Sleep eluded me that night. Reason told me that even if Roger had kept Freddie’s letter in the blue velvet book before, when he killed Neal—and I did believe he was the murderer—he would have removed the letter from the blue velvet book. He would not want to lose his valuable piece of blackmail material, after all. I need not worry that Freddie’s letter was now in Mr. Lavender’s hands.
Yet I could not be certain. If Roger were inventive, might he not have had a copy of the letter written out and left in the book? That way, yours truly could be arrested, and Roger’s way would be clear to blackmail Freddie with no one to stop him.
But no, the scandal would be made public at that point. Roger would lose his hold over Freddie then. So what was Roger’s plan? Why had he left the book at the scene of the crime?
Ah, of course to implicate me in the death of a common thief. That made more sense. With me out of the way, busy defending myself to Bow Street, Roger’s path to blackmailing Freddie would be clear.
I paced my bedchamber, trying to form a strategy that would allow me to remain a step ahead of Bow Street and Roger Cranworth. Who had killed twice.
Around seven in the morning, I rang for Robinson. The valet made not a murmur of protest about the early hour. I tell you, I do not know which is worse, his complaining or this eagerness to make amends.
By nine I was seated in my book-room, clad in my Eton-blue coat over buff breeches. Chakkri, wise entity that he is, spent a restful night in the exact centre of my bed, dined this morning on Andre’s special scrambled eggs with cheese sauce, and was presently ready for his extended morning nap. The cat scanned the lined shelves of books, but chose to hop up onto the small revolving bookcase that sits on the other side of my desk near a chair. He entwined his fawn-coloured body around the finial, curled his tail into the letter “C” and promptly fell asleep.
“Lucky devil,” I muttered. Drawing a sheet of vellum from the desk drawer, I put pen to paper and began answering correspondence. My mind was only half on what I wrote, though. I was really waiting for Mr. Lavender. Once he comprehended the book was mine, he would be on my doorstep.
I did not write to Freddie. Better to wait until later in the day when I might know more. Then there was the chance she might take pity on me if she knew I was writing from jail.
The knocker sounded a scant twenty minutes later. I continued my writing, not even glancing up when Robinson announced Mr. Lavender. “Send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
I resumed writing, my demeanor unconcerned.
The Scotsman entered the room with my blue velvet book in hand.
I tried to bluff. “Good God, however did you find that? Sit down, Mr. Lavender. I shall take that book from you. Have you got my stolen clothing as well?”
Mr. Lavender let the book drop with a loud thud on top of the desk right under my nose. My hands itched with the desire to flip through the pages and see if, by some miracle, the letter was there.
The Scotsman never took his eyes off me as he lowered himself into the chair opposite the desk. “That is your book, then, Mr. Brummell?”
As if I could deny ownership when right on the first page my name was engraved in gold. I forced myself to casually go through the pages, tsking occasionally. “Of course it is mine. Dear me, that drawing Lady Perry gave me of Perry playing the pianoforte is missing.”
“Stop your playacting, Mr. Brummell. You knew exactly where the book was. Neal had it.” Mr. Lavender, minus his toothpick today, his face hard as granite, was all business.
I assumed my best foolish dandy expression, all the while continuing to examine the book. Freddie’s letter was not there, dash it. “Er, yes, I knew the highwayman—Neal I believe Lionel said his name was—had the book unless he had sold it for the price of these silver corners.”
Mr. Lavender glared at me in complete disbelief. “You can’t think I’d believe you hadn’t found that ugly customer, Neal, and talked with him, tried to buy your things back.”
“Why? I avoid ugly customers, as you say, as a rule.”
“That was Neal Snure’s body on the street last night outside the King’s Theatre.”
I sighed. “That alters the case amazingly. I shall never find my clothes now. At least I have my book.”
Mr. Lavender shot to his feet and used both hands to brace himself against the desk. “Had you spoken to Neal Snure about your clothes and this book?”
“Why should I? Once I knew your daughter had told you his name, I assumed you would handle the matter.”
Mr. Lavender glared at me. “Last night when I found this book and saw your name in it, I had a bad feeling. In fact, Mr. Brummell, most times I hear your name or see your face I have a bad feeling.”
“I say!” I protested. “That is a touch harsh.”
“When the body was identified as that of Neal, that bad feeling grew into some mighty strong suspicions. You hunted him down, didn’t you?”
I made a steeple of my fingers and smiled amiably. “Do you really think me so clever, then? I am flattered.”
The Scotsman pointed a finger at me. “I won’t address that remark. What I want to know, laddie, and you’ll be telling me this instant, is why. Why is that book in front of you so important?”
“This book? What makes you think I care about it? Here, you can have it back if you need it as evidence. It holds only sentimental value for me as you must know. No doubt you have been through it. Mind, I shall want it returned to me when you are done.”
“Don’t think you can trick me and wheedle your way around the subject,” the Bow Street man said, his voice rising. Then, in a normal, but no less menacing tone he said, “You wouldn’t have raised one of your finely manicured hands to locate those clothes. It was that book you were after. Now the thief is dead.”
