You are Gabriel Lacey?” A middle-aged woman in a finely-made frock of dark maroon and a high-crowned bonnet stopped me.
I did not know her, and politely bowed. “At your service, madam.”
A smile spread across her face. “I hear you have been searching for me. I am Katherine Purkis. Or at least, I was. I am Mrs. Craddock now.”
“Craddock ...” I blinked in amazement. I also realized that she, a Quaker woman, had not used thee or thou, and had called herself Mrs.
“Good Lord.” I fumbled for words as she watched me with evident delight. “I beg your pardon, but you have astonished me. The bishop I met at the Pavilion is called Craddock.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Indeed. And I have married him. Two days ago.”
“Good … heavens.”
I thought about the few times I’d encountered the bishop, how he’d growled and snarled about Dissenters—all Dissenters, not only Quakers. His comments on how they dismissed those who turned away from them suddenly took on new context.
I bowed again, my heart lighter. “My felicitations, good lady. I am pleased to see you are happy and well. The Friends were worried about you.”
“Not at all—I have no doubt they wanted you to find me so they could stop me. Dear Ephram took me to his niece’s house at Worthing.” She leaned close, a scent of mint and cloves wafting to me. “I married not to kick dust on the Friends, as Matilda Farrow believes. I fell in love.”
I thought about the testy bishop with his penchant for miles-long tramps along the coast, but his surliness made a bit more sense now. He might have feared betraying Miss Purkis’s whereabouts. Growling about how he despised all Dissenters might have been meant to put everyone off the scent, though his disparagement had rung with truth.
“I offer my congratulations once again,” I said. “How did you know I looked for you? Not very successfully, I admit.”
“Matilda, once I broke the news to her, confessed that she and Clive Bickley asked a known friend of the Runners to hunt for me.” All merriment left her expression. “She also told me of Joshua. The poor lad. How could something so foul happen to him?”
“It is tragic, indeed.” Josh Bickley’s death would haunt me for some time.
“He’d been quite unhappy about something,” Mrs. Craddock went on. “Though he would not tell me what. I admit, I did not pay much attention to him, as I had my mind set on leaving without anyone getting wind of it.”
“You left about a week ago?” I recalled what Miss Farrow had said, that Miss Purkis had disappeared long before Josh had gone.
“I did. I went with Mr. Craddock to Worthing—to his sister’s as I said—and we married there, by special license. I never saw Josh after I left.” Sadness filled her words. “He was a truly good soul, that lad. Many join the Friends seeking what they cannot find either in their church or their day-to-day lives. Some find that peace, but others are never truly quiet in themselves. Josh was an exception. He was filled with the Spirit.” Tears wet her eyes. “But even that could not save him from evil.”
“The evil was in the world,” I said, anger tinging my words. “I intend to find the villain who did this and see that he is punished.”
“I agree you should, though it won’t restore Josh to us.” She shook her head. “I feel deep sorrow for Josh’s father—Clive is a troubled man.”
I recalled what Bickley had told me when I’d met him on the shingle, that he had hoped to find peace in Brighton, but it had eluded him.
It was time I politely ended the conversation, but another question occurred to me. “I beg your pardon, Miss Purkis—er, Mrs. Craddock. What sorts of plants do the Friends grow in their garden?”
She regarded me with bewilderment. “In the garden? All sorts of things, depending on the season. Runner beans, cabbages, courgettes, peppers when it’s warm enough, onions, herbs. We have an apple tree that bears glorious fruit in the fall.”
“Comestibles only?” I asked.
“The Friends raise what they need. Some of the extra is sold at market to maintain the building or fund charitable works, though that income is sparse.”
“What about flowers? There is a vine ... ”
Mrs. Craddock looked doubtful. “Some of the edible plants do flower. And the herbs. The vine is honeysuckle, which was on the house when it was purchased.”
No poppies then. “Do they use plants for medicines?”
“Of course. Nettles, mint, valerian …”
“Valerian helps with sleep, if I remember aright,” I said, fixing on it.
“It does indeed. So does sitting quietly and contemplating the sea. I do agree with the Friends that ingesting all sorts of substances to soothe one’s nerves is self-indulgent.”
I barely heard her. I wondered if a large dose of valerian could have made me groggy and forgetful. I would have to ask the surgeon, if Denis hadn’t already sent him away.
Mrs. Craddock watched me curiously, clearly wondering at my change of topic. I bowed to her once more.
“Forgive me. I am very happy to find that you are well.”
“I am quite well. I believe marriage will suit me, even at my advanced age.”
She was in her sixties, like the bishop, but her back was straight, her step lively, her hair only touched with gray. Some people aged rapidly in my experience, others hardly at all.
“I predict a long and happy life for you both,” I told her. “I too found happiness late.”
