Grenville waited, pen poised. "Because she was angry and frightened, and in such a crush, there would be a chance someone else would be accused of the crime. As indeed, happened."
"Yes," I said. "Who besides Mrs. Harper?"
"Lady Breckenridge?"
I raised my brows. "She did not know Turner well."
"So she says. And she was quite close to the room when Mrs. Harper went in. I remember seeing her standing very near the door. Not speaking to anyone, just looking about."
"Donata is an unlikely murderess. If a gentleman angered her, she would dress him down, in no uncertain terms, no matter who listened."
Grenville chuckled. "The lady has a sharp tongue and a sharper wit. I include her only because she was so near the room. And she told you she'd seen Mrs. Harper bend over Turner--Lady Breckenridge might have invented the story to make you more suspicious of Mrs. Harper. However, I admit that such a thing seems unlikely."
"We are looking for people who knew Turner well," I said.
"Indeed. Lord and Lady Gillis, then. They invited him."
"Lord Gillis says he knew Turner only in a vague way. The friend of a friend of his wife's, he told me."
"Yes, Lady Gillis is the connection there," Grenville said, writing. "You did not meet Lady Gillis. She can be a charming woman when she wishes, and she is very much younger than Lord Gillis. About Turner's age, I put her."
"Hmm," I said. "And Bartholomew puts her arguing with Lord Gillis earlier that day about someone she'd invited. I wonder who the object of this argument was."
"We can but ask her."
"Any other names?" I said.
"Leland Derwent," Grenville said. "He and Turner were at Oxford together. Leland often mentions this, usually in a tone of apology."
"I doubt Leland Derwent would commit murder." Leland was one of the most innocent young men I'd ever met. He looked upon life with the unworldly eyes of a puppy and had the enthusiasm to match. I dined regularly with his family, where Leland listened to my stories of the war in the Peninsula with flattering eagerness.
"I would agree with you," Grenville said. "The thought of Leland Derwent as a murderer stretches credulity. I saw Leland speak to Turner at length that evening, however, angrily, and he was quite troubled when Turner left him."
"I see." I didn't like that. "Very well, write his name, and we will ask him about this conversation with Mr. Turner. Mr. Bennington next, I think."
Grenville hesitated, looking annoyed, but he nodded and wrote again.
"You said it was accidental that he and Mrs. Bennington were there together," I said. "Were they invited separately, or together?"
"I do not know, but thinking it over, I wonder why Bennington came at all. He tends to sneer at social gatherings. Where we stand about and pretend interest in the cut of Mr. Teezle's coat and whether Miss Peazle's come-out will be a success, he says."
"And yet, he arrives at a grand ball and stays most of the night."
"Precisely," Grenville said. "I must wonder why."
"Very well, make a note of him. Any others?"
Grenville tapped his lips with the end of the pen. "It is difficult to say. Turner was not well liked. Snubbed people at Tattersall's and so forth. But he always paid his debts at White's when he lost and everywhere else for that matter, and always stopped short of mortally insulting a fellow so that he would not be called out. Not very brave, was our Mr. Turner."
I half listened to him, while I contemplated what I'd learned from Lady Aline, Louisa, and Lady Breckenridge. "What about Basil Stokes?" I asked. "Louisa and Lady Aline mentioned him, but I know nothing about him."
"Stokes?" Grenville raised his head in surprise. "Why would you suspect him?"
"Because Louisa said he stood very close to Colonel Brandon when they entered the house. I am looking at the possibility of someone stealing Brandon's knife--picking his pocket. Louisa said the closest persons to them in the crush were Mrs. Bennington and Basil Stokes."
Grenville shrugged and made a note. "Very well, then, Basil Stokes. We will easily find him at Tatt's or the boxing rooms--he is mad for sport."
"In all frankness, I cannot imagine why Mr. Stokes would murder Turner, but I hate to leave any stone unturned."
"If nothing else, we'll get good tips on what horse will win at Newmarket or which pugilist is likely to be a champion this year. Now, what about this French gentleman who assaulted you?"
