I stared at the man in perplexity, wondering if he were slightly mad. His eyes were moist, his cheeks flushed, his large body quivering. I read panic in him, and also despair.
“Look here,” I said. “You need to be clear with me. Are you saying you are indeed Norris Broadhurst? If you are, who is the poor fellow dead in England with your name?”
Before the man could answer, Grenville’s voice came around the corner. “Lacey, where have you got to?”
The man shrank into the wall. “Tell no one. Please, sir, I beg of you.”
I studied Broadhurst for a fleeting moment. He looked harmless enough, possessing the softness of a City gent, a person who’d worked indoors most of his life. The slight hump in his back, from bending over a desk for years, was another indication of his profession. He truly was afraid and not, in my opinion, likely to pull out a knife and try to gut me.
I motioned for him to keep still and trudged back to the narrow lane that ran beside the Pantheon.
Grenville and Brewster had not yet reached this alley and were calling into other passageways. At least Grenville was shouting for me—Brewster moved in silence, glowering at the bricks as though he’d beat on them until they disgorged me.
I hailed them, and they turned to wait for me in both annoyance and worry. When I reached the pair, I confessed I’d found my gentleman from this morning and that he wished to consult me. I omitted the matter of his true name and his announcement that someone had murdered him, both respecting his wish and wanting to know the full story before I assessed it.
“He will not speak to me if you are anywhere near, so I will meet you later,” I finished.
Grenville was not happy, but he nodded. “Do take care. I will find a coffee house in the Piazza Navona and warm myself.”
Brewster, predictably, refused to move.
“Mr. Grenville can do as he likes.” Brewster’s eyes held no capitulation. “But I don’t stray a step until you come out of that lane with no harm to you. If you say he won’t peep a word if I’m behind you, I’ll keep out of sight. But I’ll be here.” He pointed a broad finger at the pavement beside the bulk of the Pantheon.
I had to concede. Grenville tipped his hat to us and continued along the lane until he turned west toward the piazza.
Brewster planted himself, back against the wall, bending his leg and resting the sole of his large boot behind him. He was hidden from the lane I made for, but anyone coming through his narrow way would have to get past him.
I expected Broadhurst to have fled while I spoke with my friends, but he was still hugging the rubble-strewn niche when I returned, as though he’d be safe there forever.
“Would you prefer a more comfortable spot in which to tell your tale?” I asked him.
Broadhurst shuddered. “No, I would not. Never know who is about. I will be brief. My partner, Mr. Cockburn, was killed a year ago this January in London.”
“I see.” I did not entirely and waited for him to go on.
Broadhurst’s cheeks reddened. “The killer meant to do me, and that’s the truth. Mr. Cockburn had departed our office in Cheapside late one evening. It was dark, and he nipped along to Lombard Street, same as he did every night, heading for rooms he took on a street south of it. As far as I know, he was waylaid, nearly on his doorstep and stabbed through the back, enough times to kill him. They left him there.” Broadhurst’s throat worked. “I found him. Didn’t half give me a turn.”
“I am sorry.” I imagined his horror when Broadhurst stumbled upon the man, his colleague and presumably his friend. “Mr. Grenville seems to think it was you who died. Are you telling me Mr. Cockburn was killed and buried in your place?”
“You have grasped it, Captain.”
“What happened when you found him?” I persisted. “Did you not summon the Watch? Rush to find a magistrate?”
Broadhurst scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I scarce knew what I was about. I was terrified. I—I had to think fast. He and I looked a bit alike, and knew the murderer had mistaken him for me. I thought—why not have it be me who’d died? I found myself switching my coat for his—I had letters addressed to me in my pocket. I took Cockburn’s pocket watch, his coin, all he had. I let myself into his house with his key and nabbed his passport papers and any money I could find, which wasn’t much. Then I fled. I bought passage to the Continent that very night and sailed from Greenwich. The newspapers reported that Norris Broadhurst had been killed, likely by a thug who’d robbed him near Lombard Street. By that time, I was here. Safe, or so I thought.”
I leaned heavily on my walking stick, unnerved by his blatant confession of so readily taking his partner’s identity. A bit hard on poor Cockburn’s family and friends, who believed he was still alive. “Why are you so certain that whoever this murderer was, was after you? It was Mr. Cockburn who was attacked and killed after all.”
