In Which John Pickett Plans a Journey
The November days had grown short, and the lamplighters were making their rounds when Pickett left the Bow Street office and set out on the short walk to his hired lodgings in Drury Lane. Along the way he stopped at a bookstore, where he caused the proprietor considerable annoyance by studying the latest edition of Debrett’s Correct Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland for fully ten minutes before leaving the shop without making a single purchase.
Night had fallen by the time he reached his own residence. Not being inclined toward conversation, he offered a diffident greeting to his landlady, Mrs. Catchpole, and then climbed the stairs from the chandler’s shop on the ground floor to his own two rooms above. These were cold and dark when he entered, a situation he set out to remedy as quickly as possible. A single candle stood on a small table near the door and, having lit this so that he might move about the room without barking his shins against the furniture, he knelt before the grate and built a fire. Once the kindling had caught hold, he set a kettle of water to boil, then lit a lamp from the candle flame and took a long, hard look about the rooms he had called home for the last five years.
Perhaps it was because he had spent most of the day traipsing about the wealthiest and most fashionable part of London, but tonight his lodgings appeared even smaller, older, and shabbier than usual. It occurred to him that even Mr. Kenney, who appeared to be no plumper in the pocket than Pickett was himself, had an estate in Ireland to offer a wealthy bride; he, John Pickett, had nothing. Small wonder Lady Fieldhurst could not contact her solicitor quickly enough! He tried to picture her living here as his wife—heating water over the fire for tea, perhaps, or setting the small table for dinner—and failed utterly.
His gaze drifted to a door in the wall adjacent to the fireplace, and thence to the darkened bedroom beyond. While it was undoubtedly pleasant to imagine lying in the narrow bed with “Mrs. Pickett” at his side (or, better yet, underneath him), that scenario was the least likely of all; it would not have been that way, even had he accepted her invitation to become her lover. No, he thought bitterly, any such assignation (assuming Lord Rupert was mistaken, and her courage would not have failed her at the crucial moment) would have been conducted at her house in Curzon Street, on a thick, soft mattress with perfumed sheets, and as dawn approached he would have tiptoed down the stairs, carrying his shoes in his hand lest the servants hear him slinking away like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.
The wisps of steam beginning to rise off the kettle told him the water was hot, and so, shaking off a thoroughly unproductive train of thought, he set about preparing himself a cup of tea. While it steeped, he shrugged off his brown serge coat and hung it over the back of one of the two chairs beneath the table, then pulled the other chair close to the fire and took up a tattered copy of The Vicar of Wakefield from the mantel. He sat down, tugged off his boots, propped his stocking feet up on the hearth, and opened his book.
Alas, his present mood was not conducive to reading. After skimming the same paragraph four times without yet comprehending it, he closed the book and set it aside, then padded in his stocking feet to fetch his occurrence book from the pocket of his discarded coat. Returning to the fire, he flipped back in his notes to the beginning of the case and began to review them.
He had been at this task for perhaps twenty minutes when he saw something that made him sit up straighter in his chair and draw the lamp closer. He turned back five pages—no, six—and reread Dulcie’s account of the evening. It was just as he had thought. Captain Sir Charles Ormond had stated that it had taken him between thirty and forty-five minutes to return to the barracks from Audley Street. At the time, Pickett had found nothing amiss with this claim. But the captain had not walked; according to Dulcie, he had ridden. And a horse should have been able to cover the distance in substantially less time, especially at so late an hour, when there would have been little traffic in the streets. What would account for those extra minutes? Had the captain stopped somewhere along the way? Or had he, perhaps, lingered in the mews out of sight until the other guests had departed, then returned to the house and shot Sir Reginald?
It appeared that Captain Sir Charles Ormond, whom Pickett had all but eliminated from his list of suspects, was now back on that list—and very near the top.
“There is one thing about this case that puzzles me,” Pickett confided to Mr. Colquhoun the next morning, leaning against the wooden railing in front of the magistrate’s bench.
Mr. Colquhoun looked up at him from beneath bushy white brows. “Only one?”
“Well, several actually, but one thing in particular stands out.”
“And what is that?” asked the magistrate.
