The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  “I thought you did not wish me involved in murder cases. I thought you would be singing Scottish songs of cheer that I have not investigated the murder. I fail to comprehend—”

  “Then let me say it plain,” Mr. Lavender volunteered. “Here are the facts. That book is stolen. Two people are murdered.”

  “One does not have anything to do with the other,” I said.

  Mr. Lavender’s eyes flashed a warning. “Let me be the judge of that. I’ve been looking into the murder of the marquess. He wasn’t well liked. His cousin was afraid of him, why I don’t know. He was a bully to her, but there’s something more.”

  Should I tell him about Lord Kendrick’s threats to have Lady Ariana put into a lunatic asylum? No, I could never do that to the girl as much as I wanted to divert Mr. Lavender’s attention from myself. I cleared my throat. “I believe Lady Ariana to have had a difficult life.”

  The Scotsman’s eyes narrowed. “She’s got an odd kick in her gallop, that’s the truth. If you know anything, you’d better not be holding back from me, laddie.”

  “Me? Hold something back from you? Why would I do that?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Then we have Cecily Cranworth, the marquess’s childhood love, angry because Lord Kendrick wouldn’t wed her.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Most interesting of all, neither you nor her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York liked the marquess. Now what reason could the two of you have to dislike him? See, this is where things get interesting. You were observed in an angry confrontation with the marquess the day before he was murdered. You were overheard saying that the marquess’s smirk would be something few people would miss. Why?”

  I rose to my feet. Fairingdale had been talking again. Mr. Lavender was stumbling too close to the truth. His path must be redirected. “While I have previously eased the boredom of my days by sparring with you, Mr. Lavender, I see I cannot allow you to labour under any misconceptions in this case.”

  “Good.” The Scotsman stood up straight.

  “As to this riddle of Lord Kendrick’s murder, if you find you need my help, why, I shall consider offering you my assistance on the condition that you cease throwing out innuendo that I might have killed him. Or this Neal person.”

  “It’s all somehow to do with that book isn’t it, and you’re the owner of the book!”

  “Actually, if you want to know the truth,” I said in the manner of one careless of anything but his own pleasure, “it is all to do with your lovely daughter. I find that I shall use any excuse to call upon her. I am not above telling her that I desire the names and locations of the rag-merchants, when what I really desire is to gaze upon her—”

  Quicker than thought, the Bow Street man was round the desk. He has the disadvantage of being a few inches shorter than me, but he was about to toast my ears and nothing could stop him. I did not even try, leaning as I did against the desk and taking a moment to eradicate a piece of lint from my glossy Hessian boots.

  “You’ll leave my daughter out of this!” he barked.

  I put my head to one side. “But you wanted to know about the book. I just told you. I cannot resist your daughter’s dark red hair, so I called on her and asked for her help in getting my stolen possessions returned to me.”

  My ploy to distract the Bow Street man was working. “How did you get Lydia to put on that disgraceful gown last night? My own flesh and blood half naked in the middle of London!” he seethed.

  “Oh the fancy-dress was her idea. I think she told me she rented it at a place in Fleet Street. Quite fetching.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” he shouted. “And just what was Lydia doing at your house earlier yesterday? Answer me that.”

  I shrugged. “It was a private matter. Why not ask her yourself?”

  “I did and she told me it was not my concern.”

  “There you are, then,” I said reasonably.

  “I will not have you flirting with my daughter!”

  “Flirting?” My brows came together as I gave the appearance of one giving the subject deep consideration. “At the King’s Theatre, we were merely dancing the new valse. Some, I expect, would call that flirting, I grant you.”

  Mr. Lavender’s face mottled red. “The valse! That shameless dance from Germany? The one where couples are squeezing and hugging each another?”

  “That is the very one!”

