Ashley Gardner - A Body in Berkeley Square

"You are correct about one thing," I said. "You have no honor."

"Oh, come now, Captain. Where would that legacy have gone? George Worth told me he had no heir that he knew of, unless his man of business could find some fellow living in the wilds of America or some such place. Or the solicitors simply would have discovered a way to divide it amongst themselves. Why should all that money go to waste? I put it to excellent use, and besides, I saved Claire Bennington, the great actress, from debtors' prison. Don't pretend that Henry Turner threatened to reveal my secret because he was virtuous. The oily little tick wanted to bleed me dry."

"Of money you obtained by killing another."

He laughed softly. "I suppose that you are oozing honor, and in the army threw yourself in front of bullets to save others?"

"Not quite," I said. "But I did pull others out of the way of bullets."

"All for pittance. You are a poor man, Captain. You always have been. What can you understand of a man's need for wealth and comfort?"

"Grenville is the wealthiest man I've ever met," I said. "He loves his comfort, and yet he has much generosity and charity."

"Ah, well. Blame it on my birth. My father was a poor man who blew out his brains when he lost his little all on a horse. He left a son buried in a school with no one to care for him. Pity me."

"I pity your wife. And even Turner, although, by all accounts, he was not a pleasant person."

"He was not. I did the world a favor, my dear fellow."

I stood up, my patience at an end. "Had you killed him in a duel, I might understand. But you deliberately endangered Colonel Brandon and Mrs. Harper, both of whom were innocent-who were as much victims of Turner's blackmailing as you. You tried to implicate Lady Breckenridge, although that, to her good luck, came to nothing."

"Well, I could hardly continue to enjoy my legacy if I owned up to murder, could I? And besides, Colonel Brandon and Mrs. Harper are not innocent. They were carrying on a frightfully sordid affair, and so let themselves come under Turner's power."

I did not correct him about that. "The fact remains that Colonel Brandon is in prison for a murder he did not commit. You used his knife-where did you get it? Did you pick his pocket, or did you have your wife do that for you too?"

"I had no need of such trickery. The knife was lying there, plain as day, on the writing table. I had my own in my pocket, but how much better to use another man's? I had no idea at the time that it belonged to the good colonel."

"I intend to let the good colonel out of prison one way or another, even if I have to drag you by the neck to Bow Street myself."

At last, uneasiness flickered in his eyes. "You are a man of determination."

"I owe Colonel Brandon much. I will not see him die for your crime. And you, if you have spoken the truth today, are long overdue for paying."

He continued to watch me. "Think of my wife, Captain. Claire cannot be left alone for a moment. She is one of the stupidest women alive, even if she is brilliant behind the footlights. What will become of her?"

I thought of Grenville. "She will be cared for. Quite well, in fact. She no longer needs you."

"Oh, dear. Never tell me some gentleman is waiting in the wings to sweep her off-if you will pardon the pun."

"I am fortunate to have friends, Mr. Bennington. One of them is a Bow Street Runner."

As if on cue, Pomeroy entered the room.

At the sight of tall, jovial Pomeroy, anticipating a reward for the conviction of Henry Turner's murderer, Bennington's face drained of color. "Oh, God."

"A most illuminating conversation, Captain," Pomeroy boomed. "Criminals, especially the clever ones, do like to talk. Mr. Bennington, or Mr. Worth-or whatever you would like to be called-I arrest you in the King's name for the murder of Henry Turner. Shall you come with me and speak to the magistrate? Since you like to talk, you'll be able to tell your story all over again. I am looking forward to it, sir."

I wanted the matter to conclude simply, by the magistrates letting Brandon out of his prison room and putting Bennington into it.

But of course, that could not be done. Pomeroy took Bennington to Bow Street, where he would wait until the next morning for Sir Nathaniel to examine him. Pomeroy was gleeful, certain that the conversation both he and Grenville had overheard, plus the explanation of how Bennington had managed to kill Turner with no one seeing him, would get Pomeroy his hoped for conviction and the reward offered by Turner's father.

Lady Breckenridge had been delighted to observe us emerging from the hotel with Bennington. Pomeroy and his patrollers took Bennington away with them, and Lady Breckenridge offered to have her coachman drop me and Grenville in Grosvenor Street before she went home. She demanded the full tale on the way, and Grenville gave it to her. I felt strangely reluctant to speak.

Grenville descended first when we reached his house. As I prepared to follow, Lady Breckenridge stopped me with a hand on my arm.

"I thank you for not shunting me aside, Gabriel. That was most fascinating."

"You ought to curb your fascination for sordid business," I said, but I smiled at her. A fainting flower she was not. Past experience had shown that I had not the patience for a fainting flower.

"Nonsense," she said briskly. "It was just the thing. Life in Mayfair is deadly dull, you know. The same people at the same soirees and balls and garden parties, talking of the same things, day after day. You and your investigations are refreshing."

"I am pleased that I entertain you."

"Do not tease me. I know that you like my interest. When you have finished all you need to finish, Gabriel, pay a call on me. I would be glad to receive you."

Her tone was light, but I sensed caution behind it. She was still not certain where we stood, and somewhere inside her existed the young woman who'd been bruised by her unhappy marriage.

I bowed. "I would be most happy to call on you."

She gave me a nod as though she did not care one way or the other, but her eyes as she turned away told me she was pleased.

I stepped down, and Lady Breckenridge told her coachman to drive on. I followed Grenville into his warm and splendid house.

Grenville invited me to supper, but I declined. "I have many things to do this night," I said. "I must go to Louisa and tell her what has happened."

"You are right. Mrs. Brandon should not suffer another minute."

I hesitated. "Tell Marianne about Mrs. Bennington. She deserves to know."

"Claire does not know yet," Grenville said, his eyes quiet. "Her mother wrote me a few weeks ago, from Austria. She told me that she was very ill, dying, and that Claire was mine. I had not heard from Anna for twenty years, and now she will likely not last twenty days," he finished sadly.

"And you believe her?"

"I do now. I asked Claire when she was born, and the dates correspond exactly with my time with Anna Baumgarten. She was an opera singer I met in Austria, when I was so very young. Our affair did not last long, and I never saw her again. I knew she'd left the stage, but no more than that. Anna never told me of Claire, and in her letter, she admitted she'd not been certain who'd sired Claire at the time. I believe that-Anna was older than me and obviously more experienced. Then, later, she feared I'd take Claire away from her. Not an illogical fear. I probably would have. I also got Claire to tell me that her mother had encouraged her to change her surname to Bennington, the better to please English audiences. Always astute, was Anna."

"Not to throw cold water," I said, "but you are very rich, and your Anna could simply claim that you are Claire's father, so that someone wealthy would look after her."