The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  “No, you are mistaken. It is Connell who is dead,” she said, thinking of her cousin, Lord Kendrick. “And he deserved to die.”

  Lady Crecy gasped and reached in her reticule for her salts.

  On the sofa, Cecily Cranworth allowed Doctor Wendell to put his arm around her as she sniffled.

  I tried again. “You are confused, Lady Ariana.”

  She shook her head. “No, I am not. Connell deserved to die. He killed Uncle, you know,” she said referring to the old Marquess of Kendrick. “He gave him something to drink that caused an attack of Uncle’s heart. Connell did it so he could be marquess. After Maynard died, Uncle was the only one standing in the way.”

  Good God! I knew Lord Kendrick was a dissolute criminal, but a murderer besides? Yet I remembered thinking it very convenient that a second son without prospects, dependent upon his father for a miserly allowance, should suddenly find himself the possessor of a title and wealth.

  “Lady Ariana, listen to me carefully,” I said gently. “Please look at me. I am unaware of what Lord Kendrick did or who killed him. I am speaking now of your betrothed, Roger Cranworth.”

  She smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “Yes, Roger and I are to be married. He was reluctant at first, but then I gave him the ticket to good fortune, and he said he would marry me.”

  A chill ran through me.

  “Ticket to good fortune?” I looked at Lady Crecy. She shook her head implying she knew nothing of any money.

  Lady Ariana went on, “Connell had given it to me to hide in my room. It was a secret. A folded piece of paper. Connell told me not to look at it or he would send me away to a lunatic asylum. He said that I must be careful not to say anything about it because it was his ticket to good fortune.”

  The letter. She was talking about Freddie’s letter. It had been in Lady Ariana’s room at Oatlands, as I had suspected. I had just been too late to reclaim it.

  “I did what Connell said. I did not want to be sent away.” Lady Ariana looked at me for approval.

  “You did just as you ought,” I said.

  “That is what Roger said. After Connell died, I told Roger I loved him. I asked him to take care of me.” She frowned. “At first, he said no. He said he could not afford a wife, but then I told him about the ticket to good fortune and what Connell had said. After I gave Roger the folded paper, he said that as long as I did not tell anyone about the paper, we would be married.”

  The dastard, using someone fragile like Lady Ariana to launch a blackmail scheme. He probably never would have married her, finding some excuse to break the engagement.

  Lady Ariana went on: “But since Roger has been in London, he hardly ever comes to see me. He still wants to marry me, does he not? I begin to wonder. It is wrong for a gentleman to go back on his word, you know.” She turned to me. “I have been very angry thinking he would not wed me after he promised.”

  “Lady Ariana, I know that Roger loved you very much,” I lied. “He did want to marry you and would have, I am certain, had he lived.”

  “But he is alive. It is Connell that is dead.”

  “No!” Cecily Cranworth screamed. “Roger is dead, Ariana. They are both dead!”

  Cecily began crying again. Lady Ariana’s face was a perfect blank. Try as we might, neither Lady Crecy, Doctor Wendell, nor I could get her to say another word. I think that Cecily’s words had finally penetrated, and the girl had retreated somewhere in her mind.

  Doctor Wendell left Cecily in Lady Crecy’s care and motioned for me to join him in the hall. I took my leave of the ladies and followed the doctor.

  “Mr. Brummell, it is of no use. Sadly I have seen cases like Lady Ariana before. She needs rest and the care of people who love her. I think she should return to the country.”

  I nodded. “I expect you have the right of it.”

  “Clearly the girl is not in her right mind, babbling on about that ticket to good fortune.”

  “Will she be all right? Is she, in any way, dangerous?”

  “There’s no way to really know. What I’ll propose is that Cecily and I wed immediately. Lady Ariana can live with us. Cecily will not want it any other way.”

  I held out my hand to Doctor Wendell. “You are good. Write to me and let me know how matters progress.”

