She looked up from the writing table when I entered, hesitant but no longer unwelcoming. I kissed her cheek then drew a chair next to hers and told her about the inquest and what Mrs. Morgan and then Captain Wilks had revealed.
“Are you certain Mrs. Gibbons was the woman in the cloak?” Donata asked once I’d finished. She toyed with the end of her pen. “Why would she lure you to commit the deed for her? That would be most ungrateful of her, after you helped her in Spain. You paid her passage home, did you not?”
“Yes, but perhaps Marguerite did not mean for Isherwood to be killed. Perhaps she only wanted to hurt him or scare him, but killed him accidentally and fled. Or maybe I took Isherwood’s sword from him and ran him through in a rage.” I let out a sigh. “I simply don’t know.”
Donata regarded me with a keen eye. “You are a strong man, Gabriel, but Colonel Isherwood was hardly in a decline. Quite a robust gentleman. I am surprised anyone in his regiment believes that he took ill in the night and simply died. He was in the pink of health.”
“He lived in a private house on the Royal Crescent, not the barracks. How could the regiment know what truly happens there?”
“Major Forbes knows,” she reminded me. “It is only a matter of time before a man like that shouts the information from the rooftops. If he realized you were discovered by Isherwood’s body, you’d even now be in some filthy jail.”
“I quite agree,” I said, despondent. “The man loathes me. Isherwood was a god to him. Could do no wrong, in spite of all evidence to the contrary.”
“But perhaps the two had a falling out, and Major Forbes did kill Isherwood, or at least arranged for you to be found over his body.”
“I’ve considered that. I doubt Forbes would be satisfied to have me found as the murderer—Forbes would kill me himself and claim he had been defending Isherwood. He’d be glad of the excuse to rid himself of me.” I shook my head. “Everything at the moment points to Marguerite.”
My wife sent me an impatient look. “I know you are determined that Mrs. Gibbons was the woman in the cloak, and she somehow convinced you to help kill her former husband. But consider how well acquainted I am with you. Mrs. Gibbons cannot be the only woman in all of England who would seek you out and ask for your aid on a dark night. I can name any number.”
I flushed. “Who happen to be in Brighton? Connected with Isherwood, who was stabbed to death that very night?”
“The cloaked woman might have absolutely nothing to do with Isherwood. The woman might not have sent the note at all, but you chanced to encounter her when you charged out of the pub, and the publican’s boy only assumed she’d summoned you.”
“Now you are introducing too many possibilities,” I said in exasperation.
“Because there are many possibilities. The message said you should go outside and meet someone. No indication who, not even whether it was a man or woman. Printed, not written, so you could not judge whether it was a woman’s writing or a man’s, or whether you’d seen the writing before. A cloaked woman appears, or as Brewster pointed out, perhaps a man hiding in a large cloak. The publican’s son didn’t see this person well in the dark. Or he or she might have simply been asking you for the time or the direction to the Old Ship.”
“Unlikely …”
“I am only listing alternative explanations, so you will cease fixing on one. We will discover whether it was Marguerite Gibbons and why she wished to see you, if so, when we ask her.”
“I called at their lodgings on my way home,” I said. “She and her husband were not there.”
Donata widened her eyes. “Fancy that. In Brighton, by the sea, on a fair day. How very strange that they went out. If they’d packed their bags and fled, the landlady would have told you.”
“Unless they left their bags behind.”
“You do enjoy making difficulties. You left word that they should call, and if they have nothing to hide, they will.”
I regarded her a moment. “I would have thought you’d have leapt at the chance to pin all these troubles on Mrs. Gibbons.”
“Like a jealous harridan?” Donata gave me a pitying smile. “I admit, I am jealous of her, but only because she had you at a time when I was so miserable. While you celebrated your victory at Salamanca, Breckenridge returned to London. To see his son, he told me, but he spent his entire month of leave trying to make me admit Peter was not his. Bloody man. He certainly would not take me at my word, and I grew terrified of being in the same room with him. Do you know what it is like to hope your husband never returns from battle?” Donata dropped her pen onto the desk and shivered. “But you once told me that Breckenridge had ways of making certain he was nowhere near the bullets, so that hope was in vain.”
