Death on a Silver Tray (22 page)

“Yes, sir.”

We stepped outside. Petersham saw the sedan-chair and the twins with their golden hair and muscular physiques.

Finally, I was treated to his famous grin.

Chapter Nineteen

Friday morning at the inhuman hour of seven-thirty, I stepped into a hackney cab and gave instructions to be set down in Fetter Lane. I did not want to call any attention to myself by taking the twins and my sedan-chair, which was rapidly becoming well-known.

In my estimation, Mr. Lavender would not leave for Bow Street any earlier than eight o’clock. I had plenty of time to see him and present my theories regarding the Wrayburn case.

As I traveled north toward Oxford Street in the chilly air and drizzle, I breathed a sigh of relief at getting away from Robinson. Now that I was out of the house, I hoped he would retire to his rooms and not come out until he had slept off his pique.

After dinner the night before, he had utilized his league of servants and their useful gossip to obtain Mr. Lavender’s direction for me. This task he performed without protest. However, once he learned that I had to be dressed and out of the house at a time when fashionable members of Society were just going home from an evening’s entertainment or already fast asleep in their beds, he had become indignant. I had suffered through his Martyr Act ever since I had risen.

Granted, I had entertained Petersham until two in the morning. Still, if I could function after three hours of sleep, Robinson could have the common decency to remember to
warm
my shaving water and
sharpen
my razor before attacking my face with it. There is nothing worse for a gentleman’s complexion than a dull razor.

Robinson was sufficiently miffed about his lack of rest that he went so far as to point out that even Chakkri was still asleep. Amazing how that creature has accustomed himself to my schedule. Chakkri, not Robinson.

Rattling along the cobblestones, my mind was diverted from Robinson’s antics. I was struck by how astounding it was to behold the difference in London once one traveled out of Mayfair.

While that stylish area was quiet with sleep, it was a different story when one passed into Holborn. The streets bustled with lawyers, clerks, merchants, and shopowners on their way to work. Vendors cried their wares. Horse-drawn carts carried goods to markets. Chop-houses overflowed with breakfast customers. This world was very much awake.

Mr. Lavender had chosen his lodgings within walking distance of Bow Street. When we reached Fetter Lane, I directed the hackney driver to stop toward the end of the road, near Fleet Street.

After paying him, I made my way around the back of Kint’s Chop House, grateful that Mr. Lavender’s lodgings, situated above the eating establishment, boasted a private entrance. I did not want to attract any undue notice by going through the chop house and using the inside stairs.

When I reached the door I sought, I raised my ebony stick and knocked. A moment passed, and then I heard footsteps. The door swung open.

I was caught off guard by the sight of Miss Lavender’s porcelain-like skin and beautiful dark red hair, radiant in comparison with the grey day.

I cannot say which one of us was more surprised.

She leaned forward and squinted at me. Then she drew back, her eyes wide. “Mr. Brummell! I would never to have thought to see you here.”

“I hope the shock might not be too much for your system,” I told her gravely. The thought that Miss Lavender might be near-sighted crossed my mind. If so, it was puzzling that a practical girl like her did not wear spectacles, even if they were highly unfashionable.

She opened the door wide, chuckling. Today she was clad in another serviceable gown, this one in a pretty grass green. “Faith! I’m made of sterner stuff than that. But I must say
you
look burnt almost to the socket.”

“Good heavens, I shall have to speak to my valet,” I said, removing my hat. “Is your father at home? I hoped to speak with him before he went to Bow Street.”

“He is. Please sit down while I let him know you’re here,” she said, indicating a small, spartanly furnished room obviously used as a parlor.

I laid my hat and stick on a plain side table on top of the current issue of
Hue & Cry
, the police gazette which details the latest swindles and violent crimes. Then I removed my greatcoat. Placing it across the back of a comfortable looking armchair, I noticed an assortment of pipes within easy reach of another chair, this one upholstered in a plaid material.

The room contained a not unpleasant odor of pipe smoke. I recognized a hint of cherry in the scent. A few paintings graced the wall, two of which depicted scenes of grouse hunting.

“Well, laddie, I’ve underestimated your powers of detection. You’ve managed to find me.”

