I hoisted Peter, dripping, into the coach that had come alongside to meet us.
As we huddled, damp and shivering, blankets around us, I related what we’d found.
“Oh, the poor lad,” Gabriella said. “Did his boat tip over?” The nanny cuddled Anne on her lap, the lady’s eyes round. Anne, the only one oblivious to the drama, tugged at a ribbon on her dress.
“Difficult to tell,” I answered.
I fixed to my mind the details of what I’d seen. Someone had strangled the man and set him off in the boat. Whether they’d tipped him over in hopes the sea would wash away the evidence of their crime, or the boat had caught in a bad wave, I could not say.
At home, Bartholomew dried me off and fetched me fresh clothes, and then I went out to seek the magistrate.
The magistrate’s court was held in the Old Ship, a hotel that had stood on its site for many years. The Regent had taken rooms here before he’d purchased his Pavilion, and the hotel had been turned into a rather nice abode.
I went there in the hope that either the court was in session or I’d find someone who could direct me to the magistrate’s house.
The court was in. The magistrate, a large man with red cheeks called Sir Reginald Pyne, presided over a hot room and a few offenders who looked ready to be anywhere but there. Pyne growled out his last sentence, threw down his gavel, and left the bench.
I intercepted him on his way to a large glass of port.
“Eh?” Pyne blurted when I quietly told him what I’d found. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“A man has lost his life,” I repeated in a hard voice. “I tied up the boat and left a fisherman to look after it.”
The magistrate looked longingly at the taproom, where his port would be waiting, then back at me. He heaved a long sigh.
“Then we’d best get to it before the fisherman steals everything including the pegs that hold the thing together.”
The boat had drawn a crowd. The fisherman I’d recruited to watch was still there, lounging on the shingle.
The crowd was a mix of fishermen in well-worn coats and men and women on holiday, the ladies with large bonnets and parasols. None moved back as the magistrate approached, the passersby too curious to make any deference.
“Get that turned over,” the magistrate barked at the fisherman.
The fisherman stared at him balefully, then slowly rose and gestured to a man and boy further up the shingle.
Water had lapped halfway under the boat when I’d left it. Now it was three-quarters of the way, the tide coming in.
The fisherman’s colleague and the lad caught the gunwale of the boat and began to haul it over. I stepped in to help—if I could brace myself, I was quite strong.
The boat rose, the cool of the wet wood cutting the afternoon’s warmth. It teetered on edge a long moment, threatening to take me and the other fisherman back over with it. The body trapped inside slid downward as we heaved, the sound like a bag of wet sand.
At last, the boat rolled all the way over. I danced back as it fell, pebbles scattering over my boots. The body under the seat dislodged and fell into the inches of water in the boat’s bottom.
The magistrate stepped forward and peered at the dead man, the crowd craning to see.
The young man’s clothes were sodden, making it difficult to discern their color. The puffy blue face held few features, and those were twisted in fear. His body was slightly rotund, made even more so by his stay under the boat.
The magistrate studied the corpse for a few moments then raised his head to the crowd. “Anyone know him?”
No one answered. Most here were on holiday, not from Brighton itself. Perhaps the young man had been a traveler too.
“We’ll take him to the coroner,” Pyne concluded. “Circulate his description. Do you know him, Captain?”
“Not at all,” I said. “You don’t?”
The magistrate stroked his chin. “Hard to say, isn’t it? Him all bloated like that. Coroner will go through his clothes, try to find a letter or paper that tells us. Poor sod.”
He did indeed look pathetic, sprawled before us, too young to have died and in such a fashion. Not a rich man, I thought. No gold chain on his waistcoat—although that could have been stolen.
I smoothed a fold of the young man’s coat between my fingers—it was thick and coarse. A laborer perhaps, but his hands were fairly smooth, no signs of hard work on them.
I thought of where I’d seen such clothing before, and recently.
“Is he a Quaker?” I asked the magistrate.
Pyne started. He bent to peer at the young man again and sucked in a breath. “Lord help us,” he said in a near whisper. “I think that’s Josh Bickley.”