  Though the hour was very late and I risked encountering a footpad, I walked the few streets home. I had to try to clear my mind of its jumbled thoughts and focus on who wanted both Lord Kendrick and Roger Cranworth dead. Although the idea that the killings were not related did occur to me, I dismissed it. Instinct told me the same person had committed the crimes.

  Could it be Lady Ariana? The girl was out of her senses, that was plain to see. Doctor Wendell could not say with any certainty whether she was dangerous. Could she have been so frightened that Lord Kendrick would put her in that lunatic asylum that she killed him? Then, later, when Roger showed signs of abandoning her after he had promised to marry her, could she have killed again? She said she had been angry at the thought he would not fulfill his promise to marry her.

  I entered Bruton Street with must have been a mighty frown on my face.

  Robinson was all concern. “Sir, what is wrong?”

  “Roger Cranworth was murdered tonight,” I said wearily, climbing the stairs.

  “Heavens! His death does not have anything to do with the Royal Duchess’s missing letter, does it, sir?” he asked as we crossed into my bedchamber.

  “I fear it has everything to do with that blasted letter,” I snapped, causing Chakkri, asleep on the bed, to raise his head and point his ears forward.

  I immediately regretted my tone. Robinson became even more solicitous of my needs, real and imagined. When he asked if I wanted him to go down to the kitchens and warm some milk to help me sleep, I lost my temper. “When have I ever, in the time you have known me, drunk warm milk? Take yourself off. I can prepare myself for bed. I do not require, nor do I want, your help.”

  Robinson’s face fell. In a quiet voice he said, “I am sorry, sir. Before I leave, if you will permit me to say one thing.”

  “Go ahead,” I told him, pouring myself a large measure of brandy.

  I am sorry that I was taken in by that girl, Fanny. I should have known better, since she was employed by that odious Sylvester Fairingdale. I am afraid, sir, that I was duped by a pretty face. She seemed respectable and caring, though she did try to get me to reveal the secret ingredients of the blackening I use on your boots. I never dreamed the tisane she gave me would cause such ill effects. She explained that all the herbs and such were of the first quality as she obtained them from the very same apothecary that her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York uses to mix potions whenever she is in London. I was a fool to believe Fanny. Please forgive me.”

  I had been standing with my back to him. At these words, I turned around to tell him to forget the matter. But he had left the room soundlessly.

  I picked up my brandy and looked at the cat. “Well, I shall tell him in the morning. I should not have been sharp with him.”

  Chakkri let out a faint “reow.”

  The brandy slid down my throat and I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth invade my body.

  Then my eyes snapped open. “Good God!”

  I placed the brandy on a side table with a sharp click. “I am the fool, Chakkri, not Robinson. The answer has been right in front of me the whole time! I just did not want to consider it. I did not want to believe it. I did not want it to be so. Dear God.”

  “Reow!” shrieked Chakkri. Then he laid down and curled his tail into a “C.”

  Chapter Thirty

  I remained awake most of the night, trying to decide what to do. Before dawn I had an idea, but it was not in the least pleasing.

  Without waking Robinson, I dressed and traversed the streets between my house and Curzon Street. There was something inside Roger’s rooms I wanted. No one answered my knock. Mr. Gilpin must have fled upon hearing of his employer’s death.


  I have never broken into anyone’s residence before, so I hope I will be excused for taking quite half an hour to defeat the lock.

  I had what I wanted and hastened back to Bruton Street just as the sun came up. The fickle English weather had turned chilly. Under the coverlet, I fell into an uneasy sleep and woke a few hours later, feeling as if my mind was still grappling with what I had deduced the entire time I slept.

  Freshly bathed, groomed and attired in a true blue coat made of Bath superfine atop light-coloured breeches, I was about to place my gold-framed miniature of Freddie in my pocket. I paused and looked down at her face. Then I opened a drawer and laid the miniature inside where it would rest from now on.

  A few moments later, I stepped down to my book-room.

  I had explained to Robinson that he need not feel guilty any longer regarding Fairingdale’s plot to discover my secrets. The valet had accepted my words and had gone so far as to criticize the length and style of my hair. Recall that he had not been happy when Diggie had fashioned it in the new way.