“Not all that late.” Mrs. Craddock’s eyes twinkled. “Compared to me, you’re still quite a young man, Captain. But yes, I believe you are correct that I will be much happier now. I will not return to the Friends.”
She was adamant. I respected the Quakers for their devotion and the kindness they showed to the downtrodden, but I could see that if one was not happy with that way of life, it could be difficult.
“Look after Bickley,” Mrs. Craddock went on. “Losing his son is a terrible blow to him. He lost his wife, and a brother too, you know. Well, a half-brother.”
Poor Bickley had certainly seen his share of tragedies. “He has gone to stay with his sister.”
“I am glad. Much better for him. Good day to you, Captain. Well met.”
I wished her a good day in return, and we parted, I with the feeling of having been put in my place.
Mr. Quimby was out, but I left him a message to call on me at his earliest convenience. I next turned my steps to Denis’s lodgings, not entirely expecting to be admitted.
I was, to my surprise, and the surgeon hadn’t yet departed. In Denis’s study under Denis’s watchful eye, the surgeon listened to my questions with his usual stoicism.
When I finished, he shook his head. “Valerian root is used for sedation. Its effects are mild—you would have to take quite a lot to inebriate you.”
“If it were given to me in alcohol? Such as in strong port?”
“No, Captain. My suggestion of pure opium is the most likely answer.”
I saw an emotion in his eyes now. Arrogance. He wanted to be right—was certain he was right. The arrogance was tinged with scorn at me for doubting him.
Denis, who sat at his desk, clearly agreed with the surgeon. “Why would you suppose one of the Quakers wished to murder Colonel Isherwood?” he asked me.
“I am running out of possibilities,” I said in frustration. “Speaking to you both now, I see it is unlikely I was fed anything out of their garden.”
“I did not mean to imply they had nothing to do with it,” Denis said. “The surgeon’s opinion is only that what you took was stronger than valerian. They may not have made the opium concoction themselves, but could have had it on hand. If you can find a reason why any of the Quakers wanted Isherwood dead and for you to take the blame, you can send Mr. Quimby to them and be done.”
“Isherwood was a career soldier,” I pointed out. “The Quakers are pacifists. They refuse to take part in any war.”
“A potential conflict there. Perhaps one of their members has gone a little mad about his pacifism and sought to destroy a man he thought personified war.”
I considered the suggestion a moment. “Farfetched.”
“But possible.” Denis signaled one of his guards to open the door, indicating the interview was at an end. “Examine all possibilities, Captain, until you find the right one.”
Upon my return, Bartholomew gave me a note from Mr. Quimby that said he would call on me tomorrow. The missive indicated nothing more than that, and I was confident the man was busily investigating leads of his own.
The social whirl of Brighton continued. The death of a colonel of Preston Barracks and a Quaker lad did not affect the upper classes who’d come to the seaside to play.
We attended a ball that evening in a well-appointment mansion at an estate not far from Brighton. The festivities spilled into the gardens, where paper lanterns hung along the paths, the air warm enough for a stroll.
Comte Desjardins arrived with a young lady who turned out to be his niece. She began chattering to Gabriella, walking away with her, which unfortunately left me alone with Desjardins.
“You aren’t armed tonight, are you, sir?” I asked, making a show of checking him over.
The man laughed. “No, no, my Purdeys are at home. You know I didn’t shoot at you intentionally, my good man.”
He spoke in French, far less awkward in that language. Or was he? Many a Frenchman of my acquaintance who’d lived in England since childhood, as Desjardins had, spoke English fluently, with little accent. I wondered if he affected the awkwardness for his own purposes.
“No?” I countered. I thought about the height and build of the figure in the park, the gleam of moonlight on a fine pistol. “What about during the fireworks in the Steine last night? Was that not you in the shadows, with another gun?”
Desjardins lost his fatuous smile. “What do you mean? You accuse me? You English—I have always been on your side.”
“He’s got you bang to rights.” Lord Armitage had wandered to us, glass of champagne in hand, lantern light touching his sleek dark hair. “It was indeed the good count taking shots in the park. Again, you got in the way, Lacey.”
My temper splintered. “Why the devil were you shooting away in the dark? You could have hit anyone. You could have hit my daughter, damn you.”
“I wasn’t aiming at you,” Desjardins snapped.
“Who then? And does it matter? We are all lucky you are such a rotten shot.”
“I spotted a traitorous femme,” Desjardins said, his scorn rife. “As you might say, a turncoat bitch.”
My hand tightened on my cane, eager to draw the sword within. “If you are speaking of Marguerite Gibbons, there is no evidence of that. Only Armitage’s word.”
Armitage’s brows climbed. “Oh no? I know damn well she went through Isherwood’s dispatches and stole papers. Who can say what else she did? And she shared your bed—everyone was rife with that gossip. Did she pass information to you? Whisper secrets while she lay in your arms?”
