A Regimental Murder (18 page)

I carefully clicked my knife to my plate,
interrupting them. Allandale shot me a rueful smile.

"Forgive us, Captain, for bringing up family
business." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "But as long as we
have broached the subject, I do so hope that you will help me
persuade my mother-in-law to give up this business about Captain
Spencer. It is agitating her greatly."

"My husband did not kill him," Lydia said
calmly.

Allandale's tone was all that was pleasant,
but I sensed in him the quiet, unthinking stubbornness of a limpet.
"It is over and done with, now. No need to worry about it any
longer."

"It will be over and done with," Lydia
answered. "Once Captain Lacey and I have unraveled the truth."

Allandale shot her a glance. She returned the
look, uncowed.

Allandale laid down his knife. "Captain,
would you speak to me a moment in the drawing room? Mother-in-law,
please excuse us."

Lydia said nothing. I looked a question at
her, and she inclined her head slightly. I hoped she trusted that I
would oppose him on her behalf, but her gaze told me nothing.

Allandale led me to the next room, which was
Lydia's private drawing room. Candles had been lit here. The light
brushed the pianoforte and gently touched Lydia's portrait.

Allandale closed the door. His expression
held annoyance, but he spoke in the soft, careful voice of a man
who suppressed his annoyance because the person he addressed was a
fool. "Captain, I truly must take you to task. When I heard that
Mrs. Westin had invited you here tonight to discuss Captain
Spencer, I was most distressed. I insisted I attend as well, so
that I could speak to you." Behind him, Lydia's portrait looked
down on him, cold and haughty. "You must cease speaking to her of
the incident on the Peninsula. It upsets her. Colonel Westin is
dead, and that is that."

He sounded like Kenneth Spencer. "Her husband
was accused of murder," I said dryly. "That would certainly be
upsetting."

For one instant his affable expression
vanished. Beneath it I glimpsed something ugly and hard, a
glittering sharpness. It was a flash only, then his fatuous smile
returned.

"Even so," he went on, "I do not like what
the events of the past month have done to her. I will ask you to
please have done discussing it with her." He clasped his hands. "I
have asked her to go to her daughter, but she refuses. You can
certainly see that such a thing would be better for her."

"On that point, I can concede." When Lydia
had lifted her glass, I was alarmed to see how much her too-thin
hand had trembled. The country air could only do her good.

"Excellent," Allandale said. "I do appreciate
your interest, but really, Captain, this business must stop." He
gave a decided nod, as though he expected his word to be final on
the subject.

I opened my mouth to tell him that not
talking of it did not mean the deed had not been done, but William,
Lydia's footman, opened the door on us. "Forgive me, sir."

Allandale swung on him, then quickly
rearranged his expression. "Yes, William. What is it?"

"Message for you, sir." The boy advanced
across the carpet, a folded paper in his hand.

Allandale took the note, unfolded it, and
read the two lines penned there. He blew out his breath. "Devilish
nuisance. Forgive me, Captain, but there is business I must take
care of. William, please send for the carriage to take Captain
Lacey home. I will hire one for my errand."

He shook my hand, his polite mask returning.
"Pleased that you should dine with us, Captain."

He crumpled the paper, his brow creasing even
as he turned away.

He marched from the room. I followed more
slowly. Lydia had not dismissed me, and I certainly would not rush
to obey the upstart Mr. Allandale.

I looked in at the dining room, but Lydia had
gone. Disappointed, I proceeded downstairs, and reached the ground
floor just as Allandale was gathering his hat and gloves from the
young footman.

Allandale looked up at me. "Good night,
Captain," he said firmly. He went out. The front door closed.

William's expression performed an instant
transformation. The deferential footman's mask vanished, his young
eyes twinkled, and he almost smiled. He raised his finger to his
lips.

On the other side of the door, Allandale
tramped away, his footsteps soon lost in the noise of traffic.
William turned, nearly quivering with glee. "Please come with me,
sir."

He led me back upstairs and to the drawing
room I had just vacated. I followed, puzzled, and hopeful.

