Death on a Silver Tray (23 page)

Relief swept through me.

The Bow Street man shook his finger at me. It was a mannerism he had employed before. I had not liked it then, and I did not like it any better now. “You’ll advise me immediately if you find any proof whatsoever, no matter whom it implicates.”

“Agreed,” I promised.

“All right. But be aware, unless you discover anything new, first thing Monday morning, I’ll go to Wrayburn House and arrest Miss Ashton for the murder of Lady Wrayburn.”

I understood all too well.

“Thank you, Mr. Lavender. You shall hear from me. Miss Lavender,” I said, giving her a brief bow, “I hope to meet you again.”

“I’m sure you will, Mr. Brummell. At the very least, I’ll be hearing from some of your friends,” she said coyly, reminding me of my promise to urge guilty gentlemen of my acquaintance to make donations to her shelter.

Her father frowned at her. I would be willing to wager the moment I left he would have a stern talk with her about associating with me. I hoped she would not pay him any heed.

A few minutes later, I walked down Fetter Street, pausing automatically to admire a display in the window of Allen & Butler, Ivory-Box Makers.

My gaze ran over the intricately carved pieces without really seeing them. Instead, I saw the pieces of the puzzle I thought I had put together fall apart and scatter.

I still did not know who killed Lady Wrayburn. And now I wondered if I was capable of finding out who the murderer was.

Or, if I was doomed to failure as Mr. Lavender predicted and Sylvester Fairingdale desired.

Chapter Twenty

After paying the hackney driver, I let myself into my house in Bruton Street. All was quiet. Robinson must have been sleeping and did not hear me come in.

 Weary, I climbed the stairs to my bedchamber and stripped off my clothes. My head reeled from the early hour I had risen and my visit with the Lavenders.

The hour was still too early to do anything about Miss Ashton’s plight. Who in Mayfair is abroad at nine in the morning, I ask you?

It seemed only logical for me to get some sleep. Perhaps in the course of my dreams I might be able to decide on the next step I should take to help Miss Ashton. And save my own skin.

Donning nightclothes, I moved a seemingly comatose Chakkri over to the side of the bed and eased my tired body between lavender-scented sheets.

My eyes sprang open. I groaned thinking that from now on the scent of lavender would remind me of the bluff Bow Street man. He had granted me a reprieve, though, I must remember. However, his personal grooming habits and his constant employment of a toothpick grated on my sensibilities.

Perhaps I should focus my thoughts on the lovely Miss Lydia Lavender instead ...

* * * *

Some time after one o’clock, I awoke. It required a few minutes to convince myself I really was not staying in a Scottish castle, walking the moors with Miss Lavender, her hair tumbling in a charming way down her back.

I reached over and pulled the bell-rope to alert Robinson of my return to the conscious world. In the meantime, Chakkri opened his blue eyes and stretched. With a soft “reow,” he came forward to be petted. He batted at my quizzing glass—yes, of course I sleep with it—and purred his contentment at my attention.

About two hours later, I was freshly shaved and dressed in an Alexandria-blue coat, and had partaken of a hearty meal of cold meat, eggs, coffee, and bread and butter. Some of which I shared with Chakkri. Not much affects my appetite, as I imagine you have noticed by now.

I decided to sit in my bookroom, where I have told you I often go to think out a problem, hoping the wisdom of the sages lining the shelves will inspire me to new intellectual heights. I had just gotten comfortable in the chair behind my desk and had pulled out a sheet a paper to write down possible suspects and motives, when Robinson entered carrying a tray with the day’s letters.

“Feeling more the thing, Robinson?”

“Yes, sir. And you? How is your investigation coming along?”

“I should hardly raise my efforts to the level that they be called an ‘investigation,’“ I replied. “But whatever it is, the word ‘impasse’ comes to mind. Do recollect that we are traveling to Oatlands this afternoon.”

“Very well,” Robinson said on a sigh.

“It might be best to order a coach now. You know what a crush there can be on a Friday afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.”

He left and Chakkri hopped on my desk to assist my reading in the way cats have of being helpful. A few letters slid to the floor under the impetus of his curious nose, and I had to retrieve them.