  “Do not,” the Bow Street man roared, “do not ever lay your hands on my daughter again! She is a vulnerable lass. I’ll not have her subjected to the attentions and flattery of an idle, useless ornament of Society whose thoughts centre round tying his cravat, gaming away his money, and dallying with any female he finds attractive including the Duchess of York!” he finished inexcusably.

  Silence followed Freddie’s name. I could hear the ticking of the long-case clock standing in the corner. With a studied casualness, I extended my hand to the silver bell that rested on the polished surface of my desk. I rang it once. Robinson appeared immediately. Naturally, he had been listening outside the double doors.

  “Yes, sir?”

  I had not taken my gaze from the Bow Street man and did not do so now. “Robinson, Mr. Lavender is leaving.”

  The Scotsman gave me a look as black as thunder, then turned on his booted heel and followed Robinson out the door.

  I waited until I heard the street door close before I released my breath on a long sigh. I had succeeded in leading him off the scent of Freddie and me, but it was clear the Bow Street man knew of my attachment to Freddie. And because of my carelessness in not asking Lion to keep quiet, Mr. Lavender knew of my connection to Neal.

  How long could I keep the matter of the missing letter from him? Miss Lavender was aware of it, courtesy of Sylvester Fairingdale. If her father did find out about it, how long would it be before he made the connection between the letter, Neal, Roger and Lord Kendrick’s nefarious activities?

  How long would I have my freedom before he arrested me for the murder?

  I could not just sit here and do nothing. I rang the bell.

  “Robinson,” I said when he appeared. “At the Butler’s Tankard, has there been any talk of Cecily and Roger Cranworth’s new butler?” I remembered Neal had described his replacement as starchy.

  “Yes, sir. A Mr. Gilpin.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  Robinson’s lip curled. “I have.”

  “Out with it, man,” I said impatiently.

  “Mr. Gilpin is nothing more than a jumped-up footman. He puts on airs like he has presided over grand homes. However I have had it from Rumbelow, the underbutler at Vayne House, that Mr. Gilpin’s employment as footman was terminated when he was found by the master of Dunn House in her ladyship’s bed.”

  “Thank you, Robinson.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir? Some tea? Something to eat?”

  I looked at Chakkri, still sleeping on the top of the bookcase. Robinson gaze followed mine. A gleam came into the valet’s eyes.

  “No, I do not require anything. And, Robinson, I would advise you not to spin that case around while the cat is asleep on top,” I said sternly.

  Robinson looked at me affronted. “As if I would harm the—the, ahem, the dear little soul.” A bought of coughing followed this lie.

  I clapped Robinson on the back before leaving the room.

  * * * *

  Since fashionable Society converges upon Hyde Park at five in the afternoon to see their friends and be seen, I chose the hour to walk over to Curzon Street.

  The way I see it, Roger Cranworth had taken the gloves of polite behaviour off, so to speak, when he dropped Neal’s dead body in front of the King’s Theatre.

  I climbed the stairs of the house and used my dog’s head stick to knock on the door to Roger’s rooms.

  A thin young man, striving for an imperious expression, opened the door. His trained gaze ran over my finely cut jacket and breeches. “May I help you, sir?”

 
I assumed my most haughty damn-you stare. “I am here to see Mr. or Miss Cranworth.”

  “I am sorry, sir, both are from home. Will you leave your name so I can say who called?”

  Using just my left hand, I extracted a silver card case from my pocket and flipped open the lid. As I had anticipated, Mr. Gilpin held out a gloved palm, ready to receive my card.

  That is precisely when I put all the force of my right fist into a direct hit that knocked the young butler out cold. I feel sure Lord Dunn would have cheered me on.

  Quickly, I shoved the unconscious man’s body aside with the tip of one of my Hessian boots and entered the drawing room, closing the door behind me. The lodgings were small, but decorated in a costly manner. I rushed through to what must have been Miss Cranworth’s room first, then dashed over to the other bedchamber, Roger’s. Throwing open the wardrobe door, the sight of clothing piled none too neatly—Robinson would have been appalled—met my eye. I reached for three lengths of linen, noticed they were over-starched—Neal was right about Gilpin being starchy after all—and returned to the drawing room.