"Just wait here, sir," William said, then
vanished.

I waited for about twenty minutes, pacing the
room beneath Lydia's portrait. She gazed down at me, serene, calmly
beautiful. She'd had no troubles at the time the picture had been
painted--she'd had a young daughter and a husband with a solid and
distinguished army career.

I had just decided William had forgotten
about me, when, to my delight, and answering my hope, he opened the
door again and ushered Lydia inside.

She smiled at me as William closed the door
and left us alone. "The cocklebur has become unstuck at last."

I smiled back. "Happy chance that took him
away."

She flushed. "It was not chance, truth to
tell. I caused that message to be sent. It will take him to Essex,
and by the time he discovers the ruse, it will be far too late to
reach London again until morning. But I wanted to speak to you,
uninterrupted."

My heart quickened. "I forgive you your
deception. I, too, find him a constraint to conversation."

She sat in her usual place on the divan. "You
mentioned selling this house," I said. "Where will you go after
this business is cleared up? That is, if it ever is. I feel
devilish ineffectual, I must say."

"You believe in Roe's innocence. That is
already a great help."

"I want to do so much more."

Her eyes softened. "You do not know how it
feels to have someone on my side, Captain, such a relief to speak
openly. I so long to know the truth. The newspapers--what they
print is horrible. Those cartoons about you are ludicrous. How can
you bear it?"

I smiled. "I thought Mr. Allandale had
forbidden newspapers in the house."

She made a derisive noise. "He might have
told William to throw them away, but William is loyal to me, not to
Mr. Allandale. Yes, I have seen the stories. They do not upset me,
they make me quite angry. They have no right to ridicule you."

"I am a convenient target. It will pass." Or
else I would break all Billings's teeth.

"They are hashing out the entire Badajoz
incident over again." She sighed. "I am so tired of all of
this."

I sat forward, wanting to comfort her and not
knowing how.

She sent me a wavering smile. "Please,
Captain. Tell me what you discovered in Kent."

"Little, I am afraid. I discovered that Lord
Richard Eggleston and Lord Breckenridge are vulgar and irritating,
but you did not need me to tell you that. And that they were
Belemites."

She raised her delicate brows.
"Belemites?"

"Officers who manage to be assigned posts
nowhere near the fighting. Even if their regiment is heavily
involved in battle, they somehow have been assigned to transport
prisoners or look into a supply problem."

"My husband was not fond of them," Lydia
said. "They liked a pretty uniform, but nothing more. Lord
Breckenridge plied Roe for a long time to raise his rank, but
fortunately Roe had the resolve not to let him become a
colonel."

"I can believe that. Breckenridge might have
served in the Peninsular campaign, but he was not a soldier."

I then gave her the full account of my visit
to Astley Close. I omitted the shameful game of cards and my boxing
bout with Breckenridge. I did tell her of Brandon's unexpected
appearance and Breckenridge's suspicious death. While I spoke, she
toyed with a heavy gold and garnet ring on her right forefinger,
twisting it round in a distracted way.

"So I really learned nothing," I concluded.
"Except that Eggleston and Breckenridge were most put out that I
should be investigating them. I have not yet made acquaintance with
Connaught, though Grenville is trying to contact him."

"He is much the same as the other two, I am
afraid."

I tapped my fingers to the arm of the chair.
"I wonder that your husband did not cut his acquaintance with them
after the war. They are thoroughly unpleasant, and not men whose
company I would have thought your husband would seek."

She opened her hands in a helpless gesture.
"I asked him why myself, but he never would tell me. He only said
that they had shared the camaraderie of battle, and so they must
remain friends. I knew he did not much like them, but he refused to
break the connection."

I remembered Lady Breckenridge describing how
Lydia had begged her husband to take her home when Breckenridge
wanted to play his disgusting card game. "He ought to have spared
you."

She shrugged. "It no longer matters."

It mattered to me.

I continued, telling her what I'd learned
from the Spencers and from Pomeroy. She listened attentively, the
garnet on her ring winking as she twisted the band again.

