Death on a Silver Tray (16 page)

Mr. Lavender stood and looked me in the eye. “You yourself would be wise to keep your interest in this case, whatever it might be, at a distance.”

So that was it. I raised an eyebrow. “Miss Ashton is gently bred and deserves someone to come to her aid against the Runners. I have chosen to be that person.”

“And I, Mr. Brummell, am not a Bow Street
Runner
. I am a Bow Street
Investigator
hired to bring her murderer, gently bred or not, to justice. You’ll do well to keep your opinions and your efforts concentrated on fashionable fripperies. Do not be interfering in my work.”

I had goaded him into a display of emotion. He had definitely burred his r’s on the word ‘interfering,’ a fact that gave me a small measure of satisfaction and told me he was a native of Scotland.

A heavy silence fell while we took each other’s measure. I perceived that Mr. Lavender held the popular belief I think I mentioned before: that I am naught but a foolish dandy.

“I do not see why you would scorn assistance,” I said.

“Assistance? From someone who spends his days figuring out ways to tie the perfect knot in his cravat?” Mr. Lavender hooted with laughter, then his voice turned grim. “Lady Wrayburn was a Countess. A member of the Nobility’s murder is a matter of the highest priority in Bow Street. I’m warning you. Stay out of this.”

His was to be only the first warning I received that day.

Chapter Thirteen

After Mr. Lavender took his leave, I sat at my desk thinking about his visit. Overall it was to my good that the man had seen fit to visit me. I think it is beneficial to know who one’s adversary is.

Also, I wondered if his daughter might be of help in finding Lizzie a place, since apparently she ran a shelter for women. Pulling a piece of paper from the desk drawer, I wrote out a quick note asking Miss Lavender if I might call on her to discuss the plight of a young female with child.

I was just sanding the note when Robinson entered the room with the afternoon’s post. “Sir, is there anything I can do to help you in your difficulties?” he asked anxiously, passing me a small tray heaped with letters and cards of invitation.

I accepted the stack of correspondence, wondering if Miss Ashton proved guilty, and I a fool, how many cards of invitation I would receive then.

Glancing up, I looked into Robinson’s face and saw the concern there. I would not fob him off with a lie. “Your interest is appreciated, Robinson, as is your loyalty.”

Robinson stood a little straighter.

“You have heard about the Countess of Wrayburn’s murder, have you not?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, a puzzled expression on his face.

“A young lady is being investigated by Bow Street, and I feel she is innocent, and her name should be cleared. To that end, I have been trying to discover who really killed the Countess.” There was no need for me to expound on this explanation and involve Freddie.

Robinson seemed intrigued. He said, “While you were out this morning, Rumbelow, the underbutler at Vayne House, came to the kitchen door and told me what transpired last night at Lady Crecy’s party. Do you suspect Mr. Fairingdale of the crime? I know you specifically asked me yesterday to find out his plans for the evening.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I have underestimated the speed at which gossip travels through all the classes in London. As for Fairingdale, yes, I suspect him as well as just about everyone else at Wrayburn House.”

“I see. If you say Miss Ashton is innocent, sir, I know she is. I sent Rumbelow on his way with an admonition not to spread rumors about you. He drinks, you know, and cannot keep his tongue between his teeth.”

“Hmmm. I wonder if he knows the footmen at Wrayburn House. Perhaps we could glean some information through him.”

Robinson shook his head. “He would not associate with any footmen, sir, considering them beneath his notice. However, he most likely lifts a glass from time to time with Riddell, the butler at Wrayburn House. Allow me to see what I can find out.”

“Discreetly, of course.”

“Of course.”

Our fellowship was broken by the arrival of Chakkri. The cat hopped over the doorway as was his odd custom, and went to stand by the fire.

Robinson recalled that he was out of charity with me for allowing the feline to remain in the house. He left the room after receiving my instructions to locate the direction of Miss Lavender and see that she received my note.

Flipping through the cards and letters, I found one from Freddie. Quickly breaking the seal, I read:

Dear George,

I am more grateful than I can say for your letter and your kind reassurances. I know I can count upon
you
, if no one else in this world, to stand by your word and to be my treasured friend. The warmth that this knowledge brings me cannot be overstated. I confess the article in the
Morning Post
shattered my nerves all to pieces, until your letter arrived to cheer me. You have a way, dear, of taking my troubles away, or at least, of helping me forget them for a while.