Broadhurst wet his lips. “As I say, he and I looked a bit alike, and from the back, one fellow from the City resembles another. And Cockburn, he was trying to put everything right. Our firm had got into a bit of … difficulty. Honest mistakes were made, and the market never does what we think, but I was blamed. I knew I’d face the dock for it, but Cockburn was working diligently to pay back the money. Everyone made him out to be a hero—I was the villain of the piece. So it must have been me this killer wanted. I made sure it seemed he’d offed the correct man.”
“What about your brother?” I asked. “Surely he would have known the dead man was not you.”
Mr. Broadhurst shuffled uneasily from side to side. “He was away, in Canada. The magistrates decided they had enough cause to believe Cockburn was me.”
I had the feeling he was leaving something out of his tale, but I decided not to press him at the moment. I’d pry it from him later, when he wasn’t as nervous.
“You believed that ought to have been the end of it then,” I finished for him. “Why have you begun to worry now?”
“Because I’m being followed.” Broadhurst darted a nervous glance behind me. “When I saw you this morning, I remembered meeting you at the Derby in Epsom year before last—Lord Dorland introduced us. He’d been speaking to me about investments.”
I recalled the introduction now, a brief encounter. I’d been pulled away very soon to attend Lady Aline Carrington, who had convinced Grenville and me to escort her to the races. Broadhurst had begun his patter to convince me he was a trustworthy man for my investments, but as I had little money of my own, I’d paid him no heed and had gratefully used the excuse of assisting Lady Aline to escape him. I hadn’t thought about Broadhurst again from that day to this morning.
“I’m not sure what you wish me to do, sir,” I said stiffly. “If you fear retaliation, you ought to hire a man to guard you.”
Broadhurst’s eyes widened. “Thought of that, thought of that. I’m not certain I trust these Romans. Gut you and rob you as soon as look at you, I’d say. I cannot turn to an English servant, such as you have, because they gossip, don’t they? I’d be found out.”
I began losing patience with the man. “If you do not trust the inhabitants of this city, why do you live you here?”
“I am merely another tourist, aren’t I?” Broadhurst waved a plump arm. “The British expatriates are mostly artists and writers or minor aristos, and I don’t know them. They’ve never heard of Mr. Cockburn, let alone Mr. Broadhurst, of the City—”
“How can you be certain someone has found you out?” I interrupted.
Again his pale tongue slid along his lips. “Letters. Short missives left with my landlord. You cannot hide. Repay what you owe. That sort of thing.”
“Perhaps I could have a look at these letters.” I held out my hand. “Examining them might help identify the writer. His handwriting, the paper, quality of the ink.”
Broadhurst shakily thrust a fist into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “I put most of them on the fire—I didn’t want them anywhere near me. All but this one that I received when I returned to my rooms this morning. It clinched the matter of seeking you out.”
I took the letter, opened it, and read. You will pay for what you have done.
That was all. The hand was rather neat, as though the writer wished to make certain his message was clear.
“If you receive any more, save them,” I said, refolding it. “Shove them into a box if you can’t stand to look at the things, but bring them to me.”
Broadhurst’s eyes filled with hope. “You will help me, then?”
“I will consider it.” I tucked the letter into my pocket, where it hung like a weight. I continued in a stern tone, “Another tactic you might take is to give the money back. You told me that Mr. Cockburn was trying to make things right. Why not finish what he started? I imagine that a man who saw the money he lost returned to him would be more kindly disposed to you.”
Mr. Broadhurst cleared his throat. “Not so easily done, you see.”
I hadn’t thought it would be, or he’d not have fled to the Continent at the first opportunity he found.
“You have spent all the money?” I could not find any kindness in me for his misdeeds. “You ought to have remained at home and faced the consequences, Mr. Broadhurst.”
It had occurred to me that his story of finding Mr. Cockburn conveniently dead could well be a false one. Perhaps Broadhurst had realized that he faced debtors’ prison, or worse, and had invented the scheme of switching identities with his partner. Blows from a knife in the dark, a flight to another country, and he was free.
“Perhaps I ought.” Mr. Broadhurst fluttered his gloved hands. “But there’s nothing to be done now.”
