A Body in Berkeley Square (18 page)

"So if anyone would know about the knife, it
would be the valet."

"Yes, they asked Robbins. Interviewed him
quite closely. Robbins agreed that the knife belonged to Brandon
and said that he placed the knife in the pocket of Aloysius's frock
coat. Aloysius did not ask for it, but he liked to have the knife
with him. Aloysius insisted he did not notice whether the knife in
his pocket."

"Therefore," I said, "the knife is Brandon's
in all likelihood. What we must discover is how it got from
Brandon's pocket into the wound."

"Most people think he put it there," Louisa
said.

"Well, I am one person who does not. But it
would not be difficult to steal the knife from him. Someone could
easily dip into his pocket. The most likely person to have taken
the knife is, of course, Mrs. Harper."

"You believe she is a murderess, not simply
a Jezebel?"

"I do not know yet what I believe. She lied
to me, that is certain. Brandon is lying too. Once I clear out the
lies of these two, I believe the solution will present itself."

Louisa sagged. "I no longer know what to
believe."

I went to her and put my hands on her
shoulders. "Please trust me. I will do whatever I can to make your
world better for you. I love you that much."

The tears that had been threatening to fall
now spilled down her cheeks. "I love you too, Gabriel. I always
have."

I kissed her forehead. Her curls were like
silk beneath my lips.

It was difficult not to embrace her, not to
whisper that the world could go to hell, that we could leave
England together.

But I resisted. I stepped back from her and
let her go.

In silence, Louisa gathered her shawl and
her bonnet. She would not look at me as she tied the green silk
ribbon under her chin. "For some reason," she said, trying to keep
her voice light, "I feel as though I should be wearing black."

"Have you seen your husband since he has
gone to Newgate?"

"No. How could I?"

"Go and see him," I said. "Have Sir Montague
take you."

Louisa looked at me in anger but she said
nothing. She finished tying the ribbon then she gathered her shawl
and walked to the door. "Goodbye, Gabriel," she said.

And she was gone.

*** *** ***

Much divided in mind, I set off for Covent
Garden Theatre.

The arched piazza leading to the theatre
stretched along the northwest side of Bow Street, its soaring
columns sheltering theatregoers, game girls, pickpockets, and
servants from the April rain and wind. I walked among ladies and
gentlemen dressed in the finest style as well as girls in tawdry
gowns picked from secondhand stores or parish charities.

A lord descending from a carriage marked
with a coat of arms was instantly surrounded by beggars with hands
outstretched. The lord scattered a few pennies among them before he
lifted his head and swept past them. His footman swatted at the
group, telling them to clear off, then hopped back onto the coach
and rattled away to no doubt drink and dice with the coachman.

I stopped to bow to a gentleman I recognized
and then his wife, a large woman with feathers balancing atop a
mass of gray curls. I had met the man through Grenville, and the
three of us exchanged polite pleasantries. Just as the gentleman
drew his wife on toward the doors of the theatre, someone hissed at
me from the shadow of a pillar.

"Lacey!"

I waited until the gentleman and his lady
had entered the theatre, then I peered into the darkness under the
piazza.

"Marianne," I said. "What are you
doing?"

She stepped from the shadow. She wore blue
velvet trimmed with gold and silver tissue, and a bonnet with a
long blue feather. She ruined this semblance of respectability by
lurking behind the column like a street courtesan.

"Is
he
here?" she asked.

"I am to meet Grenville in his box,
yes."

Her tone grew bitter. "He has come to see
Mrs. Bennington. He suggested a gathering afterward with her to his
friends. I heard him as he arrived."

"Did you hide here and spy on him?"

"Well, if I did not spy on him, I would
never know where he was, would I?" she said heatedly. "He has not
come to see me for days. He does not even write me, and his
servants are useless for information."

"He and I spent the last two days in Epsom.
At a funeral, if you must know. It was not a frivolous outing."

"He might have been plowing a field, for all
he told me. And now, he arrives, sweet as you please, to ogle Mrs.
Bennington in yet another performance."

