I gave up, retreated to the dining room, and rang for pen, ink, and paper along with my noonday repast.
Writing the list as I sipped coffee and ate bread and butter was disheartening. I started with those from my past who were now in Brighton—Major Forbes and Marguerite Gibbons. Forbes had disliked me intensely, certain I had helped destroy Isherwood’s marriage. It was highly unlikely he’d murder Isherwood himself to hurt me, but Forbes had always been a bit mad, in my opinion.
It was possible Marguerite nursed resentment with me for telling her to go back to England instead of taking care of her for the remainder of the war. Her new husband, though he seemed a genial fellow, might not be happy that I’d been his wife’s lover, plus he wouldn’t have any warm feelings toward Isherwood for divorcing her in the first place.
There were other men in the army I’d angered. I’d countermanded bad orders, shouting at colonels who were ready to take my men straight into slaughter. Colonel Brandon, my mentor, had been often been furious with me, for many reasons, enough so that he’d once tried to send me to my death.
I wished I could discount Brandon, but I slowly wrote his name. He and I had reconciled somewhat after I’d cleared him of murder, and still more after I’d married Donata, but Brandon knew how to nurse a grudge.
Then there were Donata’s cousins, as Denis had mentioned, who’d wished to marry her and keep her son’s money and estates in the family. Peter’s guardian would have great influence over him and control much of the funds until the lad’s majority.
Donata’s most odious cousin, Stanton St. John, had fled to the Continent after his last attempt to rule Peter, but he might have secretly returned. Stanton certainly hated me enough to cause my utter ruin.
I’d also helped bring murderers to trial in the past few years. If any had survived their conviction—perhaps returning after being transported—I could picture them taking their revenge. Or, if they had not survived, their families doing so.
It was a depressingly long list. I finished writing, sanded the sheet, folded and sealed it, and took it to Brewster.
“This is all I could think of.” I held out the paper to him. “Mr. Denis might be able to add more, including himself.”
Brewster rose, his bulk filling the small hallway. “You heard ’im. If His Nibs wanted you dead, you’d be gone before you knew it.”
“How cheering,” I said. “Tell him I said good morning.”
Brewster had the gall to grin. “Right you are, guv. Don’t stray a step without me.”
“I can’t obey that command. I must attend the inquest, which begins in a few minutes.”
Brewster heaved a sigh. “Go on, then. I’ll deliver this and run after you.”
He departed. I left word with Bartholomew to tell Donata where I’d gone, then fetched my hat and walked swiftly to the magistrate’s court at the Old Ship.
A room had been cleared in the back for the proceedings. Gentlemen filled the chamber, including Quimby and Sir Reginald Pyne, the magistrate I’d fetched when I’d found Josh’s body. A number of Quakers were present as well, both men and women, their plain, dark clothes blending with the everyday suits of fishermen and tradesmen.
Clive Bickley was there, supported on one side by Miss Farrow and on the other by a young woman in Quaker garb. The other Friends stood around him, holding themselves apart but in no way drawing curiosity. Dissenters had been in Brighton long enough to be an ordinary part of the scenery. None of the Quakers looked at me.
A stooped gentleman with an air of authority—the coroner, I gathered—took a seat behind a table and gave the room a stern look.
The room was full, with not enough seats. The jury, a group of gentlemen in the corner, jammed against each other on benches. I ended up standing along the back wall with others who’d crowded in. Brighton saw its share of death by drowning, but by now I imagined the word had leaked that Joshua had been murdered, an altogether different prospect.
The coroner cleared his throat, and the muttered conversation in the room ceased. The coroner rumbled through a preamble, naming the court, the date, and the case.
The coroner called a surgeon to give his evidence first. This surgeon, a portly man with pince-nez on his nose, consulted his notes. “I examined the body and found that death was caused by strangulation. Two bones in the neck were broken and the trachea crushed. There was no water in the lungs.”
The gatherers murmured and shuffled until the coroner glared them to silence.
“Thank you, sir. You may step down.” The coroner made a note on one of the papers in front of him. “I call Sir Reginald Pyne.”
The magistrate rose and made his slow way to the front of the room. He swore his oath to speak the truth and drew himself up to his full height.
“Yesterday afternoon, a gentleman came to me and said he’d found a body in a boat. I went along with him to the shore near Charles Street and saw that he’d pulled the boat up on the shingle. Inside was the body of a young man, pinned to the gunwale on the bottom by the seat and a few boards. That young man turned out to be Joshua Bickley, one of the Society of Friends.”
All eyes turned to Mr. Bickley, who dropped his gaze. The young woman at his side held tighter to his arm, and Miss Farrow patted his shoulder.
The coroner nodded his dismissal to the magistrate. “Call Captain …” He lifted a paper to examine it in better light. “… Lacey.”
