Death on a Silver Tray (15 page)

“Reeooow!”

The clock on the mantle, a Louis XVI white marble and bronze timepiece, said it was barely nine. An insupportable hour to be awake, but there was nothing for it, so I rang for Robinson. It was some minutes before he appeared.

He seemed a trifle worse for the alcohol he had consumed the evening before. His eyes were shot with red, and yes, when shaving he had missed a line of stubble on his right jaw. “Good morning, sir. Are we awake this early for a specific reason?”

“The cat wants his breakfast.”

Robinson glanced over to where Chakkri stood at the end of the bed twitching his tail. He glared at the animal. The cat glared back.

“I shall see if Andre has any scraps.”

A short time later, Robinson returned with a tray containing a pot of chocolate for me and a plate of scrambled eggs with a light cheese sauce for Chakkri.

The cat paced back and forth at the end of the bed, his gaze fixed on the tray.

Robinson held the tray a bit higher. “Andre had nothing he felt suitable for the feline, so he prepared these eggs.”

“Reow!” Chakkri exclaimed impatiently.

“Are the eggs hot?” I asked, thinking I would not like the cat to burn his tongue.

Robinson pursed his lips, leveled me with a martyred look, and plunged a finger into the eggs. “They seem a moderate temperature, sir.”

“Very good, then. Place the plate on the floor and then you may prepare my bath.”

While Robinson filled the copper tub as well as a Chinese bowl with water for shaving, I sipped my chocolate and watched as Chakkri devoured the eggs, then meticulously groomed himself.

After about an hour, I was also meticulously groomed, complete with a trim of my light brown hair. Robinson pulled a pair of pantaloons from the wardrobe along with a buff-colored waistcoat and a long-tailed, celestial-blue coat. We fumbled through three cravats over the next thirty minutes before perfecting one, but that was to be expected given the early hour.

Once dressed, I left Chakkri sleeping contentedly across the unmade bed. Devil take him! He got to rest while I had things to do.

Since it was far too early to go out, I sat in the dining room partaking of a hearty breakfast of cold meat, eggs, and toasted bread and butter. Working through a pot of coffee, I managed to complete some sketches of livery I wanted made for Ned and Ted, as well as dash off a quick note to Freddie. I pictured her traipsing about Oatlands, worrying herself to flinders over Miss Ashton. I wanted to assure her she could rely upon me to help the girl.

Around noon, I donned my black velvet greatcoat, selected a silver-topped walking stick from my collection, placed a tall beaver hat on my head, and drew on my gloves.

Because I did not wish Ned and Ted to make their debut as my chairmen until after they were properly outfitted, I once again had two men from the Porter & Pole carry my sedan-chair.

Our first stop was in Jermyn Street where the owner of Floris’s greeted me with pleasure.

“Mr. Brummell! How delightful to see you in my shop,” Juan Floris declared. “I hoped you would come in, as I have put aside a tortoise-shell comb for your inspection.”

“Oh?” I said with interest.

Mr. Floris brought out a beautifully carved comb, which he unwrapped from a piece of silk in his leisurely way. “I have just begun working in tortoise-shell and wanted you to be the first to see the results of my efforts.”

“Splendid, Mr. Floris, this is a work of art,” I said, examining the fine workmanship of the comb. “I should like two of them.”

“I only have the one right now and you are welcome to it,” Mr. Floris beamed with pride. “Rest assured I shall make more now that I have your approval.”

Juan Floris was nothing if not an intelligent businessman. He knew if I favored the new comb, word would spread across Mayfair, and he would be besieged with orders.

Mr. Floris was adding up my purchases—a small toothbrush, essence of lavender for my bedsheets, a container of starch, and a bottle of my favorite citrus fragrance—when my gaze fell on a pretty, ivory-handled, lady’s hair brush.

“Er, one moment, Mr. Floris. I should like to add this brush to my bill, please,” I said, thinking Chakkri might enjoy a good brushing. The delicate bristles of a lady’s brush would be best suited to his soft fur. Freddie has told me she has a servant whose sole duties are bathing and brushing her dogs regularly, a task which must be taxing.

Mr. Floris wrapped the brush in paper. “You are fortunate. This is the last ivory-handled one I have. Mr. Timothy Hensley purchased the other earlier today.”

