I gazed at the publican’s son in astonishment, and the drawings on the paneling in the inglenook seemed to spin. “Did you see this lady? Who the devil was she?”
The young man shrugged. “It were dark and she was all shrouded in the cloak.”
I jumped to my feet. “How tall, how broad, or how thin?”
The lad shook his head, bewildered. “Ordinary, I’d say. Not as tall as you. Not a rotund lady, but not small either. But then, I really only saw her cloak.”
His description helped not at all. I stood taller than most men I knew, and I towered above women, which potentially made the wearer of the cloak anyone in Brighton.
“Sorry, sir.”
I sat back down, letting out a long breath. “Well. Thank you, in any case. It’s more than I knew before.” I drew a half crown from my pocket. “I appreciate your candor, lad.”
The coin disappeared. “Thank you, sir.”
The publican’s son turned away as though dismissed, but I said, “Before you go, will you think about the note? Was it written neatly, in a fine hand, on good paper? Scribbled on a scrap? Anything is helpful.”
The young man rubbed his stubbled face. “Paper was heavy and new, but not a whole sheet. Only one line, in printed letters, not written. That’s how I could read it. I can’t read handwriting so well.”
He was a sharp observer, at least of things he saw close to. I couldn’t blame him for knowing no more details of a woman shrouded in a cloak on a dark night.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “If you recall anything else, please send word.” I gave him the address of our hired house, and he nodded before he turned away with his father and ambled back to pulling pints.
“Printed,” I said to Brewster and Captain Wilks. “To not give away who wrote it?”
“How would you know who wrote the bloody thing?” Brewster demanded. “Would ye run around Brighton comparing everyone’s handwriting to it?”
“Perhaps I knew that person well, or had seen their handwriting before.”
Brewster shrugged and sipped his ale, skeptical.
Captain Wilks broke in, “The greater question is, who was the lady? Not your wife, I take it.”
Chills settled over me as I realized who the lady, if it had been a woman, might very well be.
Marguerite had had every reason to hate Isherwood and want him dead. He’d cruelly abandoned her at Salamanca, leaving her to her fate.
I remembered the Spanish sunshine on the walls of the old city, the wide space of the Plaza Mayor, its sandstone a warm, golden hue. I’d loved the town when we’d ridden in after the battle in the hills, soldiers seeking comfort and drink. Bells of the cathedral had silvered the air, and heat shimmered on the stones, the sky arching high and blue.
Isherwood and Marguerite had performed their final quarrel in the square, he turning his back on her and striding away. She’d never wilted, only glared after him as he’d marched off with a sneering Forbes.
Then Marguerite had turned, flung out her arms, and declared at the top of her voice that she was free.
The plaza had teemed with life, the people of the ancient city relieved that the French army, who’d used the town as a garrison, had been chased away, but mistrusting of the English who’d taken their place. They’d been disapproving of Marguerite spinning in the middle of the square, laughing. A group of nuns had eyed her severely, but I’d seen Marguerite’s bitterness, her near despair.
Marguerite had been left alone, without protection, in a country strange to her, in the middle of an army.
As Donata had said, I’d had to be gallant. Marguerite and I had taken up residence in a hostel down a sloping back street near the cathedral, with a cheerful landlord and his wife to look after us. Our room had overlooked the Tormes that flowed languidly past the city, and the many-arched bridge the ancient Romans had left in their wake.
Forbes had found out about our liaison and taken me to task. It had nearly come to a duel, but Colonel Brandon had intervened and sent Forbes off. Brandon had then given me a scathing dressing down, but I’d laughed at him. Marguerite had been a warm, giving, charming woman, and the brief time I’d spent with her had become a happy memory.
Isherwood, of course, had made certain her reputation was blackened. I never discovered why the devil the man had put her aside in the first place, except that he was a selfish bastard—possibly his commanding officer disapproved of her, which would mean Isherwood might not be promoted.
The man had been made a colonel, so obviously the divorce had not ruined his career.
Lord Armitage had posited another reason Isherwood had shunned her, his claim that Marguerite had been a spy for the French.
For any of these reasons, Marguerite could very well have wanted Isherwood murdered. Had she decided I should be the man to kill him for her?
Or had she sent the note to ask for my help? Perhaps I’d become angry at Isherwood for threatening her, and we’d tracked him to the Pavilion. Or perhaps Marguerite had killed Isherwood before I could stop her, and I’d taken the sword from her.
She’d fled, and I’d been left standing with the sword, swimming out of my stupor.
“Damnation,” I whispered.
“The machinations of a lady do not mean you killed the Quaker lad in a drunken rage,” Captain Wilks said. “I would find the lady—she can tell the magistrate you were with her instead of Josh Bickley. Embarrassing for your wife, no doubt, but it would save you from the noose.”