I took a sip of brandy, letting the mellow taste fill my mouth. "I had not forgotten him. He had a rather military bearing, an officer, I would say, not one of the rank and file."
"He was not at the ball," Grenville said. "I would have noticed a lean man with close-cropped hair, a military bearing, and a thick French accent. I knew everyone there. There were no strangers."
I cradled my brandy goblet in my palms. "Lord Gillis likes military men, which was why he invited Colonel Brandon and the Duke of Wellington. Supposing this Frenchman had been a guest in the house but did not come down for the ball. Suppose he was someone Lord Gillis had invited to stay so they could discuss old military campaigns. The Frenchman spies Turner entering the house for the ball and kills him--for reasons of his own. The French officer took Imogene Harper's letters, but if he had not looked at them closely, he would not know what they were. Perhaps he thought they were something of his that Turner had taken."
"Or the Frenchman has nothing to do with Henry Turner at all. You are only guessing that he does."
"True. But he followed me, after I'd finished searching Turner's rooms, and he was looking for something. Pomeroy is now scouring the city for the Frenchman, and I hope to question him before long." I touched my face gingerly. "And complain of his very hard fists."
If anyone could find the man, Pomeroy could. He had a tenacity greater than the Russians who'd driven Bonaparte out of Moscow. Also, the Frenchman would not remain hidden for long. A French officer of such distinctive appearance walking about London would be noted and remembered.
There existed another reason a Frenchman might profess interest in me. My wife, Carlotta, had eloped with a French officer. I had never met the man or even seen him. Why Carlotta's lover would come to London and ransack my rooms, I had no idea, but I could not dismiss the fact that the connection might be along those lines.
I kept this to myself, however, as Grenville and I continued our discussion. Grenville brought up names and wrote them down or rejected those who'd left the ball long before Turner's death. Grenville's circle of acquaintance was vastly greater than mine, so I let him speculate on the characters of gentlemen of whom I knew nothing.
By the time we parted to seek our beds, we had come up with a lengthy list. But I focused on only a few of those as most likely: Imogene Harper, Mrs. Bennington, Mr. Bennington, Basil Stokes, my mysterious Frenchman, and possibly Leland Derwent.
I felt grateful that Grenville did not suggest listing Brandon, but I knew, glumly, that I could not rule him out altogether. He and Mrs. Harper still had the strongest motives thus far.
I went to sleep in the soft bed in my chamber and dreamed of Lady Breckenridge and her blue eyes.
*** *** ***
The funeral for Henry Turner was held the next morning. The day dawned clear and fine, the air soft, the sky an arch of blue overhead. It was a day made for hacking across the downs on a fine horse, not for standing in a churchyard while a vicar droned the burial service.
"Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow . . . "
I stood next to Grenville, both of us in somber gray. Nearer the tomb stood Mr. Turner and his wife, several young men I took to be Turner's friends, and a few older men, who must be Turner's father's cronies. People from the town of Epsom also attended, working people who had given Mr. and Mrs. Turner respectful words of condolence when they arrived.
Henry would be buried in a rather private corner of the church
yard where, Mr. Turner had informed me, his family had been buried for generations.
"I thought the next person there would be me," Mr. Turner said.
I'd had little comfort to give him. Grenville spoke the right phrases, but I, whose mentor was even now waiting in prison to be tried for the murder, could think of nothing to say.
One of the mourners was Leland Derwent. He had seen me when we all arrived at the church and had given me a nod of greeting. Now he stared down at the grave, his young brow furrowed.
Next to him stood a young man called Gareth Travers. I'd met Travers during the affair of Colonel Westin last summer. He was Leland's closest friend, but he lacked the complete innocence of Leland and had a bit more worldly intelligence.
The vicar launched into the Lord's Prayer. I heard Grenville murmuring along, although most of the attendants remained silent. A soft spring breeze carrying the scent of new earth touched me.
The service finished, and we turned away from the graveside. In tacit agreement, Grenville and I hung back while Mr. Turner led his wife away.
