I returned to my lodgings and ate a hasty meal of bread at Mrs. Beltan's bakery below my rooms. I bathed and changed my clothes, giving them over to Bartholomew to clean, but I could not shake the stench of Newgate from me.
I took a hackney back to Mayfair and to Brook Street. Lady Aline met me at the door to Brandon's house. Grenville had been and gone, she said, and had broken the bad news.
Louisa was up, pacing her sitting room in agitation. Her face was white, her eyes sunken into hollows. She held herself rigid when I went to take her hands and kiss her cheek.
I explained that I'd seen Brandon settled and that he could have a servant or two to look after him. Lady Aline said she'd dispatch Brandon's valet at once and bustled off to do so. As soon as the door closed, Louisa's hands clamped down on mine.
"What will happen now, Gabriel?"
"Pomeroy and his patrollers will try to gather evidence against Brandon. If they find nothing that firmly points to his guilt, then he will be acquitted."
"His knife in the man's chest is not firm evidence?"
"Anyone may steal another's knife and use it. Were I to murder someone, I would use a weapon easily identified as belonging to another man. Why bring suspicion to myself?"
"If you were angry, you would not think of that," Louisa said. "You would snatch up the first thing you saw and stab."
"Perhaps."
Her observation gave me an idea. What if Brandon had left the knife in the anteroom when he was in there earlier with Turner? Why he should, I didn't know, but he might have done. The murderer could have quarreled with Turner, noticed the knife, and in a fit of pique, snatched it up and driven it into Turner's chest.
"Louisa, your husband is being stubbornly cryptic, but I will discover the truth," I said. "I will bring him back to you. I promise you that."
Louisa released my hands and walked away from me, her eyes bleak. "Gabriel, have I been deceived all my life? I stuck by him through thick and thin. Through everything he did. Even after . . . When he came looking for me in your tent that night, I went back to him. He tried his best to harm you over that incident, and even then I stood by him."
I remembered. Colonel Brandon had decided one day soon after Vitoria that he no longer wanted a wife who could not give him children. He'd told Louisa he would find some way to annul the marriage so that they could be parted without scandal. Then he'd left camp for who knew where.
Louisa, her world crumbling around her, had fled to my tent and told me the entire tale. I'd been furious at Brandon and tried to comfort Louisa the best I could. Brandon had returned the next morning to find Louisa sitting on my lap in a camp chair, her head on my shoulder.
He'd assumed the worst.
Not long later, Brandon had sent me out with false orders into a pocket of French soldiers, who had caught and tortured me. I'd managed to escape and survive with the help of a Spanish farmer's widow, who'd dragged me the long way back to camp.
I remembered lying on the bunk of the surgeon's tent, hideous pain leaking through the haze of laudanum, my body sweating with fever and infection. When Louisa had come and discovered what Brandon had done, she'd shouted at him long and hard. I had lain in my stupor and laughed.
"I recall that you told him quite firmly what you thought of him when you found out what he'd done to me," I said.
"Oh, yes, I was furious. You might have died because of him. I could have left Aloysius, then. I should have."
"There was not much you could do, Louisa." When a woman left her husband, she could only return to her family or elope with another man--one was a recipe for shame, the other, complete ruin.
"I know. But I remained his wife, in all ways. I wanted to prove, I suppose, that I had not betrayed him. I saw the good in him, still. I loved him." Louisa lifted her arms in a limp gesture. "This is my reward."
"And it is decidedly odd," I said. "I am not saying that your husband is guiltless in the matter of Mrs. Harper, but the situation seems wrong somehow. I would think that if Brandon were pursuing another woman, he would not be so bloody obvious. He prides himself on being the perfect gentleman, the perfect husband, the perfect officer."
Louisa gave me a tired look. "Well, he isn't, is he?"
"But would he let the world see that? There is something very wrong, Louisa. Can you tell me nothing more of this Imogene Harper?"