“Pardon?” I blinked. I’d been a long distance from thoughts of Bickley’s son—how could the note and Marguerite have anything to do with him?
Brewster took a noisy sip of ale. “Could have been a bloke waiting for you. Bundled up in a cloak in the dark—might have been a man, pretending to be a lady to draw you out. Once you were with him, he could have taken you anywhere. Be best if you remembered all what happened, guv.”
“Thank you, Brewster. An excellent suggestion.” I gave him an ironic look, pulling myself out of my thoughts. “Thank you in truth, Captain Wilks. This has been helpful. I believe that once I track down this lady, all will become clear.”
Wilks firmly shook my hand. “If I discover anything more, I will send word.” His grip tightened. “I feel it only fair to warn you that if I discover you did murder young Master Bickley, I will go straight to the magistrate.”
“I would expect no less.” I gave Wilks a nod as he released me. “I would do the same.”
“Gentry is different from ordinary folk, ain’t they?” Brewster made this observation as we walked through the lane toward Ship Street, my stick ringing on the cobblestones. “All polite and cool, shaking hands while promising to have you arrested. If I said that to a mate, I’d be fighting for me life. Or laughed at.”
“He will not find evidence that I had anything to do with Josh’s death,” I said, then I sucked in a breath. “At least, I damn well hope not.”
“Then where are we off to in such a hurry?”
I hesitated. If I told Brewster my thoughts, he’d report all to Denis. Denis might decide to interrogate Marguerite himself, and his methods were not always gentle.
“Someone I need to speak to,” I said. “I will be perfectly safe—no need to come with me.”
“Huh. Not bloody likely.”
Brewster hunkered into his coat, though it was a warm afternoon, and prepared to follow me.
I gave up and let him, knowing I’d never shake him if he wanted to stick with me. Not long later, I knocked on the door of the house where I’d left Marguerite with her husband the night before.
“They’re out, dear,” the landlady said to my inquiries. She had a pleasant pink face and a kindly smile. “Enjoying the weather, no doubt. Shall I tell them you inquired?”
“Please do.” I handed her a card, which she held close to her face to peer at. “Ask them to call on me at their earliest convenience.”
“I will, dear. Good day to you.”
She was inside, shutting the door before I could so much as respond to her polite farewell.
“See what I mean?” Brewster continued his observations as we turned for Bedford Row. “This is who you think lured you to the Pavilion that night, yes? You leave a card and ask them to call, instead of pushing in and tearing up the place until you find your evidence.”
“They may have nothing to do with it,” I said severely.
“That’s not what your face tells me. You’re convinced. Want His Nibs to find them for you?”
“No.” I made the word hard. “I said I don’t want Denis involved at all. That is why I will ask you to say nothing until I’m certain.”
We were almost to the square. Brewster put a heavy hand on my shoulder and pulled me to a halt.
“Understand summat, guv,” he said, his face grave. “His Nibs wants you cleared of all this murder business, whether you did it or not. He’s not having one of his best men strung up for murder or transported to Van Diemen’s Land—if that got about, it would weaken him in the eyes of some, and that could spell disaster for him. He’s got friends in high places, and he’s prepared to use them to keep you from the muck. But you have to trust him to do his bit.”
I did not back down. “I know all about the corrupt magistrates who bow to James Denis. It is a reason I have fought all this time to stay away from him. Likewise, I do not want to be known as one of his best men. I am not a criminal.”
“It’s a bit late for that. He’s done you far too many favors for you to spit on him now.”
“I know he has.”
Denis had done me the greatest favor of all—saved my beloved wife from death. Under the hands of any physician or surgeon but the one Denis had sent, Donata would have been lost, possibly Anne with her, and I knew it.
“Then don’t keep things from him,” Brewster said. “Let him help. He’s good at it.”
I growled in my throat, ducked away from his hand, and strode on. “At least let me speak to the woman before he does.”
“Unless she’s fled town,” Brewster said behind me. “Her deeds done.”
With Isherwood dead, would Marguerite consider she’d achieved her end? She could return to her blissful existence as the wife of an ordinary gentleman in an ordinary town and forget the past.
I wondered if her husband, Gibbons, was in on the plot. They seemed close, so he might very well be.
“If I fail to lay my hands on her, then I will ask Denis to run her to ground,” I said, turning. “Only if he promises that I can speak to her. I will know what questions to ask.”
“We’ll see.” Brewster’s words were final. “Where to now? Discover if the woman is sea bathing?”
“First I must speak to another lady,” I said. “The most important one.”
Brewster understood, and gave me a nod. “Ah. Wise of you, guv.”
Upon our return, I was pleased to find that Donata had not gone out on calls but sat in her boudoir, writing letters.
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.”