A Body in Berkeley Square (19 page)

"He ought to have been. I believe our Mr.
Turner died because he was obnoxious to a lady. Mrs. Harper, I
mean. The colonel defended her. He should not be hanged for
that."

As he said his last words, the audience
began their cheering and stamping again as Mrs. Bennington returned
for her next scene.

Interested, I turned to watch her. As
before, she waited until the applause died down, and then she began
her speeches.

I could not help but be entranced. Mrs.
Bennington was young, with golden hair and a round, pretty face.
But her girlish looks belied her voice, which was strong and rich.
She spoke her lines with conviction, as if the soul of the person
written on the page suddenly filled her. She was still Mrs.
Bennington, and yet she flowed into her character at the same time.
She had a voice of sublime sweetness and a delivery that made the
listener's troubles fade and fall away.

Mr. Bennington poked me with his elbow. "I
will procure an introduction if you like."

He was smirking. I knew he needled me, but
at the same time, I did want the introduction. "Please," I
said.

When Mrs. Bennington finished her scene and
left the stage, the magic faded. Apparently, that was to be her
last appearance, because the audience began to drift away,
uninterested in the rest of the play.

Mr. Bennington rose. "Shall we greet her
backstage and tell her how splendid she was?"

I had wanted to stay and become better
acquainted with Basil Stokes, but Bennington seemed ready to fly to
his wife's side. Before I could say anything, Stokes broke in.

"I hear you are all agog for pugilism,
Lacey," he bellowed in my ear. "Come to Gentleman Jackson's
tomorrow, and I'll show you some boxing." He grinned and
winked.

I accepted. I had, with Grenville, attended
Gentleman Jackson's on occasion and had even gone a few practice
rounds in my shirtsleeves, but to tell the truth, I could take or
leave the sport. However, the prospect of questioning Stokes was
not to be missed.

I agreed then let Mr. Bennington escort me
out.

"He is so terribly hearty, is he not?"
Bennington asked. He had to raise his voice over the other
theatregoers who poured out of boxes. "So appallingly English. So
John Bull. He is what I went to Italy to escape."

He rolled his eyes, oblivious of the
disapproving stares he received from the John Bulls around us.

As we walked, I wondered why, if Bennington
had gone to Italy to escape utterly English Englishmen, had he
returned?

I followed Bennington down a flight of stairs
into the bowels of the theatre, then through a short corridor to
the green room. Mrs. Bennington was there, surrounded by flowers
and young dandies.

The gentlemen present could have been cast
from the same mold as Henry Turner. They wore intricately tied
cravats, high-pointed collars, long-tailed frock coats, black
trousers or pantaloons, and polished slippers. They varied only in
the type of cravat pin they sported--diamond, emerald, gold--and in
the color of their hair. Brown, black, golden, or very fair hair
was curled and draped in similar fashion from head to head.

I did not miss the flash of annoyance in Mrs.
Bennington's eyes as she beheld her husband. She obviously wanted
to bask in the attention of these lads who brought her bouquets and
kissed her hand. Bennington ruined the mood.

From the twitch of Bennington's lips, he knew
precisely what he'd done.

"My dear," he said, drawing out the words as
he took her hands. "You were too wonderful this evening. Mr.
Grenville was so overset with emotion that he had to flee. He left
Captain Lacey behind as his emissary. Captain, may I present my
wife, Claire Bennington. Claire, Captain Lacey, a very dear friend
of Lucius Grenville."

Mrs. Bennington had been looking at me in a
rather vacant fashion, but at the announcement that I was
Grenville's friend, her expression changed to one of
trepidation.

She had hazel eyes, an indeterminate shade
between brown and green. Her lips were full and red, and they
parted slightly while she gazed at me. As I bowed over her hand, I
realized what Louisa and Lady Aline had meant when they said she
was an empty vessel. Except for that flash of trepidation, she
seemed a rather vacuous creature.

Her hand was soft and not strong, the flesh
yielding to the press of my fingers. Her hair was artificially
curled; close to, it looked frizzled from too many times with a
crimping iron, the color dulled with dye.