"No, I cannot. When I dared ask him, Aloysius grew angry and told me to mind my own damned business. In those words. He has never been that harsh to me."
"No, he usually saves that for me. I ask your leave, Louisa, to go through his desk and his papers. I want to read what Mrs. Harper wrote, if he has not destroyed the letters. She is key to this murder; perhaps she even killed Turner herself."
"She never went into that anteroom. At least, not until she found Mr. Turner. Believe me, Lacey, I had my eye on her. The only time she disappeared from view was when she went into private corners with my husband." She trailed off bitterly.
"And I am going to find out why she did," I said.
Louisa stood rigidly, her face gray, her eyes holding exhaustion. "I have resigned myself to the fact that Aloysius was having an affair with her. You do not have to try to prove that he was not."
I went silent a moment, then I said, "Do you know, I believe I am the only person in London not happy to believe in Brandon's guilt."
Her eyes flashed. "Happy? Do you believe I am happy to know that my husband has been betraying me?"
"Ready to believe his guilt, then. Perhaps I used the wrong word. But it seems as though everyone wants him to be guilty, including Brandon himself."
The muscles of Louisa's delicate neck were tense, as though she strained to hold up her head. "You are kind to try to give me hope."
"And I do wish that both you and your husband would stop trying to assign me motives," I said in irritation. "I am looking into this problem because it distresses you and because I do not believe Brandon killed Turner. I believe he could have killed him, but I will be quite glad to find evidence to prove otherwise."
Louisa sank to the sofa. "Perhaps I simply want it to be over. I do not want to wait and wonder and hope that you find something. I want it to be over, even if it means that I lose him forever."
"Have you so little faith in me?"
"I know you, Gabriel. You believe a thing is so, therefore it must be so. You stubbornly burrow through things to prove yourself right, no matter who you hurt."
I stilled. "And I've hurt you?"
"No." She smiled a little. "But you are so impetuous, and you will run afoul of the wrong people. It would hurt me so to lose you. I never would have survived all these years without you."
We looked at each other. I knew as well that my life would have been much harsher without Louisa Brandon in it.
I could have said something then that might have changed everything between us. I think she wanted me to say it, waited for me to say it. Perhaps I was foolish to keep my silence. But I kept it.
"Louisa, I will do everything in my power to help your husband. And you. I swear this."
A light went out of her eyes. Louisa looked away from me, and then she nodded. "Ask Aloysius's valet for the key to his desk. Tell him he has my permission to give it to you."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
Louisa looked up at me again, but her eyes held no hope. I bowed to her briefly and left her.
*** *** ***
I found Robbins, the harried valet, and requested Brandon's key. He went off to find it, seeming relieved to escape Lady Aline's strident demands. Louisa was always gentle with her servants; Lady Aline must seem like an unexpected hurricane.
"Lacey, my boy, I do wish you luck," Aline said as she passed me on her way back to Louisa's sitting room. "If you can find an answer to this murder, I will bow before you."
The thought of Lady Aline bowing her tall bulk amused me somewhat. I told her I could only do my best, took the key that Robbins brought running back, and let myse
lf into Brandon's private study.
I'd been in this room only a few times before, because Brandon rarely invited me into it. He put up with me in his dining room and drawing room at Louisa's request, but he disliked me in the more private rooms of the house.
A screen of gold-leaf and ivory that he'd obtained in Spain decorated one corner. I'd always wondered where Brandon had found the screen, and if it had in fact been looted. Wellington had declared looting to be a hanging offense. The English army had gone to liberate the Spanish from French rule, not to rob from them, he'd said. Brandon had claimed that he'd purchased it, but his belligerence whenever he spoke of it always aroused my suspicion.
The desk, a secretary with a closed bookcase, stood near the screen. I sat down in the desk chair, put the key in the lock, and pulled down the sloping cover that formed the base of the desk. Two pieces of wood slid out of slots to support the desk's top.
Inside I found neat ledgers and folded papers and small drawers full of letters. None of the letters were from Imogene Harper.