The offhand remark caused me to raise an eyebrow. It seemed odd indeed that Mr. Hensley would be purchasing a lady’s brush. His marriage to Cordelia Hensley did not strike me as the sort where one party remembered the other with an unexpected gift. But, then, if not Mrs. Hensley, who was the recipient of the brush?

“A gift for his wife, no doubt,” I ventured.

“As to that, I could not say, sir,” Mr. Floris replied courteously, but firmly.

Perhaps Mrs. Hensley had commissioned her husband to obtain the brush for her. Something else she had told him to ‘fetch.’

Arriving at White’s, I put my speculation aside. Delbert was not on duty at the door, so I did not have to try my brain with Shakespearean quotes. I found I missed the challenge.

Instead, my presence was met with covert glances and a marked cessation of conversation, most likely due to talk of the Crecy’s party and my defense of Miss Ashton.

I affected not to notice. I went directly up the stairs to the coffee room where I found Lord Perry sitting alone in a far corner reading the
Times
.

Slipping into a chair nearby, I said, “I am glad to find you here, Perry, as I particularly wished to speak to you. Though I admit I am surprised you could tear yourself away from your bride. Lady Perry looked radiant last evening.”

Lord Perry lowered his newspaper. “I cannot spend my time in my wife’s pocket, you know.”

“No, that would not be fashionable,” I agreed, shaking my head at an approaching footman.

“Well, to tell the truth,” Perry said, a light coming into his eyes, “Bernadette is refurbishing the nursery and the noise the workmen are making is abominable.”

“Perry! Am I to assume from that—”

“Yes, Brummell. I am to be a papa.”

“That is wonderful news,” I told him. “We must celebrate. I am escorting Lady Salisbury to the opera tomorrow. Why do not you and Lady Perry come with us? We can make a party of it with a feast at Grillon’s and then the opera.”

“It sounds agreeable to me. I shall put the plan to Bernadette and let you know. Now, you wanted to ask me something?”

“Yes. What do you know about Sylvester Fairingdale?”

Perry frowned. “Has this to do with Lady Wrayburn’s murder, Brummell? Are you poking about trying to pin the deed on one of the residents of Wrayburn House other than Miss Ashton?”

“It is rude to answer a question with a question.”

Perry sat silent.

“Very well, I have perhaps
rued
the day I became involved in this, but I am nosing around. Forgive me for not confiding the specifics to you—”

Perry waved a dismissive hand. “I am only concerned for you, Brummell. Fairingdale has put you in a deuced awkward position. Should Miss Ashton prove to be the murderer after all, well, you shall look a muttonheaded fool. Talk is already spreading across London about last night’s scene at Lady Crecy’s party. Upon my arrival here at the club, I heard nothing else and finally escaped to this corner.”

“I suppose I am not surprised. Perhaps I should present myself at Carlton House and apprise Prinny—”

“You will catch cold at that. He left for Brighton already.”

“What? I thought he would be in London the rest of the week.”

“Apparently the Prince feels there is a plot against his life, someone who does not want him to become Regent of England. He felt it prudent to retire to his Pavilion at once.”

“Good God. What could have put that maggot into his brain? He usually feels supremely confident in the affections of all the English people. I shall have to join him in Brighton, but not until this predicament with Miss Ashton is over. Which brings us back to Mr. Fairingdale.”

“Do you suspect him of something more than bad taste?”

“Everyone is a suspect at present, Perry. Do you know the source of Mr. Fairingdale’s income?”

Perry considered. “I am not rightly sure, but one would think with him living at Wrayburn House that Lady Wrayburn was providing him with an allowance. I could very well be wrong, though. It is pure conjecture on my part. But I did just hear this morning that, before her death, Lady Wrayburn allegedly told Mr. Fairingdale to leave Wrayburn House. She could not abide his frivolities.”

“Is that so?” I mused on this bit of information. If the countess did ask her nephew to leave Wrayburn House, it gave credence to my theory that Mr. Fairingdale was the subject of the incomplete letter I had found in the countess’s bedchamber. It would also give the fop even more motive for murder.

I stood. “Thank you, Perry. Let me know about tomorrow night.”

“And you have a care, Brummell. This could be a dangerous business.”

