Murder in Grosvenor Square (31 page)

“By the time Mr. Draper grows tired of holding out and gives him a name—providing it’s the right one—that person can have fled London,” I answered. “I do not wish to wait.”

Marianne sighed, disentangled herself from Grenville, and rose. “Upstairs it is.” She swayed on her feet, and Grenville was beside her in an instant, steadying her. “I don’t want
you
up there,” she said swiftly to him.

“That is unfortunate,” Grenville said. “Because I am going.”

He steered her past me and out of my rooms. It said much about Marianne’s emotions of the moment that she argued with him only halfway up the stairs.

*

Brewster returned in a quarter of an hour. He had the book with him, but he’d also brought James Denis.

It was fully dark now in Grimpen Lane, but I recognized Denis’s tall silhouette in front of the bulk of Brewster as they turned in at my doorway. Two other of Denis’s bullies blended into the shadows of the cul-de-sac.

Brewster opened the door of my rooms without bothering to knock and led Denis inside. Grenville, hearing them, came down from Marianne’s chamber and in behind Denis, shutting the door.

“This was too valuable not to accompany,” Denis said without greeting. He handed me a paper-wrapped, rectangular object. “I should not like to hunt it down again after a murderer takes it from your dead body.”

I took the parcel to my writing table and unwrapped it. Grenville joined me, and as the paper fell away, he dragged in a breath.

“Good God,” he whispered.

Grenville put out a hand and carefully opened the book’s dark leather cover, worn bits of gold leaf clinging to it here and there. But if the cover was somewhat plain, the inside of the book was a different matter.

The first page Grenville turned over had a stylized capital
P
on one side, on the other an illustration of Christ on the cross. The sky above the scene was vivid blue, bringing out the deeper blues of the garb worn by the women surrounding the cross, which were just as bright as the reds, yellows, pinks, and whites of the tunics and robes of others in the background. The soldiers were in glorious red cloaks over plate armor, one holding his spear to Christ’s side.

“Prayer book, Reverend Travers called it?” Grenville asked, awed. “Not a prayer book, a Book of Hours. Centuries old. Ones I’ve seen with illustrations this rich were done only for royalty.” He touched the page with light fingers, and looked up at me, eyes shining. “Lacey, this is a treasure. Worth thousands and thousands. A man could live well on the price of this for decades.”

Chapter Thirty

Denis knew its exact worth, I’d wager, down to the penny. Grenville caressed the thing as he would a lover.

“No wonder Mackay was anxious to have this back,” Grenville said in a near whisper.

Denis remained still, not as enraptured as Grenville, but I knew he’d have the book in the end.

“Did you know Gareth Travers had this?” I asked Denis. “Did you tell Mackay to acquire it for you?”

“I did not.” Denis frowned. “I had no idea he had come across it. As I say, Mr. Mackay did not only work for me.” And he looked—for Denis—quite put out that Mackay hadn’t come to him immediately upon discovering such a book was for sale.

Grenville was turning the pages, handling them with his fingertips. Some of the pages had only words on them, but as he leafed through, more and more beautiful illustrations revealed themselves to us. They depicted not only scenes from the New Testament, but from everyday life in fourteen-hundred something.

“You say poverty-stricken Reverend Travers had this, and simply handed it over to Gareth?” Grenville asked me in amazement.

“That is what I understand.”

“Think he stole it?” Brewster asked as he looked over our shoulders at the book. “The vicar, I mean?”

“Who knows?” I said. “Reverend Travers said it belonged to his family. I doubt he’d have the energy to steal the thing himself.”

“Nah,
someone
stole it,” Brewster said, confident. “If you say it were made for royalty ages ago, then someone nicked it from them. It’s what happens.”

“However the Travers family came into possession, it is exquisite,” Grenville said reverently. “I can see a man killing for it.”

“Stupid, when he can just steal it,” Brewster said.

“Or purchase it,” Denis said. “The killing was not necessary.”

Denis, ever efficient, and Brewster, ever focused on what was important to him.

“Now it will catch a killer.” I looked at Denis. “I was wondering how to put out word that I had it, but perhaps you can … ?”

“I could,” Denis said, his dark blue eyes glinting. “As a favor.”