My heart is heavy for Rebecca Ashton. I have written her this morning with what comfort I can offer. It is appalling that she has had her freedom to leave Wrayburn House taken away from her in such a manner. One can only feel Bow Street is rushing to judgment and anxious to bring anyone forward as the culprit.

Here at Oatlands, Minney and Legacy’s pups grow by the hour. I long for you to visit us, but know you cannot at present. Please keep me apprised of your progress. And never doubt that I am

 Yours, ever, and truly

 Freddie

A pleasant glow filled me. I re-read the letter, wishing I could set out for Oatlands at once.

Chakkri jumped up on the desk with a grunt. He sat tall, his long brown tail swishing from side to side endangering the inkstand. I moved it out of jeopardy and perused the rest of the mail.

Casually scanning the invitations to routs, card parties and soirées, I opened one piece of vellum and my heart jumped in my chest.

It was not a letter, but a drawing. The sketch depicted a gentleman’s coat, a most fashionable one, and underneath the coat a cryptic message read: “Stick to perfecting clothes ... or else!”

I sat thunderstruck. I do not believe I have ever received anything so ugly through the post before now. Not counting my tailor’s bill.

Chakkri leaned down, and his inquisitive nose explored the paper. He bared his fangs and hissed at it, the fur standing up on his back and his tail bristling to three times its normal size.

I stared at the drawing and thought it just the sort of cowardly threat Fairingdale might send me. The fop was determined to disgrace me. I could not help but think that perhaps his scheme was meant to cover up his own activities; namely that of poisoning his aunt.

The man’s lavish style of dress would land him in debtor’s prison at any moment unless he had some sort of unknown income other than from the Countess. If he stood to inherit at the Countess’s death, then he had motive enough for murder. When one added greed to the gossip that Lady Wrayburn was about to turn her nephew out of her home ...

I tossed the drawing into a drawer and decided it was time to visit Wrayburn House.

* * * *

The door to Wrayburn House was opened by a young woman I had never seen before. Dressed in a plain cotton black gown, she looked to be one of those voluptuous sorts of girls normally found serving ale in country taverns. Her face was

wholesome-pretty, though, and she glanced up at me shyly through her lashes, her head tilted down.

“Yes, sir? Can I help you?” she asked.

“Good afternoon. I am George Brummell, come to call on Miss Ashton.” I handed her my card.

The girl opened the door wide. “Please come in, sir. I am Lizzie. ‘Becca—Miss Ashton, that is—told me about you and how you are trying to help her.”

I entered the hall and studied the pregnant lady’s maid. Her condition was not yet apparent, but the dress she wore fitted loosely.

“I wish to help you as well, Lizzie,” I said, entering the hall.

The girl smiled. “There is no need, Mr. Brummell, though I do thank you. The baby’s father will provide for us,” she said serenely, placing a hand on her stomach.

“Oh?” I expected her to expound on this pronouncement, but was doomed to disappointment.

“Yes, and in the meantime, Mr. Dawlish, the rector, is teaching me my letters so I might better myself. He is ever so generous a man. Always helping those less fortunate. I suppose it’s his Bible learning. He’s in the drawing room with ‘Becca right now.”

“And where is Riddell today? Should he not be answering the door?”

Lizzie accepted my hat, walking stick and greatcoat. Her movements were calm and unhurried. “Mr. Riddell is busy serving the family. They are in the library with the solicitor for the reading of Lady Wrayburn’s will.”

“Is that so? Well, I shall join Miss Ashton then.”

Lizzie bit her lip, perplexed. “I suppose it will be proper for you to do so. Yes, I think it will be good. ‘Becca and Mr. Dawlish are not alone. That man from Bow Street is with them, sir.”

“No need to show me the way,” I told her, suddenly in a hurry to join them and hear what Mr. Lavender had to say. I threw open the double doors to the drawing room and stopped.

Rebecca Ashton, dressed in black, stood in the center of the room. Tears flowed silently down her cheeks. The rector stood beside her, one arm lightly about her shoulders in a protective manner. Mr. Dawlish glared through his spectacles at

Mr. Lavender, who held a book in his hand.