I doubted that. He must have managed to squirrel away a large portion of the money he’d swindled before he’d escaped to the Continent. His clothes were whole and well-tailored, his hat a fine one, and he could pay for lodgings. He was not living in the gutter and suffering from want.
I grew annoyed with Mr. Broadhurst. His sins were coming home to roost, and he was asking me to help him avoid this fate. He struck me as one who would do anything to evade responsibility. Even murder? Possibly.
“I’d heard that you are rather good at hunting down those who harm others,” Mr. Broadhurst went on. He spoke breathily, and I detected true shame in him. “If you can discover who is doing this, perhaps dissuade them from pursuing me … The tame ruffian who follows you about would be just the thing.” His face grew red. “I know it’s an awful cheek, but I truly am frightened.”
I firmed my mouth. “What I suggest, sir, is that you either move to another city or own up to your crimes and reimburse your victims, even if it ruins you. Become the hero, as you called Mr. Cockburn, rather than the villain.”
“Would that it were so simple.” Mr. Broadhurst stated this with feeling. “I vow, I would pay back all I owed if I could. And I did plan to move along. Rome is getting too frightening for me. But, please.” His eyes held fear and some self-loathing, none of it feigned. “If you could see your way to discovering who stalks me like a gamekeeper and dissuade him, I would be ever so grateful.”
“Are you certain you have no idea who is behind this?” Usually, a man wasn’t threatened without cause or at least a knowledge of who wished violence against him.
Broadhurst’s eyes flickered as though he’d thought of someone, but he shook his head. “It could be one of so many. That is the trouble. Please, Captain, if you do this for me, I could put some good your way.”
I had no wish to take investment advice from a swindler, but as Broadhurst opened his mouth to bleat more pleas, I held up my hand. “I will look into the threats. For nothing else but my conscience in case someone does manage to murder you.”
Broadhurst flinched but melted in gratitude at the same time.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. You are an honest gentleman.”
Truth to tell, I wanted nothing more to do with the man, finding him a bit odious. But also true, if I discovered tomorrow that someone had bashed him to death in the night, I’d not forgive myself for not preventing a murder. I could also discover, if possible, what had become of the cash he’d cheated out of his clients, and perhaps have it returned to them. Not all gentlemen could afford to lose their funds.
“Do not thank me yet,” I said. “I will hunt for this letter-writer, but I will not promise to set my ruffian, as you call him, on him. Brewster is his own man, not my lackey.”
Broadhurst had to concede this point, and stuck out his hand. I clasped it in a firm grip that caused him to wince then quickly withdraw.
“If you receive any other letters, bring them to the house next to the Palazzo Giustiniani and leave them with Mr. Grenville’s valet. I am departing this city tomorrow for a short time, and I have no intention of holding up my journey for your sake.”
“Not at all, not at all.” Broadhurst beamed at me. “Anything you can do is welcome, my dear fellow.”
“I am hardly your dear fellow.” I tipped my hat. “Good day, sir.”
I turned away. Broadhurst did not follow me, and I heard nothing from him as I made my way back to the wider lane and the scowling Brewster.
I could not very well keep what I discussed with Broadhurst from Brewster or Grenville. I would need their help, and I could trust them to keep the secret.
Brewster, to whom I’d told the tale as we walked, decided to remain outside the coffee house as I entered the dark, low-ceilinged room filled with pipe smoke and the heavy aroma of roasted coffee. Brewster’s opinion was that I should find the letter-writer and lead him to Broadhurst and good riddance, but I pretended to ignore him.
I found Grenville in a corner table in the coffee house, reading an Italian-language newspaper, a small cup next to his elbow. I seated myself opposite him, and when he lowered the paper, I told him in a hushed voice all that Broadhurst had said.
“You amaze me, Lacey,” Grenville said once I’d finished. “Not from your story—I am not surprised the man found a way to survive, likely with the funds intact, as you suspect. I am amazed that you agreed to help him.”
I shrugged. “Not so much him, but this person who is threatening him. If I can save that man from the noose, I will consider it a good deed. Why waste a life because of a pest like my new acquaintance?”
“Ah,” Grenville said, his tension easing. “I take your meaning.”
“I suppose we must interview every Englishman in Rome until we find the letter-writer,” I said. “A tall order?”