I stared down at the corpse in renewed dismay. Bickley’s son. This was the lad I’d been meant to find, to restore to his family. A bitter taste coated my mouth.
The magistrate adjusted his hat. “All I need. Walking into the nest of pious Quakers, telling them one of their own’s been drowned.”
“Or killed, perhaps,” I suggested. “From the marks on his throat.”
Pyne shot me a look of dislike. “Might have been ropes that tangled him. ’S for the coroner to say.”
I straightened up, feeling stiff, and knowing I was right about how he’d died. “I can walk into the nest for you, sir. I am acquainted with the lad’s father.”
Pyne studied me as though I were a strange animal, but he gave me a curt nod. “I won’t say that wouldn’t relieve me of a burden.” He pointed a thick finger at me. “But no suggestion of murder, mind. I don’t need the whole lot of them raging around me.”
I promised I’d be circumspect. I retrieved my hat, which had dropped to the sand, gave the magistrate a polite bow, and left the shingle.
No one noticed my passage. They remained huddled around the boat, gawping at the spectacle, and I moved off to perform my unpleasant errand.
As I passed the first pub on the street, Brewster emerged from it, pint in hand. He shoved the tankard at another patron and fell into step beside me.
“Now, where you going?”
I answered in a low voice, “To tell Bickley his son is dead.”
Brewster’s eyes widened. “Is that who was in the boat? And why’re you off to break the sad news?”
I did not answer. Brewster never liked my answers anyway.
I was going because I had failed Mr. Bickley. He’d asked me to find his son. If I had begun the search immediately, I might have located the young man before he’d come to grief.
Bickley hadn’t been too worried about his absence, I remembered, believing his son had gone off to visit friends after the meeting that Sunday. He also wasn’t a youth—Miss Farrow had said Joshua was twenty, well old enough to take care of himself. Perhaps these reasons were why I hadn’t rushed to search for him, and I’d also been distracted by my own bizarre situation.
I could only atone now by being the one to break the news, and resolve to find Josh’s killer.
The Meeting House wasn’t far. I did not know whether Mr. Bickley would be there, but perhaps someone there could tell me where he lived. I halted numbly when I reached the house, studying the tranquil garden behind the gate.
The garden, as I’d observed before, contained rows of greens—vegetables and herbs enough for a feast. Blossoms clung to the green and yellow squash waiting to be harvested and brightened a trumpet vine that climbed the cottage wall.
The house’s door opened almost instantly, and Miss Farrow emerged. “Gabriel?” She arrived at the gate unhurriedly and unlatched it. “We have heard the terrible news. Wilt thou come in?”
“You have heard?” I repeated in surprise. I’d left the shore only ten minutes ago.
Miss Farrow regarded me with bleak eyes. “A lad ran here and told us. He recognized Joshua at once.”
She opened the gate and ushered me into the garden. Brewster hung back, but she continued to hold it, as though expecting h
im to join us. Brewster shrugged and followed me in.
Miss Farrow closed the gate and led us into the Meeting House.
I removed my hat as Miss Farrow led us inside the Meeting House, and was struck by how blank the interior was. There was not a single picture anywhere, not even a cross. The walls were whitewashed, the floors dark boards. High windows let in light but no view, not even that of the pleasant garden.
The house reminded me of cloisters in Spain, barren but elegant in their simplicity. Yet even those had displayed crucifixes, or frescoes, if subdued ones, images of saints or the Virgin.
Miss Farrow took us through a large room empty except for wooden benches, into a smaller chamber in the back of the house. This too had white walls and empty benches, and I heard a clattering of dishes in a nearby kitchen.
Brewster stood gazing about at the white interior, as fascinated by it as I was, while Miss Farrow regarded us sadly.
“Now, Gabriel, please tell me what happened.”
“Is Mr. Bickley about?” I asked her.
“Clive is at home. I will break the news to him.”
I would have preferred to speak to him directly, but Miss Farrow pinned me with her stare, willing me to pour forth what I knew. I launched into the full tale, speaking quietly and gently, describing how Peter and I had found the overturned boat.