Leland and Gareth Travers waited for us at the gate to the churchyard. "It was kind of you to come, Captain," Leland said as he shook my hand.
"I am afraid that my motive was not entirely kindness," I said. "I came to obtain an idea of Turner's character, and to find out who would want to kill him."
Leland looked puzzled. "I thought your colonel had been arrested."
"He has, but his arrest does not mean he is guilty. I intend to bring forth evidence that he is not guilty before his trial."
I had expected, if anything, for Leland to look interested, but his expression became troubled. "You think someone else committed this crime?"
"Yes, but I'm damned if I know who. You went to school with Henry Turner, I believe."
"Yes, but he was two years ahead of us." As Grenville had indicated, Leland sounded apologetic.
The other mourners had dispersed, leaving us alone. "Will you tell me about him?" I asked.
Leland fell into step beside me on a path that skirted the edge of the churchyard and swung out across the downs. Travers and Grenville came behind.
"There is not much to tell," Leland said. "I do hate to say anything bad about Mr. Turner, now that he's lying in the ground."
"I assure you, I will repeat nothing that is not relevant to my problem. But I need to know everything I can if I'm to discover who killed him."
Leland settled his curled-brimmed hat against the breeze. "I admit that he was a bit of a bully. I didn't fag for him, but I knew the lads who did. He put them through their paces and was never happy with anything."
"Was he--forgive me for putting this bluntly--a blackmailer?"
Leland looked startled. "A blackmailer? No. No, I do not believe so. I never heard anyone say anything like that."
"Did he ever seem desperate for money?"
"He liked money, that is true, but I do not know that he was desperate for it. His allowance was plenty for him, I would think."
I stifled my impatience at his nicety. "Anything you can tell me will help us, Leland. I need details. Did he have lovers? Did he keep to himself? Did he seem to have more money than could be accounted for from a father's generous allowance? Was he a gambler?"
"Yes, he did like to gamble." Leland seized on my last question in seeming relief. "But he generally won. Chaps always owed him money for some wager or other."
"And they paid him?"
"Oh, yes. Well, you have to, don't you? Pay up your wagers. All in good sport."
"He played cards? Dice?"
"He was not so much a gamer," Leland said. "I do not think he had a head for cards or hazard. No, he would wager on other sorts of things. Something as simple as a horse winning at Newmarket or as obscure as whether an ill housemaid would get well on Wednesday or Thursday. He had an uncanny knack of always being right."
"If he won so often, why did the other chaps wager with him?"
"Couldn't resist." Leland flashed me a smile. "One always wanted to best him. And betting whether or a cat would walk to the left or right around the quad seemed safe. But he still managed to win."
"Perhaps," Grenville said behind us, "he enticed the cat with a bit of chicken or put ipecac in the maid's tea."
Leland gave him a horrified look over his shoulder. "Cheated?" He sounded as though we'd accused a heroic a man of being a traitor. "I do not think he would have cheated, Mr. Grenville. He was simply lucky."
"Perhaps," I conceded, more to calm him than because I agreed. "Aside from his great fortune at games, was Turner particularly liked or disliked?"
Leland shrugged. "Not particularly disliked--or liked, I suppose. He had his friends, his circle."
"Did you particularly like or dislike him?" I asked.
Leland started. "Why do you ask that?"
"You turned up for his funeral," I said. "Is that because he was a great friend, or did you wish to make certain he was buried?"
Leland gaped at me. "How can you say that? I came out of respect, Captain. I was at the ball where he died. I thought it well that I come to show his father how sorry I was." His face had gone white, his lips, tight.
"I should not have said such a thing, Leland. I'm sorry. I am simply trying to ascertain why someone would want to kill him. You say he had no particular friends but no particular enemies, that he usually won at wagers but that those he bet against paid up without fuss. You paint a picture of a young man with a gaming streak but of rather neutral temperament. But this does not bear out what others have told me, nor does it explain his appalling rudeness to Mrs. Harper at the ball."
"Well, I cannot help that," Leland said weakly.