I turned around from where I had been examining a painting of the Scottish moors, to discover Mr. Lavender gazing at me with a forbidding eye. He was dressed much the same as he had been on our first meeting: old game coat with many pockets, worn corduroy breeches, scratched boots. I tried not to stare. After all, I was not here to give the man sartorial advice. Much as he might need it.

“Thank you,” I said, ignoring the sarcastic tone of his voice. “I hope I am not intruding?”

“And if you are?” he said.

“I believe you will want to hear what I have to say,” I replied with confidence. “It concerns Lady Wrayburn’s murder.”

The Bow Street man considered this. Then he seemed to recall his daughter standing next to him. “Go on back to whatever you were doing, lass. I’ll take care of

Mr. Brummell.”

Miss Lavender looked from her father to me, reluctant to leave. “Surely you will want coffee?”

Before Mr. Lavender could answer, I said, “Delightful idea!”

 She hurried away, but not before throwing a knowing smile over my shoulder. Impudent girl! Maybe that is why I found myself liking her.

Resigned to a few minutes in my company, Mr. Lavender sat in the plaid chair, extracted a toothpick from his pocket and popped it into his mouth.

Taking the seat opposite him, I forced myself to ignore the thin wooden stick moving back and forth. Instead, I concentrated on telling him of my suspicions about Mr. Hensley, concluding with the conversation we had yesterday in the library at Wrayburn House.

I could see he looked doubtful, but he listened attentively, plying the toothpick. At the mention of

Mr. Hensley’s admission that Lizzie was carrying his child, the Bow Street man leaned forward in his chair.

He removed the toothpick from his lips and held it. “Did Hensley say his mother knew the child was his? Had they quarreled about it?”

“Well, no,” I said slowly. “I do not believe Lady Wrayburn had time to find out her son was responsible before she was killed. But there was a longstanding resentment between mother and son. Mr. Hensley told me as much.”

“Is that all? Laddie, if every son or daughter killed a parent they resented for one reason or another, we’d not have anyone in London over the age of twenty.”

At that moment, Miss Lavender returned with our coffee. She lingered after pouring out the cups. “Mr. Brummell, did I hear you mention the girl, Lizzie, you were wanting me to take in at my shelter?”

“Yes. Lizzie remains at Wrayburn House for the moment.” I had risen at Miss Lavender’s entrance and remained standing, waiting for her to be seated. She ignored her father’s scowl and sat in the chair next to mine. I resumed my seat and took a sip of my coffee. Mr. Lavender did not partake of the refreshment.

He spoke to his daughter. “Am I to understand from that statement, Lydia, that you are previously acquainted with

Mr. Brummell?”

“Yes, Father,” she answered. I had to admire the innocent way she put it, as if it were perfectly natural that a girl of her station in life would be known to me.

I smiled at him pleasantly. “Indeed. After you were gracious enough to call on me and mention your daughter’s work, I sought her out to ask for advice for Lizzie.”

There was no need for me to mention how Miss Lavender had defied the conventions by calling on me at my house upon receipt of my letter. Her father looked peeved enough at our connection.

“I must tell you, Miss Lavender, you were correct when you said the father of the baby was connected to the Nobility.”

“I am not surprised.”

“What will surprise you is that Mr. Hensley has every intention of looking after mother and baby,” I said with a bit of triumph, placing my cup on the table. For some reason I did not want Miss Lavender to have a poor opinion of
all
members of Society.

Miss Lavender raised a well-shaped eyebrow. “Accepting responsibility is an unusual commitment. Most men turn their backs once a girl becomes pregnant. Lizzie is fortunate in that respect.”

Mr. Lavender grew impatient. “Mr. Brummell, I fail to see how Mr. Hensley’s relations with a servant, and his supposed fear that his mother would learn of it, would have been motive enough for him to kill his parent. Besides which,” he went on, consulting a tattered notebook he produced from his pocket,

“Mr. Hensley was out of the house at the hour of the crime.”

“Not necessarily,” I contradicted. “Miss Ashton said she saw him ready to go out before she went down to the kitchen to get Lady Wrayburn’s glass of milk. He would have had time to add the poison to the milk before he left.”

“Ah,
Miss Ashton
says so, does she? I’d be thinking of a tale or two to tell if I was about to be arrested for murder myself.”

“But what about the baby?” I protested. “Mr. Hensley truly wants to be a father to the child. I think he would take any steps necessary to ensure that he is not denied the opportunity to do so.”