I searched the drawers and the ledgers, then unfolded all the letters to see if another had been tucked between their pages. I found nothing. I hadn't thought I would.
I remembered Grenville showing me a secretary he'd purchased in France, a beautiful piece of golden satinwood with rosewood inlay. Grenville's delight in it, however, was its secret drawers. He'd made me try to discover the drawers myself, while he'd hovered gleefully at my side, watching.
I had found two, but he'd showed me four others that I'd missed.
I lifted the small drawers out of the middle of Brandon's desk and felt the recesses behind them for catches. I found one rather easily, which extruded a drawer from the left side of the desk. Rather obvious, I thought. Many desks had such drawers.
I found no letters in the drawer, only a stray button. Perhaps Brandon had no use for secret drawers, and perhaps he'd simply burned Mrs. Harper's letters.
I found a second secret drawer that again had nothing inside it. I searched for the catches that Grenville's desk had, but either I missed them entirely, or the designer of this desk had given up after he'd created two.
I slid the main drawers back in place and was about to shut the first secret drawer, when I noticed that its bottom did not fit correctly. I picked up the button and found that its shank just fit into the slight gap. I worked the button back and forth, and suddenly, the entire bottom of the drawer lifted away.
Three letters lay inside it.
I lifted unfolded each of them. Written in a woman's hand, they were signed Imogene Harper.
The letters were not dated, but I made sense of the timing as I read them. The first was hesitant, as though Mrs. Harper had been timid about contacting Brandon after so many years.
I learned your direction from Colonel Singleton, whom my husband also knew during the Peninsular campaign, and I make so bold to write to you. Perhaps I am the last woman on earth from whom you wish to receive correspondence, but I find it necessary. If you would speak to me, I will be riding in Hyde Park at five o'clock on Wednesday next. I will wait near Grosvenor Gate for you to come. I have need to see you, my dear A. Please come.
She'd signed without any closure.
The second letter opened with relief. How glad I was to see you! You are a gentleman of honor, and I have always known you to be. To see you riding to me, as tall and strong and handsome as you were four years ago, brought pleasure to my heart. I did not know how much I longed to see you again until that moment. The friendship we shared returned to me, with a warmth I will never forget. I hope that when we meet again on Saturday, I will have good news for you. Until then, God bless you..
The tone of the third letter was quite different. My dear A. What shall you do? You refer to your wife, but shall I suffer alone? If I must pay, then you must. We are both guilty, and I cannot take the blame alone. He said he would be at the Gillises' ball on Saturday night, and that he would ensure that you were invited--with your wife. I have played upon my connections of friendship and wheedled an invitation for myself from Lady Gillis. We will meet there and decide what to do. He must not reveal all. And if he does, he will reveal your sins as well as mine. You know this. You must come.
This letter was signed simply, Imogene.
Who was he? Henry Turner? Had he threatened to reveal Mrs. Harper's affair with Brandon? In any event, Brandon had betrayed his guilt at the Gillises' ball; he'd not needed Turner to do it for him.
The letters read very much like those of a woman wanting to rekindle an affair, then growing angry when Brandon indicated he did not want the relationship to resume. The threat in the last letter was blatant. Mrs. Harper refused to face Turner alone. If she were to be exposed, she would expose Brandon as well.
Had Mrs. Harper killed Turner before he could go through with the blackmail? Mrs. Harper had gone into the anteroom and found Turner's body. She'd gotten blood on her glove, and according to Grenville, it was a minute or two before she screamed. Time for her to snatch up the knife--which Brandon might have left for her--stab him, then rush out and begin her fit. Her horror at the blood on her glove had no doubt been real.
Was it that simple? That Brandon and Mrs. Harper feared Turner's knowledge and so conspired to kill him?
Louisa had been right about one thing. Many gentlemen took a mistress after they were married. It seemed almost expected. Society marriages often occurred because two families wanted to increase their power or wealth. A poor aristocrat married a rich nabob's daughter; the daughter of an impoverished baron married a wealthy merchant. Even better, wealthy nobility married each other.