I glanced hastily through invitations, a letter from Prinny chastising me for not coming to see him, and a note from Lady Crecy informing me her daughter wished to thank me for my kind assistance. Then my gaze fell on a letter from Wrayburn House pressed under Chakkri’s paw.

“Give that to me,” I commanded him.

“Reeoow,” Chakkri howled stubbornly. I extracted it with some effort.

Hastily breaking the seal, I looked to the bottom of the missive and saw it was from Timothy Hensley.

Dear Brummell,

By the time you read this, Lizzie and I will be on our way to Hensley Cottage. Though it is one of my lesser properties, I know we’ll be happy there, raising our child. And I have you to thank.

I wouldn’t have had the courage to leave Cordelia before the talk you and I had, which freed me. I suppose speaking of matters I had heretofore kept silent about acted as some sort of release, though I don’t know much about that philosophical stuff. I do know happiness is more important than keeping up with Society. To the devil with Society’s rules!

 After you left, and when the rum had worn off, I went to Cordelia and told her all. At first, I tried to threaten her by telling her I thought it was she who had poisoned Mother. But Cordelia laughed and told me to go ahead and make a fool of myself. Why on earth, she asked, would she hasten the old lady to the grave and jeopardize everything she’d worked for—her position in the world and all her possessions—when she only had to bide her time before Mother suffered a fatal attack of apoplexy during one of her tirades? I expect she’s right. It was purely wishful thinking on my part that she was guilty.

Regarding my involvement with Lizzie, Cordelia was incensed until I agreed to buy her a new town house and give her an unlimited budget for decorating it. What it comes down to is that as long as she can indulge in her extravagances, I daresay she won’t give Lizzie and me nearly the trouble I’d thought she would. In fact, Cordelia told me that she rather liked the idea of being a Tragic Figure, as she put it, whose husband had obviously run mad. She thinks she’ll attract sympathetic male attention, something she’s sorely missed. Imagine that!

Well, I must dash now. Lizzie is waiting. But I could not go before thanking you for helping me make this fresh start. I tried once before, you know. The night of the murder, I slipped out to a posting house to hire a coach, but my courage failed. Now, I need not concern myself about Cordelia nor, it seems, will she concern herself about me. I care only for Lizzie and the baby. Wish us luck, will you?

 Yours,

 Timothy Hensley

P.S. About Mother’s murderer, it’s beyond me who could have done it. Perhaps old Riddell. God knows she badgered him enough.

I threw the letter aside, thoroughly amazed.

Mr. Lavender was correct. It was clear Mr. Hensley did not kill his mother.

I had been so sure Mr. Hensley was a feasible suspect. Going so far as to disclose my views to Mr. Lavender.

I sat disgusted with myself, drumming my fingers on the desk top, barely refraining from drumming my head against the wall. At least Mr. Hensley had taken his chance at a new future. I imagined him sketching in the bucolic countryside, free of Cordelia’s nagging.

As for the idea that Riddell had committed the murder, that was absurd. I had questioned the butler the day I searched Lady Wrayburn’s bedchamber. He would no more have killed his mistress than Robinson would murder me.

Hmmm, wait a bit. Perhaps that is not a good analogy.

In any event, I would wager my best pair of Sèvres candlesticks Riddell had nothing to do with the countess’s death.

I dropped my head in my hands. Obviously I had failed. I was no closer now to solving the murder than I had been the day Freddie had asked for my help. Foolish girl, placing her faith in me!

Chakkri had been watching me and now walked across the desk to rub his face against my head.

I looked up, petted him, and glanced at the clock. It was after three. I needed to rouse myself from my dejection if I was to leave for Oatlands at the usual time of around five. And I must go. I had sent Freddie that note yesterday apprising her of my imminent visit.

And of my good news.

Now I would have to face her and tell her I had failed. I contemplated going to the Tower where wild animals are displayed and walking into the lion’s cage. It might be preferable to disappointing Freddie.

Miss Ashton would expect to hear from me today as well. I drew out a sheet of paper and quickly wrote her a few reassuring lines. There was no need to alarm her by telling her Mr. Lavender would arrest her on Monday unless I could manage a miracle.

