A Body in Berkeley Square

by Jennifer Ashley

  She stared at me, eyes wide, and I saw her reassess my character. She must have first thought me simply a hanger-on of Colonel Brandon's, an acquaintance left over from the war. Colonel Brandon was a man who did not always think before he acted. He was brisk and determined but sometimes did not bother with critical thought. Imogene Harper must have thought I would be much the same.

  "You have found me out, Captain." She met my gaze, her voice steady. "Yes, I looked for the letter. I must have gotten the blood on my glove when I did so. I searched Mr. Turner's pockets, but I found nothing. At least, not the letter. He had a snuffbox, a few coins, and a scrap of lace, but no letter." She opened her hands. "You are correct that I came here to look for it."

  "A scrap of lace," I said.

  She blinked. "What?"

  "The scrap of lace. What sort of lace? From his handkerchief, perhaps?"

  Not the question she expected me to ask. "I don't know. It looked as though it had come from a lady's gown."

  "Interesting. Could you happen to tell me which lady?"

  She shook her head. "I am afraid I paid very little attention to the lace. I cared only for the letter."

  "I will assume that Pomeroy took all effects from Turner's pockets." I would certainly ask him to let me examine them. "What puzzles me, Mrs. Harper, is why you and Brandon were so afraid of Turner. Your affair ended four years ago. Brandon moved back to England and went on with his life, and that was that. I read the letters that you wrote to him. You were not certain he would remember you or even would want to remember you."

  I saw her try to remember exactly what she had penned to Brandon, but she spoke briskly. "It is hardly something one would wish to see made public."

  "Is that what Turner threatened? To make it public?"

  "I do not know what he threatened. I only know that he had a letter and would make us pay to have it back."

  "But how easy it would have been to dismiss his threat," I said. "You could claim the letter a forgery, written by Turner himself. Louisa Brandon would be hurt by the revelation--indeed, she is hurt--but she would hardly take her husband to court over it. Mrs. Brandon prizes discretion and privacy."

  Mrs. Harper flexed and closed her hands. "We did not think. How could we? When Mr. Turner approached me about the letter, it was horrible. In panic, I wrote to Colonel Brandon, and he suggested that we do whatever Mr. Turner said in order to get the letter back."

  "Have you considered the possibility that Turner did not have a letter at all? That he somehow got wind of your affair and, always liking cash, decided to capitalize on it? I have searched these rooms thoroughly, but I found nothing."

  Relief flickered through her eyes. Perhaps she'd worried that I might blackmail her as well, or perhaps she simply did not want me to read a love letter she'd written to Aloysius Brandon.

  "The idea had not occurred to me," Mrs. Harper said. "Why should Mr. Turner say he had the letter if he did not?"

  "He did not show it to you?"

  "No."

  "You and Colonel Brandon have behaved like a pair of fools," I said in exasperation. "You took it on faith that Turner had a letter that would betray you. If you were experienced at being blackmailed, you would know to insist that the blackmailer show you what he has to sell first."

  The curls on her forehead trembled. "Perhaps we were fools, Captain. But we did not want to chance that he did not have the letter. We did not think of that possibility, I confess." She looked at me a moment, clearly unhappy. "What will you do with the letter if you find it? Give it to the magistrates?"

  "I have not yet decided. It is possible that I will burn the foul thing. I do not intend to let Brandon hang for this crime."

  "I know you will not believe me, Captain, but I wish no harm to come to him, either. Colonel Brandon was good to me. He helped me when I could turn to no other."

  "You knew that he was married," I said flatly.

  "I did." Her defiance returned. "I needed him. At the time, that was all I could consider."

  Mrs. Harper got to her feet and I did as well, because that was the polite thing to do. She said, "I admire you for standing by your colonel."

  She did not offer me any help to save him. Perhaps Mrs. Harper still believed that Brandon had killed Turner, or perhaps she was pushing the blame on Colonel Brandon to save herself.

  "May I call on you if it proves necessary?" I asked.

  "Can I stop you, if you think I can bring evidence to bear?"