Only Miss Ashton appeared happy to see me.

“Mr. Brummell, how good of you to come, and at this particular moment too,” she said, raising a lace handkerchief and swiping at her tears impatiently.

Mr. Dawlish acknowledged my arrival with a curt nod.

Mr. Lavender eyed me with disapproval. “Ah, here he is himself. Come to give advice on fashionable mourning attire, I’m sure, since I know after my warning he would not be here for any other reason.”

I inclined my head in his direction. “My limited intelligence prevents me from doing otherwise.”

Miss Ashton ignored the exchange. “Mr. Brummell, it is just as you surmised. Someone has taken my journal and sent it to Bow Street! Now Mr. Lavender thinks he has proof that I meant Lady Wrayburn harm. Why does he not see that I did not? And I cannot believe anyone in this house would steal my property, wishing me to be accused, taken away—” She broke into fresh tears.

The rector gave her shoulders a bracing squeeze. “No one believes you killed Lady Wrayburn. I doubt even Mr. Lavender here truly believes it. He is just trying to blame the murder on someone, anyone, in order to prove his worth to his superiors.”

“That is a low accusation,” Mr. Lavender said frigidly.

Miss Ashton drew a deep breath and regained her control.

“I quite agree with Mr. Dawlish,” I said. I shot the Bow Street man a mocking smile. “Mr. Lavender no doubt hopes to gain the reward provided by Parliament for felony convictions, so he might indulge his passion for—” I stopped myself with an exaggerated frown. “Oh, dear me. What is it you hunger for, Mr. Lavender? Surely not clothes,” I ended, raising my quizzing glass.

“Justice,” the Bow Street man said succinctly. “And I’ll have it, I promise you.”

He turned to Miss Ashton. “What is your explanation for this?” He read from the journal. “‘Today I could have cheerfully wrung the countess’s neck when she made a public spectacle of me at Mr. Talbot’s auction.’“

Miss Ashton’s chin trembled. “It is not what you think.”

“She was merely airing her frustrations, a perfectly human thing to do,” Mr. Dawlish cried hotly, defending the woman he obviously cared about. “It is cruel of you to make more of it than that. Indeed, it is heartless to have read Miss Ashton’s private thoughts in the first place.”

Mr. Lavender looked at the rector as if he was not quite sane. “I am conducting an investigation into the murder of the Countess of Wrayburn. I’ll read whatever I please if it means bringing her murderer to justice. Furthermore, I have not heard one solid explanation today which would lead me to believe that I do not have the guilty party already.”

“But you also have nothing tangible to take to a magistrate,” I said. “Else you would be carting Miss Ashton here off to the roundhouse.”

“Don’t you be telling me my job, laddie,” Mr. Lavender said, pointing his finger at me.

“I would not presume to do so. I am merely stating the obvious. And if you have finished your questioning, I would advise you to leave. Miss Ashton is not looking at all well, and I am certain you would not wish to be responsible for her becoming ill,” I said, perceiving Miss Ashton had grown quite pale.

Mr. Dawlish nodded his agreement. “Mr. Brummell is correct,” he said, though it seemed to pain him to concur with me. “And do not think to interrogate Lizzie either. In the Bible, Moses warned that men should not create turmoil in the presence of a woman who is with child.”

Mr. Lavender popped a toothpick in his mouth. His gaze did not leave Miss Ashton. “There is no need to trouble the pregnant lass. No, I’m off to see Dr. Profitt to question him on the nature of the poison used to kill Lady Wrayburn, and how readily available it was to anyone in this house.”

“Do give the good doctor my regards,” I said. “Tell him that potion he mixed to cure the stomach disorder I endured after foolishly trying a dish of haggis was most efficacious.”

Mr. Lavender bit his toothpick in half. His freckled complexion grew as red as his hair when he heard this slander of Scottish cooking.

Shoving the broken toothpick into his pocket, he delivered a warning that did not bode well for the woman I believed innocent. “Miss Ashton, remember that you are not to leave Wrayburn House. If you attempt to do so, you will be arrested at once.”

Chapter Fourteen

Miss Ashton swayed where she stood.

“Lean on me, my dear,” the rector said, guiding her to the settee. “Mr. Lavender is gone now, and you are safe.”