Murder in St. Giles

  The outing was south of the river, in Dulwich, where we would visit the public picture gallery.

  The gallery was at Dulwich College, in a building designed by the architect John Soane, and housed a collection of paintings only recently opened to public view. The collection had an interesting history, Grenville told us—two gentlemen who had acquired many paintings for the unfortunate king of Poland were left with the entire collection when that king abdicated.

  The two gentlemen could find no one who wanted to buy the paintings, though they offered them to the governments of Russia and Britain. Not long ago, both gentlemen passed away, leaving the collection to the widow of one of them, with the instructions that the paintings be made available for public viewing. Dulwich College was the fortunate recipient of the widow’s bequest, and Soane redesigned the gallery there to house them.

  Now, for a small fee, ordinary mortals could parade down the galleries and view paintings by Rembrandt and Poussin, van Dyke and Murillo, hung on walls of rich red.

  Grenville, an expert on art, was our guide, explaining the merits of what he considered the most important pictures.

  Gabriella, I could see, grew a bit tired of the extensive tour, but she politely listened and did not let her attention wander. She and I exchanged knowing glances as Grenville ran on, but Donata was riveted and asked many questions.

  We departed to find that the world outside had grown bright, as the morning’s clouds had dispersed to give us a fine afternoon. The sunshine was warm, and Gabriella threw back her head to take it in.

  “I say,” came a voice across Dulwich green, followed by the spin of wheels and skid of hooves on a gravel path. “Oh, well met, cousin. Look Winston, it’s our sweet coz, Donata. Dear lady, do stand still and let us greet you.”

  Chapter 18

  Donata halted, her face flashing dismay before it settled into hardened resolve.

  I looked down the path to the two gentlemen approaching, each in his own cabriolet—two-wheeled vehicles that were recently becoming fashionable, pulled by single, high-stepping horses. As it had grown warm, the cabriolets’ hoods were drawn back to reveal the drivers, each a near perfect copy of the other.

  The one who’d spoken tossed his reins to his tiger, the lad who rode along to hold the horses, and sprang to the ground. “And Mr. Grenville. How fortunate.”

  “Depends on one’s point of view,” Grenville murmured to me. He pulled out his quizzing glass and fixed his mouth into a slight sneer.

  The man who’d descended wore a bright green coat over a pair of buff breeches, and a waistcoat of gold, green, and red damask. His collar was high, pushing his chin back so that he had to look down his nose. His cravat was wound in the same style of knot Grenville wore today—I had the feeling Grenville would instruct Gautier to never tie it so again.

  “How are you, dear cousin Donata?”

  “Robert,” Donata said stiffly. She stood so still the feathers in her high crowned bonnet barely moved. “Winston,” she added to the gentleman climbing a little more slowly from his cabriolet.

  Robert and Winston St. John, the late Lord Breckenridge’s nephews, were Peter’s first cousins, referred to by Donata as Romulus and Remus.

  Reckless rakehells, she also called them, two men very happy Breckenridge had produced issue so they’d not have the frightening prospect of inheriting the estate. They’d been left a generous allowance in trust by their late father and added to by Lord Breckenridge before he died—probably so they wouldn’t constantly touch him for money.

  “Funny we happened to be passing,” Winston said, joining his brother. His suit was nearly identical, down to the tassels on his boots, though his waistcoat was more gold than green.

  “Yes, it is interesting,” Donata responded without inflection.

  “Captain Lacey, how are you?” Robert said to me. He didn’t speak to Gabriella, which was correct, as they hadn’t been introduced. He glanced at her in curiosity, but I was not about to oblige.

  “I am well,” I said in answer to Robert’s question. “Thank you. And you?”

  “Extremely good health. Not like Cousin Stanton.” Robert laughed, the sound like a neighing horse. “He looked as though he’d swallowed an entire orchard of lemons last time I clapped eyes on him.”

  “Yes, he had to rush to Somerset to recover,” Winston put in. “Have you been aggrieving him again, fair coz?”

  Donata refused to reward their obvious fishing for information. “I am sorry to hear it. I hope he recovers.”