"Greet the good captain, my dear," Mr.
Bennington prodded.

Mrs. Bennington jerked, as though she were an
automaton needing a push to begin its trick. "How do you do?" she
said. Her voice, too, was rather breathy, holding none of the
quality she'd had on stage. "Grady," she said to an older woman who
was tidying the room, seemingly the only person with anything to
do. "Bring the captain some port."

"None for your husband, eh?" Bennington said.
He gave his wife a deprecating look and strolled away.

Mrs. Bennington had not let go of my hand.
Now she pressed it tighter, her nails sinking into my skin.
"Captain, I am glad you have come. I must speak with you."

"I am all attentive, madam," I said.

Mrs. Bennington shot a furtive glance at the
dandies, who were eyeing me with jealous dislike. "Not here. Later.
Alone. In my rooms. Grady will tell you." She released me abruptly
as her maid approached with a glass of port carefully balanced on a
tray. Grady stopped in front of me, and Mrs. Bennington turned away
and seized the arm of the nearest dandy.

The young man gave me a triumphant look and
led her off. Grady, who had far less vacant eyes than her mistress,
handed me the port. As I drank, she gave me instructions. I was to
appear at number 23, Cavendish Square, at half-past three and be
admitted to her mistress. I was to come alone, no followers,
excepting, if I wanted, a servant.

Grady marched away, leaving me with the port
and nothing to do but watch the dandies fall all over Mrs.
Bennington. Mr. Bennington joined the throng and made cutting
remarks to his wife's face, looking amused when she did not
notice.

I realized, listening to him, that Bennington
severely disliked his wife. It was clear in his drawling comments,
in the looks he shot her when her attention was elsewhere. He
viewed her as contemptible, and he despised her.

Why then had he married the woman? He might
have stayed on the Continent, happily avoiding hearty Englishmen as
long as he liked. But he had married Claire Bennington and then
returned to England with her. It was a puzzle among the other
puzzles I needed to solve.

I stayed in the room until I could politely
take my leave. When I told Mrs. Bennington good night, she shot me
a meaningful look that was plain for all to see. Her husband saw
it. He gave me a beatific smile and shook my hand.

"I hope I have made your visit to the theatre
worthwhile," he said, his teeth gleaming.

I responded with some polite phrase and
departed.

As I walked home through the rain, I let the
vivid picture of Bennington killing Henry Turner fill my mind.
Bennington had made no bones about the fact that he thought Turner
had deserved to be murdered. The look Bennington had given me as
I'd departed his wife's dressing room had been filled of
self-deprecating amusement, but also of anger. He knew bloody well
that later I'd be visiting Mrs. Bennington and that he would be
expected to keep out of the way.

I longed to tell Bennington that I had no
intention of cuckolding him, but I didn't think he'd believe me. I
would have refused Mrs. Bennington's invitation altogether, but she
intrigued me with the worry in her eyes, and also, she'd been at
the Gillises' ball.

As I turned to Russel Street, making my way
to Grimpen Lane, a few game girls called to me from the shadows.
They laughed when I merely tipped my hat and did not respond.

They knew by now that I treated street girls
with kindness and did not turn them over to the watch or to the
reformers. But they saw no reason not to capitalize on that
kindness.

"Come, now, Captain," one called. "I'll only
ask a shilling. No better bargain in London."

"Tuppence," another girl insisted. Her voice
was hoarse, her throat raw from coughing. "Only tuppence fer you.
'Cause it wouldn't be work for me."

The girls bantered with me often, but I was
never tempted by them. The poor things were always wracked with
some illness or other, a few of them with syphilis. It was not
simply pity and caution of disease that kept me from them, however.
Most of them were younger than my daughter, and all were
accomplished thieves. Their flats, as they called the gentlemen who
hired them, never paid enough, and the girls saw no reason why they
should not lift the handkerchief of anyone passing to sell for an
extra bob or two.

A year or so ago, I'd helped one of their
number, Black Nancy, by taking her to Louisa Brandon. Louisa, used
to taking in strays, had found the girl a place as a maid at an inn
near Islington.

