A Body in Berkeley Square

  "Because you could marry her and hide in her shadow," I asked. "You might not make it a deep secret that you'd changed your name to hers, but people would assume it was because you generously wanted her to continue to be known by her stage name. In time, people would forget about the name Worth, and no longer associate it with you. Let alone what your real name was."

  "Precisely, Captain. It was easy to make Claire marry me. She had hordes of young men dancing attendance on her, but I had one thing she could not resist. Money. I promised to pay her gambling debts if she'd do me the honor of becoming my wife. I have a sad affliction and cannot bother her in the carnal way, which I assure you she does not mind. And I do not mind much myself. The bodily humors are an inconvenience and interfere with my peace and quiet. Claire never pretended that she'd married me for anything but my funds, and I had no intention of being besotted with my own wife. The arrangement suited us admirably. When Turner came along to destroy that . . ." He waved his hand, wiping away Mr. Turner.

  "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."

  * * * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  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."

  "I know." Grenville gave me a smile. "When one has a great deal of money, there are those who feel it is natural that you should share it with them. But Claire is mine, I am certain of it."

  "Are you sure you don't simply wish to be certain?"

  "Of course I wish it. I admit that I was astonishingly pleased when I learned I had a daughter. Claire is beautiful and gifted, and she drives me to distraction. But I knew she was mine the moment I looked at her." His smile blossomed to a grin. "The poor woman has inherited the Grenville nose."

  *** *** ***

  Louisa was still awake when I arrived in Brook Street, but Lady Aline was not with her. Louisa explained, when she received me, that she had sent Lady Aline home.

  "She has been very kind to me. But I wanted to be alone." She sighed. "It is difficult to keep up my spirits to please her."

  "You will not have to do so much longer," I said.

  We sat in her yellow room, a fire on the hearth chasing away the gloom of the night, while I told her about Bennington and his arrest. In the morning, I said, I would ask Sir Nathaniel officially to dismiss the murder charge against Brandon and let him come home.

  "You did this for me," Louisa whispered when I finished my tale. "Why? Why are you so impossibly good to me, Gabriel?"

  I took her hand, which was too cold, her fingers too thin. "There have been times in my life when you were strong for me. I wanted to be strong for you, this once."

  "I have not been strong at all. You say he is truly innocent of this?"

  "Your husband did not kill Henry Turner. I knew from the beginning that the crime was all wrong for him. Nor is Imogene Harper his lover."

  Louisa lifted her head. "But she was. On the Peninsula, she was, however briefly."

  "I know. I'm sorry. I am not certain I will forgive him that."

  "I will." When I looked surprised, Louisa said, "Aloysius is my husband, Gabriel. We have weathered much together. We will weather this, too."

  "You love the idiot."

  "Yes. I always have." She touched my cheek. "And I love you too."

  "A fact that warms my heart." I kissed her forehead then let her go. "I hope that our friendship may weather all this as well."

  "It will. I will not be ungrateful and shun you simply because I am embarrassed."

  "Good." I paused. The cheerful room had grown more cheerful still, and in a few moments, I would not be able to bear it. "What did you do with the paper, Louisa?" I asked.

  She stilled. "Paper?"

  "The one Brandon told you to fetch from the Gillises'."

  Her cheeks darkened. "Must you know everything?"

  "It is a dangerous document to have."

  "I know that. But the greatest danger Aloysius fears is from you."

  I held on to my temper. "Does he truly believe I would betray him? After all this? Please give it to me, Louisa. Unless you have already destroyed it."

  She rose, agitated, and I rose with her. "I have not. How did you know I had it?"

  "Because there is no one else in the world Brandon would have entrusted it to. I toyed with the idea that he'd given it to Mrs. Harper, but she did not have it, which was why she went to search Turner's rooms. Brandon probably meant to hide it and fetch it the next day, never dreaming he'd be bound over for trial. He knew that he did not commit the murder, and he expected everyone else to take him at his word. You read French," I finished. "You must know what the document is."

  Louisa wouldn't look at me. "Yes."

  "You went to see Brandon after I'd admonished you to, did you not?"

  She finally met my gaze. "I did. And he told me an extraordinary tale. He bared his soul to me. He must have been quite desperate to do that. Aloysius hates to appear weak, especially to a woman--most especially to his wife."

  "He craves your respect."

  "Yes, well, he told me where the paper was, told me to hide it, and begged me, for God's sake, not to give it to you."

  "I already know his secrets. Louisa, please, will you trust me and let me have it? No one in the world but you and I and he will know of it."