  “You do not,” Winston said joyfully. “You wish him to the devil. He fancies himself as Viscount Breckenridge—too bad he has three legitimate heirs in his way. Do take good care of little cousin Peter.”

  “I always do,” Donata responded calmly.

  I did not like the way Winston’s eyes gleamed when he spoke of Peter. Had Stanton sent the pair to discover what had become of him?

  Of course he had. Why else would these two dullards have made the journey across the Thames to a picture gallery, of all places? If my daughter had not been there, I might have invited Grenville to help me haul them off.

  Brewster, who’d insisted on accompanying us today, lingered beneath a tree in the park beyond. He did not move, but his stance told me he was at the ready to come to my assistance should any hauling off be required.

  “Surprised Peter’s not with you,” Robert said artlessly to Donata. “I’d think looking at dull old paintings quite riveting for the poor little chap. You lock him in the house so relentlessly.”

  Donata flushed. “What nonsense. Good day to you Robert. Winston.”

  She gave them each a cold bow. Gabriella remained mute and bewildered beside me, Grenville protectively on her other side.

  The pair of buffoons did not move. They exchanged a glance, obviously trying to decide what to do.

  Grenville came to the rescue. When the brothers did not withdraw, he raised his quizzing glass and stepped forward as though examining an insect that had caught his attention.

  “What is on your chest?” Grenville continued to move smoothly to Robert, bending to study his gaudy waistcoat in minute detail. He rose, the quizzing glass fixed, while Robert waited in trepidation.

  Grenville stepped back, flicking the quizzing glass into his pocket. “You call this a waistcoat, do you, Mr. St. John?”

  Robert flushed. Winston started to laugh then broke off as Grenville gave his waistcoat a severe look.

  Grenville said nothing more. He could devastate with his silences, leaving the gentlemen he critiqued to fill in the words.

  The brothers could ignore him or laugh him off, but if they did, they risked censure from every other gentleman who recognized Grenville as the grand arbiter of male fashion. Or, they could rush to their tailors and beg for help mending their gaffe.

  They chose retreat. “Ah, yes,” Robert said. “My tailor is rather a cretin, and I shall have to have sharp words with him. Perhaps you’d attend with me, Grenville, and guide him.”

  Grenville only gave him a frosty look, and Winston jabbed Robert hard with his elbow.

  Robert shot his brother a scowl, but he tipped his hat. “Well met, Donata. Enjoy the rest of your outing. Grenville. Captain.”

  He bowed to each of us in turn, including Gabriella in general but fortunately not singling her out. If he dared leer at her, I’d tear his face off.

  Winston also made a neutral bow, and the two of them at last returned to their cabriolets, their voices rising in argument as soon as their backs were turned.

  “I beg your pardon, Gabriella,” Donata said with sincerity. “Breckenridge’s cousins are ghastly. It’s best to ignore them.”

  The two young men ascended to their seats, taking the reins relinquished by their tigers, still arguing. As one, they let their horses spring forward, wheels spinning in the gravel, and leapt away, leaving their tigers behind.

  The two lads must be used to Romulus and Remus rushing off, because they started wa
lking slowly after them.

  “I see they’re determined to race to the end of the park,” Grenville said wearily. “Never mind the Sunday strollers out to enjoy the weather.”

  Dust spiraled up behind the large wheels of the cabriolets, Winston standing in his seat to give his horses the office. Neck and neck, the vehicles raced down the narrow lane, forcing those walking on it to dash for the fields on either side.

  “They are ever competing with each other,” Donata said. “Hate each other yet are devoted at the same time.”

  Possibly why she called them Romulus and Remus. Romulus killed his brother in the end.

  The cabriolets flew down the gravel, wheels bouncing as the horses stretched into a gallop. We watched, the five of us—Brewster from under his tree—mesmerized by the racing horses and the vehicles nearly floating off the ground. So must the spectators at the Circus Maximus have done as the charioteers charged their teams around and around.

  I saw, as though the world had slowed, Robert’s cab rise up and up, and then hit the earth again, just as one of the wheels snapped.