I distributed a shilling to each of them and
told them to go get themselves warm.

"A fine gentleman yer are," one said. She
reached out to stroke my arm, and I backed quickly out of reach. I
wanted to keep the contents of my pockets. They laughed, and I
tipped my hat again and walked away.

When I entered Grimpen Lane, I half expected
to hear the altercation between Marianne and Grenville filling the
street. All was quiet, however, even when I opened the door that
led up to my rooms.

In the past, the staircase had been painted
with a mural of shepherds and shepherdesses frolicking across green
fields. Now the paint had mostly faded except for the occasional
shepherdess peering out of the gloom. Mrs. Beltan didn't bother
painting the staircase because it would be an extra expense, and no
one saw it but her boarders.

I climbed the stairs slowly, my knee stiff
from the weather. At the top of the stairs, my door, once ivory and
gold, now gray, stood ajar.

I eyed it in irritation. If Marianne and
Grenville had departed for more comfortable surroundings, they
might have at least closed the door and kept out the cold.

I heard a quiet step on the stairs above me.
I looked up to see Bartholomew descending from the attics, his
tread surprisingly soft for so large a young man. When I opened my
mouth to speak, he thrust a finger over his lips, urging me to
silence.

I peered through the half-open door and saw
Marianne and Grenville close together in the middle of the room.
Marianne's arms hung at her sides, but she looked up at Grenville
as he cradled her face in his hands. As I watched, he leaned to
kiss her.

I shot Bartholomew a surprised glance. He
shrugged. I signaled for him to follow me, and he tiptoed down the
stairs and past the doorway to me, then we both descended quietly
to the street.

"The argument seems to be over," I said.

"I hope so, sir. They shouted for the longest
time."

"Well, let us hope they have come to some
accordance. Are you hungry?"

"Famished, sir."

I suggested the Rearing Pony, a tavern in
Maiden Lane, and Bartholomew readily agreed. We walked through
Covent Garden square to Southampton Street and so to Maiden Lane,
where we ate beefsteak and drank ale like every good John Bull.

It was there that James Denis found me.

Denis was still a relatively young man, being
all of thirty. But his dark blue eyes were cold and held the
shrewdness of a born trader or dictator. If Emperor Bonaparte had
met James Denis over a negotiating table, Bonaparte would have
ceded everything and fled, and considered himself lucky to get away
so easily.

I was surprised to see Denis in such a lowly
place as a tavern. He kept a wardrobe as costly and fashionable as
Grenville's and lived in a fine house in Curzon Street. He did not
often venture out to see others; he had others brought to him.

Two burly gentlemen flanked him to the right
and left, former pugilists that he employed to keep him safe. He
studied me for a moment or two, his eyes as enigmatic as ever, then
he gestured to the seat next to me.

"May I?" Denis wasn't asking my permission.
He simply said the polite words for benefit of those around us.

"Of course," I said, also for benefit of
those around us.

Bartholomew moved off the bench, swiping up
his ale as he went. He sauntered across the room, where he smiled
at the barmaid, Anne Tolliver, who gave him a large-hearted smile
in return.

James Denis seated himself. His men took up
places on nearby benches, which magically cleared of patrons. Anne
approached with tankards of ale. The lackeys gladly took them, but
Denis waved his away. He laid his hat on the table and folded his
gloved hands over his walking stick.

"I've come about your Frenchman," he
said.

I had assumed so, although, with Denis, one
should never assume anything.

"I have not much more to tell you about him
than what I wrote in my message," I said.

He lifted one perfectly groomed brow. "No
need for more of a description. I have already found him."

"Truly? I only wrote you of it this
morning."

"I heard of the incident before you journeyed
to Epsom," he said. "One of my men saw the Frenchman fleeing your
rooms. My man followed him across the river, but lost him in
Lambeth. That at least gave me a place to begin. We found him
tonight, and he is waiting at my house. He is from Paris and
answers to the name of Colonel Naveau."

I had never heard of him. But my idea that
he'd had a military bearing seemed to be correct.

"You could have written this information to
me," I said. "And fixed an appointment for me to meet him."