“I have also come to apologize,” I said when I’d finished. “I had not yet begun the task to find Master Bickley. My lingering might have caused his death.”
Miss Farrow’s brows rose. “How canst thou presume to know the Lord’s heart? Or even what a coroner knows? Perhaps Joshua was dead before we asked thee to search for him.”
I blinked. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, I admit.”
“Do not take the Lord’s will upon thyself. It is not becoming, Gabriel.”
“Forgive me.” I gave her a bow.
“And do not bow to me. I am no better, or worse, than thou art, friend Gabriel. We must put our sorrows aside and discover what befell Joshua.”
“I agree,” I said. “For that, I might have to intrude upon privacy and find out all I can about him. Was he fond of boating? Is that what he’d disappeared to do?”
“I doubt it,” Miss Farrow said with certainty. “Joshua disliked boats. Would not go near one. If he was found inside a boat, he did not go into it on his own.”
That fact coupled with the marks on his neck pointed straight to murder.
“You said he left on Sunday without a word,” I went on. “Had he done such a thing before?”
“A few times. Josh had many friends and would often visit them. He is a good lad.” Miss Farrow looked sad. “Was a good lad. Did his duty by his father, attended every meeting. A cheerful fellow.”
“These friends he would meet ...” I hesitated. “Was one a young lady, perhaps?”
Amusement flickered behind Miss Farrow’s sorrow. “Nothing like that. Josh had friends among the Quakers who were women, of course, but he was too unworldly for an interest in anything beyond friendship.” Miss Farrow cocked her head. “Or, perhaps I should say, the ladies had little interest in him.”
She was painting the picture of a friendly young man who obeyed his father and went to church as often as he could. I’d only seen him in death, but he’d been plump and round-faced, like Bickley, not lithe and handsome. Even a saintly young Quaker woman might want someone a bit more dashing.
Even so, it did not mean that Joshua did not have a secret lady or any wild oats to sow. It only meant Miss Farrow and his father saw the dutiful side of him.
“Speaking to his friends could help,” I said. “They might know why he ended up in a boat when he disliked them so.”
Miss Farrow nodded. “I see the sense in that. But after we grieve, please, Friend Gabriel. We know Joshua is in a better place, of course, but selfishly, we will miss him.”
That was the trouble with death. I too had been brought up to believe we should rejoice that the one we loved was with the Lord, but somehow I never could. I could feel only emptiness, the lessening of myself for the absence of that person. Miss Farrow might call it selfish, but I called it inevitable.
When I arrived home, I found a small man with dark hair and blue eyes, his brown suit wrinkled from traveling, conversing with my wife in the sitting room. The man rose as I entered to hold out a neatly gloved hand.
“Captain Lacey. Well met. Well met, indeed.” He beamed, very glad to see me.
“Mr. Quimby.” I shook his hand, both pleased and trepidatious.
I’d first met Lamont Quimby, Runner from the Whitechapel house, earlier this year when he’d been sent to investigate a murder in St. Giles in London, one I’d feared Brewster had committed.
I’d gone to the Whitechapel magistrate, Sir Montague Harris, who’d become a friend, to ask for his help, fearing the zeal of Pomeroy and the vindictiveness of Spendlove. Sir Montague had provided Quimby.
Mr. Quimby was far quieter than Pomeroy and more careful. Runners worked for rewards they received upon conviction—the more wanted a man, the higher the reward. Quimby had struck me as being interested in truth rather than reward, though I suspected he gladly took the money when his man was convicted.
“I wish this could be a more cheerful reunion,” Mr. Quimby said, releasing me. “Her ladyship has been explaining things.”
“An even sadder mystery has just occurred.” I waved Mr. Quimby to a seat and told him about Josh Bickley.
Donata looked stricken. “Oh, Gabriel, I didn’t realize it was your Mr. Bickley’s son. How awful. I am so sorry.”
“Truly, a sad tale,” Quimby said. “Do you know if the young man had any connection to Colonel Isherwood?”
