by T. F. Banks
Morton considered a moment. “Do you think matters between Mr. Glendinning and Miss Hamilton had deteriorated so badly that your young client had fallen into despair? Was he melancholic, do you think?”
This seemed to sober the old gossip a moment, and his face might actually have expressed a degree of genuine sympathy. “He was not born with an immense capacity for happiness, our Halbert,” he answered. “As to his relations with Miss Hamilton…I think she did not appreciate him as she should. But even so, they were to marry. I don't know how joyful a union this might have been, Mr. Morton, but Halbert had all his hopes tied up in it, that is certain.”
“Then you knew them to be engaged? Was it common knowledge?”
“Well, I don't know how common, exactly. I certainly knew, and Halbert repeated it the last time I spoke with him-but two days before he died.”
Morton touched his fingertips together. “Did you think it out of character that Mr. Glendinning fought a duel? To your knowledge, had he ever done such a thing before?”
“Oh, I'm quite sure he hadn't,” Sir Geoffrey said quickly. “As to it being in character, he did not have an aggressive disposition, Halbert. He had a romantical one. Fighting a duel to protect the honour of the woman he loved?” His eyebrows raised. “It was, perhaps, a way to make himself a hero-perhaps even more of a hero than her former love.”
“He might easily have been a dead hero. His opponent was the most notorious duelist in London.”
“A bit of bad judgement, that,” Sir Geoffrey admitted.
Something occurred to Morton. “Did you advise him to engage in this duel, Sir Geoffrey?”
The man looked wide-eyed at Morton. “Certainly not!”
“Excuse my suggesting it,” Morton murmured evenly. “Can you tell me,” he went on, “who benefited from Mr. Glendinning's will?”
The man looked at him a moment. “Only his own family, Mr. Morton, and I'm sure they'd rather have him back than have his money, which came from them anyway.”
Morton rose. “I thank you for your time.” He stopped as he pushed his chair back. “This surgeon, Bromley, I believe you said, is acquainted with Mr. Glendinning's set?”
“Oh yes, he's thick with many of them, although I've never understood how he managed it. Rather a paltry chap.” Now the lawyer's smile became sly. “Indeed, Mr. Morton, you mustn't believe quite everything he tells you.”
Morton returned a somewhat sour version of the same smile. “I make a rule of that for everyone, Sir Geoffrey.”
Chapter 18
Arabella Malibrant chose the early visiting hour to call on her lover's new employer and was shown into Miss Hamilton's personal sitting-room upstairs, a comfortable place full of delicate rosewood furniture done up with ormolu-all very elegant, if a bit subdued to an eye accustomed to the livelier style of Drury Lane.
In fact, Louisa's refined tastes were everywhere; her books lay scattered about, and an easel in the corner displayed a half-finished, and rather heroic, drawing of a young man whom Arabella recognized as Halbert Glendinning. On one wall were two finely executed oils of military men-family members, Arabella assumed-while beside the window was a portrait of Louisa. And what a portrait! Lit by a soft golden light, she appeared almost to glow. Her startling blue eyes gazed out directly at the viewer, shining with such naked emotion that Arabella was almost embarrassed, as if she'd accidentally seen something deeply private.
She had only been looking at it for a few moments when the lady herself came in.
“I do hope I've not intruded too soon,” Arabella said warmly, as they took each other's hands.
Miss Hamilton beckoned to an armchair and sat down on the sofa opposite.
“No, I welcome company just now.” She gave Arabella a wan smile. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Malibrant.”
“And you, Louisa.”
Louisa Hamilton simply and graciously bent her head in response. She seemed not to resent the rapid adoption of her Christian name.
Arabella settled herself. “More important, is there any way I might be of help?”
“You have already done me a real service,” said Louisa softly, “in directing me to Mr. Morton.”
“It was a small thing. I hope his efforts will bring you some peace.”
Louisa Hamilton nodded. “He is not quite what I expected, your Mr. Morton,” she observed.
Arabella wondered about “her” Mr. Morton. “No, he is not quite so rough as his fellow Runners.” She smiled.
“Indeed, I found him reading Byron!”