  Screams sounded, as did the shriek of the horse as it fell in a flurry of limbs. The cabriolet twisted all the way around, breaking and scattering, Robert’s body twisting along with it.

  He hit the ground, arms outflung, and then the remains of the cabriolet, including the second large wheel, landed on top of him.

  Winston, whose cab had continued at the same breakneck speed, frantically turned his rig, his protesting horse bucking and fighting. With surprising competence, Winston got the horse righted and around, a thick column of dust in his wake.

  He raced back to his brother, slowing his cab enough to spring out and let the horse trot away, reins flying. The tigers sprinted forward, one rushing to catch Winston’s horse, the other going for Robert’s.

  I was running as well, Grenville ahead of me, Brewster keeping pace with him.

  Passers-by converged on the wreckage, pulling away the wheel, the black-painted boards, the canvas and wire hood.

  “Robbie!” Winston was shouting. “Robbie!”

  He fell to his knees, clearing the wreckage from his brother’s body. Grenville and Brewster reached them, Grenville dropping to pry Winston away from Robert. Brewster lent his strength to lift away the last of the debris.

  I stopped beside the group, my leg aching, my breath rapid. Robert’s tiger had righted his horse, and the beast walked away with him, trembling. I could tell by its gait that, though shaken, the horse hadn’t broken any limbs.

  The same couldn’t be said for Robert. He lay on his side, his head covered in blood, his right leg and one of his arms contorted into unnatural positions. His eyes were half open, his lips peeled back as though frozen in a shout.

  “Robbie!” Winston sobbed, reaching for him.

  “Is he dead?” One of the passers-by asked.

  Grenville again lifted Winston aside so I could kneel beside Robert. “Grenville, your quizzing glass,” I said.

  He readily handed it to me, unclipping the chain from his waistcoat. I shoved the glass between Robert’s lips.

  At first nothing happened. We watched in silence, the tension heavy, Winston sobbing beside me. After a long while, I at last saw a thin film of mist coat the glass.

  “He’s alive,” I said, releasing my breath. “But stunned senseless. He needs to be attended right away, or he will die.”

  Winston had gained his feet, but he ran his hands through his hair, his hat long gone. “What do I do?” he moaned. “What do I do?”

  Brewster bent to me. “Tell me where to take him, guv.”

  “The college. They’ll have a surgeon or know where to fetch one.”

  “I know,” the gentleman who’d joined us said. “I’ll tell him to be ready.” He dashed away.

  Brewster, with surprising gentleness, lifted Robert into his arms. He deposited him in Winston’s cabriolet, the nearest vehicle, now brought around by Winston’s tiger. Brewster began to climb to the seat as well, but Grenville stopped him.

  “Let me. I’m probably the best driver here. Hop on the back, lad,” he said to Winston’s tiger. “I’ll need help with him when we arrive.”

  Brewster readily stepped away, and Grenville sprang to the seat. He tapped the horse with the reins, and the cab sprang forward into a smooth but rapid pace. Winston walked forlornly behind it.

  Donata and Gabriella reached me as I watched them go. Brewster had returned to the wreckage, helping others clear it up.

  “Will he be all right?” Gabriella asked worriedly.

  “Time will tell, as will the surgeon’s competence,” I said. “Grenville will see to things.” I tried to sound reassuring.

  “Bloody fool,” Donata said. “I knew their ridiculous ways would bring them to grief.”

  Her face was white, her body stiff with agitation. It was one thing to despise a man, another to watch him be twisted and broken in the space of a moment.

  “Guv.” Brewster was at my side, a frown on his face.

  I walked a little way apart with him, despite Donata scowling after me. “What is it?”

  “This weren’t an accident,” Brewster said, keeping his voice low. “The wheel didn’t break, it were loosened. Pin that held it cut short and replaced so none would see it had been done. That wheel were held on by a prayer. Could have fallen off at any time, giving all riding on it a tumble.”

  Chapter 19

  I understand Mr. Brewster not wishing to distress me or Gabriella,” Donata said. “But I do wish he wouldn’t draw you aside and whisper like that. It is quite annoying.”