Another mark in Captain Lacey’s debit column, he was saying. Saving Denis’s life, helping him track down a man who’d betrayed him, and preventing him from being blown up apparently had not cleared me.

“I will have to accept,” I said. “I want to be able to tell Leland that his friend’s murderer was brought to justice.”

Denis did not much care about my reasons. He gave me a nod, signaled to Brewster, and walked out into the chilly stairwell with him.

Grenville remained at the writing table, transfixed by the book. “This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. The Limoges brothers made it, I am positive, though I’d get it authenticated. I wonder if Reverend Travers would consent to sell it to me.”

“Only if Denis will release his hold on it.” I watched Grenville as he continued to gaze at the book as though he could not have enough of it. “You were prepared to hand over this book to procure Marianne’s release when you did not know what it was,” I said. “Would you have handed it over now that you do?”

Grenville drew a breath, still taking in the book, then he looked up at me sharply. “Yes,” he said. “I would.”

I believed him.

*

Denis had a network that rivaled any secret police’s in any country on the Continent. Within an hour, one of his men trundled up the stairs, spoke to him on the landing, and departed.

Denis reentered my front room where Grenville had returned to admiring the book, while I paced moodily.

“We have a bite, gentleman,” Denis announced. “I will retire here.” He indicated the open door to my bedchamber. “I doubt your murderer will come in if he sees me waiting.”

Without further speech, he went into the smaller room, taking Brewster with him, and closed the door.

Grenville and I waited another twenty-five minutes. Marianne stayed upstairs, Denis in my bedchamber. Neither Grenville nor I speculated on who would turn up—I had my suspicions, and whether I’d be proved right or wrong was no matter. Whoever had given the order to kill Gareth would not escape me this night.

At last, we heard the unlocked door at the bottom of the staircase open, and a heavy tread ascend.

A man. Well, if he was who I thought he’d be, that fit with one of my theories, but not the other. I was crossing to the door, ready to open it, when another set of footsteps came scurrying with him. This one was lighter and swifter, and then I heard the shrill sound of a woman’s voice—confirming my second theory.

Grenville and I exchanged a glance of surprise before I moved to the door and flung it open. Two of Denis’s men stepped into the stairwell at the bottom, cutting off retreat, while another stood on the steps leading to Marianne’s flat, preventing any escape that way.

“Please come in,” I said to the man and woman, who were both red-faced with anger. “We have much to discuss.”

The pair looked down the stairs and up, realizing they were trapped. Resigned, Lord Percy Saunders walked inside, giving Grenville a cold bow. The woman did not want to follow, but when I reached to haul her in, Mrs. Travers snatched her arm from my grasp and marched in unassisted.

“Captain Lacey,” Mrs. Travers began before any of us could speak. “I have come for my husband’s property.” Her gaze fell on the book Grenville stood over like a guardian. “That is it. Give it to me.”

She held out her hand, angry and imperious.

I regarded her calmly. “How do you suppose it came to be here?” I asked.

“I can only assume that Leland Derwent stole it from Gareth and for some reason gave it to you,” Mrs. Travers snapped. “What do you want for its return, Captain? Money?”

I switched my gaze to Lord Percy. “What is your interest, sir?”

Lord Percy raised his light-brown brows. “The Book of Hours, of course. I paid for it.”

Mrs. Travers bristled. “
Paid
, did you? It’s mine. My husband’s. Stolen from us.”

I moved myself in front of the book. Grenville stood at his ease, giving Lord Percy a cool stare.

I heard a shout from below, and the door to the street banged open again. “Here, you, get out of the way,” a voice floated up.

Grenville lifted his brows then went out into the landing. I remained where I was, recognizing the voice—and this time I admit I was surprised. The man went on angrily to Denis’s men as he ascended and entered.

He was the Honorable Mr. Henry Lawrence, the man we’d interviewed at Brooks’s, who’d first put us on to both Lord Percy and the Bull and Hen. Lawrence halted when he entered, his hazel eyes taking in me, Mrs. Travers, and Lord Percy Saunders waiting for him. He recognized Saunders, of course, but he frowned in perplexity at Mrs. Travers.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lawrence,” Grenville said, giving the man a little bow. “And what brings you to this quiet lane?”