“Exactly, laddie,” Mr. Lavender said, returning the notebook to his pocket. “If Mr. Hensley is as adamant as you say he is to see the babe reared, then he would not risk committing a hanging offense just to avoid his mother’s—or, if it came to it, his wife’s—ire.”

I sat astonished. Mr. Lavender had poked holes in what I had thought to be a sound theory. But there was one more suspect to be dealt with. “What about Mrs. Hensley? Have you considered her? Her husband all but came right out and told me yesterday that he suspected her of poisoning his mother.”

Mr. Lavender sat back and laced his fingers over his stomach. The toothpick was back in action. “Accusing her of murder would be a convenient way of getting rid of an unwanted wife.”

“And men have stooped to worse to disentangle themselves from their wives,” Miss Lavender remembered sadly. “You know, I once rescued a lady from a madhouse her husband had her committed to so he could live openly with another woman. He’d bribed a physician to sign the papers.”

I knew my expression was grim.

Mr. Lavender shook his head. “No, as I told you,

Mr. Brummell, I have the guilty party: Miss Ashton. She’s responsible for her employer’s death. Above anyone else, she had the motive and, according to Dr. Profitt, the opportunity.”

“What did the doctor say?” I asked, angry at myself for neglecting to ask earlier and wishing I knew more about solving a crime.

“ ‘Twas a common enough poison used, kept in any house in London to eradicate bugs. Miss Ashton would have found it readily at hand when she went into the kitchen to get the old lady’s milk.”

I looked at him steadily. “Anyone in the house could have done it.”

He heaved a sigh. “I’m on my way now to Bow Street to get the papers for Miss Ashton’s arrest.”

I shot to my feet. “She is innocent! Can you not give me another day or two to prove it?”

Mr. Lavender stood. He pocketed the toothpick. “No, I cannot. I told you before to stay out of this.”

I took a step toward him. “You are not the only one who has been telling me to stay out of the investigation. I have received two threatening drawings—”

Miss Lavender gasped.

“What?” Mr. Lavender’s voice rose. “What kind of drawings? Why haven’t you told me?”

“You would only point out you had warned me. The sketches I received depicted a gentleman’s fashionable coat and a message to stay out of the investigation. The drawings were another reason why I suspected Mr. Hensley. He had a drawing book in front of him on his desk. “

“I’m telling you, you’re wrong about him, drawing book or no.”

“Perhaps. But
you
are mistaken about Miss Ashton. Why, when she believes me to be investigating the crime for her benefit, would
she
send me those drawings?”

“I don’t know,” Mr. Lavender said, his puzzled mind working.

“Mr. Brummell’s right, Father,” Miss Lavender said.

“Unless she doesn’t want you to find out she really did commit the crime,” Mr. Lavender said at last. “She knows you to be a man of honor who would turn over any evidence against her despite her aristocratic lineage.”

“Well, I thank you for thinking me a man of honor.”

Mr. Lavender’s eyes narrowed. “Just why are you taking such a personal interest in this case, Mr. Brummell? I thought you dandies cared about nothing but your clothes and fancy parties and card-playing.”

I waved a careless hand as if my reasons were a mere whim. “I declared my opinion that Miss Ashton is innocent at a public gathering. My judgment, my reputation as a knowledgeable gentleman, has been called into question.” There was no need to tell him about Freddie.

“I see,” Mr. Lavender said, and I sensed he saw more than I wanted him to.

“As a gentleman of honor, I am asking you to delay making the arrest. Just give me today and tomorrow, at least,” I said as close to pleading as I would allow myself. I held his gaze until I saw him weakening.

“Sunday is the Sabbath. We observe the Sabbath in this house. Therefore, I won’t be working. You’re asking me to give you until Monday,” Mr. Lavender grumbled, but I could tell he was going to relent.

“What’s the harm in it, Father?” Miss Lavender asked. “You’ve a man posted outside Wrayburn House, I expect, so there’s no danger of Miss Ashton running away.”

“Course I have,” her father barked. He knew he was outnumbered, and who could resist Miss Lavender’s charming appeal? “Very well, Mr. Brummell, I don’t see how it will make any difference, but I’ll wait to hear from you. Only until Monday, though.”