  We spoke in the upstairs room of a charming inn of whitewashed stone covered with climbing roses that were just beginning to turn green with spring. I suggested we stay the night in Dulwich and not attempt the journey home when we were all unnerved by Robert’s accident, and it was uncertain whether he would live.

  I’d told Donata right away what Brewster had said, and I’d made certain Gabriella heard. I did not wish to upset her, but I also did not want to hide things from her.

  Grenville had found the inn for us, having stayed here before on his way home from Brighton. The landlord was pleased to give us three private rooms and a parlor, as well as a hot supper.

  “The poor man,” Gabriella said as we took our places around the table. “I could tell you did not like him, but it is terrible.”

  “The surgeon seemed a competent fellow,” I said. The sausage and soup with thick bread smelled appetizing, but I noted that all three of us only picked at our food. “He said he’d seen far worse than this on the Peninsula, and I concur.”

  Indeed, the surgeon, a big fellow with arms as large as a blacksmith’s, had pronounced Robert’s leg and arm broken—the arm in three places—and his ribs smashed, but he seemed confident he could bring him around.

  Grenville generously had found Winston lodgings near the surgeon’s then had given Winston laudanum and sent him to bed, promising to return to the surgeon and keep an eye on Robert.

  Donata drew the tines of her fork through the juices that had dripped from her sausages. “Stanton has done this, hasn’t he?”

  “He could very well have,” I answered. “I hardly see him sneaking into a stable himself to replace the linchpin on a wheel, but he could have hired someone to do it for him.”

  “Well, I shall certainly find out,” Donata said decidedly. “Perhaps Brewster could be of assistance in this.”

  “I will ask him.” Brewster at the moment was in the taproom, enjoying a meal and the local brew, probably with more gusto than we were.

  “Is this why you sent Peter away?” Gabriella asked.

  We had not mentioned Peter or talked much about Stanton, but Gabriella was good at putting things together.

  “Yes,” Donata said. “I am glad I did, more than ever. I had no idea Stanton was so eager to get his hands on the title. He was never so keen when Breckenridge was alive.”

  “Perhaps he has tak
en some losses recently,” I suggested. “And is in need of money.”

  “In that case, why not simply ask? Why be so beastly? He could pry funds out of Robert or Winston without hurting them, without threatening Peter.” She shuddered and laid down her fork. “With Robert and Winston gone, there would be no one between Stanton and the title but Peter.”

  I laid my hand on hers. “He will not touch him. This I vow.”

  Donata drew a long breath, but the fear in her eyes was real. “Stanton is as ugly and evil as my husband ever was. You know that Robert and Winston turning up here was no coincidence. Stanton sent them to follow us.”

  “Yes, I had guessed that.”

  Gabriella listened, troubled. “Can you not go to a magistrate? Tell him this cousin is threatening you? Is threatening my brother?”

  “We’d need proof,” I said. “I will, of course, apprise Sir Montague, but he, like his Runners, will not be able to apprehend the man if we have no evidence. The linchpin might simply have worn through.”

  “Brewster would not have mentioned it if it had worn through,” Donata said. “Presumably, he knows the difference.”

  I agreed. “A Runner like Quimby and even Pomeroy is careful. I will send Brewster to Robert’s stables to see what he can find.”

  Donata sipped her glass of sherry and grimaced at its taste. “Brewster will ask with his fists, you know.”

  “Very likely, or at least the threat of them.” I managed to eat a bite of sausage, feeling a little better. “If the men in Robert’s mews are innocent, they will not be the worse for wear. But if one of them is in the pay of Cousin Stanton, then he will deserve whatever Brewster gives him.”

  Robert did live, but he was a poor specimen when Donata and I went to visit him. His arm was wrapped in bandages, his leg in a splint, and he could barely part his eyelids to look at her.

  He swiveled his eyes to take me in and croaked in a whisper, “How is my horse?”

  “Well,” I said, trying to sound calm and confident. “Grenville looked out for him. You know how good he is with horseflesh.” Grenville had arranged for a stable and a groom for Robert’s horse as well as Winston’s horse and rig.