  She looked skeptical. "What about Mrs. Harper?"

  "Mrs. Harper should bless her luck that Brandon decided to help her at all. I will send word to her that it is all over and tell her to return to Scotland."

  "Good," Louisa said. She was still pale, but her eyes began to sparkle with their usual fervor. "I will forgive Aloysius, because he can be so easily led into mischief. But Mrs. Harper is another matter. She had no bloody business pinching my husband."

  I smiled. "I am pleased to see that you will not simply be walked on."

  "Indeed no. I expect Aloysius to be quite kind to me for a very long time." Louisa placed her hand on my arm. "Thank you, Gabriel. Drink your coffee, and I will fetch the paper."

  *** *** ***

  An hour later found me at Newgate prison with the incriminating letter tucked into my pocket. The turnkey was reluctant to let me in at this late hour, but he was easily bribed.

  I found Brandon still dressed, sitting on his bed with his head in his hands. He looked up when I was ushered in and sprang to his feet. "What are you doing here?"

  I waited until the turnkey shut the door, waited again until I heard his footsteps retreat.

  "I came to tell you that you will soon be free," I said. "I found the man responsible for Henry Turner's death."

  Brandon stared at me in shock. "But . . ."

  "Had you convinced yourself I never would? Mr. Bennington was arrested this evening. I hoped you could be released at once, but magistrates do things in their own time."

  Brandon gaped at me as I told the story for the second time tonight, and when I finished, he began to splutter.

  "The blackguard! Using my own knife, sitting by quietly as you please while I waited in here for my trial. Damn the man."

  "Would it help to know that he is terrified of what is to come?" I asked.

  "What? No, of course not. I long to call the fellow out, but I suppose that would not be the thing."

  He paced the cell, animation flowing into his body. Brandon dejected was a sad sight, but now his eyes flashed, and his back was straight and strong.

  "If you had told me the truth from the beginning, sir, you might not have had to come here at all," I said.

  Brandon swung to me. "Oh, yes I would have. When I admitted the knife was mine, Pomeroy blamed me at once, damn the man."

  "Which he would not have if you'd stayed in the ballroom the entire night with your wife. Why the devil did you not at least say that Stokes saw you wandering the back rooms at the time of the murder?"

  "Because it was none of his business. I didn't want Stokes standing up in court bellowing every place I'd been."

  I thought I understood. "Because if it were mentioned, someone, Stokes himself perhaps, might recall you slipping back there after Lord Gillis sent for Pomeroy and his patrollers. And then Pomeroy, ever thorough, might find what you'd hidden there." His eyes widened at my guesses, and I lost my temper. "Damn it, sir, I know all about Naveau, and the document, and Mrs. Harper. What the hell were you thinking?"

  "You know what the document is?" he asked, watching me.

  "I read it. Why the devil didn't you come to me when Mrs. Harper first approached you? I could
have retrieved the paper without all your machinations at the ball. I know people who could have made Turner hand it over--Grenville for one, or if we were more desperate, James Denis. I would have done this for you. Why did you not trust me?"

  Brandon looked at me with infuriating stubbornness. "Because I know how much you hate me. Why would you not use the opportunity to bring about my downfall? I could see you doing so, with glee."

  "Then you read me entirely wrong. I have been loyal to you since the day I swore allegiance to you, twenty years ago. That has not changed."

  Brandon shot a guilty look at my walking stick. "I hurt you."

  "I know. And I haven't forgiven you for that, believe me. But you were angry then--you thought I'd taken Louisa from you, the woman you love more than your own life. You feared that Louisa would leave you for me, even after you retracted your plan to divorce her. You would have deserved it if she had, but Louisa loves you. The pair of you are so romantic, you make me weep. I never bedded your wife, sir. Never. She never would have done such a thing."

  "But you would have," he said sullenly.

  "Of course. On an instant. Louisa has always been special to me. If she had wanted to give herself to me in that way, I would have taken what she offered and felt privileged to receive it. But she never offered, it never happened, and it never will."

  Brandon glared at me with his old fire. "Such words do not make me disposed to trust you."

  "You might be a complete idiot concerning your wife, but it is also true that I owe you my life. All of it." I gave him a firm look. "And so I will do my damndest to keep you safe."

  I took the document from my pocket and held it up for him to see. I'd read it in Louisa's sitting room and nearly groaned in dismay. In Brandon's handwriting, in French, the letter told Colonel Naveau of Mrs. Harper's husband's death and explained that there would be no more information from that source. The letter also included a copy of a dispatch that Major Harper had set aside for Naveau.