Ashley Gardner - A Body in Berkeley Square

"And I suppose you will not tell me why?"

"No."

Marianne looked as though she might fly at me on the moment, claws raised, but she stopped, her face taking on a canny expression. "Did Mrs. Bennington do the murder? That would suit me."

I looked past her at Grenville, who was at last coming down the stairs. He had heard her. "Mrs. Bennington had nothing to do with Turner's death," he said in a sharp voice. "I am accompanying Lacey to prove it."

Marianne sent him a look of fury, but I saw the hurt in her eyes. She dropped her gaze and turned away before Grenville could spot it. "Alicia," she called to the prim maid. "Come upstairs and dress me. I am going out."

Grenville's face set. Saying nothing, he strode past Marianne and out of the house.

So great was Grenville's anger that he'd climbed into the carriage before he realized that the coach belonged to Lady Breckenridge, and that she was waiting inside.

He flushed. "Good evening, my lady."

"Mr. Grenville," Lady Breckenridge said. Her eyes glinted with humor.

Grenville sent me an accusing stare. He was angry, and he was embarrassed, but I could not wait upon the nicety of his feelings.

As the carriage wound through the streets to Cavendish Square, I showed Grenville the scrap of lace and explained about the servants' passage at the Berkeley Square house and my thoughts about it. As I talked, Grenville's expression changed from frustrated anger to one that was worried and grim.

"If this is true, Lacey," he began. He broke off, as though unable to complete the thought. "I never believed…"

Grenville trailed off again, closed his mouth, and looked away in uncomfortable silence.

The Bennington house in Cavendish Square was quiet. We were admitted by a maid I'd not seen before, who curtseyed to us and led us to a reception room to wait. Grenville paced, moody and quiet, while Lady Breckenridge looked about her with interest.

Mrs. Bennington's maid, Grady, entered the room not long later and sent the three of us a look of disapproval.

"My lady has decided she is not receiving tonight," Grady said.

I had feared as much. "I do not wish to disturb her for long." I took the scrap of lace from my pocket. "Please give her this, and tell her Captain Lacey wishes to ask her about it."

Grady frowned but when she saw what I held out to her, paled. "She will know nothing about that."

"Take it to her, please."

Grady pressed her mouth closed. She snatched the lace from my hand and marched swiftly from the room.

Grenville shot me a dark look. "Lacey, you cannot mean that Claire Bennington committed this crime, can you? I simply will not believe it."

"I do not know whether she committed it. That is why I want to ask her questions."

Grenville paced again, his distress evident. "She could not have killed Turner. She is not strong enough. She's only a girl."

He seemed inordinately upset, more so than a gentleman with simple concern for a young woman. Before I could speak further, Grady returned. She did not look pleased but said we could go up.

Grady led us to the sitting room in which Mrs. Bennington had received me on my last visit. This time the salmon-striped sofa and chairs were strewn with gowns, bonnets, and shawls. I was reminded of Turner's rooms when the valet, Hazleton, had emptied the cupboards in preparation for sending Turner's things back to his father.

Grenville looked at the jumble in surprise. "You are leaving London?"

Mrs. Bennington flinched and avoided his gaze. "Grady, why did you let Mr. Grenville come here? I wanted only Captain Lacey."

"I came to help you," Grenville said, anger in his tone.

"We don't want your help," Grady retorted.

Mrs. Bennington sank to a chair and put her hand to her forehead. "I have such a headache. I do not want these people. Send them away; I feel unwell."

"You see?" Grady said to Grenville. "You have upset her again."

"I have done nothing of the sort. Claire, Captain Lacey has come to ask you about the murder of Henry Turner. I know you had nothing to do with it, and if you answer honestly, I can make him take his questioning elsewhere."

I stared at Grenville in amazement. His face was red, his gaze uncomfortable.

Mrs. Bennington's eyes swam with tears. "My head. Grady, I need my draught."

Grady rushed to the cupboard and pulled out a glass bottle full of dark liquid.

Lady Breckenridge, who had lifted a silk shawl to admire it, suddenly laughed. "Good heavens, how dramatic we are." She folded the shawl and replaced it on the chair. "We are not on the stage, Mrs. Bennington. Captain Lacey only wishes to know what became of that bit of lace you asked of me."

"Oh." Mrs. Bennington sat up, looking relieved. "From your ballgown? You ought to have said. I gave it to my husband."

"Your husband?" I asked. "What on earth for?"

"Because he asked me to."

She seemed to think this a fine enough reason. "Did it not occur to you to wonder why?" I asked.

"Not really."

"I think you do know why," I said. "I believe that you know more than any of us about this matter."

She looked bewildered. "How could I?"

"You play the dupe well, Mrs. Bennington," I said. "But I believe you are not one."

Mrs. Bennington gazed at me, stunned, then the eyes that bewitched London audiences each night filled with tears.

"Leave her be, Lacey," Grenville said.

"I cannot. She is key to this. I want Colonel Brandon released, and I will do what I must to bring it about."

"Including browbeating a young woman?"

I stared at him. Grady had accused Grenville of shouting at Mrs. Bennington and throwing his walking stick, but now he bristled at me like a guard dog.

"Mrs. Bennington," I said, gentling my tone. "Why did your husband ask you to obtain a piece of lace from Lady Breckenridge?"

"I don't know. It was a game of some sort."

"A wager?" I supplied.

Her brow cleared. "Yes, that was it. He wagered that I could not obtain a piece of lace from a highborn lady. Because I am so lowborn, you see."

"He said that?" Grenville asked, face thunderous. "What the devil made you marry that lout? Do not tell me you could not have the pick of gentlemen on the Continent."

"He was good to me," Mrs. Bennington said. "I had debts-he paid them. He must be kind to do that."

Or he'd wanted something. Claire Bennington, absorbed in herself and her life on stage, would not have realized that.

"Is he kind to you?" I asked.

"I suppose he is." Mrs. Bennington pressed delicate fingers to her temples. "Really, Captain, my head does ache."

Grady, her face set, poured a thick liquid into a small glass and pushed it at Mrs. Bennington.

Lady Breckenridge, still looking interested, sat down amid a pile of velvet gowns. "So you handed over the scrap of lace to your husband. When was that?"

"Oh, good heavens, I hardly remember." Mrs. Bennington took the draught from Grady and drank it down. She sighed in contentment when she handed the glass back, as though her headache already had started to fade. "Before supper, certainly. My husband escorted Lady Aline to the supper room. He'd told me to obtain the scrap of lace from her, but I'd only had opportunity to speak to Lady Breckenridge. Mr. Bennington was annoyed, I remember, that I had not approached Lady Aline."

Who was large and strong and could have driven a knife into Turner's heart were she cruel enough to do so.

"Do you love your husband, Mrs. Bennington?" I asked abruptly.

Her eyes widened. "Why ask that?"

"Because he is a murderer," I said. "And I wondered if you would help me or be loyal to him."

Lady Breckenridge looked at me in complete astonishment. "Mr. Bennington?" She grew thoughtful. "Yes, I see."