“Why would anyone choose to kill Sir Reginald now? As I see it, Lord Dernham and Captain Sir Charles Ormond had the most compelling reasons for wanting the man dead. But Lord Dernham’s wife has been dead for three years, and the disaster involving Captain Sir Charles’s regiment took place almost a decade ago. Why would either of them decide to kill him now, when they had managed to restrain themselves years ago, at a time when their losses were still fresh?”
“Have you eliminated the other suspects, then?”
“No, sir, not entirely. But Lord Rupert Latham appears to have no motive, while as for Lord Edwin Braunton, he makes no secret of his hatred for Sir Reginald, but the only connection between the two men that I can see is the fact that their daughters were at school together. Even Mr. Kenney’s banishment from his club, and his loss of a wealthy bride, would seem to pale in comparison to the deaths of innocent persons at Sir Reginald’s hands.”
“And yet you and I have both known men to kill for less,” observed Mr. Colquhoun.
Heaving a sigh, Pickett drummed his fingers on the railing. “Very true, sir. In the end, I suppose it doesn’t really matter how compelling I might find the motive; the murderer’s reasoning is the only one that counts. I keep asking myself what in Sir Reginald’s recent history could recall someone’s mind to past grievances to such an extent that they would be moved to kill him. If I could just discover that, I can’t help thinking the rest would fall into place.”
“Very well, and how do you intend to accomplish this?”
“With your permission, sir, I should like to make a brief visit to Leicestershire.”
The magistrate frowned. “Why Leicestershire, if I may be so bold as to inquire?”
Pickett came up off the railing and began to pace, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. “I keep coming back to the same question: ‘Why now?’ And I keep getting the same answer.”
“Which is?”
“As far as I can see, the only thing in Sir Reginald’s life that has changed recently has to do with the marriage of his daughter.”
“But Miss Montague is living in London, is she not?”
“She is, sir, but I don’t think it would do me the slightest bit of good to question her in any case. To judge by Miss Montague’s behavior upon learning of her father’s death, she would seem to be very fond of him; apparently she has been shielded from any rumors regarding his unsavory reputation. I don’t think she could tell me anything of value—or that she would, even if she knew anything.”
“And you believe there is someone in Leicestershire who could?”
“Lord Edwin Braunton’s daughter Catherine. The two girls were at school together in Bath, and both were presented at Court this past spring. Being familiar with the family and yet some distance removed from it, she might have insights Sir Reginald’s own daughter would lack, or be unwilling to divulge.”
“I gather this daughter lives in Leicestershire?”
Pickett nodded. “Lord Edwin has an estate there. I looked him up in Debrett’s.” Seeing his mentor was not convinced, he added, “Call it playing a hunch, sir.”
Mr. Colquhoun performed a few mental calculations. “Almost a hundred miles each way. At least two days on the road north and another two back, not to mention overnight accommodations and meals along the way. Damned expensive hunch, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” Pickett conceded with a sigh, then brightened as a new thought occurred to him. “I could save a little by purchasing a seat on the roof of the coach, if that would help.”
But this suggestion found no favor with the magistrate. “In this weather? Much use you’ll be around here if you catch your death of cold! Very well, Mr. Pickett, you have my permission to play your hunch. You may leave first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you, sir. But—”
“Yes? But what?”
“The annulment, sir. I was to meet with Lady Fieldhurst and her solicitor tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Her ladyship has survived being married to you for this long; I daresay another se’ennight won’t kill her.”
“No, sir,” said Pickett, pleased out of all proportion at being able to keep his “wife” for another week.
Mr. Colquhoun’s permission notwithstanding, there were several things Pickett needed to do before his departure the following morning. The first of these involved another visit to the Horse Guards; the second (and to his mind, by far the most important) concerned paying a call on Lady Fieldhurst in Curzon Street.
Upon arriving at the Horse Guards in Whitehall, Pickett entered the stables, blinking as his eyes adjusted from the bright autumn sun to the relative darkness within. Once the spots had faded from his vision, he began questioning stable hands, and soon located the groom responsible for the care of the captain’s mount.
