A Regimental Murder (15 page)

The coroner shrugged, but Sir Montague Harris
leaned forward. Why had Brandon made for the manor house rather
than the village, which was closer? Brandon, reddening, answered
that he had been acquainted with members of the house party there
and naturally turned to people he knew.

Sir Montague sat back, satisfied. Then
Brandon, as if suddenly remembering, said that of course he had
sought out Astley Close because Lord Breckenridge had been a guest
there and of course his friends would want to know if he'd been
hurt.

The coroner, looking uninterested, nodded.
Prompted, Brandon continued that he'd entered the stables where the
grooms and stable hands had been readying horses for exercise.
Brandon had reported the death and asked to be taken to the main
house. Upon reaching the house, he'd found the only guest awake had
been Mr. Grenville, to whom he had repeated the account of the
accident.

The coroner carefully noted all this and
dismissed him. Brandon visibly relaxed as he walked back to his
chair. He hated to lie, and was bad at it, just as I was. And he
was certainly lying about how he'd found the body. Not about all of
it, but about a good part, if I were any judge.

Grenville and the stable lad and I all
concurred with Brandon's story of his first going to the stables
and then to the main house. We each related how we'd gone up the
hill with Brandon and found Breckenridge together. Neither Brandon
nor Grenville mentioned Brandon's certainty that the dead man had
been me, and I did not volunteer the information.

I did mention the saddle. I explained my
reasoning, that Breckenridge would have used his own cavalry
saddle, which he'd said he preferred, when it was so close to hand.
Sir Montague listened, his eyes fastened on me, taking in every
word. I used the opportunity to mention the marks I'd found on the
road, and concluded that, in my opinion, the death warranted
further investigation.

The coroner eyed me in dislike. He was
sitting on the body of a viscount--a peer, not an unfortunate
farmhand. He wanted a simple accident, and here I was trying to
complicate things.

Once all statements were made, a doctor was
consulted who agreed that Lord Breckenridge had died when his neck
was severed early on the morning of his death. The coroner finished
his note-taking, and then instructed the jury.

Notwithstanding Captain Lacey's remarks, he
said, they must decide whether they thought this a clear enough
accident. There was nothing to stop a man from changing his mind
and using a different saddle if the whim took him. The marks on the
road could have been made at any time. The horse was found, Lord
Breckenridge had been dressed for riding, and for what other
purpose could he have gone up the hill?

The jury did not deliberate long. To the
coroner's obvious relief, they returned with the verdict I
expected--Lord Breckenridge had died while accidentally falling
from his horse.

Everyone in the hot room, from the coroner to
Eggleston to Brandon to the stable lads, looked pleased with the
conclusion.

I kept my feelings to myself.

When we returned to Astley Close, Lady Mary
closeted herself with her brother, whom she had summoned home, and
left her guests to fend for themselves. The house party over,
Grenville ordered his carriage made ready to take us back to
London.

I encountered Lady Breckenridge in the
downstairs drawing room--entirely by accident; I had been looking
for Grenville. I had not seen her since finding her in my bed two
nights before. But much as I hadn’t gotten on with her,
Breckenridge's death had been sudden and shocking. I paused.

"Please accept my condolences on your
husband's death," I said. "I am sorry."

She studied me with glittering eyes that
masked emotion. "My son is now Viscount Breckenridge," she said.
"Why be sorry about that?"

While I searched for a way to respond, she
went on, "Tell your friend, Mr. Grenville, that
his
company
was most pleasing."

I supposed this meant mine had not been.

"I will." I bowed. "Good afternoon."

* * * * *

Chapter Twelve

Grenville and I left Astley Close half an
hour later. We talked little on the journey to London because
Grenville, though manfully remaining upright for the first few
miles, soon had to drink a brandy and lie down again. He spent the
journey up much as he'd spent the journey down, flat on his back on
his makeshift bed, eyes closed.

I had not had the chance to speak to Brandon
after the inquest. He had avoided me when we left the inn, and
disappeared shortly after. But I did not need him near to
speculate. The half-truths he'd told the coroner and magistrate
worried me. I spent the journey deep in thought about his actions
and about our past and present, while Grenville alternately dozed
and woke, pale and preoccupied.