Lawrence swept his gaze around the room again. “The summons did. Told me that … Ah …” He saw the Book of Hours lying open on my writing table and fixed upon it. “The transaction is taking place here, now, is it?”

“Transaction?” Lord Percy asked in irritation. “What the devil are you on about Lawrence?”

“My purchase of the Book of Hours, of course.”

Grenville and I exchanged a glance. I had not expected Mr. Lawrence. Denis had not told us whom he’d ensnared, and I hadn’t expected him to catch more than one bird.

I could not continue without knowing the lay of the land. “Your purchase?” I asked Lawrence. “Mr. Mackay tried to sell the book to you as well?”

Lawrence frowned. “Mackay? Never heard him. This was set up through my man of business. He knew a Book of Hours had come on the market, and told me of it. This evening I received a note that said I should arrive here to complete the purchase.”

“I see.”

“
My
man of business sent me notice to come here, blast you,” Lord Percy said. “He was in contact with this Mr. Mackay. Where is
he
by the way?”

“Dead,” I said.

Both men gaped at me, their expressions so nearly identical I wanted to laugh. Grenville broke in.

“Do you mean, Lacey, that Mackay was busily selling this Book of Hours to Saunders
and
Lawrence at the same time?”

“Possibly more,” I said. “But Saunders and Lawrence bit. I have to wonder how he would produce two books. Maybe he was having forgeries made, one for each of you? While he kept the real book and sold it to another?”

Saunders glanced at the tome open on the writing table. “Is that real?”

“An excellent point,” Lawrence added. “You’re an expert, Grenville. You’d know if it were a true Limoges.”

“Oh, it is,” Grenville said. “Perfectly beautiful and more than four hundred years old.”

“I have no doubt you would be showed the real one,” I said. “What you got after you handed over the money might have been different. But now Mackay is dead, and the authentic book lies there, waiting to be purchased.”

“No, it does not,” Mrs. Travers, who’d stood in silent shock throughout the conversation, exclaimed. “The book belongs to my husband. Gareth had no right to try to sell it to you—nor did this Mr. Mackay, whoever he is.”

“Your husband gave the book to his son,” I said. “However it came to be in the possession of the Travers family in the past, it is their property now. Reverend Travers gave it to Gareth, which means it was Gareth’s to do with as he pleased.”

“Gareth was a foolish young man who wanted money to impress those Derwents,” Mrs. Travers said testily. “They taunted him for his poverty, made him desperate and dependent on them.”

Both Saunders and Lawrence looked surprised at this characterization of the Derwent family.

“Whatever Gareth’s motives,” I said, cutting her off, “Reverend Travers gave
him
the book. It belonged to him, and if he chose to sell it …” I spread my hands.

“It was
not
his.” Mrs. Travers’s voice rose. “But Gareth is dead, so the book belongs back with his father. I will take it home with me.”

“The devil you will,” Lord Percy said. “I already paid Mackay a handsome deposit for it. The book belongs to me.”

“Steady on,” Lawrence said. “
I
made a deposit on the thing through my man of business.”

Mrs. Travers rounded on both of them. “Mr. Mackay had no business taking money for it at all. It is
ours
.”

“Captain,” Lawrence said, looking at me with a trouble expression. “I had no idea this book had anything at all to do with Mr. Travers. Are you telling us this is why young Gareth was killed?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice quiet. “When Gareth realized how valuable the book his father had given him was, he contacted Mr. Mackay, a dealer, to ask him to sell it for him. He’d planned to meet Mackay at the Bull and Hen the night you saw him at Brooks’s, Lawrence, the same night Lord Percy enticed them to the Nines. I imagine Lord Percy wanted to sweeten up Travers, so that if Travers found out who Mackay had approached to buy the book, Travers would look more favorably upon him.”

“Bloody hell,” Lord Percy said. He drew out a handkerchief with far more lace on it than the one Freddie had used and dabbed his lips.

“A moment,” Grenville asked. “Why did Travers use Mr. Mackay at all? Why not offer the book himself?”

“To get a better price,” I said. “Mackay is known to art collectors, a go-between who can haggle, so gentlemen do not have to soil their hands and ruin friendships over a transaction. Besides, Mackay could feel out the market, find the highest price without Travers having to bestir himself. Travers only wanted the money from the sale, to gain some independence.”