  "I am not a magistrate, nor am I a Bow Street Runner. I simply wish to clear Brandon's name, so that his wife does not have to watch him hang by the neck until dead."

  At last, Mrs. Harper looked ashamed. "Please tell Mrs. Brandon that I am deeply sorry for the trouble I have caused her. I never realized how much grief a person can bestow when they are fixed on one course."

  She did not elaborate on what that one course might be. I imagined loneliness, but looking back later, I realized that the entire conversation seemed wrong somehow. Imogene Harper did not tell me much more than I'd already known. Unfortunately, I was not to realize that fact until other things emerged. I did not know then how murky things would become for me and for Brandon.

  I ushered Mrs. Harper to the door and closed it behind us. I stood at the head of the stairs, watching her descend, in order to discourage her from returning to search the rooms again. I had found no letter--Turner's rooms had presented nothing but innocence and badly matched furniture--but she might be willing to try again.

  Mrs. Harper glanced back at me once, her expression veiled, then she walked out of the house and into the rain.

  *** *** ***

  I collected Matthias and Bartholomew from the kitchens below stairs. Hazleton, the valet, held up his glass and slurred a greeting to me. One bottle was on its side, empty, a second, upright but half-empty. By the look of things, Matthias and Bartholomew had stuck to one or two glasses each, allowing Hazleton to imbibe the rest. I imagined he'd already partaken of a bottle or two before we arrived.

  Bartholomew and Matthias said farewell to him, wishing him luck, and we departed.

  Imogene Harper had long since vanished. Matthias took leave of us to return to Grenville's house. He said goodbye to his brother, touched his forelock to me, and trotted off in the direction of Green Park.

  Bartholomew and I took a hackney back across London to Covent Garden. The going was slow, the traffic thick. Whenever I rode in a private conveyance, such as Grenville's carriage, things went faster, because people and wagons would move aside for a fast team and a shouting coachman with a long whip.

  But at last we reached Covent Garden. The hackney stopped there, and I walked on alone to Grimpen Lane, while Bartholomew lingered among the vendors in Covent Garden to scare together our next meal.

  Therefore, he was not present to help me when I was attacked in my rooms.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Seven

  The attacker was not waiting for me; he followed me up the stairs at a dead run, as though he'd been pursuing me through the streets. He was a man of my height with a wiry build, a thin face, dark eyes, and close-cropped hair.

  I started to ask him who he was and what he thought he was doing, when he hurtled into me and pushed me back inside my rooms.

  Many men have made the mistake of thinking me feeble because I hobble about with a walking stick, but I was still fit and strong. I brought up the walking stick, slammed it into the man's chest, and shoved him away from me.

  The man was strong, his slim build disguising powerful muscles. He also knew how to fight, and fight dirty. He kicked my bad knee, hard. As pain knifed through my leg, he took advantage of my weakness and punched me in the face.

  I fought back. We struggled, each of us emitting only the occasional grunt as we vied to best one another. I dropped my walking stick and got my hands around his throat, my thumbs going for his windpipe. He kicked my bad leg again, scooping my feet out from under me.

  I went down, tr
ying to take the fall with my shoulder. He kicked me again in the ribs. He snatched up my walking stick and struck me repeatedly across the chest and shoulders. I tried to roll away, but the pain in my leg swallowed my strength.

  As I rocked on my back, trying to shield my face, he let off on the blows. He thrust his hand inside my coat, searching my pockets. Before I could stop him, he found and drew out the three letters from Mrs. Harper that I'd taken from Brandon's desk.

  I snatched for them. The man punched me across the jaw. In fury and in pain, I lunged at him. He brought up the walking stick and again beat me thoroughly and deliberately. My father, an expert at beating his son, would have admired him.

  At last, I could only lie there, groaning and cursing. As soon as he thought me no longer a threat, he flung away the walking stick and began to open all the drawers and cupboards in the room, searching as I'd searched Henry Turner's rooms.

  "It is not here," I croaked. "I could not find it, either."