Grenville folded his paper, creasing it before he laid it aside. “Not entirely. We may begin today. I am obligated to call on those of my acquaintance before I vanish from the city. They will feel slighted otherwise, and my reputation will be in tatters.”
He spoke lightly, but I knew Grenville did not entirely jest. There was a code of conduct a gentleman had to follow in order not to be considered a boor, or even called out if his behavior was deemed too insulting. I’d always been grateful I was seen as a rough-shod army man and forgiven my lapses, but Grenville knew exactly how to tread the line.
We departed the coffee house, fetched Brewster, who’d made a friend of a lad who cleaned shoes at the side of the square, and made our way back to Grenville’s. There I retired to my chamber so that I could be presentable when Grenville was ready to depart.
The English who’d exiled themselves to Rome, whether they’d departed Britain by choice or under scandalous circumstances, dwelled in abodes around the Piazza Navona or the Piazza di Spagna, near the lavish gardens of the Villa Borghese.
Grenville led me on foot early that afternoon, Brewster trailing us, to a tall house that overlooked the Borghese gardens. Lord Matthew Roberts, our host there, was the brother of a marquis. He and his wife were middle aged, Lord Matthew’s hair gray, his wife’s a dark brown with only a few silver hairs. Lord Matthew had been an acquaintance of my mentor, Colonel Brandon, in their younger days, and professed to be delighted to see me.
“Splendid to meet you, sir.” Lord Matthew pumped my arm, his grip solid. “Heard about you through Brandon’s letters. Very proud he was, of his recruit.”
I murmured something polite, wondering how detailed those letters had been. Colonel Brandon had been quite pleased about my rise through the ranks, he boosting me all the way, but our subsequent falling out had been tumultuous. However, Brandon was a private man, so perhaps he’d spared his friends the exact tale.
Lady Matthew—Millicent—welcomed us to her parlor, where other guests had congregated. The chamber with its high ceilings possessed the grandeur of a palace, though the gold leaf trim flaked around paintings that were dim from age. Many of these houses had been built a hundred and more years ago, when popes and cardinals had decided that Rome needed to show the splendor befitting their high authority.
Grenville settled in comfortably without betraying any awe at the ostentation of our surroundings. I kept myself from staring and accepted hock to drink.
The guests were unknown to me, though Grenville was acquainted with most. Colonel Ward, a retired military officer I did not recognize, greeted me warmly. He’d been artillery, laying down fire before the cavalry charged. Though he’d been in a different regiment from mine and our paths had not crossed, we’d shared the experience of the Peninsula War, which made him inclined to befriend me.
I did not have much time to reminisce with him, finding myself buttonholed by the ladies of the group—the colonel’s wife; Lady Matthew; and one Mrs. Hetherington, who was perhaps ten years older than me and determined to keep a firm grip on her youth.
The three were not so much charmed by me as interested in my wife. Donata, the former Lady Breckenridge, was well known throughout aristocratic and genteel society, and speaking to her nobody husband—why on earth did she marry that odd fellow?—would give them fodder for conversation for days to come.
Mrs. Hetherington was somewhat of a bluestocking, or at least professed to be, all the while wearing plenty of diamonds and silk, her cheeks rouged. She was a friend to poets, she boasted, like the scandalous Mr. Shelley, who’d left his wife to run away with the Godwin girl, and poor Mr. Keats, whom she was trying to persuade to come to Rome for his health. As for Lord Byron, well, she could tell tales …
The three women, tossing questions at me one after another, managed to pry from me that Donata’s son had journeyed with us instead of being shut into his school, that both my wife and I adored our new daughter, and that Donata continued to move in high society, though I was more content sitting at home.
Grenville was no help, deep in conversation with the gentlemen. Before the ladies could take me into the ring for another round, the butler entered and cleared his throat.
“Conte de Luca has arrived, my lord.”
I rose in surprise as a rather stocky man of medium height and black hair entered and made a flourishing bow, a cape rippling over one shoulder. He rose but dropped his gloves, a wry smile creasing his face as he swiped them up from the floor and handed them and his cape to a patiently waiting footman.
This ungainly gentleman was the man I was to contact for Mr. Denis and from whom I was to obtain the costly artifact.