I limped to the front amid stares. An officer in a cavalry uniform frowned at me, and I looked him over, trying to place him. He was familiar, but the association did not come to me at the moment.
The coroner eyed me sharply. “Full name?” he barked.
He had it on his sheet, but I said, “Captain Gabriel Lacey, of the Thirty-Fifth Light Dragoons. On half pay,” I added for explanation as to why I was not in uniform and on duty.
The coroner barely nodded. “On the seventh of July you went sea bathing with your family. Please describe what you saw.”
I leaned on my walking stick and told him how Peter and I had spied the boat and towed it to shore before I sent him home and went for the magistrate.
“And the magistrate identified the young man as Joshua Bickley.” The coroner made notes then pinned me with his hard stare. “Were you acquainted with Master Bickley?”
I shook my head. “I had no idea who the young man was until the magistrate announced his name.”
“But you are acquainted with his father.”
“Briefly acquainted. We have spoken a few times.”
The coroner tapped a paper. “You spoke to him on Monday night and again on Tuesday afternoon.”
The man was well informed, but I imagined Mr. Bickley himself had mentioned this when initially questioned.
“Yes …” I said hesitantly.
The coroner gave me an impatient look. “Did you speak to him, or did you not?”
“The trouble is—I believe I spoke to him Monday evening but I have no memory of doing so.”
The coroner’s thin white brows went up. “What do you mean you have no memory of doing so? You very clearly remember finding the boat with young Joshua’s body inside it. Or was Monday too long ago for you? You do not seem to be in your dotage, young man.”
Amid titters around me, I swallowed, uncomfortable. “I might have been inebriated.”
A general laugh filled the room. I glimpsed Clement’s mother in a blue striped shawl and large bonnet on the edge of the crowd. She did not smile.
The coroner scowled. “I see. Well, Mr. Bickley tells me you did speak to him, and I must take him at his word. He also told me he asked you to help him find out what had become of Joshua, as he was growing concerned. Do you remember that?”
“Not from Monday night,” I said, my face heating. “Mr. Bickley repeated the request on Tuesday, when I spoke to him again.”
“And did you try to discover what had become of Master Bickley?”
I grew still more warm. “Not right away. I had other duties to see to.” I hardly wanted to confess I’d been busy trying to clear myself of the murder of Colonel Isherwood.
“Including sea bathing,” the coroner said. “Frolicking in the waves while a young man was dead and a father worried.”
I could only flush again. “I am afraid so.”
“That is hardly fair of thee.” Mr. Bickley had taken a step forward, the ladies on either side losing their hold of him.
The coroner gave him a sharp look. “Never mind, Mr. Bickley. You will have your chance to speak in a moment.”
Murmurs of sympathy rippled for Bickley, but I received only scowls.
“Captain Lacey,” the coroner continued. “What person do you suppose caused Master Bickley’s death?”
I opened my hand. “I have no idea. Perhaps Joshua came across men moving contraband. I hear smuggling is rife in this area.”
“Spoken like an ignorant Londoner,” the coroner snapped. “That is our affair. But I understand your reasoning. Your proposal is that Master Bickley stumbled upon some villains committing a crime, and they strangled him and put him into the boat and then overturned it to make his death look like an accident.”
“I can think of no other explanation. I have been told Joshua did not like boats and so likely would not be in one intentionally.”
“Thank you.” The coroner spoke firmly. “One speculation at a time, please.”
More laughter. Mrs. Morgan, Clement’s mother, remained stiff-lipped and disapproving.
“You are a rather strong man, Captain.” The coroner gave me a pointed look.
“But not nimble.” I tapped my leg with my walking stick. “If Joshua had run from me, I could not have given chase.”
The coroner did not look convinced. “If he trusted you, and if you came from his father, he might not run.”
I squared my shoulders. “I give you my word, sir, upon my honor, that I did young Master Bickley no harm. I never met the lad, and did not know it was he in the boat until told by the magistrate.”
“That you remember.” The coroner’s gaze was severe. “The wounds put his death late Monday night or very early on Tuesday morning. Do you remember anything else about that night through your inebriation?”
“I dined with my wife at the Pavilion, upon invitation. After that, I apparently spoke to Mr. Bickley but then was in bed asleep until late Tuesday afternoon.”
I spoke in a ringing voice, but my mouth was dry. I skirted the truth, but I could not very well blurt out in court that I’d wandered about Brighton and come to myself over Isherwood’s body. I’d find myself quickly locked away to wait for the Assizes. I doubted I’d have had time to kill Josh and put him into a boat, meet with the Quakers, and go on to kill Isherwood, but I wished I could remember.
The coroner sifted through his papers again and at last gave me a nod that I could go.
“Call Mr. Clive Bickley.”