I gazed at him in amazement. “Why on earth should she?”
Armitage shrugged. “She recruited where she could. She will deny it—who would not? But she did spy, my dear Captain. Tried to recruit Desjardins here as well.”
Desjardins opened his light blue eyes very wide. With his thick, fair hair, he looked like an overgrown schoolboy, one of the none-too-bright but bullying lads of the upper form.
“I told you, I am loyal to the British,” Desjardins said indignantly. “Your country took me in when my family had to flee the Directorate. Those in power shifted every day—one day a friend, the next, they were sending you to the guillotine.” He shuddered. “Terrible times. I would never betray your country, Captain Lacey. No matter what papers Mrs. Isherwood tried to hand me to leak to Bonaparte’s generals.”
Armitage scowled as Desjardins spluttered through this speech, as though he’d heard it one too many times.
“A moment.” I surveyed the two men, the dandified Frenchman and the ramrod straight Englishman who’d watched the destruction at Austerlitz. “You were on the Peninsula, Desjardins?”
“Of course,” Desjardins said without hesitation. “As an advisor only. Who better to instruct His Grace of Wellington in the thoughts of Marmont and Bonet?”
“And, as you know, the French were allowed to escape when it was all over at Salamanca,” Armitage put in. “How do you suppose that happened? Money changed hands, I imagine. Someone told the French where the weak point lay, and they fled.”
Wellington had not been happy with that blunder—it had given the French time to regroup and join their fellows when they came at us later in Madrid.
Coldness stole over me. I’d always assumed those guarding the French retreat had been given bad orders, or was Armitage correct that information had been leaked?
“It hardly mattered in the end,” I said, trying to keep my expression calm. “Wellington won Salamanca with good tactics, and Bonaparte weakened his Peninsular army by pulling out too many regiments to march to Russia.”
“But Marguerite could not have known that, could she?” Armitage waved his glass. “She seized an opportunity. Likely she was paid for her perfidy. How else could she afford to make her way back to England when Isherwood cut her off?”
I had paid her way to England, but I decided not to bring that up at the moment.
“If you had evidence of her betrayal, gentlemen, why did you not give it to Wellington?” I demanded. “Or send word to have Marguerite arrested when she reached England?”
Desjardins shook his head in sorrow. “These things are difficult to prove, Captain. No doubt she passed on the papers or burned them. Plus she was, as you say, wily.”
Armitage agreed. “I am certain she made certain she’d never be convicted. Marrying a nondescript Englishman must have helped her enormously. I suspect her spying days are over, but I would not trust that woman, Lacey. Not an inch.”
I did not like these two, and I liked what they said still less. “Why are you warning me of her? Why bother?”
“Doing you a favor, old boy,” Armitage said. “She’s still a beautiful woman, and she deceived you once. She can do so again.”
“I have not renewed my intimacy with her,” I said stiffly. “Nor do I intend to.”
“That does not mean she will not use you,” Desjardins said. “Or your friendship. Depend upon it, she is up to no good. Why has she come to Brighton, do you suppose?”
“Her former husband died,” I said, my patience thinning. “She came to see her stepson.”
“Did she?” Desjardins opened his eyes wide. “Perhaps he is passing on English secrets too. Perhaps it runs in the family.”
Armitage scoffed. “Do not become too fanciful, my friend. Isherwood’s son is well thought of in his circle. Isherwood senior was a bullying churl. His son is an angel in comparison.”
“You seemed happy enough to converse with Isherwood at our supper at the Pavilion,” I said. “Congenially, I recall.”
“Politeness.” Armitage’s smile was cold. “The politeness that is drilled into all of us from an early age. We sit with those we despise and do not make a scene.”
Not entirely, as I’d observed. From what I recalled of the supper, Armitage had been boastfully arrogant about his role as diplomat to the Austrian court. Desjardins had been a buffoon, and had ogled Marianne repeatedly. Grenville had studiously ignored them, and Marianne had behaved as though Desjardins was not even in the room.
“Ah, well, Isherwood is dead now,” Desjardins said. “And can tell no tales about his wife.”
Armitage seemed displeased at Desjardins’ words. He lifted his chin. “She might still tell plenty. Have a care of her, Captain. Remain with the beautiful Lady Breckenridge and pay Marguerite no mind.”
Desjardins’ lopsided grin moved dangerously close to a leer. “You did well there, Captain. How do you manage to draw the most beguiling women to your side?”
I bowed coldly. “I will take that as a compliment to my wife. Good evening, gentlemen.”
“I meant no insult, of course,” Desjardins said quickly. I imagine that with his lack of skill at shooting he did his best to stay out of duels. “Englishmen can be so quick to take offense.”
I bowed again without a word and took my leave of both of them.
In the morning as I breakfasted, I found not an answer to my letter to Brandon, but Colonel Brandon himself.