I thought, but had to shake my head. “I do not see how. Mr. Bickley’s son was a pious Quaker, having nothing to do with army men. The Friends are pacifists, and live simply. I doubt Josh would have gone near either the luxurious Pavilion or Preston Barracks.”
“But he went missing before Colonel Isherwood died,” Mr. Quimby said in his thoughtful way. “Perhaps young Master Bickley encountered the colonel’s killer and was silenced. How long has the lad been dead?”
“From the look of things, a few days perhaps? I really could not say.” In the army, I’d been able to judge how long a man had lain dead on the battlefield, but that had been on dry land. Water, especially salt water, changed things.
“I will inquire of the coroner,” Quimby said. “He might, of course, have been a victim of an unfortunate accident.”
“Not if he hated boats. Why should he have been in one?”
“Precisely,” Quimby said. “I will have to find out.” He turned to Donata. “I thank you for receiving me, your ladyship. I will have to speak to your husband and hear his rendition of the tale of Colonel Isherwood, but then I will leave you in peace.”
“Of course.” Donata sent him a gracious nod. “You will not be disturbed here. I am happy to leave everything in your hands, Mr. Quimby.”
Quimby gave her a bow—I could see he was taken with Donata—and she glided from the room.
As Bartholomew, who’d sprung to open the door for her, closed it once more behind her, Quimby sobered.
“I will tell you plainly, Captain, that if I did not know you to be an honorable gentleman, I would, upon hearing your wife’s story, immediately believe Colonel Isherwood’s murderer had been you.”
I acknowledged this, feeling bleak. “I wish I could explain exactly what I had done that night, and state with conviction that I did not kill him.”
“I understand. Sir Montague Harris speaks highly of you. Very highly, and I agree. Sir Montague thinks so of very few. He was most pleased that I should journey down and discover what has happened. He promises discretion, but he is a man of justice.” Quimby met my gaze. “As am I.”
“I would not expect you to be otherwise,” I said quickly. “Mrs. Lacey wrote to you because she trusts you.” I cleared my throat. “But if you discover that
the culprit is indeed me, I am willing to bear the consequences.”
Quimby studied me with quiet eyes, as though wondering if my resolve was firm. “Take me through the evening, Captain.” He seated himself at Donata’s delicate writing table and drew from his pocket a worn notebook and small box that contained quills and ink.
Ignoring the rosewood and gold inlaid inkstand that adorned the desk, he dipped his pen into his plain bottle and scratched a few words into his notebook.
“Please begin,” he said.
I paced as I spoke, too agitated to sit. “My wife and I received an invitation to dine at the Pavilion Monday night—Mrs. Lacey and the Regent are old friends, as are the Regent and Grenville. The majordomo took us and the other guests around the finished rooms so we could admire them. I avoided Colonel Isherwood, to be honest, and spoke mostly with Grenville and Alvanley—Lord Alvanley and I share an interest in horses.
“Eventually we went into supper. I enjoyed the food, though the conversation was not to my taste. When we weren’t praising the Regent on the cleverness of the Pavilion, there was talk of farming and what sort of yields were expected this year, and the general state of the country. The Regent excused himself before the pudding was even served, but no one was surprised. He is easily bored, and his gout must make things uncomfortable. After supper …” I paused.
“This is where things grow hazy. I know I spoke with Isherwood while we drank port, and it was not a congenial conversation. When I left the house, Isherwood was alive and well, growling he had to rise early and go to the barracks. I more or less remember walking with Grenville through the Steine, but not about what we said, or exactly when he left me.” I ceased pacing and faced Quimby. “The next thing I knew, I was standing over Isherwood’s body, his sword in my hand …”
Quimby scribbled in his book, his pen loud in the stillness. “How did you feel?” he asked without looking up. “In body, I mean, when you came to yourself?”
“Horrible.” I shuddered. “The room was cool, and I was shaking but blistering hot at the same time. My mouth was powerfully dry, and I had pain in every limb. When I finally reached home, I had unnerving nightmares and slept the day away without realizing it. My friends believe I was given some potion…”
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 9