome reward if he could make the seven-hour journey to the Brighton area in five, we were off.

  Along the way, we stopped only to change horses. The driver pushed the beasts to their limits. At one larger posting house, I was able to visit the necessary room, then procure a bottle of wine, some cheese, and an apple. At another stop, I purchased a hot brick to put at my feet. Darkness was falling, along with the temperature. I was glad of the warmth of my black velvet greatcoat and my buckskin breeches.

  There was plenty of time for me to think. And contemplate how I would wring Miss Lavender’s pretty neck when I found her.

  Devil take the Scottish female! How could she have been so hen-witted as to tear off for the sea coast without so much as a maid in tow? She might not be of the highest class of Society, but even a girl of the middle-classes knew better than to travel alone. I may admire her independent nature, which one could say is much like my own, but this stretched the bounds of common sense.

  Mentally, I took myself to task for involving Miss Lavender in Marie’s problem. But what could I have done? Left the Frenchwoman to wander the London Road alone in the state she was in? Now, Miss Lavender, obstinate like her father, was determined to find out what she could about Marie.

  Just what was this “house of evil” Marie spoke of, and what the devil had happened there? I thought of the Frenchwoman’s tears and her sad declaration that her lady had died. Apparently Marie was a lady’s maid or companion. Had her mistress died at the “house of evil?”

  I heaved a tired sigh, thinking of the way Marie had fingered the small gold cross. Perhaps her faith would—

  My eyes widened as an image of the cross Marie had been holding flashed through my brain. I had seen a cross like it, only larger, just recently.

  Around the neck of the girl Freddie and I had found dead on the Brighton Beach. The one Doctor Pitcairn declared had died from a blow to the head.

  Yes, yes, it was the very same cross. A distinctive piece and costly. Tiny emeralds graced the ends of the design, which were shaped as a fleur-de-lys. Exactly the sort of thing a young woman might bestow upon a much-loved governess or companion.

  And if Marie had seen her young lady killed, that would certainly account for her terrified state.

  But what were the “animals” Marie referred to? And what had happened in this “house of evil?” Had the two ladies been lured there and then attacked, with only Marie escaping?

  The house Marie described was large, no hovel a ruffian might take a victim to. And both the unfortunate girl on the beach and Marie sti
ll retained their valuable jewelry. A common thief-turned-murderer would never leave his victims in possession of something he could sell for money.

  Who, then, would have committed such a heinous act and why?

  I looked out into the darkness with what must have been a rueful expression on my face. My abilities in investigating murders must be judged futile. Though I had been successful in a recent case, I now had two murders to contemplate and was none the wiser about either. Perhaps Mr. Lavender had the right of it, and I should stay out of his way.

  That would also please whoever had hired the two ruffians who set upon my person and bloodied my nose.

  At last these self-deprecating thoughts were cut off as the driver pulled the coach to a halt in the yard of a Brighton inn. Settling my bill with him, complete with the handsome tip I had promised, I hired a horse and set out for Hove.

  Once in that western part of Brighton, it did not take long for me to realise that if I wanted to find the house Marie had described, and Miss Lavender, it might be best if I stopped and asked some of the locals if the building sounded familiar.

  The first two people I asked—a young lad carrying a shovel over one shoulder, and a fisherman, if the odour clinging to him was any indication of his profession—both denied knowledge of such a house. I gained the distinct impression that the fisherman was lying. He had looked to the west when he spoke, though, so with no better plan, I headed my horse in that direction.

  The hour neared six o’clock and I saw no one else on the dark road. Tired and aggravated, I decided to stop at the first farmhouse I came to with a light within.

  Thus, only five minutes later, I tethered my horse and knocked on the door of a one-story structure with a weedy garden.

  The wooden door opened, revealing an old man dressed in a coarse linen shirt and brown homespun breeches. His gaze ran over my fine clothing. “What kin I do fer ye?”

  “I am searching for a house I know only by description and hope you can help me.” I jingled some coins in my pocket to encourage him.

  He narrowed dark eyes under grey eyebrows. “I reckon seein’ how I’ve lived here all me life, I could tell ye what ye want to know. Iffen ye don’t mean no trouble to the people.”

  I returned his gaze. “Certainly, I do not.”

  He held out his hand expectantly. I dropped several coins into his open palm. He pocketed the money and nodded for me to continue.

  “The house is red brick and quite near the sea. The front door sports a brass knocker in the shape of a jackal’s head.”

  The farmer made to close the door.

  I pressed my hand against it hard, forcing it to remain open. “Wait!”

  “Ye filthy swell!” the farmer shouted.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, very stiffly on my stiffs. “I am known for my cleanliness. What is more, I do not have time for you to stand here and quibble with me. A friend of mine—a lady friend—may be in trouble.”

  This speech was met by a snort. “Ain’t no ladies at that there house. It be a house no lady would ever visit.”

  “That only makes the situation more urgent. Whom does the house belong to, and how can I find it? Please, I must know,” I said in a voice as close to pleading as I would allow.

  The farmer stood in the doorway and seemed to take my measure. At last he said, “It be four miles down the road to yer left,” he said pointing past me. “Iffen ye go too far, ye’ll be in the sea.”

  “Thank you,” I said, passing him more coins, then turning to go. His next words stopped me.

  “The owner’s dead. Sir Simon was poisoned. Serves him right too. Evil attracts evil, is what I always says.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Sir Simon owned the house I seek?” My stunned brain could hardly assimilate the information.