"What this means," I said carefully, "is that
not only could Breckenridge, Eggleston, or Connaught have killed
your husband, but the Spencers could have also. And they might have
killed Breckenridge as well."

She looked surprised. "But why should
they?"

"Because John Spencer longs for revenge
against those connected to his father's death. He reeks with it.
And Kenneth Spencer worries much about his brother. He might have
murdered your husband believing that John would be satisfied once
Colonel Westin was dead. He seemed much distressed that John wanted
to continue his search for the truth."

Her eyes widened, pupils spreading to swallow
the blue. "Could they have gained the house?"

"Indeed. The same way Breckenridge or
Eggleston could have. I have toyed with the idea that their two
lordships had an early morning appointment with your husband, that
he let them into the house himself. But suppose the appointment had
been with the Spencers? They admitted he'd asked to meet them at a
coffeehouse, but what if he had told them to meet them here
instead? He goes downstairs and lets them in. They murder him and
leave."

She watched me in growing dismay. She had
wanted the three aristocrats to be the culprits, wanted it with her
whole being. The possibility that Breckenridge or Eggleston or
Connaught had nothing to do with it meant that she might have made
a grave mistake.

"I must agree with Mr. Allandale on one
point," I said gently. "Perhaps you should go to the country. Stay
with your daughter and brother. I will write you of anything I
find."

She shook her head. "I am not ready yet. I
would go mad in the country, waiting."

"Your daughter might need you."

She raised her hands in supplication. "Do not
ask me, Captain. I cannot go. Chloe's uncle will look after her
well."

"But the country might be safer for you.
There is real possibility that someone closer to home killed your
husband, as I suggested before. You should face that. William, for
instance."

She stared at me in baffled outrage. "I have
told you, that is impossible. William refuses to kill even insects.
The idea that he might have hurt my husband is preposterous."

"But he is large and strong and could easily
have struck your husband down. Or Millar could have done the
same."

She shook her head, her eyes sparking anger.
"Millar had been my husband's manservant for twenty years. He
grieved and still does. And he and William are both devoted to
me."

"Perhaps too devoted," I suggested. "Perhaps
William saw that your life would be eased if your husband
died."

She sprang from her chair and paced in
agitation to the pianoforte. "No. Please stop this. He cannot
have."

"Forgive me. I simply want no harm to come to
you."

"I did not ask you to investigate my
husband's death, Captain Lacey. I asked you to clear his name."

"I know. I cannot help myself. I want to be
certain."

She swung on me, her head high. "Certain of
what? You have no right to accuse my servants. How dare you?"

"I accuse them to stop myself from speaking
something still more repugnant, from drawing a conclusion even
Sergeant Pomeroy leapt to without prompting."

"What conclusion? What are you talking
about?"

"Good lord, Lydia, have you not seen it? That
you killed him yourself."

Her face flashed white with shock.
"What?"

I went on remorselessly. "You most easily of
all could have crept into your husband's chamber and stabbed him
while he lay abed. The servants were asleep; who would notice you
move from your bedroom to his? And then in the morning you pretend
to find him and swear your servants to silence on the matter."

She stared. "How can you say these things to
me?"

"Because they might just be true."

Her look turned furious. "They are not."

She moved as though to flee the room. I
stepped in front of her.

"No? What was he to you? You had no marriage;
you admitted so yourself. He was about to bring disgrace to you and
your daughter, and his friends disgusted you. If he died, you would
be spared an ordeal, and if you could push the deed onto the foul
Breckenridge, so much the better."

I could not still my tongue. My fears were
pouring from me, words spilling into the still room.

"If I am so clever," she flashed, "why on
earth did I tell you all?"

"Because when I helped you on the bridge, you
saw a chance to move your plan along. You saw that you could stir
me to pity, that you could make me do anything you pleased. That I
would scramble to cast the blame on your husband's disgusting
colleagues, anything to keep them from you and the taint from your
name. You must have seen how easily I'd promise you anything."