“I understand Captain Sir Charles Ormond left the barracks two nights ago to go to a dinner party in Audley Street,” he began. “I wonder if you can tell me if he took out his horse that night, or if he went on foot.”
To his surprise, the groom chuckled. “As a matter of fact, he did both. He rode to Mayfair right enough, but he came back on foot, leading poor Diablo by the reins.”
“Why should he do such a thing?” asked Pickett, trying to see how this scenario might dovetail with murder, and failing to see any possible connection.
“Had to, didn’t he? Diablo threw a shoe along the way. Ah well,” said the groom with a shrug, “if it had to happen, better that it should happen the night before than during review the next morning.”
“Yes, I can see how it would be,” conceded Pickett.
It appeared, then, that Captain Sir Charles hadn’t had an opportunity to kill Sir Reginald after all—unless, of course, he had done so with the full cooperation of the men in his regiment, who were now covering for him. Pickett sighed. He’d run up against government bureaucracy once before, during his investigation of Lord Fieldhurst’s death. On that occasion, the government entity had been the Foreign Office, and he had not come off well from the encounter. He would take on the British Army if all else failed, but he would prefer a simpler solution to the case. He could only hope for better luck in his tête-à-tête with Lady Fieldhurst.
Alas, it was not to be. “Why, Mr. Pickett,” she exclaimed, when he was shown into her drawing room. “I did not expect to see you until tomorrow morning. Are you so eager to be rid of me that you would arrive a full day ahead of time?”
This suggestion was so glaringly abroad that Pickett chose not to dignify it with an answer. “I’m afraid I will be unable to attend you tomorrow morning, my lady. I must undertake a journey in the morning, and will be away for at least a week.”
“Oh. I see.” Her face fell, and Pickett could not help hoping that it was the prospect of his absence, and not the delay of the annulment, that caused her mouth to droop. “It was thoughtful of you to let me know, Mr. Pickett, but you need not have come in person. Surely a note would have sufficed.”
“In fact, my lady, there is another reason for my calling. It concerns the investigation.”
“Of course, if there is anything I can do—but will you not sit down?”
“Thank you, my lady.” At her urging, he took a seat on the sofa, and was gratified when she eschewed the chairs that flanked it and sat down beside him.
“Now we may be comfortable,” she said, smiling at him. “I daresay you have thought of more questions for me. As Emily Dunnington says, you may do your worst.”
Pickett took a deep breath. “Speaking of Lady Dunnington, I should like for you to tell me why she was obliged to leave the room during dinner that night.”
Her smile faltered. “But—but I told you.”
“You certainly told me something, and Lady Dunnington told me something else entirely. Correct me if I am wrong,” he said thoughtfully, “but I believe it was the first time you have ever lied to me.”
She lifted her chin, but her blue eyes held a hunted expression curiously at odds with the defiant little gesture. “How do you know it was I and not Lady Dunnington who was being economical with the truth? Surely Emily is more closely involved than I am; why don’t you put your questions to her?”
“I doubt she would be any more forthcoming the second time than she was the first,” he confessed.
“And yet you expect me to be. Why is that, Mr. Pickett?”
Because there is—something—between us, something that refuses to be denied, no matter how many times I tell myself how impossible it is . . . Please tell me it isn’t one-sided, that you feel it too . . . No, this was hardly the time or the place for a declaration, if such a time and place existed at all. While he groped for an answer, the silence stretched uncomfortably between them until Lady Fieldhurst felt compelled to break it.
“I didn’t lie to you, not really,” she insisted. “I told you it was a domestic crisis of some sort, and so it was, but more than that I cannot say. Pray do not ask it of me, Mr. Pickett.”
“My lady, you know I must.”
“I am sorry, then, but I must decline to answer.”
It occurred to her that if Lord Dunnington had indeed shot Sir Reginald, she was shielding a murderer by her silence. And yet this prospect was somehow less disturbing than the bitter knowledge that she must be at odds with one whose good opinion had become invaluable to her for reasons she could not fully explain, not even to herself. But Emily had been her dearest friend for six years, had consoled her and helped her cope with the late Lord Fieldhurst’s infidelities when she was obliged to present a brave and smiling face to the rest of the world. Surely Emily was more deserving of her loyalty than a Bow Street Runner of scarcely more than six months’ acquaintance, be he never so winsome.