Grenville's carriage deposited me at the top
of Grimpen Lane just at sunset. He bade me a feeble good-night and
rolled away to be tended by his footmen. I returned to my rooms and
spent a restless night worrying about Louisa, Brandon's lies, and
Breckenridge's death.

The next morning's post included a letter
from John Spencer. I perused it eagerly. Mr. Spencer informed me
that he had returned from Norfolk and invited me to meet him and
his brother on the morrow at a tavern in Pall Mall. The tone of the
missive was rather cold. Mr. Spencer said that he did not see the
point of such a meeting, but his brother had convinced him that we
should speak.

I wrote a reply that I would attend, and
turned to my other mail.

Someone, I did not know who, had sent me a
page from the newspaper tucked into a blank letter. The page
featured a another caricature of an overly lean-legged, overly
broad-shouldered dragoon captain who pointed at a dead dog that had
just been run down by a cart. The balloon from his mouth
proclaimed: "It is murder, sir. We cannot let it lie." In the
picture, a fancy carriage was just passing, and women in
exaggerated bonnets stared out of the windows, open-mouthed, at the
scene.

Beneath the picture ran the caption: "The
Shortcomings of England's policing, or Murder not Recognized."

I tore it up and tossed it on the fire. The
journalists who'd attended Breckenridge's inquest must have found
it a perfect opportunity for more levity. I wondered if Billings
had sent the cutting to make certain I'd see it.

Lydia Westin had also written. It was a
simple note asking me to call on her the following evening, but I
savored it a long time. At last laying it aside, I penned a reply
that I would be delighted to attend.

I went out to post my letters, then turned my
steps to Bow Street and the magistrate's house. The tall, narrow
Bow Street house had been lived in by the famous Fieldings--Henry,
the author, who had first established the Bow Street Runners, and
Sir John, his blind half-brother who had succeeded him. From what I
understood, Henry Fielding had taken the post for the money, since
he rarely had any, but had grown interested in keeping the peace
and detecting crime. The half-dozen men he recruited to help him
were at first referred to simply as "Mr. Fielding’s People." Then
Sir John had built his brother's Runners into an elite machine that
now assisted in investigations all over England. The magistrate
lived in private rooms at the top of the house, with the jail and
court below. I often wondered how easily he slept in his bed of
nights.

I asked for my former sergeant, Milton
Pomeroy, and a clerk led me through the hall where the day patrol
were bringing in their catches for the morning, to a small private
room where he offered me muddy coffee.

I waited on a hard chair while Pomeroy
finished his report of his previous night's arrests. He wrote
slowly, his pen squeaking, his tongue pushed against his large
teeth. A copy of the
Hue and Cry
lay at my elbow, and I idly
studied the reports of various criminals or supposed criminals
lurking about England.

Pomeroy shuffled out to deliver his report,
then returned with more coffee. Pomeroy was a big man with bright
yellow hair and blue eyes that twinkled. He seated himself heavily
and sent me a grin. "I heard, sir, that you twitted the magistrate
in Kent about Viscount Breckenridge. Ha. I'd have liked to see
that. Why were you so certain it was murder?"

I explained my reasons and my speculations.
Pomeroy nodded over his coffee, his round face serious. "Could be.
Could be. I know you, sir, sometimes you're right. What did you
come to me for? Hiring me to investigate it? Have to talk to the
magistrate."

"I came to ask you about Colonel Westin. You
were investigating him for John Spencer and his brother. I want to
know what you found."

His eyebrows climbed. "Do you, sir? That's
interesting. I stopped at his death, saw no reason to go on. Can't
prove anything one way or another, but I found eyewitnesses that
put Colonel Westin at the shooting at Badajoz." He grimaced. "That
was a bad time, eh, Captain? Nasty goings-on."

I had to agree. "Do you think Westin was the
true culprit?"