I left the club and gave the order for home. It was only half past one; too early to pay a call at Wrayburn House. In response to a query I had sent, Miss Ashton had passed along the information that the reading of Lady Wrayburn’s will would be held later that afternoon.

The polemen carried my chair to Bruton Street. Once inside, I alighted from the vehicle to find a stranger standing in my hall with Robinson.

“Sir, this is Mr. John Lavender from Bow Street,” Robinson informed me, his eyes rounded in concern. “He is an investigator and wishes to speak with you.”

“Very well, Robinson.”

This, then, was the man who was looking into Lady Wrayburn’s death and who had ordered Miss Ashton not to leave Wrayburn House.

Mr. Lavender stood gazing with narrowed eyes at my sedan-chair. “Quite a fancy piece of equipage. Ain’t seen nothing its equal and thought I’d seen everything. You George Brummell?”

“Yes,” I replied faintly, temporarily distracted by the man’s appearance. It looked as if his clothes had found him in a wind storm and adhered themselves to his body in a

willy-nilly manner.

He was a stockily built man over fifty years of age. His thick, red bristly hair was going to grey. He sported not only bushy side whiskers, also sprinkled with grey, but an enormous

mustache.

Most unfashionable.

Worse, he wore a salt-and-pepper game coat with many pockets over well-worn corduroy breeches tucked into mud-streaked boots. Perhaps he thought a game coat was appropriate for someone who hunted killers.

Looking at the Bow Street man, I fought the familiar urge to seize my quizzing glass and raise it to my eye, judging such an action ill-advised. I told myself it would be better not to have a closer view of Mr. Lavender’s clothes. Without the aid of the magnifier, I could see well enough the garments he wore with a lack of concern. Although he did appear clean.

“When you’ve finished admiring the efforts of my tailor,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “I’d like to speak to you in private.”

“You may follow me to my bookroom,” I said with great dignity.

We left behind a stricken Robinson. No doubt he was in fear of his livelihood lest I be taken away to the roundhouse for some crime; harboring a foreign cat probably came to his mind.

I entered the bookroom and sat behind my desk, motioning the Bow Street man to a chair.

“Look at this,” Mr. Lavender said, indicating my small revolving bookcase. “If I had any grandchildren they’d twirl this around enough to drive you mad. But, much to my sorrow, my only child is not married. My daughter prefers to look after other people’s children. She runs a shelter for those poor females disgraced and left to fend for themselves by your fellow members of the Nobility—er, pardon me—you’re not a lord, are you? Only a plain mister.”

“Quite right,” I said, unable to decide if the man was deliberately trying to be annoying. I decided he was. It is a common tactic used to throw off an opponent’s self-control. While the man clearly knew not a jot about sartorial elegance, he seemed to be qualified in his work.

“A plain mister, but Mr. Brummell the famous fashion leader no less.” He reached into a pocket of his coat and fished around until he found a toothpick, which he placed between his teeth and put to vigorous use.

I did not cringe. As you are aware, I am known for my reserve and my composure.

The movement of his mouth dislodged a crumb of what looked to be oatcake from his mustache. It fell to his knee. He picked it up and popped it in his mouth.

I gritted my teeth.

“Well, that explains it,” he said around the toothpick. “You being the leader of fashion it stands to reason you’d have something like that sedan-chair before anyone else. I reckon it won’t be long before the London streets are filled with ‘em. Perhaps it’ll cut down on the number of carriage crashes.”

“That was my intention, of course.” Two could play at the sarcasm game, and I found I was beginning to enjoy sparring with him.

He nodded. “So the way I see things, meaning no disrespect of course,” he said in a way that implied that he did, “you in the best circles of Society have your boredom to struggle with, unlike the rest of us who contend with things like obtaining food, coals for fire, and so forth.”

I rose to my feet, which gave me the advantage of looking down on him. It was time I took control of this interview. “The Bow Street police runners rely, for the most part, on private rewards for their efforts. Who has hired you to find Lady Wrayburn’s murderer?”

Mr. Lavender remained seated and undisturbed by the question. He surprised me by answering. “Her man of affairs, who is serving as executor of her estate, felt the matter worth looking into. Lady Wrayburn’s son, Lord Wrayburn, lives in Italy, but I am told when word reaches him of his mother’s death, he will likely return to England.”

“Then again, he may not. Distance can sometimes dull interest in family concerns,” I remarked.