Once the nuptials were complete, the ladies busied themselves setting up their nurseries and hosting parties, and gentlemen adjourned to their clubs, horses, and mistresses. Husband and wife might live very separate lives, seeing each other only occasionally.
Brandon's marriage had been different. He'd married Louisa by choice, not for gain. Brandon came from a wealthy gentleman's family in Kent. Louisa's family had been as gently born, but poorer. Her father had considered a cavalry captain with a personal income to be a good catch for Louisa.
I understood perfectly well why Brandon had married her. Louisa at twenty-two had been a beautiful woman. Not only did she have golden hair and brilliant gray eyes, but she'd had fire, an adventurous spirit coupled with grave intelligence that would make her a fine life companion. I'd regretted from the moment I'd met her that I'd not found her before Brandon had.
But until this business with Mrs. Harper, I never believed that Brandon had sought another lady's bed. Now I wondered. Mrs. Harper's husband had been killed at Vitoria. Shortly after that, Brandon had declared his intention to end his marriage with Louisa, because she could not give him children.
I wanted very much to meet Imogene Harper. I wanted to know what sort of woman could draw Brandon from Louisa's side.
I folded the letters together and tucked them into my pocket. I carefully reassembled the drawer, dropped the button back inside it, and slid the drawer into its recess.
I grimaced as I locked the desk. Brandon, as usual, was not making things easy.
*** *** ***
After taking leave of Louisa and Lady Aline, I met Bartholomew in the tavern in Pall Mall where I often conferred with Grenville when I investigated things. Bartholomew was there before me, enjoying an ale with his brother, Matthias.
I had hoped that Grenville would join us, so we could talk things over together. Grenville would have a more objective sense of this case than I could. But Grenville had another appointment, and I was just as curious to hear what the two brothers had learned from speaking to the Gillises' servants.
Bartholomew and Matthias looked much alike, both big and broad-shouldered and blond-haired. The pair of them had been footmen for Grenville for a time before Bartholomew had announced his intention of becoming a valet, and Grenville had sent him to train with me. The bargain was that I got someone to wait on me while Gre
nville paid his wages. I had a wardrobe that would make the best valet shudder, but Bartholomew kept my few pieces of clothing and my regimentals cleaner than they'd been since new.
The brothers jumped up when they saw me, and I waved them back to their seats. The landlord brought me an ale, and I sat down and joined them.
"An interesting morning I've had," Bartholomew said. "The servants of Lord and Lady Gillis, though a bit high and mighty, were glad to give me a meal and a bit of a gab. Didn't hurt that I'm slavey to Mr. Grenville."
Being employed by Grenville carried much weight in Bartholomew's world. The higher the master, the higher the servant could hold his head.
"They didn't mind talking about the night of the ball," Bartholomew said. "The thing is, Captain, several of the servants said that Lady Gillis was in a rare state most of the day. They admitted to hearing a flaming row coming from the private rooms early in the afternoon. Lord and Lady Gillis were arguing about someone who was invited to the ball that Lord Gillis did not want there."
"Turner?" I asked.
"The servants could not say, in fact. None of them heard a name."
That disappointed me, but there was nothing to be done. I asked Matthias, "During the ball that night, did you by chance chat with Mr. Turner's valet?"
"I did, sir," Matthias answered. "Name of Hazelton. When he was brought the news that his master was dead upstairs, you would have thought that Mr. Turner died just to upset him. Hazelton was quite mournful about it, saying didn't he have enough to do already without Mr. Turner up and getting himself killed?"
"That is interesting," I said. "You don't happen to know where Mr. Turner's rooms are, do you?"
Matthias started to answer, but Bartholomew broke in cheerfully, "In Piccadilly, sir. Near the Albany. In fact, Matthias says once Hazelton realized that his master was gone, he was keen that we should come and help him drink up Mr. Turner's claret."