I reached to her and cupped her cheek, trying to still her agitation. I wanted to apologize for some reason, to tell her I’d have shot Breckenridge myself if I could have.
Donata’s voice quieted. “You did not know me then, nor did I know you existed. Had I known about you, and what would happen between us … it might have been easier to bear. Even if you were with another at the time.”
“I hate the man every time I hear about him,” I said, my dark anger stirring.
“I hated living with him. Poor naive girl that I was, I could not discern a good man from a bad before it was too late.” Donata put her hand on mine. “You are one of the good ones.”
“Am I?” I withdrew from her touch. “Then why would I have been so glad to murder Breckenridge for you? It makes me believe I could have killed Isherwood for Marguerite.”
“And if I believed that, I’d even now be in Oxford with my son and daughter, and bar the door to you, because it would mean you still loved the dratted woman.” She drew in a breath. “I have to be confident that you do not.”
“Love?” I said in astonishment. “I never loved Marguerite. It was a brief affair, the aftermath of battle, me scorning convention and gloating about it. Love never entered into it, on either of our parts.”
Donata’s smile was savage. “And I am jealous enough to be terribly pleased by that.”
“My dearest Donata, do you believe that my tenderness can be aroused by any lady but yourself?” I pressed my hand to my breast, wanting to make her laugh.
“Do not overstate things, Gabriel. You have loved other women—your first wife, Gabriella, your mother. You also must have had many youthful infatuations.”
I waved away the callow passions of my young years, all gone in dust. “Believe what you will. Marguerite never loved me, or I her. She seems to be very fond of Gibbons, I am happy to report.”
“There you are, then. Why on earth should Mrs. Gibbons summon you to help her slay Isherwood and then leave you to be arrested? You helped her in Salamanca, she liked you, and from what you’ve told me, you parted amicably. By all evidence, she married happily instead of living all these years nursing resentment—so why would she exact this sort of vengeance on you?”
I rose, unable to keep still. “I have no bloody idea. Marguerite was never the most prim and proper of women, which is likely why Isherwood wanted her gone. Her vivaciousness and lack of respect for idiot senior officers had caused Isherwood to be called on the carpet more than once. I suppose he finally decided he cared for his career more than his wife—always did, I suspect.”
“She was well rid of him then,” Donata said calmly. “Once she realized that, she’d hardly wish to kill him, would she?”
I made myself resume my seat, my knee chiding me for my energetic pacing.
“Lord Armitage tried to tell me she was a spy for the French.” I massaged the offended knee as I spoke. “That would give her another motive for getting rid of Isherwood. If Isherwood found out, or suspected … He’d not only put her aside but threaten to reveal her duplicity, and she’d be executed as a traitor. He could hold that over her for years. Perhaps Marguerite decided to end the threat.”
“Armitage is not the most reliable of informants,” Donata said.
“He loves to spread gossip about others, presumably to keep them from repeating the stories about him and his own wife. Did Mrs. Gibbons seem a likely spy? What sort of information could she have obtained from you?”
“Nothing.” I had argued this with Armitage. “I was not high enough in the chain of command to know anything of importance.”
“Therefore, she did not throw herself at you to discover secrets to pass to the French marshals.” Donata drummed her fingers on the desk. “It is likely Isherwood himself whispered that rumor to justify his leaving her. When a woman knows her own mind, and says so, gentlemen will spread all sorts of falsehoods about her.”
She spoke from experience. Few women knew their own mind better than Donata.
“I can discover whether the rumors began with Isherwood,” I said. “I will buttonhole Forbes, who was Isherwood’s friend longer than anyone.”
“Buttonhole him, but do not bloody his nose,” Donata advised. “Let us not forget about the Regent. Isherwood’s death might have nothing to do with Mrs. Gibbons, her husband, and what happened in Spain. Your lad Clement reported that the prince was at the Pavilion at the requisite time.”