“The lives of thieves are seldom long are they?”
“I find it all mortal curious. You’re not that sentimental a man. Here’s something else that’s curious, Mr. Brummell. You leave London to attend a party at Oatlands. Your clothes and that book are stolen along the way, then—”
“We have already established that a highwayman had been plaguing the area.”
Again the finger pointed at me. “Don’t be interrupting,” he said, burring his “r.” “Lord Kendrick is murdered at Oatlands for a reason I have yet to determine, though I have some ideas. While I am at Oatlands, The Royal Duchess confesses to me that she has been upset for two days. When I question her as to why two days when the murder on her property had only occurred that morning, she faints. You come back to London and immediately hunt down the highwayman rather than poking your quizzing glass round trying to figure out who murdered Lord Kendrick. The thief ends up murdered outside the very place you’re passing the evening.”
“I thought you did not wish me involved in murder cases. I thought you would be singing Scottish songs of cheer that I have not investigated the murder. I fail to comprehend—”
“Then let me say it plain,” Mr. Lavender volunteered. “Here are the facts. That book is stolen. Two people are murdered.”
“One does not have anything to do with the other,” I said.
Mr. Lavender’s eyes flashed a warning. “Let me be the judge of that. I’ve been looking into the murder of the marquess. He wasn’t well liked. His cousin was afraid of him, why I don’t know. He was a bully to her, but there’s something more.”
Should I tell him about Lord Kendrick’s threats to have Lady Ariana put into a lunatic asylum? No, I could never do that to the girl as much as I wanted to divert Mr. Lavender’s attention from myself. I cleared my throat. “I believe Lady Ariana to have had a difficult life.”
The Scotsman’s eyes narrowed. “She’s got an odd kick in her gallop, that’s the truth. If you know anything, you’d better not be holding back from me, laddie.”
“Me? Hold something back from you? Why would I do that?”
He drew a deep breath. “Then we have Cecily Cranworth, the marquess’s childhood love, angry because Lord Kendrick wouldn’t wed her.”
“Hmmm.”
“Most interesting of all, neither you nor her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York liked the marquess. Now what reason could the two of you have to dislike him? See, this is where things get interesting. You were observed in an angry confrontation with the marquess the day before he was murdered. You were overheard saying that the marquess’s smirk would be something few people would miss. Why?”
I rose to my feet. Fairingdale had been talking again. Mr. Lavender was stumbling too close to the truth. His path must be redirected. “While I have previously eased the boredom of my days by sparring with you, Mr. Lavender, I see I cannot allow you to labour under any misconceptions in this case.”
“Good.” The Scotsman stood up straight.
“As to this riddle of Lord Kendrick’s murder, if you find you need my help, why, I shall consider offering you my assistance on the condition that you cease throwing out innuendo that I might have killed him. Or this Neal person.”
“It’s all somehow to do with that book isn’t it, and you’re the owner of the book!”
“Actually, if you want to know the truth,” I said in the manner of one careless of anything but his own pleasure, “it is all to do with your lovely daughter. I find that I shall use any excuse to call upon her. I am not above telling her that I desire the names and locations of the rag-merchants, when what I really desire is to gaze upon her—”
Quicker than thought, the Bow Street man was round the desk. He has the disadvantage of being a few inches shorter than me, but he was about to toast my ears and nothing could stop him. I did not even try, leaning as I did against the desk and taking a moment to eradicate a piece of lint from my glossy Hessian boots.
“You’ll leave my daughter out of this!” he barked.
I put my head to one side. “But you wanted to know about the book. I just told you. I cannot resist your daughter’s dark red hair, so I called on her and asked for her help in getting my stolen possessions returned to me.”
My ploy to distract the Bow Street man was working. “How did you get Lydia to put on that disgraceful gown last night? My own flesh and blood half naked in the middle of London!” he seethed.
“Oh the fancy-dress was her idea. I think she told me she rented it at a place in Fleet Street. Quite fetching.”
“That’s not what I meant!” he shouted. “And just what was Lydia doing at your house earlier yesterday? Answer me that.”
I shrugged. “It was a private matter. Why not ask her yourself?”
“I did and she told me it was not my concern.”
“There you are, then,” I said reasonably.
“I will not have you flirting with my daughter!”
“Flirting?” My brows came together as I gave the appearance of one giving the subject deep consideration. “At the King’s Theatre, we were merely dancing the new valse. Some, I expect, would call that flirting, I grant you.”
Mr. Lavender’s face mottled red. “The valse! That shameless dance from Germany? The one where couples are squeezing and hugging each another?”
“That is the very one!”
“Do not,” the Bow Street man roared, “do not ever lay your hands on my daughter again! She is a vulnerable lass. I’ll not have her subjected to the attentions and flattery of an idle, useless ornament of Society whose thoughts centre round tying his cravat, gaming away his money, and dallying with any female he finds attractive including the Duchess of York!” he finished inexcusably.