  Freddie’s compliment of the style had prompted me to tell her I would keep it for her. Today I gave in to Robinson’s objections and allowed him free reign with his scissors.

  Seating myself at my desk, I prepared to write three letters. The first was to a King. I chose my words with the greatest of care, hoping to appeal to his appreciation for loyalty.

  The second letter proved even more of a challenge, for I was not writing it in my own hand, but of that of Roger Cranworth. On my pre-dawn mission, I had obtained a sample of Roger’s handwriting and even managed to find blank sheets of his stationery. The message was short, but I am no more a forgerer than a lock-picker, so the task was time consuming. When I was satisfied with my handiwork, I took the failures over to the cold fireplace and burned them.

  Then I drew a sheet of paper out and wrote Mr. Lavender a brief note. I reiterated my petition that the Bow Street man keep Freddie’s letter confidential and allow me the day to uncover the murderer, before taking further action.

  “Robinson, deliver this personally to Mr. Lavender.” I gave directions to the Bow Street man’s residence, as well as the names of taverns he would likely frequent for a mid-day meal. As a last resort, he was to deliver the note to Miss Lavender at the Haven of Hope. On no account was he to go to Bow Street. I did not want to take the smallest chance of someone I knew seeing my valet there.

  As it was, Robinson assumed his Martyr Expression when faced with travelling to areas of London he pretended did not exist. “Where will you be, sir?”

  “St. James’s Palace, then perhaps the depths of the Serpentine River. No, I believe I shall visit the British Museum.”

  When Robinson left the house in high dudgeon a few minutes later, I reflected that he was back to his old self.

  Removing a large sum of money from a locked drawer in my desk, I could only hope that my plans to reveal the killer would succeed so that Robinson would still have a master to serve.

  * * * *

  I entered St. James’s Palace, noting two burly men I recognised as being from Bow Street outside the gates. Did Mr. Lavender think Freddie would attempt to flee London?

  Ushered once again into the large gold and white drawing room where her Royal Highness receives guests, I bowed low.

  Freddie sat staring at nothing, dressed regally in a peacock colour gown with a high upstanding collar split open in front. Hero and Georgicus woofed a greeting. Ulga was twisting her hands together near a window.

  “Why have you come, George?” Freddie asked in a faint voice.

  “To say goodbye.”

  “What do you mean? Where are you going?” she said, rising from the sofa.

  “Surely you know the answer to that. I am going to Bow Street to see Mr. Lavender. I shall confess to the murders of the Marquess of Kendrick and Roger Cranworth on the condition that Mr. Lavender gives me your letter.”

  She flew across the room to me. “Have you run mad?”

  “What else am I to do?”

  “I do not know. But something else, surely!”

  “Freddie, Mr. Lavender has your letter. He is a man who will stop at nothing to see justice done. There will be no choice in his mind but to turn the letter over to the Bow Street magistrate. And you know what that means. Quicker than a pickpocket in Seven Dials, your letter will be in the hands of your husband or Prinny. The scandal will overtake London faster than the fire of 1666. Your name will be ruined. They will blame me for the deaths, speculating that first Lord Kendrick, then Roger was blackmailing us.”

  “George! I shall not allow you to do this. You are not thinking rationally! If you confess to these murders, they will hang you!”

  “What alternative do you suggest?” I said, watching her carefully. “Do you know who actually committed the murders?”

  “How I wish I did!”

  “There is nothing else I can do to protect you, Freddie, other than turn myself over to Bow Street. I shall give them the excuse that I had an argument with Lord Kendrick over the way he treated his cousin with whom I had formed an attachment. I killed him in a moment of passion. Then, Roger Cranworth found out and I had to kill him too.”

  She grasped my arms and gave me a little shake, tears running down her cheeks. “That is nonsense! No, you will not do it. I shall send for Mr. Lavender. After all, I hired him at the start. I will tell him that he is to return the letter to me.”