"What I am getting at is that someone might have killed Turner because he owed Turner a great deal of money. Suppose the Frenchman who attacked me was not looking for a letter, but a note of hand, perhaps a ruinous gambling debt. My bruises attest to the fact that the Frenchman was capable of violence."
"I saw no Frenchman in the Gillises' ballroom," Leland said, bewildered.
"I know." I sighed. "The man seems to have been inconveniently invisible at the critical moment. What did you see, Leland? Did you observe anyone trying to corner Henry Turner, perhaps leading him to that little anteroom?"
Leland shook his head. "I am sorry, Captain. I saw nothing out of the ordinary."
I hadn't thought he would have. "What is it about Turner that you do not wish to tell me?"
Leland stopped walking, his walking stick arrested in midair. "I beg your pardon?"
"Mr. Grenville says that you had a conversation with Turner at the ball, in which you became angry with him. What did you argue about?"
"Nothing. Nothing in particular. I'd lost a bet with him on a London-to-Brighton race recently, and perhaps he gloated a bit."
"But you paid up your wager, without fuss?"
Leland flushed. "Of course I did. Why would I not?"
I knew I was being hard on the boy, but I was frustrated, and Leland was holding something back. "You knew Turner in school, but you did not like him, that is obvious. Why not? What is it about Henry Turner that would drive someone to murder?"
Leland looked at me with wide eyes, disconcerted. "Please, I cannot answer any more questions. The air is too warm, and I am tired. I-- " He broke off, flushing. "I must rest. Good day."
He spun on his heel and set off back the way we'd come. His long and hurried stride belied his claim that he was tired. He would quickly cover the three miles back to the village at that pace.
Grenville watched him go, brows raised. "Good Lord."
I feared I might have spent my last pleasant evening at the Derwent's home. Leland would tell his father, Sir Gideon, that I was a bully, and gone would be the lovely meals and warm conversation I enjoyed once a fortnight. Worse, I feared that Leland's nervousness meant he had something to do with Turner's death, and I desperately hoped I was wrong.
I expected Gareth Travers to rush after him,
or to berate me for browbeating his friend, but Travers simply stood and watched Leland go. He leaned on his walking stick, the April breeze stirring the brown curls beneath his hat.
"Do not mind Leland," he said. "He is embarrassed, that is all."
"Embarrassed?" I looked after the retreating figure. Leland was putting all his strength into getting away from us as fast as he could.
"There are certain things that Leland does not like to speak about. It is no great secret; most chaps at Oxford knew, although one never said anything, of course."
"Knew?" I queried. "About Henry Turner?"
"Indeed. What Leland does not wish to tell you, Captain, is that Henry Turner did not keep the company of women. He preferred young men, if you understand me." He smiled. "I trust that little on dit will go no further than the three of us? One does not like to gossip about the dead."
* * * * *
Chapter Nine
"Well, Gareth Travers has given us quite another motive," Grenville said as we rode back to London in his phaeton that afternoon. "Perhaps Turner was killed by a lover, one who did not want him to reveal the true nature of their liaison."
"Or a lover jealous of another," I said. "Or a man who felt threatened by him."
"Leland himself? He and Mr. Travers are very close. Perhaps Turner concluded that they are closer friends than seems. Perhaps Turner even made advances to Leland, possibly threatened to expose Leland if he refused. Leland claimed that Turner wasn't a blackmailer, but Turner was certainly trying his best to blackmail Mrs. Harper and Colonel Brandon. Leland seemed to protest too much. Of course, he'd not dare to admit anything, true or not. Far too dangerous if someone got hold of the wrong idea."
True. Sodomy was a hanging offense, though difficult to prove. Penetration had to be witnessed. But a man could be accused of buggery and sentenced to stand in the pillory, left to the mercy of the mob. A sodomite in the stocks at Charing Cross could be killed by an angry enough crowd. Leland, the son of a well-respected gentleman might not suffer the stocks, but his and his father's reputations would be ruined, his sister's chances at making an advantageous match spoiled.