I remembered Grenville's evasiveness about
Mrs. Bennington. I did not want to lie to reassure Marianne, but
she was becoming most obsessed about the subject.

"Grenville invited me tonight so that I'd
have a chance to speak to more of the guests from the Gillises'
ball," I said.

Marianne stepped closer to me. "If you'd
like to know something interesting,
he
seemed quite keen to
go to that ball. Kept saying there was something he had to do
there."

My interest perked. "Did he? He seems to
have spoken to you a little about it, in any case."

"Mrs. Bennington was also there. I can
imagine what he had in mind."

"Well, I cannot." I became aware of people
glancing our way as they passed, of their raised brows and
disdainful looks. "I must go in, Marianne. Go home and cease
lurking under pillars. Someone might mistake your intentions."

"I believe I will stay," she retorted. "I
will be interested to see what direction he takes when he
leaves--and with whom."

"You'll catch cold. Go and wait in my rooms
if you cannot bring yourself to go home. I know you have a key.
Bartholomew has the fire hot. If he is there, you can interrogate
him about Grenville's motives, if you wish, though I imagine he
knows not much more than I do."

Marianne scowled. "Gentlemen so enjoy giving
orders."

"I know better than to expect you to obey.
Use my rooms if you want to keep warm; if not, wait out here in the
rain, and follow him as you please."

Her expression darkened. Marianne stepped
back into the shadow of the column, but she leaned there and did
not walk away.

I left her and entered the theatre.

Grenville's box was located almost directly
above the stage, where the viewers could look down on the drama
below as well as see who waited in the wings. Comfortable mahogany
chairs stood in two rows with tables between them for lorgnettes or
gloves or glasses of claret and brandy.

The box was filled with gentlemen tonight,
not a lady in sight, which made it, in my opinion, rather dreary.
But I was interested enough in the gentlemen present to tolerate
the absence of female company.

An empty chair waited next to Grenville, I
assumed for me. Grenville introduced me all around, beginning with
Basil Stokes.

Mr. Stokes was tall and white haired. As
usual in a man of his age, he had a large belly from years of
consuming at least a bottle a day of port, but he did not have the
usual gout. He had a booming voice, and, when he greeted me, heads
throughout the theatre turned in our direction.

Stokes was from Hampshire, which, he assured
me, afforded excellent hunting and fishing if I ever wanted to take
the trouble. He laughed loudly and made a comment about the large
bosom of an actress who had just entered the stage.

The actress, indeed a buxom young lady,
heard him. She simpered, and the audience guffawed.

Mr. Bennington was a complete contrast to
Stokes. He was about my age, an inch or two shorter than I was, and
very lean, as though he ate sparingly and drank little. He had a
long face and a longer expression, a man devoted to sardonic
observation. His handshake was rather limp.

"Pleased to meet you, my dear Captain Lacey.
Have you come to watch my wife stun the masses of London again?" He
said it with no pride, only a drawl of resignation.

"I have seen her perform," I said. "She is a
lady of great talent."

"Oh, yes, indeed," Mr. Bennington said. "Her
reputation is well deserved."

I thought I heard a slight emphasis on the
word
reputation,
but I could not be certain.

The other gentlemen in the box were club
fodder, gentlemen I'd met in passing while visiting Grenville or
going with him to Tattersall's or Gentleman Jackson's boxing rooms.
They greeted me with varying degrees of enthusiasm, some warm, some
indifferent, each making a polite comment or two.

We settled down to watch the performance,
which was already well into the first act. As usual, the restless
audience talked amongst themselves, shouted to the actors, drank
and ate.

In our box, the conversation turned to
sport, namely pugilism and the best exhibition fighters. I leaned
to Grenville and apologized under my breath for being late.

"Not at all," he said. "I take it some new
twist in the investigation?"

"No. Marianne Simmons."

Grenville started. "I beg your pardon?"

"She accosted me under the piazza outside,"
I said.

Grenville's mouth hardened. "Why the devil
is she under the piazza outside?"