Arabella felt a tingle of blush in her cheeks as she recalled the circumstances in which Henry Morton had received that volume. And the inscription she had quite forgotten it contained.
“He attended Cambridge for a year, and has certainly made efforts to improve himself. He is his own creation, Henry Morton. As much as any character I have fashioned for the stage.”
“If he was at the university he must be of good family….”
Arabella hesitated. Suddenly she found this interest rather too intent. “His father was of good family,” she said, lowering her voice.
For the briefest second Louisa looked confused. “Ah,” she said, realisation dawning. “But of course such things should not be held against the child. And he seems to have found his way in the world.”
“Exactly my thinking.”
Arabella could not see a delicate way to work into the conversation the fact that Morton's mother had been an unmarried maidservant, so she let it pass.
Louisa Hamilton was looking at her now, head tilted slightly away, the one eye wandering almost imperceptibly. It was a penetrating gaze for all its indirectness.
“I will tell you, Mrs. Malibrant, that there are moments when I cannot believe that Halbert was murdered. Moments when I think I must have fallen into fancy and delusion, just as people are saying. I know that men are murdered in London every week-but not gentlemen. And certainly not gentlemen like Halbert Glendinning, who wished harm to no one.” She hesitated. “My brother Peter thinks I am … that my spirits are…” She did not finish.
Arabella regarded her steadily, thinking of the rumours about Dr. Willis. Suddenly she found she could not quite believe it. But she knew the way people, this brother for example, rushed to conclusions. Always to protect the woman, supposedly, bundling her away into the sickroom. They would no more listen seriously to what a woman told them than they would to a child.
“If Henry Morton believes there was foul play, Louisa,” she said firmly, “then you need not worry that it is a product of your distressed state of mind. Henry Morton has an intuition and skill in these matters that is unrivaled by any but Mr. Townsend himself.”
Louisa looked up with a flash of gratitude, and her hand went out impulsively to touch Arabella's arm. Arabella's hand covered hers, and for a moment there was no need of words.
“Better to concentrate on the matters at hand,” Arabella said, “than worry about things that are illusory. Was there anyone other than Colonel Rokeby who might have wished Mr. Glendinning ill?”
“I can't believe anyone at all could wish it-not even Colonel Rokeby.” Louisa's features contorted suddenly, and her voice began to break. “Whyever did poor Halbert agree to fight that foolish duel!” she cried out.
Miss Hamilton rose and went to the window, concealing her face from her visitor. The casement was opened to the early summer air, and from the street below came the clatter of carriages and tradesmen's carts rattling hollowly over cobbles. Louisa looked very striking in the light filtering through the plane trees, the darkness of her dress and hair contrasting with the paleness of her braceleted arms and delicate neck.
“I will tell you the worst of it,” she said without looking round, her voice calmer. “I might as well have sent Halbert off to fight that duel myself.” She paused. Arabella Malibrant waited, saying nothing. “Always I compared him…never praising his accomplishments, chary with my compliments, parceling them out as t
hough I had only a few to spare. I was horribly cruel, without ever uttering a word that could be construed as hateful.” Louisa seemed almost to pant out her guilt now. “But Halbert knew. He felt the sting of it. And then he went out to fight that senseless duel, challenging this cad Rokeby, who meant nothing to me, so that he might prove himself worthy. So that I would think him brave. That I would find him worthy of my praise and my affections.”
Arabella could see her shoulders shudder.
“Perhaps I hoped Mr. Morton would discover a murderer so that I might blame someone other than myself.” It was almost a sob.
“But Halbert wasn't killed in the duel,” Arabella reminded her quietly. “He was killed later. The two matters might have no connection.”
After a long moment Louisa turned, her cheeks glistening. “What has Mr. Morton's enquiry uncovered?” she asked faintly.
“He has been to the Otter House in Spitalfields.”
“This is the ‘flash house’ he spoke of?”
“Yes. It seems that Halbert was there that evening, just as the jarvey claimed.”
Louisa shook her head. “And what does that mean, pray?”
“Only that he was there, but we know not why.”
Miss Hamilton did not respond for a moment.