  The man ignored me completely. He sifted through the contents of my chest on frame and dumped everything onto the floor.

  While he worked, I got painfully to my hands and knees and begin to crawl toward my walking stick. Inside the stick was a sharp sword, and I was anxious to begin poking it into my intruder.

  He saw me. He swung around, took a pistol from his greatcoat and trained it on me. I froze.

  "I will not be long, monsieur," he said. His accent was thick.

  I wondered in the back of my mind why he'd bothered to beat me if he might have simply shot me dead, or at least threatened me with the pistol from the start.

  "Tell me who you are and what you want," I said. "Or are you taking revenge for San Sebastian?"

  He did not answer. He flung open a final drawer and tossed aside the expensive snuffboxes Grenville had given me. One box broke open, and fragrant snuff drifted through the room. The Frenchman, with a snarl, threw the empty drawer to the floor.

  I heard a gasp from the hall. "Lacey, what the devil?"

  Marianne Simmons stood in the doorway, her eyes wide.

  "Get out!" I cried to her.

  The Frenchman trained his pistol on me again. "Tell her to show her pockets."

  Marianne would have none of that. She began screeching obscenities that would make the most hardened soldier flinch. I shouted at her to hold her tongue, fearing the Frenchman would shoot her in his impatience.

  The Frenchman strode to Marianne and slapped her across the face. Marianne screamed in rage, grabbed his hand, and sank her teeth into it.

  I struggled to my hands and knees, finally reaching the walking stick. The Frenchman struck Marianne again. I wrapped my hand around the walking stick and withdrew its sword.

  The man fumbled at Marianne's dress, trying to search her, while she screamed and batted at him. I got shakily to my feet and came at the Frenchman with my sword.

  He realized finally that he could not fight us both. He took a step away from Marianne and pointed the pistol at her head.

  I stopped. She tried to kick him.

  "Be still, Marianne, for God's sake!"

  The Frenchman, his face scratched and bruised, gave us both a look of fury, then he turned and ran out of the room. Marianne started after him. I shoved her aside, told her to stay put, and followed him.

  The man hurtled down the stairs and out of the house. I gave chase as quickly as I could. Outside, rain and mist shrouded the tiny cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane. I heard the Frenchman running away toward Russel Street, then he disappeared into the fog.

  I knew I'd never catch him. Angry and hurting, I made my way back upstairs.

  Marianne helped me inside. "Who the hell was that?"

  "I don't know. I have never seen the man before." Whoever he was, he'd just run off with Imogene Harper's letters.

  "Well, he made bad work of you." Marianne gave me a critical look. "Sit down. You look terrible."

  "Thank you very much." I obeyed her and sank to a chair before the hearth, where this morning's fire had died to a smolder.

  Marianne took out a handkerchief and touched it to my face. I winced as she found abrasions. "I should ask what you are doing here," I said.

  Marianne now lived in luxury in Grenville's Clarges Street house, but she could not bear the confinement. She liked to confound Grenville as much as she could by leaving the house without a word and returning when she pleased. At first, Grenville had tried to restrict her, but he'd not counted on Marianne's pride and her love of freedom.

  In the end, she'd worn him down. Last month, after she'd disappeared to Berkshire without warning, he'd wearily told her that she could do as she liked.

  "I came to talk to you," she said. "To ask your advice." She bit her lip. Marianne so hated to ask for advice.

  "About your son?" I asked.

  I'd found out about Marianne's son by accident when I stayed in Berkshire. I'd told her to confide the entire story to Grenville, but I knew she had not.

  Marianne gave me a hard look. She had an almost childlike face, with a pointed chin, big blue eyes, and curls made more golden by artifice. Her pale silk gown was the finest I'd ever seen her wear, though it was now mussed and torn from the fight.

  Her looks had kept her employed on the stage at Drury Lane, but her little girl prettiness belied a shrewd mind and a very sharp tongue. Marianne had learned to live by her wits, and she took a severe and cynical view of the world.

  "No, not about David. And I will thank you keep that to yourself."