  I found that not only am I nimble with tying my cravat, but that my abilities extend to tying hands, feet, and a length of cloth around my victim’s mouth.

  That done, I repeated what was now becoming a routine performance: searching for Freddie’s letter.

  After not quite an hour, the results were the same as my other attempts, fruitless.

  Glancing at a clock that I noted with a start looked like a Sevres, I saw the hour was after six. The Cranworths would be returning soon.

  I hesitated, standing in the middle of the drawing room. Even though the situation grew more desperate every day, I could not wait for Roger Cranworth to return and force a confrontation. I would not put it above him to use his sister as a shield.

  No, the only thing for it was to challenge Roger tonight at Syon House. With his new-found position in Society as Lady Ariana’s fiancé, he was sure to attend. If nothing else, Lady Crecy would bring him along. The ball would be crowded. Syon House has extensive grounds in which one could meet an enemy, and if memory served, small chambers off the Long Gallery. I could steer Roger Cranworth into one of those and have a private conversation with him.

  I could not have known then what the disastrous results of a meeting with Roger Cranworth in one of those very chambers would be.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Syon House stands surrounded by its own parkland just outside London. A square building of white Dunstable stone, the exteriour might strike some as severe, even forbidding with its four high corner towers. However, Syon House is one of my very favourite buildings because the interior is a monument to the work of Robert Adam, the brilliant neo-classical designer.

  I have only visited once before, oh, it must have been two years ago, with Freddie. But tonight when I entered the Great Hall to join the receiving line, I was struck again by the staggering magnificence of the Hall. With the exception of the black squares in the black and white marble floor, the Hall is entirely white. The floor is a striking piece of art, with a Greek Key pattern running through the black and white squares broken by circles of a marigold design. The soaring ceiling echoes the floor in true Adam style. Roman statues flank the walls, with Apollo at the northern end. I think it is the very cool, pure, classical perfection of the room that appeals to me and humbles me with its beauty.

  With the Hall crowded with guests, tonight colour was everywhere in the form of the ladies’ gowns. At one end of the Hall, musicians played a light tune. Dancing would take place later. Through a set of open double doors, I could see the courtyard strung with coloured lamps, and tiny candles peppered the walkways.

  I greeted the Duke of Northumberland with a low bow of respect. He has been a military man since the age of seventeen when he set out to form a company of his own recruits and serve in the Seven Years War.

  “Good evening, Brummell,” his Grace said.

  I bowed. “Your Grace, I am honoured to be invited to spend an evening at Syon House.”

  He smiled fondly on his Duchess. “Every once in a great while I must leave war matters long enough to host an entertainment.”

  Greeting the Duchess of Northumberland, I could see how his Grace could be persuaded to leave business for a while to pass time in her company. Julia, as Freddie calls her, is a sweet-faced lady with light brown hair and brown eyes.

  We exchanged pleasantries, and soon I made my way to the right, up the few steps that lead from the hall into the Ante- Room. The contrast between the Hall and the Ante-Room is startling. The floor is a highly polished scagliola in reds, blues and yellows. The room is a vivid blue with gold accents everywhere, making it a luxurious space.

  Making it less attractive at the moment was Sylvester Fairingdale appearing at my elbow. The fop twisted his lips in a sarcastic manner and leaned towards me in the pose of a confidant.

  “Looking for your lady-love, Brummell?”

  I eyed his bright orange coat worn over a blue satin waistcoat on which orange trees had been embroidered. Ghastly! “I see the Duchess of Northumberland’s well-known kindness extends to inviting even the most worthless of fribbles. Do you owe money to the green-grocer?”

  “What?”

  “That is the only reason I could think of for your advertising his goods on your clothing. And does your propensity for oranges extend to orange girls?” I queried referring to those females who sold oranges at the theatres.