I was about to put the rest of the post aside to read later, when Chakkri began sniffing a square of folded vellum. His tail grew to three times its normal size and he bared his fangs. He bit down on the paper.

I recognized the now familiar black scrawl written across one side. Lunging across the desk, I seized it from the startled cat. Angry at having his toy taken away, Chakkri sauntered from the room in high dudgeon.

I unfolded the paper. It was another drawing from the killer.

This one had no cryptic message printed at the bottom. But then, it needed none. It depicted the Grim Reaper with a quizzing glass raised to his eye. A small figure I could only assume was myself from the elegance of its dress, was under the death figure’s gaze.

I stared at the sketch. Who could have executed it? I examined it carefully, judging it to be intricate work, from a trained artist’s hand. Someone of refinement had conceived of this warning, which took more than a measure of intelligence.

Riddell had told me Lady Wrayburn had no friends. The few she had in her younger days had all died. She received little or no correspondence other than from the uncle in Bath, her husband’s brother, I think, she had been writing to.

The murderer had to have been someone in the house in order to get to the milk. I had already discounted Riddell. The cook at Wrayburn House had been with the countess for over thirty years and was reputed to have loved her dearly for all her faults. Riddell said there had been no visitors to Wrayburn House from the time the milk had been delivered earlier that evening.

Unless ... unless the milk had been tampered with
before
it had been delivered to Wrayburn House.

This new theory made my mind spin. If the milk had been poisoned before its delivery, then
anyone
could have done it.

My head pounded. I needed to get outside and breathe some fresh air, even if it was full of London’s smoke and soot. A walk might help me think. Besides, I wanted to get something for Freddie and her dogs to take with me to Oatlands.

I hurried upstairs and retrieved my greatcoat, hat, gloves and stick. Outside in the street, I made my way around to the confectioners, all the while thinking.

Someone could definitely have added the poison to the milk before it arrived at Wrayburn House. But that person would have had to have known the countess and her household’s routine.

Exiting the confectioners a few minutes later with a lacquered wooden box of chocolates for Freddie, I turned my steps in the direction of the toy shop. The day had grown windy. A few autumn leaves flew about my feet.

My thoughts ran on. Even if the murderer knew about the milk being delivered each evening, how would he obtain access to it? Bribe the milkmaid?

At the toy shop I purchased a half dozen leather balls for the puppies.

I left there and began walking back home. Turning a corner, I paused out of habit at the window of a print shop. It was my custom to peruse the cartoons and caricatures so artfully drawn by Gillray and other noted satirists displayed in the shop’s window. They could also be found around Town for the public’s amusement. But mostly people viewed them at the print shops where many were for sale. If a particularly fascinating scandal held Society in its grips, people could be found three and four deep craning to get a look at the latest lampoons.

Today as I walked toward the shop, a throng of people were ahead of me. At my approach, they scurried away. Most odd.

I raised my quizzing glass and viewed the offerings. They included one of Gillray’s favorite subjects, King George III, or Farmer George as he was sometimes called, rambling about the grounds of Windsor Castle while making wild proclamations affecting the country.

A second showed Prinny running down the road toward Brighton, a masked villain chasing him. I frowned at that one. Perry had said the Prince had retired to Brighton because of a threat against him. Again I thought someone must have done a brilliant job of convincing the Prince this was so. Prinny simply could not believe anyone would wish him harm. I decided to visit Brighton at my earliest opportunity and find out what was going on.

Preparing to view the next print, I was interrupted by an obnoxious male voice behind me.

“Ah! There is the man himself,” Sylvester Fairingdale cried with energy. “We were just speculating as to your health. Are you feeling cast down? Or perhaps, cast
aside
?”

I let my quizzing glass fall to my chest and turned around slowly to observe Fairingdale looking at me in high glee. Two of his foppish friends stood by him, grinning. Under my steady gaze, they shuffled their feet and grew nervous.

About to give voice to his taunt, I suddenly noticed Fairingdale’s gloves. It is the fashion for gentlemen to wear white gloves when dressed for evening entertainments.