Silence followed Freddie’s name. I could hear the ticking of the long-case clock standing in the corner. With a studied casualness, I extended my hand to the silver bell that rested on the polished surface of my desk. I rang it once. Robinson appeared immediately. Naturally, he had been listening outside the double doors.
“Yes, sir?”
I had not taken my gaze from the Bow Street man and did not do so now. “Robinson, Mr. Lavender is leaving.”
The Scotsman gave me a look as black as thunder, then turned on his booted heel and followed Robinson out the door.
I waited until I heard the street door close before I released my breath on a long sigh. I had succeeded in leading him off the scent of Freddie and me, but it was clear the Bow Street man knew of my attachment to Freddie. And because of my carelessness in not asking Lion to keep quiet, Mr. Lavender knew of my connection to Neal.
How long could I keep the matter of the missing letter from him? Miss Lavender was aware of it, courtesy of Sylvester Fairingdale. If her father did find out about it, how long would it be before he made the connection between the letter, Neal, Roger and Lord Kendrick’s nefarious activities?
How long would I have my freedom before he arrested me for the murder?
I could not just sit here and do nothing. I rang the bell.
“Robinson,” I said when he appeared. “At the Butler’s Tankard, has there been any talk of Cecily and Roger Cranworth’s new butler?” I remembered Neal had described his replacement as starchy.
“Yes, sir. A Mr. Gilpin.”
“Have you seen him?”
Robinson’s lip curled. “I have.”
“Out with it, man,” I said impatiently.
“Mr. Gilpin is nothing more than a jumped-up footman. He puts on airs like he has presided over grand homes. However I have had it from Rumbelow, the underbutler at Vayne House, that Mr. Gilpin’s employment as footman was terminated when he was found by the master of Dunn House in her ladyship’s bed.”
“Thank you, Robinson.”
“Will there be anything else, sir? Some tea? Something to eat?”
I looked at Chakkri, still sleeping on the top of the bookcase. Robinson gaze followed mine. A gleam came into the valet’s eyes.
“No, I do not require anything. And, Robinson, I would advise you not to spin that case around while the cat is asleep on top,” I said sternly.
Robinson looked at me affronted. “As if I would harm the—the, ahem, the dear little soul.” A bought of coughing followed this lie.
I clapped Robinson on the back before leaving the room.
* * * *
Since fashionable Society converges upon Hyde Park at five in the afternoon to see their friends and be seen, I chose the hour to walk over to Curzon Street.
The way I see it, Roger Cranworth had taken the gloves of polite behaviour off, so to speak, when he dropped Neal’s dead body in front of the King’s Theatre.
I climbed the stairs of the house and used my dog’s head stick to knock on the door to Roger’s rooms.
A thin young man, striving for an imperious expression, opened the door. His trained gaze ran over my finely cut jacket and breeches. “May I help you, sir?”
I assumed my most haughty damn-you stare. “I am here to see Mr. or Miss Cranworth.”
“I am sorry, sir, both are from home. Will you leave your name so I can say who called?”
Using just my left hand, I extracted a silver card case from my pocket and flipped open the lid. As I had anticipated, Mr. Gilpin held out a gloved palm, ready to receive my card.
That is precisely when I put all the force of my right fist into a direct hit that knocked the young butler out cold. I feel sure Lord Dunn would have cheered me on.
Quickly, I shoved the unconscious man’s body aside with the tip of one of my Hessian boots and entered the drawing room, closing the door behind me. The lodgings were small, but decorated in a costly manner. I rushed through to what must have been Miss Cranworth’s room first, then dashed over to the other bedchamber, Roger’s. Throwing open the wardrobe door, the sight of clothing piled none too neatly—Robinson would have been appalled—met my eye. I reached for three lengths of linen, noticed they were over-starched—Neal was right about Gilpin being starchy after all—and returned to the drawing room.
I found that not only am I nimble with tying my cravat, but that my abilities extend to tying hands, feet, and a length of cloth around my victim’s mouth.
That done, I repeated what was now becoming a routine performance: searching for Freddie’s letter.
After not quite an hour, the results were the same as my other attempts, fruitless.
Glancing at a clock that I noted with a start looked like a Sevres, I saw the hour was after six. The Cranworths would be returning soon.
I hesitated, standing in the middle of the drawing room. Even though the situation grew more desperate every day, I could not wait for Roger Cranworth to return and force a confrontation. I would not put it above him to use his sister as a shield.
No, the only thing for it was to challenge Roger tonight at Syon House. With his new-found position in Society as Lady Ariana’s fiancé, he was sure to attend. If nothing else, Lady Crecy would bring him along. The ball would be crowded. Syon House has extensive grounds in which one could meet an enemy, and if memory served, small chambers off the Long Gallery. I could steer Roger Cranworth into one of those and have a private conversation with him.
I could not have known then what the disastrous results of a meeting with Roger Cranworth in one of those very chambers would be.