“Yes.” I returned to that with some hope. “Why the Regent would kill Isherwood, I cannot fathom, but the two might have quarreled. I do not know why Isherwood was even invited that night.”
“Grenville could find this out. I can have a chat with Lady Hollingsworth—I’ve known her for years. His Highness might have confessed all to her.”
“If it wasn’t simply a horrible accident,” I said. “The Regent, showing off his prowess with a sword, runs the man through. I can envision such a thing.”
“Unlikely. Colonel Isherwood wouldn’t have let him. As I said before, Isherwood was a strong man, and the Regent can barely stand with his gout.”
“True. But Isherwood should have been able to fight off any attack,” I finished glumly. “Which is why I return to Marguerite once more. Isherwood might not have believed his danger, either from her or from me, and so did not defend himself.”
Donata fixed me with her stubborn look. “I do not believe you killed this man, Gabriel, no matter what. And I will prove it, whether you wish me to or not.”
I’d learned when to cease arguing with Donata. She set her mind on a course, and she would not be dissuaded. I’d leave her to ferret out any details from Lady Hollingsworth, welcoming whatever help she could give me.
I descended to the sitting room to write my letter to Colonel Brandon, asking him to tell me what he remembered about events in Salamanca. I gave the missive to Bartholomew, who would send it off by quickest post.
Brewster arrived after that, having gone home once he’d seen me safely inside. He looked gloomy. “His Nibs wants to see you.”
“Again? Is he not satisfied with my lists?”
“How should I know? He asks to see you, and I fetch you.”
I did not fight him, knowing the futility of it. Brewster led me out, not to his own lodgings, but to another row of new houses that faced the sea.
Denis had hired it this morning, Brewster told me, as things were too cramped in Brewster’s rooms. Denis had decided to remain in Brighton until he was satisfied I would not be accused of Isherwood’s murder and so had let an entire house. I knew Denis didn’t care much about who really had killed Isherwood, as long as I wasn’t arrested for it.
That was a large difference between Denis and myself, I reflected as Brewster knocked on the door of a white-painted house with large windows. I was never satisfied until I discovered the truth, even if the truth proved to be ugly or inconvenient. Denis was happy to let the truth go hang unless it interfered with his life or his business.
The house was pleasant inside, its white-paneled rooms made cozy with plenty of sunlight. Simple elegance. Denis received me on the first floor, in a chamber at the back of the house which he’d converted to a study.
One of Denis’s men ushered me in, Brewster following with a heavy tread. Denis did not always like Brewster accompanying me into his presence, but I knew Brewster had come to make sure I didn’t do anything foolish.
Denis was not alone. Along with his usual bodyguards stood another man, silent and unobtrusive. I halted in surprise.
He was thin-boned with a shaved head, his intelligent eyes containing no expression whatsoever. The man was a criminal, a killer, who’d been transported to the other side of the world and had illegally made his way back. He was also the brilliant surgeon who’d earlier this year saved Donata’s life and that of my daughter Anne.
“I have called him to consult with us,” Denis said from where he sat at his desk, his blue eyes almost, but not quite, as cold as the surgeon’s. “To see if he can tell us what sort of concoction you were fed, and what it could make you do.”
Chapter 18
The surgeon had positioned himself near the fireplace, which lay between two windows. I realized that anyone who looked in from below would not be able to see him.
He studied me now without changing expression. Even Denis’s guards appeared more interested in the problem than he did.
“Describe what happened,” he commanded.
No greeting, no waiting until I’d been offered a seat or refreshment. Denis said nothing at all, expecting my response.
“I’ll do my best.” I launched into my tale. “Even the memory of coming to myself in the Pavilion is fuzzy,” I concluded. “I managed to get out of the building and make my way home. When I woke, I remembered nothing at all—I’ve been trying to discover exactly what I did that night and who truly killed Colonel Isherwood, but there are still large gaps.”
