A Body in Berkeley Square (9 page)

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 Grenville 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."

"I believe you should oblige him," I
said.

Bartholomew winked. "Right you are, sir. You
would like to come along?"

"Please," I rose, took up my walking stick,
and let the lads lead the way out.

* * * * *

Chapter Six

We took a hackney coach around St. James's
Street to Piccadilly. Mr. Turner had lived in rooms near Burlington
House and the Albany. The Albany was the former residence of the
Duke of York, which had been sold and converted into flats for the
very rich man-about-town. I noted that Henry Turner had taken
lodgings as close as he could to the house without having to pay
the exorbitant rent to live there.

Turner's rooms consisted of a sitting room
and a bedchamber, one room in the front, one room in the rear. I
lived in similar accommodations, but Mr. Turner's rooms held a
comfort and warmth that mine would always lack.

Mr. Turner, in fact, lived in a bit of
decadence. His furniture was either made of costly satinwood or had
been thickly gilded. I noticed Bartholomew and Matthias look around
in some distaste. Working for Lucius Grenville had given the two of
them experience with the best that money could buy, plus the taste
and moderation that made a thing worth having. Mr. Turner seemed to
have been the sort of young man more interested in what a thing
cost than in taste or moderation.

We found Mr. Turner's valet, Bill Hazelton,
in the bedchamber, where he'd had emptied the armoire and spread
Turner's clothes over the bed, chairs, and every other available
surface. Hazelton wore drab black pantaloons that bagged around his
knees and ankles in preposterous wrinkles. His coat was of good cut
in last year's style, probably one of Turner's castoffs. His long
chin was covered with stubble, and his brown eyes were morose.

"Oh dear," he said upon seeing us. "What
now?"

Matthias reminded him that they'd had a
chin-wag at the Gillises' ball, and that he and his brother worked
for none other than Lucius Grenville. He introduced the man to
me.

Hazleton glanced at me, categorized me, and
dismissed me. I would not be likely to hire an out-of-work valet,
and he knew it.

"I would like to ask you a few questions
about your master, if I may," I began.

Hazleton looked sorrowful. "Why? I never
killed him, and I don't know who did."

"Mr. Grenville and I are simply curious," I
said.

Hazleton regarded me dubiously, but he nodded
as he continued folded linen cravats.

"How long were you Mr. Turner's manservant?"
I asked.

"Seven years." Hazelton sounded depressed.
"All through his long Oxford years I looked after him. It was me
what had to lie to the proctor when Mr. Turner had been out all
night, me what had to roll him out of bed in the mornings and get
him to lectures. And what did he do? Wagered my pay on horses, he
did. And any other thing he could think of. Always kept good drink,
though."

He trailed off wistfully. Servants' posts
were difficult to obtain, and no matter how irritating the master,
most preferred employment to the prospect of having to look for
work.

"And then," Hazleton continued, "he went and
got himself done in and left me high and dry. Typical."

"Getting himself killed is typical?" I
asked.

"Leaving me to bear the brunt of his problems
is. After all I've done for him."

I pondered my next questions with care. A
manservant could know more about his master than his master did
himself. But a manservant could also have fierce loyalty to his
gentleman and never reveal that man's secrets.

"Was Mr. Turner ever hurting for money? If he
had to wager your pay on the horses, that must mean he was short of
blunt from time to time."

"He got an allowance from his pater, but he
was always in need of more funds. Had to be, hadn't he? He had to
dress and keep rooms and go to White's and Tattersall's. Spent all
his pater's money, but he would win on his wagers. Sometimes quite
a lot, but then the money would be gone again, to high living."
Hazelton glanced at his master's clothes strewn about the room.
"Little good it's done him now, though, eh?"

I ran my hand over one of the coats. The
cloth was fine; the coat as costly and elegant as what Grenville
might wear. Indeed, Turner probably had many of his clothes made to
imitate Grenville's. Most young men-about-town did.

"His father continued to give him money?" I
asked. "He did not cut him off with a shilling over his gaming, as
angry fathers sometimes do?"

"No, no. Mr. Turner's family are quiet
people. Too respectable for the likes of my master. Must have been
an embarrassment to them, he was. His father kept up the allowance
but sent him pleading paternal letters to mend his ways."

I wondered whether Hazleton knew this because
he'd read his master's mail. Or perhaps he'd known Turner well
enough to guess exactly what the man's father would say to him.

"Had he recently received more money than
usual?" I looked out of the window as I asked the question, as
though only half-interested in the answer.

"Not that I know of, sir. Leastwise, I saw
no sign of it. Of course, Mr. Turner would not be likely to give
anything spare to me."

I wondered what Turner would have done with
any money Brandon or Mrs. Harper had given him. Would he hoard it
or pay his tailor and his gambling debts? Was he experienced at
blackmail, or had he simply seized upon an opportunity?