"She must be gone by now. I told her to go
to my rooms and get warm."

Grenville's body stiffened and his gaze
became fixed. He brought one closed fist to his mouth.
"Damnation."

Below us, the audience began to applaud,
then to stamp, then to cheer, as the lovely Mrs. Bennington glided
onto the stage. She waited, poised and gracious, while London
adored her.

Grenville rose from his chair and woodenly
made for the door of the box. In alarm, I followed him, excusing
myself to the other gentlemen. I heard murmurs below as people
noticed Grenville's abrupt exit.

Outside the box, the halls were deserted.
Grenville swiftly walked away from me. By the time I reached the
stairs, he'd already gone down, flinging himself out of the theatre
without stopping for his hat and coat.

I went in pursuit, leaving the relative
warmth of the theatre for the cold wind and rain of the night.

Marianne had not gone. Just as I entered the
piazza, Grenville yanked her out from behind a pillar. I heard him
begin, "What the devil?"

I quickly stepped to them. "Do not begin an
altercation in front of the theatre, I beg you," I said to
Grenville. "It will be all over England by morning if you do. Take
Marianne and have things out in my rooms. They are a short walk
from here."

Grenville swung to me, his eyes narrowing in
anger.

"Marianne has the key. Go, Grenville. You
cannot be such a fool as to have a falling-out with your mistress
in front of Covent Garden Theatre while Mrs. Bennington plays
inside."

Grenville drew himself up, but the sense of
my words penetrated his anger. He seized Marianne's hand. "Come
along."

She tried to resist. "Go," I told her.
"Shout all you want to once you get there. Mrs. Beltan has gone
home. The house is quite empty."

Without waiting for them to depart, I turned
on my heel and stalked back into the theatre.

By the time I entered the box, Mrs.
Bennington had finished her scene and left the stage. The audience
was talking loudly, laughing and gesturing, some, I saw to my
alarm, at Grenville's box. They completely ignored the new scene
and the actors desperately trying to say their lines over the
noise.

"How strange," Mr. Bennington drawled as I
resumed my seat. "I have never before observed anyone
leave
a theatre once my wife has taken the stage. And Mr. Grenville, no
less. The event will be the talk of the town."

* * * * *

Chapter Eleven

Bennington looked amused, not angry. Basil
Stokes boomed, "Yes, what happened? Did the fellow take ill?"

"He was not feeling his best," I said. "I am
not certain he will return."

"Ah, well," said a gentleman I'd met at
White's. "We must endeavor to endure the finest claret and best
seats in the theatre without him."

Several men chuckled.

The play dragged on, a lackluster affair. I
found little trouble turning the conversation with Mr. Bennington
next to me to the events at the Gillises' ball. "Did you know Mr.
Turner well?" I asked him.

"No," Bennington said, rolling his claret
glass between long fingers. "I do not have much acquaintance in
London, after living so long on the Continent. He was rather a rude
fellow, and I had little interest in him."

"Did you see him enter the anteroom that
night? Just before he was killed, I mean?"

"Oh, yes. He went in about a quarter to the
hour. I told the Runner. The Runner is a friend of yours, I
believe. He mentioned you."

"He was one of my sergeants in the army," I
said. "So you saw Turner enter, but no one else?"

"Not really paying attention, I am afraid. I
know you wish to get your colonel off, and I commend your loyalty,
but I would not be surprised if Brandon really did peg the fellow.
He was red-faced and angry with Turner the entire night."

I silently cursed Colonel Brandon, as I had
many times since this business began, for being so obvious. "Any
man might be angry with another, but murder is a bit extreme, do
you not think?"

"Not in this case." Bennington took a sip of
his claret and assumed a philosophical expression. "Turner was a
boor. It was long past time that someone stuck a knife into him. I
truly believe that a man should be hung for having appalling
manners. They are as criminal in my opinion as a pickpocket. More
so. Pickpockets can be pleasant fellows. So charming that you do
not realize your handkerchief or purse has been lifted until too
late."

"You believe Turner was murdered because he
was rude?"