The surgeon watched me stolidly. “No, what exactly do you remember? What was your last memory before the absence of them? Were you disoriented when you came to, or clear of mind? When you slept, did you have odd dreams—could you sleep at all? Did you seem to experience things that could not possibly have happened?” He ceased the rapid-fire questions and pinned me with a hard stare. “I will need all details.”
I told myself that a physician must be much like a general—a commander could only know how to meet the enemy if he knew precisely where they were, how many soldiers they had at the ready, and what weaponry they possessed. The more details, the more prepared he could be.
“I remember talking with the other guests at supper,” I said. “Mostly about common concerns, such as the weather, farming, and events in the newspapers. Desjardins regaled us with a tale of a chamber pot Bonaparte supposedly left behind in Madrid, and how it was auctioned off for a very high price once he was deposed.” I paused, recalling how Desjardins had laughed very hard, and Isherwood had upbraided him for telling such an anecdote in front of the ladies.
The surgeon took it all in, again without changing expression. “Go on.”
“I recall enjoying a glass of port afterward. A fine vintage from the Douro Valley in Portugal, near Régua. I had gone into an antechamber and Isherwood joined me there. Isherwood took me aside and sneered something about his former wife. Bad taste to bring that up, I thought, and told him so. He even threatened to speak to my wife, but apparently he did not.”
Denis cleared his throat. “I’d have a care whom you reported that detail to.”
“In case they believe I murdered a blackmailer?” I grimaced. “There is nothing to say I did not.”
Denis only gave me his bland stare. “Continue.”
“After that, I walked with Grenville in the park. I haven’t the faintest notion what we said to each other. I smoked a cheroot. He said good night, and …” I spread my hands. “The rest is a blank until I found Isherwood dead in the Pavilion.”
The surgeon listened to all this dispassionately. “Have you had any flashes of memory? Even vague feelings you don’t understand?”
I hesitated. “When I saw Lord and Lady Armitage at the lecture on Tuesday night, something tickled in my brain. But I have no idea what.”
“That is all?”
&nb
sp; “Earlier today, when Captain Wilks took me to the tavern he said I’d been in, I remembered a picture on the wall, one of an actress. But that likely only means I truly had entered that tavern.”
“You slept after you went home,” the surgeon stated.
“Indeed, I went to bed. I tossed and turned a bit before sleeping—had dreams first of Isherwood, then of faces coming at me, changing and merging. I woke late in the afternoon with no idea I’d slept away much of the day.” I let out a breath. “That is all I can truly tell you.”
“No, there is much more.” The surgeon rested one elbow on the mantelpiece. “When you woke in your bed, was your mouth dry? Did you have a headache? Any other aches in your body? Were you flaccid or rigid? Did you twitch or were you completely relaxed? Were your feet and hands cold or warm?”
His hard look said he expected me to answer the litany, no matter how embarrassing.
I swallowed. “I was sick in a basin before I went to bed, and I woke with a dry throat and headache. My back was sore, I recall, and my knee ached—though it usually does in the morning. Flaccid, I think.” My face warmed. “I was restless, my hands tingling, my feet rather numb. The warm water with my shave felt good. I was much better after I dressed, and able to walk through town, though I was a bit fatigued. Later that evening, Grenville’s wife told me my eyes were slow to focus.”
The surgeon listened in silence. No nodding as I listed my symptoms, no flick of eyes or thoughtful movement of brows. I might have been speaking to a statue.
The clock ticked. Outside, people walked by the house, their voices loud through the windows open at the top for air. A woman’s voice: “… Spending so much time in a carriage, bumping over roads for hours, and there was nothing there.” A man; “I thought the church quite fine …” The woman again, “No different from the parish church in …”
They faded, disgruntled travelers irritated the world hadn’t arranged itself to please them.
“There are several possibilities.” The surgeon’s clear words were startling after the quiet. “It is a question of what would be available to the person or persons who gave you the dose.”
Death at Brighton Pavilion (Captain Lacey Regency Mysteries Book 14) Page 17