Ashley Gardner - A Regimental Murder

I could, of course, simply declare her missing and marry again without taking the trouble to search for her. Others did so when wives or husbands traveled to far lands and never came back. After seven years without word, one could presume they had died and marry again without censure.

But I wanted to know.

Of course, my wife could very well no longer be living. Her French lover might have abandoned her long ago, or she might have married another. She might have died in France. My first step was to find her, and decide what to do after that.

I swallowed my pride and approached Grenville for advice.

First, he professed astonishment, because I had not yet told him I had once been married. Once he'd recovered his surprise, he admitted he knew a man of business in Paris who could help me.

As he wrote the letter, he quizzed me. "You are certain you want to pursue this?" He sat at his ornate writing table in the center of a private sitting room, a chamber decorated with mementos from his travels. A scarlet tent hung from one wall, and fascinating gold miniature cats from Egypt occupied a shelf beside whimsically carved ivory animals from the Orient.

"Quite certain," I said.

"I do not mean your marrying Lydia Westin. For that, I can only applaud your taste. I mean delving into the past. I know from experience that sometimes the past is best left buried."

I paced across his silken carpet from Syria, my hands behind my back. "I cannot marry Mrs. Westin under false colors."

"I know that. But it was so very long ago. Who knows what person your wife has become? Or what her life is now? Is it worth raking up what was, for either of you?"

I stopped. "You mean she might have married under false colors herself? I have thought of that. I have also realized that she might no longer be living. But I cannot marry Lydia if I am anything but honest with her. Not discovering the truth might only haunt us later."

Grenville gave me a cynical smile. "Such as the previous Mrs. Lacey turning up on your doorstep threatening suit? Yes, I can understand why you would want to prevent that."

He did not understand in the least. I could not let Lydia marry a lie. Even if my first wife never turned up, I would know the lie, and it would fester. Also, I wanted to finish what had been between myself and my wife, now that I could finally put my hurt behind me.

In addition, I could learn what had become of my daughter. I probed that thought as delicately as I would an abscessed tooth. So long I had debated whether or not to search for my daughter and bring her home. By law, she belonged to me, not her mother. But always I feared that knowledge the investigation would bring. If I learned Gabriella had died, I would know oceans of pain. If she lived, she would not know me.

"You do know," Grenville was saying. He toyed with the end of his pen and did not look at me. "There is a man in London who could find your wife quickly, and what is better, discreetly. With little disturbance to her, I imagine, if you so chose. I would even offer to put up the fee."

I eyed him coldly. "You mean James Denis. Know this, Grenville. I do not want Denis anywhere near my wife or anyone close to me. Imagine what he could do with such knowledge once he had it."

Grenville shrugged, but his mouth tightened. "A thought only. I will write to my man in Paris. But it may take time."

"I understand," I said.

He wrote his letter, and my quest was set in motion.

Another task I assigned myself was to keep an eye on the Spencer brothers. I visited Pomeroy again and told him of my interview with the Spencers, and asked him also to watch them. If John Spencer were carrying out his revenge, then he would strike again, probably soon. Breckenridge and Westin were dead. Eggleston and Connaught would be next.

Two days later, when I returned to my rooms from a meager dinner at the Gull in Southampton Street, I found young Leland Derwent waiting for me at the bake shop.

I shook his hand with pleasure. I had enjoyed myself at his sumptuous supper, where his family had made me feel welcome and wanted. He had brought with him another young man of his own age, whom he introduced as Gareth Travers. Travers was a clean-looking young man with light brown hair and small brown eyes. This gentleman, however, lacked the unworldly look of the more innocent Leland.

Because they were the same age, I concluded they were school friends. Travers referred to Leland as "Eely," which I assumed was a somewhat dubious play on "Leland."

I hoped we could visit in the bake shop, with Mrs. Beltan's bread and coffee, but Leland said he had some important news to relate and wished to speak privately. He looked about as though he expected conspirators to lurk in the corners of Mrs. Beltan's cheerful and clean-scrubbed shop.

I led the way upstairs. The stairwell was dim and cool, with light filtering through the dirty skylight high above. I heard nothing from Marianne's rooms, which relieved me. I shuddered to imagine Leland encountering her.

I let Leland and his friend into my rooms and opened the windows against the stuffy heat. Leland looked about in awe, his gaze roving from the flaking plaster ceiling to the threadbare carpet. "Did you live in tents in the army, Captain?" he asked.

I limped back to the pair. "Not always. I lived in barracks or inns whenever we stayed put. Usually near the stables."

"So that you could ride out at a moment's notice?"

"So that we could better care for the horses. A cavalryman needs a decent horse beneath him, or he should simply stay in bed."

"With a pretty woman?" Travers said slyly.

"That is preferable," I answered with a straight face.

Leland did not laugh. He nodded, as though he were taking particulars for exams.

"You said you had news?" I asked, trying to steer them back to the reason for their visit. "Are we to move the appointment to meet Sir Edward Connaught?"

Leland jerked his attention back to me. "That is just the trouble, Captain. We will not be meeting with Major Connaught at all. He is dead."

I stopped. "Dead?"

Leland nodded unhappily. "He died in his sleep at his house in Sussex. Quite peacefully, his valet said."

I sat down on the chair behind me. So the killer had already struck again. I had asked Pomeroy to tell me if John Spencer made a move, and I'd heard nothing. I fumed in frustration and regret. "You spoke to the valet?"

Leland shook his head. "That is what the valet said at the inquest. Father had it from the magistrate."

"The inquest was already held? When?"

"Last week. By the time father found out what happened, Major Connaught had already been buried. Father knows the magistrate in that part of Sussex. The magistrate says the valet says Major Connaught was not feeling well one night. He went to bed, and sometime in the night, he died."

Travers looked at me. "The verdict was not murder, if that worries you."

Surprised me, rather. But then Breckenridge's death had been put down to an accident. Connaught might have died naturally, but I was unprepared to believe it. Of the four officers who'd known the truth about the death of Captain Spencer, only one remained alive.

One other man had known, too-Colonel Spinnet-and he had been killed along with Captain Spencer at Badajoz. I rested my head in my hands. If only the dead could speak.

I jumped to my feet before that thought fully formed. The dead could speak. The murderer had forgotten that.

Leland and his friend were staring at me in concern. I snatched up my hat and walking stick. "Come with me," I said.

They followed me in curiosity. Leland's coach waited nearby in Russel Street, and I commandeered it. Leland did not seem to mind. I directed his coachman to Mount Street and the home of Lord Richard Eggleston.