  “You’re drunk, Brummell,” Fairingdale scoffed.

  “Or drugged, perhaps? You have a housemaid named Fanny, I believe?”

  Fairingdale’s left eye twitched. “I know nothing about any drugs or herbs the girl uses.”

  “Nor, I daresay, does Lord Wrayburn, in which house you both reside. I think it best if you sent Fanny back from whence she came. Robinson will not see her again, you know. That was a cruel trick you played.”

  Fairingdale raised his chin. “You talk nonsense.”

  “Do I? I think not. Continue on your present course of hiring servants to drug others and you will have an opportunity to hear the babblings of your fellow inmates at Newgate.”

  “I think you’ll be in that prison before me for the death of Lord Kendrick,” he hissed furiously. “Either that, or the Duke of York will have you transported to the Colonies once he catches on to you and—”

  I took a step closer to him. “Do not dare say her name,” I commanded in a low, enraged voice. I took a breath, trusting my face not to betray my emotion to the guests nearby. “I warn you, Fairingdale, you go too far when you bring the lady’s name to your lips. I do not give a snap of my fingers what else you say to me, or about me, but I shall not stand for your sullying her Royal Highness’s name. Chalk Farm at dawn? Pistols? Swords? Am I making myself clear?”

  The fop turned and minced away without a word, but I think my point had been taken. I walked further into the room, forcing my muscles to relax, forcing a smile to my lips, acknowledging friends.

  To the right of me, a hidden door that leads to the kitchens and service rooms belowstairs stood open. I was surprised to see Ulga standing a few feet from the door.

  “What are you doing up here, Ulga?” I asked the Prussian maid. When I reached her side, I saw the deep lines of fatigue and tension carved into her cheeks.

  “I am vorried about her Royal Highness. She did not vant to come here tonight. She has been under so much strain lately.” This last was uttered with a sharp glance at yours truly.

  “Where is she?” I asked, looking about for Freddie.

  Ulga shook her head. “I do not know. Ve arrived almost an hour ago in the company of Victor Tallarico.”

  “Er, yes, she told me he was escorting her.” I accepted a glass of wine from a footman coming from the servants’ area into the Ante-Room. I drank it down and hoped for another. “Are you just going to stand here all evening, Ulga, and not join the other ladies’ maids?”

  “Yes,” came th
e stubborn reply.

  “As you will,” I said and moved away, looking for Roger Cranworth or Freddie. Now that I was in Syon House once more, I remembered exactly where the two turret rooms, as they are called, are located. I could have an undisturbed chat with Roger in one of those chambers.

  Proceeding into the dining room, I saw long tables had been set out with an array of delicacies. At the present time, I only wanted another glass of wine. An obliging footman provided me with one. I scanned the room for Roger and saw Lady Penelope and Lord Wrayburn.

  Although I like the couple, I wished I did not have to waste time speaking with them now when I wanted to confront Roger Cranworth. Still, one has one’s social duty.

  After informing me the date had been set for her wedding, Lady Penelope said, “I do hope that Lady Ariana has improved in health by then.”

  “Has she been ill?” I asked. “I saw her in the Park, and she appeared in good health.”

  Lord Wrayburn shot his fiancée a warning look, but she went on, showing the first sign of becoming as gossipy as her mama, Lady Crecy. “Well, it is not so much a physical disorder, as a matter of the heart.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” I replied in a way that told her I wanted to know more.

  Again, Lord Wrayburn looked askance at Lady Penelope and again she was undeterred. “I fear that unlike the kindness with which I am treated by my own fiancé, Lady Ariana’s betrothed has caused her to feel uncertain about their future.”

  “How unfortunate, especially for one with Lady Ariana’s delicate constitution.”

  “Exactly so,” Lady Penelope concurred. “Mr. Cranworth’s behaviour is unkind indeed.”