“My lady,” Pickett said gently, taking her hand and clasping it between both of his own, “after all we have been through together, have I not shown you that you can trust me?”
Her gaze faltered, and her free hand plucked at the skirt of her gray half-mourning gown. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mr. Pickett, I just—can’t tell you.”
He released her hand abruptly and rose to take his leave. “If that is your idea of trust, I don’t think much of it.”
“Please don’t go,” she begged, clutching at his sleeve. “Not like this. Sit down and I shall ring for tea, and we can talk about something—anything!—other than Sir Reginald Montague’s murder. I hear Mrs. Church will soon be making her final appearance on the Drury Lane stage. Do you remember when—”
She was interrupted by Thomas the footman. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but Lord Rupert Latham is below.”
She sighed. “Very well, Thomas, show him up,” she said with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
If Pickett had been inclined to linger, the appearance of his most hated rival was sufficient to put paid to the idea. “I really must go, my lady,” Pickett said. “I leave at first light for Leicestershire, and my bags are not yet packed.”
Her fingertips trailed down his forearm as she released his sleeve. “I see. I—I wish you a pleasant journey, Mr. Pickett. You—you will let me know when you return to London?” Lest he should read too much into this simple request, she hastily added, “So that I can inform Mr. Crumpton, of course.”
Pickett, however, had more pressing concerns. “My lady—before Lord Rupert arrives—I should warn you—”
“Lord Rupert Latham,” announced Thomas, returning at that moment with the gentleman in tow.
Lord Rupert entered the room with feline grace, raising his quizzing glass to his eye at the sight of Pickett apparently tête-àtête with Lady Fieldhurst. He gave a curt nod in Pickett’s direction, then took Julia’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “My lady—or should I say Mrs. Pickett?”
Lady Fieldhurst went quite pale as she and turned to confront Pickett. “You—you told him!”
“I—I—I—” Pickett could not begin to explain his lapse; there was, after all, no defending the indefensible. “I—I’m sorry, my lady, I—I’d best be going,” he stammered, and beat a hasty retreat.
“A wise man, our Mr. Pickett,” observed Lord Rupert, watching his scrambling departure.
“I can’t believe he told you!” she exclaimed to Lord Rupert after he had gone. “Oh, how could he?”
“Surely you cannot expect a man of his class to keep such a coup to himself,” said Lord Rupert. “I suspect it is not every day that a member of the Bow Street force marries into the aristocracy, even by accident.”
“No, but—did he tell you how it came about?”
“He did.” Lord Rupert inclined his head. “I suppose I should be flattered that you deemed me not insignificant enough to warrant your calling yourself Mrs. Latham.”
“Mr. Pickett is hardly insignificant,” protested Lady Fieldhurst. “Still, his name is certainly less likely than yours to be recognized in polite circles. Naturally we intend to obtain an annulment as soon as it may be arranged. In the meantime, Rupert, it is imperative that you tell no one.”
Lord Rupert bowed his acquiescence. “I daresay I can be at least as discreet as your artless young husband.”
“That is hardly reassuring under the circumstances,” she retorted. “Still, I don’t understand why he told you. It seems at odds with what I know of his character.”
“I fear I must shoulder part of the blame for Mr. Pickett’s, er, fall from grace,” confessed Lord Rupert.
“You? Why? What did you say to him?”
He shook his head. “The particulars of the conversation are not important. Suffice it to say that I seem to have goaded him into indiscretion.”
She frowned at him. “By which you mean you were being horrid. Really, Rupert, it is unkind of you to taunt him. He hasn’t your advantages.”
“Yes, quite unworthy of me, I know. But my dear, all that earnestness! He makes it well nigh irresistible.”
“Irresistible,” she echoed. It was the right word for him. One look into those warm brown eyes, and she’d come within ames ace of offering up Lord Dunnington’s head on a platter in spite of her promises to Emily. I yearn for you body and soul . . . “Yes, he is, at that.”
Lord Rupert bent a sharp look at her, but Lady Fieldhurst, gazing abstractedly at the door through which Pickett had just left, didn’t notice.