Pomeroy shrugged. "Couldn't say. He was
there, all right, but I found little more than that. Truth to tell,
Colonel Westin was a fine and quiet-spoken gentleman. When I first
asked him about Captain Spencer and Badajoz, he behaved like he'd
never met the man. And then one day he asked me to call on him."
Pomeroy leaned forward, eyes bright. "He said he'd thought it over,
and he believed that he had, in fact, shot Captain Spencer. He'd
been drunk after the siege, he said, and couldn't remember, but now
he was having flashes of it in his mind. He was upset like, sorry
he'd caused Spencer's sons so much pain."

"And what did you think?"

He pursed his lips. "Ain't paid to think, am
I?"

I eyed him severely. "Yes you are. You are a
Runner, an elite investigator."

"Fancy names for sergeanting. All right, sir,
yes, it sounded a little too easy. But the magistrate says, we
gather some proof, and then we go and arrest him. But before we can
get there, Colonel Westin up and falls down the stairs."

He sat back, thick hands cradling his cup of
coffee, his eye on me.

"Conveniently avoiding the dock," I finished.
"And what truths he might tell there."

"I thought of that, sir. Bit too convenient,
eh?" He slanted me a glance. "Think his wife pushed him? Would have
gotten him out of her life and just in time, too."

"No," I said sharply.

But the possibility that Lydia herself had
killed her husband had occurred to me, much as I disliked the idea.
Westin had died quickly, by Lydia's account, without struggle, and
she'd found him in bed. We assumed the murderer had killed him then
put him there.

But what if Colonel Westin had already been
in bed, perhaps with Lydia by his side. She could have stabbed him
in the neck and rolled him onto his back once he was dead. I
couldn’t help imagining her rising up, her dark hair snaking about
her, her body naked and beautiful, with a thin knife in her slender
hand.

I tried to banish this vision, but I could
not. It had been she who had decided that her servants should not
report the murder, she who had decided to tell the world it had
been an accident, she who'd pointed the finger at Breckenridge,
Eggleston, and Sir Edward Connaught.

"His fall was witnessed by the footman and
the valet," I said carefully. "He slipped and fell."

"Could be." Pomeroy grinned. "Widow's a bit
of a stunner, eh, Captain?"

I eyed him coldly. "Keep your remarks
respectful, Sergeant."

His grin was wide. "Might have known you'd
have noticed. You're always one for the ladies."

I ignored him. "What about Breckenridge and
colleagues, who were with Westin at Badajoz? Did you discover
anything interesting about them?"

He shook his head. "Not much, except they
were present when Captain Spencer was shot. But they're lordships.
Didn't like a Runner poking about their business, did they? No,
Colonel Westin was a gentleman about it, but the others did
everything but set their dogs on me."

This information did not surprise me.
Breckenridge and Eggleston might have continually insulted each
other, but I remembered how they had closed ranks to confront me at
the boxing match. I had not yet met Connaught, but I would not be
surprised to find him cut from the same cloth. "Poke some more," I
suggested. "If you cannot speak to the gentlemen themselves, speak
to their servants or friends, or even their enemies. I want to know
everything about them, where they go, who they meet, what they eat
every day." I was certain Eggleston had plenty to do with both
Spencer's and Westin's deaths, and I damn well wanted to prove it.
Breckenridge's death I had different ideas about.

Pomeroy grinned. "A tall order, sir. You want
me to do this as a favor?"

He knew bloody well I could not pay him.
"Yes, Sergeant. As a favor to your old captain."

He was laughing at me. "'Twill be a pleasure,
sir. I always like the look on your face when I tell you something
interesting. I'll be sure to let you know."

*** *** ***

I left Bow Street deep in thought and
returned to my rooms.

A note from Grenville had been hand-delivered
in my absence to say that he felt much better and would send
Bartholomew with the carriage for me that evening. His note was
short, only four lines on an entire sheet of heavy white paper.

Did I envy a man who could afford to throw
away an expensive piece of paper on a short note, or think him a
fool? In any case, I carefully tore the clean end of the sheet from
the written area and tucked it into my drawer to save for my own
letters.