I hated to see the poor man in his grief forced in front of all eyes, but Mr. Bickley moved forward without hesitation.
The coroner, ignoring me as I returned to my place against the wall, addressed Bickley in a gentle voice. “I know that you, as a Quaker, Mr. Bickley, will not swear an oath, so I will not ask it. You can sign an affirmation later to satisfy the lawyers, but I will take what you say as truth.”
“Thank you,” Bickley said in a near whisper.
“Now then. Please tell me what happened with your son—when did he go missing?”
Bickley cleared his throat. “Sunday last, after Meeting.”
“Did he give any indication where he was going? Something like, ‘I’m going out for a walk, Father?’ or ‘I’ll be with my mates at the seaside?’”
“No. Nothing like that.” Bickley swallowed, his cheeks staining red. “My son and I had quarreled. He was very angry with me.”
“About what?” The coroner’s pen hovered, ink arrested in the act of dripping from its tip.
“I’d prefer not to say. A private quarrel between father and son.”
The coroner’s eyes narrowed. “You understand that the quarrel might have led to his disappearance, Mr. Bickley? Perhaps even his death?”
Bickley acknowledged this with a nod. “I do know. But as it might have nothing to do with it, I will not speak.”
Another murmur from the collected crowd, this one of surprise. The coroner tried to glare Bickley into obedience, but the man proved stubborn.
The coroner heaved a sigh. “Very well, but be warned that the magistrate or I will have it out of you if it proves relevant.”
I too very much wanted to know what Bickley and his son had quarreled about, and why he’d not mentioned this to me.
Perhaps Joshua had tired of the constraints of the Friends, or fancied a young woman of whom Mr. Bickley disapproved. Or had Josh simply shown the rage against his father that many young men experience in their lives? Even if Bickley and Josh had maintained a pleasant friendship, at some point a youth wants to break free and live his own life, as I knew from bitter experience.
I pictured the young man storming out, his father sadly watching him go. Bickley would have reasoned Josh would return after he cooled down, and they’d discuss things more calmly. But Joshua hadn’t returned.
The coroner continued. “When did you become alarmed at your son’s absence?”
“I wasn’t.” Bickley’s voice wavered. “He has friends in Hove he visits from time to time. I assumed him there. But when I sent a message to those friends, they said they hadn’t seen him. He’d never been there.”
Bickley’s face crumpled into misery. The sympathy in the room was rife. The young woman—niece? cousin?—went to Bickley and caught him before he could collapse.
The coroner did not look happy that his witness could obviously answer no more questions, but he waved Bickley back to the cluster of Friends.
The coroner scanned the room. “Are there any more who can attest to the whereabouts of Joshua Bickley in the days before his death, or who can shed light on his demise?”
The whispering died down. Men and women glanced about, but none came forward to volunteer information.
“Very well.” The coroner gathered his papers with a heavy hand. “The jury will adjourn to conclude their verdict. Keep in mind I have more cases to go through today, gentlemen,” he said to the men in the corner.
The gentlemen of the jury looked put-upon, but huddled into a tight knot to discuss things.
As much as I wanted to go say a word of comfort to Bickley, I remained where I was. Miss Farrow was next to him now, speaking rapidly to him. The young woman, her eyes as full of tears as Bickley’s, held his hand.
Mrs. Morgan, after a long look at me, slipped out. I’d have followed her, but I wanted to hear the jury’s conclusion—though there was not much doubt what it would be.
The jury did not take long to deliberate. They approached the table, and the coroner asked for their verdict.
“Willful murder by person or persons unknown,” one of the men intoned.
Whatever the coroner said to that was drowned by the voices of the excited crowd. I left the room, putting on my hat as I walked out of the inn.
Brewster, who’d entered as the jury finished, fell into step beside me. “Looks like she wants a word.” He nodded at Mrs. Morgan, who waited at the end of the street. Clement, in his footman’s livery, had appeared out of nowhere to stand next to her.
I moved to them and tipped my hat to Mrs. Morgan. “The verdict was willful murder,” I said.
“I guessed that. What else could it have been?” Mrs. Morgan, her colorful shawl a bright note in that gray space of town, beckoned me to follow as she walked across the road to the promenade.
Clement hurried after her, looking uncomfortable, and Brewster and I followed.
“Well, tell them.” Mrs. Morgan gave her son a mother’s impatient glare. “Exactly what you told me.”
Clement was not happy, but he drew a breath and looked me in the eye. “You asked me to poke about and find out when His Royal Highness left the Pavilion Monday night. He had his things packed up earlier that evening, but he’d departed by three in the morning.”
My eyes became fixed on his, pools of deep brown framed by thick lashes. “And you and I found Isherwood’s body at …”
“Two in the morning, sir.”
My heart beat faster. “Then we have a new suspect.”