  “Aye,” the farmer replied. He leaned out the door and spat into the bushes. “Sir Simon was a greedy cur. I reckon now he’s gone, we’ll have less rackety goings on. Unless ye mean to stir things up.”

  “No, as I told you, I am merely here to collect a friend. I know nothing of the house and only a little of Sir Simon. He made his fortune in smuggling, did he not?”

  The farmer hesitated. Only after I produced a few more coins did the man nod. “A shameful fortune what brought him shameful friends. Some of ‘em high born. All the money he made warn’t good enough fer him. He kept on leadin’ a large smugglin’ operation ‘til the day he died. Greedy, like I told ye.”

  “Is that why you call him evil? I thought townsfolk commonly turned a blind eye to smuggling, some even participating in it.”

  “No, warn’t his dealin’ with the Frenchies, was the other.”

  “What ‘other?’“ I persisted.

  “Peculiar things, evil things, that’s what,” the farmer said, raising his voice. “Things no real gentleman would involve hisself with. Sir Simon was no gentleman. And if ye were a gentleman ye wouldn’t be tryin’ to find his house.”

  With that, the farmer shut the door in my face. Damn and blast! I mounted my horse and set off at a near gallop down the moonlit road the farmer had indicated, cursing each new delay. The farmer had neglected to tell me the road branched into two on the way. I grant you he could not have known about the fallen tree. After I took a false turn, and a bone-rattling jump over the tree, the house finally came into view down a tree-lined lane.

  I slowed my horse to a halt, taking in the lay of the land. A long, circular drive of crushed shells led to a large brick manor. The house looked respectable enough from the outside, with well tended lawns and shrubbery. Light could be seen coming from within. The problem was where to leave my horse so I might approach the house on foot without being seen.

  Glancing around, I noted a thicket of trees to the right and behind the house. Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I led the horse to this area, dismounted and secured him to a tree.

  “Don’t move, I have a pistol.”

  I froze, my fist closing around my dog’s head stick, then recognizing the voice, I relaxed. “What you ought to have is a good pair of spectacles.”

  “Who is that?”

  “If you would put that gun away and come closer you would see it is I, George Brummell, Miss Lavender.”

  She stepped out from behind a nearby tree, leaves rustling under her booted feet, and I caught my breath. Seeing a lady with her hair down, after all, is a husband’s privilege. Her auburn hair streamed out from around her face in a tangled mass of curls that hung halfway down her back. The glossy strands gleamed sensuously in the moonlight.

  Perceiving my scrutiny, she raised her chin. By way of explanation she said, “I had to ride on the outside of the coach that brought me to Hove. Not all of us can afford to pay the price for an inside seat.”

  “Your hair is—is quite lovely,” I said, suppressing a sudden desire to touch those soft tresses. I cannot like the effect Miss Lavender sometimes has on my senses.

  “I lost my pins in the wind, otherwise I would have attempted to constrain it. But never mind my hair. What are you doing here, Mr. Brummell? I thought you too busy with dinner parties and your social life to involve yourself in my problems.”

  “You wound me,” I said, placing a hand over my heart. “Here I have ridden ventra à terre to come to your aid and . . . er, I say, could you put that gun away? Does your father know you possess such a weapon?”

  “Who do you think taught me to shoot?” she replied, lowering the gun.

  “Does he know you are nearsighted?”

  “I am not nearsighted!”

  “Yes, you are. What prevents you from wearing spectacles?”

  “The fact that I don’t need them,” she said in a voice one might use to speak to a dim-wit.

  “Perhaps you care for what is fashionable after all,” I mused aloud.

  And perhaps Mr. Lavell, the grocer, would not care for a wife with spectacles, I thought.

  “That’s not true,” she said hotly. “Unlike you, I cannot
waste my time trying to dress and look flawless.”

  “Dressing well is not a waste of time.”

  “Yet you suffer from boredom, don’t you? Else you would not be involved in yet another murder investigation would you now, Mr. Brummell? That’s all right,” she said before I could answer. “There’s no need for you to admit it. You strike me as a man too intelligent to be satisfied with merely having perfected the knot in his neckcloth.”

  I bowed. “Your generosity when it comes to my character warms my heart. It grieves me to tell you I cannot return the compliment in the matter of your own intelligence. Or perhaps intelligence is not the proper term, for you are knowledgeable. Common sense is the commodity of which you are in short supply.”

  “What!”

  “Do not shout. An educated female, which no doubt you are, who journeys from London to Brighton alone, without the company of even a maid, can only be thought of as hen-witted.”

  “How dare you? I ought to rub dirt on your neckcloth!”

  “I beg you will restrain yourself. Come now, let us cry friends, and indeed, allies, since we are here for a similar purpose. How long has it been since you arrived?”

  Miss Lavender’s eyes smoldered, but at last she said, “Only a few minutes. I had to walk all the way out here from where the coach stopped in the town centre. I believe this to be the house the Frenchwoman described.”

  “Yes, Marie said it had a brass jackal’s head for a door knocker, and this one does,” I said. Suddenly, I remembered the animal-shaped patch Sir Simon wore near his mouth. It could very well have been the shape of a jackal. And I thought I had seen that shape on a ring, but I could not recall who had been wearing it.

  “Marie? Who is Marie?”

  “Oh, I have not had a chance to tell you, have I?” I said, my thoughts returning to the matter at hand. “I paid a visit to your shelter, and the Frenchwoman spoke to me. Her name is Marie.”

  Miss Lavender’s lips parted in surprise. Diverted by the action, I had to ask her to repeat the question. She said, “How did you get her to talk?”