Ashley Gardner - A Regimental Murder

"He made an appointment with us. One he never kept."

I came alert. "Appointment?"

John nodded. "The night before he died. He wrote to me and begged to see us."

"For what purpose?"

Kenneth said, "We will never know. He asked us to meet him at a coffeehouse in Conduit Street at an early hour of the morning. We appeared and waited. He never arrived."

Because he'd likely been dead by then, I thought. Tucked up in his bed waiting for Lydia to find him.

"We assumed he had changed his mind," John continued. "Too cowardly to tell us the truth. And then the next day, we heard he'd fallen to his death. I could not help but think it served him right. If he knew the truth, he ought to have told it at once."

He looked grimly satisfied. His brother sent him an uneasy glance.

"Colonel Westin was an honorable man, by all accounts," I said. "He did not deserve to die."

"Neither did my father," John snapped back.

I had to agree. "I, too, am interested in the truth. And now Breckenridge is dead."

"And can tell no tales?" John asked. He lifted his cup, his dark eyes glittering. "Well, all we need do is wait and see which is the last man standing."

Kenneth shot him another look, worried and nervous.

"I hope it will not come to that," I said. "If you discover anything more, please write to me."

John nodded tersely. Kenneth tried to be pleasant.

After an uncomfortable leave-taking, Grenville and I left the tavern.

"Interesting," Grenville said as we walked up Pall Mall, past shops and booksellers. "I noted that Kenneth Spencer made bloody certain we knew he and his brother had departed Kent before Breckenridge died."

"Yes," I mused. "I wonder if that is the truth. Did you notice them after the match?"

He shook his head. "I was busy watching you get bandaged. I wish I had known who the devil they were then, because I could have kept an eye on them." He looked glum. "I can always send someone back to Astley Close to nose about the village and discover when they did depart, I suppose. Of course this widens the range of suspects, rather than narrows it."

I greeted this fact with relief, because it lessened my worry about Brandon.

Grenville stopped. "What do we do now?"

I considered. "Do find out when the Spencer brothers departed Astley Close. I would be interested to know also if their appointment with Westin was in fact at his house rather than a coffeehouse. He could have let them in himself, unknown to the servants. I can quite imagine John Spencer killing Westin in anger. He does not strike me as the most self-controlled of men."

"I agree with you." We reached a hackney stand, and Grenville shook my hand in parting. "On with the investigation, then. Here is to swift results."

We said good-bye, and I hired the hackney to return me home to prepare for my evening call on Lydia.

I thought over what the Spencers had said, as well as what I'd discovered in Kent as I brushed my dark blue regimentals and asked Mrs. Beltan for a bit of thread to repair a torn silver braid. I fussed more than usual about my appearance, wishing for a fine suit of clothes and hair that lay flat, but at last I left my rooms and took myself back to Grosvenor Street.

To my great disappointment, I found Lydia in the company of her daughter’s fiance, Geoffrey Allandale.

Allandale greeted me cordially enough, his too-handsome face arranged in polite lines that expressed nothing.

I had been invited to take supper. We sat at the long table in the dining room, the three of us, Lydia at the head, with Allandale and I across from each other, I on her right hand, he on her left.

Lydia wore a dull black mourning gown that covered her bosom and circled her throat with thin, pale lace. Long black sleeves fastened at her slim wrists with onyx buttons. She wore a widow's cap, a small lawn piece that fitted snuggly. Her dark hair peeped from beneath it.

She wore the costume like a uniform, the outward shell of it reflecting nothing of the woman inside. Behind her thick lashes, her eyes smoldered with anger and impatience, whether at me and my lack of news, or at Allandale, or at both of us, I could not tell.

Allandale led the discussion and Lydia let him. He talked of conventional things, like the controversial novel Glenarvon, published that year. In it, Lady Caroline Lamb had satirized most of London society in retaliation for her failed, very public love affair with the poet Byron. Byron, sensibly, Allandale said, remained on the Continent and ignored it. Allandale professed disgust for the book and those who had flocked to buy it, but I noted that he seemed to know many of its details.

I could not contribute much to the conversation because I had not read the book, nor was I likely to. Lydia only ate in silence.

As supper and Allandale's monologue drew to a close, I inquired after Lydia's daughter. She was well, Lydia answered, still in Surrey with her uncle and aunt.

"Better that Chloe remains there for a time," Allandale interposed. "Let the newspapers calm down before she returns. What trash they do print. I have forbidden William to bring them into the house." He shot me a look that said he blamed me for the scurrilous stories.

"She will not return here at all," Lydia said. She broke off a tiny piece of bread and lifted it to her lips. "My husband left this house to me, and I plan to sell it."

"Now, Mother-in-law." Allandale began. He took on a look of patience. "We have discussed this. You should do nothing in haste."

Lydia's eyes flickered. She returned her gaze to her food, but not in submission. I had seen her flash of temper at Allandale's impudence. Allandale was overstepping his mark, trying to slide in as man of the house before he'd even married Lydia's daughter. I was pleased to note that, because she'd mentioned selling the house, Colonel Westin must have left it to her outright. I hoped he had left her everything absolutely, as a man with no entail and no son might do. Doubtless she held any money left to her daughter in trust. It would be in Allandale's best interest to ingratiate himself to Lydia, but the fool obviously did not know how to do it.

I carefully clicked my knife to my plate, interrupting them. Allandale shot me a rueful smile.

"Forgive us, Captain, for bringing up family business." He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "But as long as we have broached the subject, I do so hope that you will help me persuade my mother-in-law to give up this business about Captain Spencer. It is agitating her greatly."

"My husband did not kill him," Lydia said calmly.

Allandale's tone was all that was pleasant, but I sensed in him the quiet, unthinking stubbornness of a limpet. "It is over and done with, now. No need to worry about it any longer."

"It will be over and done with," Lydia answered. "Once Captain Lacey and I have unraveled the truth."

Allandale shot her a glance. She returned the look, uncowed.

Allandale laid down his knife. "Captain, would you speak to me a moment in the drawing room? Mother-in-law, please excuse us."

Lydia said nothing. I looked a question at her, and she inclined her head slightly. I hoped she trusted that I would oppose him on her behalf, but her gaze told me nothing.

Allandale led me to the next room, which was Lydia's private drawing room. Candles had been lit here. The light brushed the pianoforte and gently touched Lydia's portrait.

Allandale closed the door. His expression held annoyance, but he spoke in the soft, careful voice of a man who suppressed his annoyance because the person he addressed was a fool. "Captain, I truly must take you to task. When I heard that Mrs. Westin had invited you here tonight to discuss Captain Spencer, I was most distressed. I insisted I attend as well, so that I could speak to you." Behind him, Lydia's portrait looked down on him, cold and haughty. "You must cease speaking to her of the incident on the Peninsula. It upsets her. Colonel Westin is dead, and that is that."