“Did he go out that morning seeking death?” she asked suddenly, “because he despaired of ever winning my favour? Is that why he went?”
It was not a question Arabella Malibrant could answer.
“But what of Rokeby?” pressed on Louisa. “Was I not perhaps too harsh with him, earning his enmity? And look where that led.”
“You take too much on yourself. Colonel Rokeby and Mr. Glendinning were men, making decisions such as men do. If Henry Morton went out tomorrow and were killed in a duel defending my good name I should mourn him, and think him a fool, but I should not take the blame. Mr. Morton makes his own way in the world, as did Halbert Glendinning. And you were likely not so cruel to him as you think. I hardly think you capable of real cruelty.”
Louisa glanced at her, birdlike. “More capable than you think,” she muttered.
Arabella decided to change her approach. “Besides, I always say that if a woman hasn't had at least one duel fought over her she should begin to question her charms. I've had three fought in my name.”
Miss Hamilton smiled bleakly at this attempt to cheer her.
“I suppose one of them,” went on Arabella, “was more about my husband's debts than about me, strictly speaking. But that's another story.” She looked directly at the other woman. “No one died in your duel, Louisa. If Halbert was murdered it was in a less honourable way, and you can hardly take blame for that. Indeed, as I said, it might have nothing at all to do with you. It could have been a case of mistaken identity.”
Louisa's eyebrows raised at this. “You are being very kind,” she murmured, but there was appreciation in her voice.
An uneasy silence settled around them, punctuated by the street sounds echoing up from below.
“May I ask you a question, Louisa?”
Arabella received the smallest shrug in answer.
“Who is Richard?”
Very casually, Louisa put out a hand to the window casing. “Why do you ask?”
“On the stair, that evening at Lord Arthur's …you called out the name Richard.”
Louisa shook her head as though in disbelief. Then she turned and went to one of the military portraits. “Richard Davenant,” she said, her voice warming noticeably. “We were engaged to be married, but he gave up his life at Albuera in 1811.”
“And he is the man to whom Halbert was always compared… ?”
Louisa nodded.
“You must have taken his death very hard.”
For a moment Louisa only stared at the portrait, and then managed a nod.
“It is a fine portrait,” Arabella said, unable to bear the woman's distress any longer. “You have a significant talent.”
“It is my brother Peter's work,” Louisa said, drawing herself up a little. “Richard was his dearest friend, and brother-in-arms. You see, we have both lost terribly….” But she did not go on. Instead, she turned to Arabella. “One can be overwhelmed by grief,” she said firmly, “and not be mad.”
Chapter 19
Surgeon Bromley's waiting-room was rather a dismal place, dark, lined with hard wooden benches, but empty of patients. Military surgeons frequently set up in private practice upon their discharge from active duty, and in fact many of them did not wait for that formality. Stories were told of doctors who blithely informed their commanders that their other patients left them no time to go on campaign. Morton wondered if Robert Bromley had really succeeded to this degree. The address was good, but the premises seemed a trifle shabby for a physician who'd made any serious inroads on fashionable society.
It was rather a well-dressed gentleman, however, who presently emerged from the inner sanctum, picked up his hat and cane, and departed. A few moments later Bromley's sallow apprentice ushered the Runner in and pulled the door closed behind him, leaving the visitor with his master.
Across a polished table the two men stared at each other in surprise.
“Well, Dr. Bromley; I have the pleasure of meeting you again.”
The other nodded curtly, and scowled.
It was the same small bald man, the same surgeon, who had been in attendance at Portman House when Morton had examined the body of Halbert Glendinning.
“You're one of those bloody Bow Street people. I've forgotten your name.”
Morton grinned mirthlessly, and introduced himself. Bromley made a curt gesture toward a chair and they both sat.
“I've not changed my view,” immediately announced the surgeon. “The man died of choking, on his own vomitus, brought on by intemperate use of alcohol, and other dissipations, doubtless.”
“Doubtless,” softly echoed Morton.
“I can tell you nothing more. Miss Hamilton is better out of it, I daresay. The man was clearly another low-born blackguard, pretending to be a gentleman.”