  “He will never do that, and you know it, Freddie. You told me yourself you hired him because of his integrity. Two lives have been taken. Mr. Lavender will hold someone accountable no matter what the cost to you or me.”

  Her throat clogged with tears, Freddie pleaded with me. “My dearest George, I know I have not been myself since the day I found out you had kept the letter. I have been cold to you, I know. I placed all the blame on you when, in truth, I am just as responsible for I was the one who wrote the letter! I have been angry with myself and extended that anger to you. Can you forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Freddie. I have missed our friendship, true, missed it more than I can say. You must know what you mean to me,” I said, stroking her cheek with my fingertip.

  She grasped my hand and held it tight. “You never really lost my friendship. Never. I have been overcome with anxiety throughout this entire ordeal. Now you must stop this talk of confessions and stay with me today for I have missed you and want your company.”

  “No, Freddie. I cannot.”

  “George!”

  “Come now, I have lived a life that has far exceeded my expectations. Look outside, at how beautiful the day is. I shall walk over to the British Museum and gaze upon the beautiful objects there once more before going to Bow Street. You know how I appreciate beauty,” I said.

  She tried to chuckle, but only began to weep.

  At that moment, the sound of footsteps and a loud masculine voice could be heard from outside the door. I dropped Freddie’s hand and turned in time to see his Royal Highness, the Duke of York filling the doorway.

  Ulga rose and dropped into a deep curtsey. I bowed low. Freddie was all formality. “Sir, I did not expect you today.”

  The tall, cold man that is the Royal Duke, second in line for the Crown, gazed down at his wife in a mockery of surprise. “Well, it is your birthday, Frederica. I couldn’t miss your special day.”

  “While I dislike contradicting you, my birthday was last Wednesday.”

  “Was it? Well, well. Good afternoon, Brummell. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “No, indeed,” I said, barely able to keep my composure. “And I was just on the point of leaving.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” the Royal Duke said.

  Freddie looked panicked.

  Once I was past her husband I turned back and looked at her. I held a finger over my lips, then exited the room without a word.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The British Museum in Bloomsbury—an area o
f London I once deemed a foreign country—held a fair-sized crowd of people that afternoon. I strolled through the first floor, gazing at old books and manuscripts, then made my way through the section on natural history, and finally climbed the stairs to the second floor, which housed Roman antiquities.

  I glanced at my pocketwatch, noting it was almost three, when finally I saw her. Oddly enough, I felt not a flicker of unease in the presence of this murderess.

  “I knew you would come,” I told her.

  “There vas nothing else I could do after vhat you said to her Royal Highness today. The strain has been unbearable, but your saying you vould confess to the murders was vhat broke me. Vould you really have gone to Bow Street and confessed?”

  “I would have gone to Bow Street, yes, Ulga.”

  “You love her too. Vhy did you scare her like that, telling her you vould sacrifice yourself for her?”

  “Because I could think of no other way to make you come and tell me that you had killed Lord Kendrick and Roger Cranworth. Besides, I was not absolutely certain, and I have been known to be wrong before.”

  “You vere not mistaken. I killed both of them. They had to die. They threatened my mistress. Do you realise how long I have known her Royal Highness?”

  I offered her my arm, and we began to walk towards a display of Roman coins. “Tell me.”

  “Since the day her mother gave birth to her. I vas her Majesty’s personal maidservant. Only vhen the princess vas to ved the Royal Duke from England did I become her maid.”

  “Over fourteen years ago, then.”

  She nodded. “Before I left Prussia, the old King made me promise to alvays take care of his daughter, to see that no harm came to her.”

  “And you did your duty well for a long time. Then Lord Kendrick got hold of that letter. I am sorry I kept it, Ulga.”

  “You should be!” she exclaimed, then lowered her voice. “I have been happy that her Royal Highness has had you for companionship. She is married to a man who does not love her. But sometimes I feared that she vould give in to the feelings she has for you and act imprudently.”