  "I promised to keep silent, and I will keep my promise. But if you came to ask my advice, you should be a little more polite to me."

  "That's a fine thing to say from someone I just found brawling." Her voice softened as she spoke, and she dabbed blood from my face. "You had no idea who he was? He could not have been here to rob you. You have nothing to steal. He must have been looking for something."

  Marianne, as I said, was too shrewd for her own good. "I believe I know what he was looking for. But for the life of me, I do not know why."

  "Has it to do with your Colonel Brandon getting himself committed to trial?"

  "Very likely. Did Grenville tell you about it?"

  She gave me a sour look. "No. I heard it in the usual way--gossip among the servants. I have not seen him in many days."

  I looked at her in surprise. "But last night he said . . ."

  She shot me a cynical look. "It was not me he visited last night. If he told you that, he lied. That is why I came to see you, his dearest friend. He tells me nothing, but you will know what is what."

  Marianne cleaned my cuts in silence for a few moments, her nostrils pinched and white. I recalled Grenville telling me the previous night, with a self-deprecating smile, that he'd go to Clarges Street from Lord Gillis's. I wondered whether he'd lied or simply changed his mind, and in either case, why he'd done so.

  "Grenville does not answer to me," I said. "I did not see him today. Possibly something happened that prevented him from visiting you as he planned."

  "Of course," Marianne said in a hard voice, "The something was Mrs. Bennington."

  I stared. "Mrs. Bennington?"

  "Mrs. Bennington, the celebrated actress."

  "Yes, I do know who she is."

  "He has become quite fascinated with her," Marianne said. "He has seen many of her performances since his return from Berkshire. He cannot say a bad word about her. Now, he has taken to visiting her."

  I listened in growing disquiet. Mrs. Bennington had been at Lord Gillis's ball, but I'd heard of her presence from Louisa and Lady Aline; Grenville had not mentioned her at all.

  "She is a fine actress, Marianne. You know that Grenville is fond of patronizing the best artists."

  Marianne gave me a pitying look. "She is already so popular she has no need of his patronage. And I know that he is fond of lady violinists and actresses and dancers. His interest in me is rather unusual."

  I could not argue with her. I had seen Grenville with his p
revious mistresses, all of whom had been famous in some way or other. Marianne had never landed parts larger than a chorus or a short walk-on, and she was by no means well known. I did not believe even Grenville understood what had brought about his fascination with Marianne.

  "He has expressed no particular attraction to Mrs. Bennington," I said. "And he has told me of no special visits to her."

  "That confirms it then. If he had nothing to hide, he would have confided in you."

  "Or, he has nothing to confide, " I said.

  "For God's sake, Lacey, I am not a fool. I know when a gentleman is tiring of me. Usually I am wise enough to leave when I see the first signs. This time, I've held on and hoped. I do not know why." Her words slowed, grew sad. "Perhaps because he is so wealthy."

  I knew that was not her reason. Marianne's relationship with Grenville was complex, and I by no means understood it, but I sensed that beneath her hard-bitten cynicism, Marianne cared for him. I had seen evidence of that when Grenville had been hurt in Berkshire. Marianne had come to me, anguish in her eyes, and begged me to let her see him. She'd sat at his side, holding his hand, until he'd awakened.

  I also knew that Grenville was a man easily bored. He might have grown tired of Marianne's willfulness and unpredictability and decided to find a less complicated woman with which to amuse himself.

  I took the now-bloody handkerchief from her--a fine piece of lawn that Grenville must have given her--and dabbed at the abrasions myself.

  "Have you given him a chance, Marianne? You are keeping secrets from him, and you never let him give you what he wants to give you."

  "What he wants to give me is an entirely different life, without asking if that is the life I want. Without so much as a by-your-leave."

  "Many a penniless actress would be pleased by the prospect."

  "And many a penniless captain would be pleased at his offer to let you share his house or travel with him. And yet you decline."

  I could not deny that. I was as proud as Marianne was. "I do have my own income, tiny as it is. But you have even less. Perhaps you had better reconsider."