Morton wondered if this odd statement was an accident or if it was aimed at Morton. But now Bromley fell silent and merely glared at him, folding his arms defiantly over his small chest.
“Was Mr. Glendinning your patient?”
“He was not. My clients tend to be better bred…and not shirkers,” he said, keeping his eye fixed on Morton.
“We do not all serve in the same way,” Morton said evenly. “If he was not your patient, then how do you know of his ‘dissipations’?”
Bromley tossed his hands up briefly in impatience. “No, I know nothing, just as you say. Like everyone else, I've heard it murmured, I cannot recollect when or by whom. But there were the appearances, on the night you and I saw him, after all.”
“Are you intimate with the Hamiltons?”
“What is this in aid of, sir? I am a casual acquaintance of both families, no more. I was at Lord Arthur's entirely by chance. I made my diagnosis as a courtesy to my host. And I stand by it. There is an end to it-unless of course you have found some way to make some silver out of this poltroon's death.”
Morton ignored this, letting his eye run casually around the room. The place was decorated with a series of sentimental oils depicting fallen British heroes, inevitably mourned by their comrades against darkening sunsets. Odd fancy for a former military surgeon, he thought.
Morton turned back to the little doctor. He let a certain threat slip into his voice. “It certainly is a curious chance, sir, that you seem to have attended at the deaths of both gentlemen to whom Miss Louisa Hamilton has been engaged.”
The surgeon looked startled, but Morton did not quite know how to read his expression. “I had not thought of that. But I suppose, as you say, it is true. I had quite forgotten about the other. Or rather, had forgotten her misguided preference for him. That milk-livered soldier.”
“Richard Davenant.”
“Yes. I believe that was him.
”
“You were, in fact, there at his end?”
“At Albuera, during the peninsular campaign. Yes. I was regimental surgeon to the Thirty-fifth at the time. But he was dead when he got to me. Just like this other one.”
“Why do you say he was milk-livered?”
“He ran from the enemy.”
“How do you know this, Mr. Bromley?” A growing dislike had put a certain coldness into Morton's tone, of which the other man, in his apparently habitual illhumour, seemed oblivious.
“He had a bullet squarely in the back of his head. He was supposed to be advancing. What conclusions would you draw, sir?”
“In a battle, surely many things are possible.”
“They who brought him in confirmed it.”
“You did not examine Davenant where he fell?”
“Nay, sir,” snapped Robert Bromley. “It was not my role to go where the shot fell. Would you have me amputating limbs under cannon fire?”
Morton looked steadily back at him without answering.
“Sometimes,” the surgeon went irritably on, “the men would wrap a fellow up in a blanket or some such matter and carry him back to me. The army discouraged it, as the folk who did this were often shirkers. They carried some ‘beloved’ comrade back, and then, strangely enough, never quite returned to their rightful places in the firing line.”
“Was Richard Davenant carried back to you this way? You just said he was dead already.”
“It was a battle-if you had ever been in one you would know that much is lost in the confusion. Perhaps he still had a faint pulse when he reached me. But it didn't last long.”
“Could he speak?”
“No, sir, of course he could not, any more than you could under the same circumstances.” The little man put his fingertips together and stared up at the ceiling. “Some of his fellows were blubbering and making a great show of their grief about him, but it was clearly a ploy. The truth soon came out: The man had blanched at the sight of the French, and bolted, shamefully, at the moment of greatest peril. I've told others this, sir, and I'm weary of telling it. He was far from the only one. Some of these puffed-up tin soldiers, with their fine uniforms and their lies of glory, they weary me. I've seen them when they've not been so proud, sir. I've heard them scream and beg when I've had them on my table and taken a leg from them, or an arm. And I've seen many a wound that no one ever got from charging the enemy direct. No, sir, anyone who has been where I have been and seen what I have seen knows how rare true bravery is. And I will tell you something about the men who possess it, sir. They tend also to be the men with the best blood and purest pedigrees. The old, true stock of England. Not ill-bred bastards or the sons and grandsons of tradesmen and grasping, time-serving Scottish interlopers!”