I sent Bartholomew a meaningful look. I
wanted to have a look at Turner's rooms without Hazleton hovering
over me.

Bartholomew took the hint. "Well then,
Hazleton, what about this claret?"

Hazleton perked up, at least as much as
Hazleton would ever perk up. His mournful mouth smoothed the
slightest bit. "Ah, yes. His pa told me to put his things together
and send them home. But a bottle of claret wouldn't travel very
well now, would it?"

I thought it would make no difference to the
bottle, but I welcomed the chance to clear Hazleton out of the way
for a few minutes. Bartholomew told him to lead the way, and he and
Hazleton and Matthias clattered out.

Left alone, I searched the bedchamber but
found very little. I went through the pockets of the coats strewn
on the bed and chairs and then checked the cupboards. I found
nothing but shirts and undergarments and other accoutrements of a
gentleman's wardrobe in the armoire, but nothing tucked inside any
of them. Turner, or perhaps Hazleton, had kept his things very
neatly.

I left the bedchamber and entered the front
room, where I went through the small writing table. Remembering
Brandon's secret drawer, I went carefully through the desk, but I
found no hidden drawers and nothing very helpful in the ordinary
ones.

Turner had kept no correspondence, no
dunning notices from his creditors, and none of the tearful letters
from his father Hazelton had mentioned. In short, Mr. Turner seemed
to have no personal papers in his rooms at all.

As I closed the last drawer, I was startled
by the sound of the front door opening behind me. I knew how long
Bartholomew and Matthias could linger over a glass, and they'd both
understood that I'd wanted time to search the rooms.

But when I looked around I found neither the
tall footmen nor the long-faced Hazleton. Instead, a woman I did
not know entered the room. She did not see me until she'd walked
well inside, then she froze, the color draining from her face.

She swung around and reached for the door.
Moving with a speed I'd not known I had, I made it to the door and
pressed my hand against it. The woman looked up at me with startled
brown eyes that were rather too small and sparsely lashed.

We stared at one another for a full, silent
minute. The room was chill, because Hazleton had not bothered to
start a fire. The woman had wrapped a cashmere shawl around her,
but the skin on her neck stood out in gooseflesh, and her lips were
thin and almost bloodless.

"I beg your pardon," she said stiffly. "I
seem to have entered the wrong room."

I did not think so. In wild surmise I said,
"Mrs. Harper."

Her eyes widened, but to her credit, she did
not faint or grow hysterical. Her assessment was one of surprise,
not fear.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is Gabriel Lacey."

If she'd heard of me, she hid it well. "Yes,
I am Mrs. Harper. Mr. Turner . . . " She broke off. Perhaps she'd
prepared a story for the servants but not one for the likes of
me.

I answered for her. "You were looking for a
letter or paper that belonged to you that you thought Mr. Turner
had."

Now, some fear did enter her eyes. "Why do
you say so? Exactly who are you?"

"I am a friend to Colonel Brandon."

She looked me up and down with new scrutiny,
her lips tightening. I saw that she was not sure whether to
categorize me as friend or foe. A friend of Colonel Brandon could
be for him and against her.

I returned her look with the same curiosity.
Brandon might have been having an affair with this woman; indeed,
he might well have tried to leave Louisa for her, but she was not
beautiful. Her brown dress was trimmed in black braid, with black
buttons making a neat line down the bodice, and the cashmere shawl
was also a rich brown. She knew how to dress tastefully, and her
bonnet, brown straw trimmed with cream silk ribbons, was of a very
late fashion.

The hair that straggled from under the
bonnet was brownish yellow, the color to which some blond women
find their hair turning as they grow older, much to their despair.
Her face was round, her nose straight, and her eyes, as I had
observed, were small, though a pleasing shade of brown. She was not
by any means a radiant beauty, although she was not ugly. I would
describe her overall as pleasant.

I gestured to a rather gaudy crimson damask
sofa. "Shall we sit down, Mrs. Harper, and talk about Mr.
Turner?"

Mrs. Harper searched my face, her eyes wary,
but at last she inclined her head and moved to the sofa. She sat
down, adjusting her skirt and her gloves, not looking at me as I
limped across the room.

"You knew Colonel Brandon," I said, sitting
next to her, "on the Peninsula."

Mrs. Harper nodded. "He was very helpful to
my husband and to me."

A gratitude any woman might express toward a
friend who once had lent assistance. "Your husband was killed at
Vitoria, I believe," I said. "I was there. The battle was
devastating. We lost many."

"Yes, my husband had often been praised for
his valor. He died trying to save others." She made the statement
flatly, as though she had said it so many times it no longer had
meaning.

"Quite heroic of him. Brandon had been a
friend of his?"

"Yes." Mrs. Harper had a quiet confidence
about her, something I might admire under other circumstances. Her
apparent ease at dealing with me, someone she had not expected,
made me wonder. If she were this cool-headed, why had she become so
overwrought at the sight of Turner's blood?