A Mystery at Carlton House

  “Coshed.” Spendlove rocked on his heels. “Nasty.”

  “No.” I pointed to the wound on the back of Higgs’s head. “This did not bleed much, and there is little bruising. I believe he was hit after he was dead. This, on the other hand …” I moved my finger to indicate his clenched fists. “He did this as he died.”

  I put my hands on Higgs’s shoulders. I did not like handling him, as I had done this far too often before—turning over comrades and friends on the battlefield to see whether they were beyond help. I’d looked into the lifeless faces of men I’d drunk with the night before too many times to want to see another.

  But we needed to know as much as we could if we were to find who had done this terrible deed. I eased Higgs back into his chair and immediately saw why his fists had been clenched.

  The man’s face was black with death, his eyes wide, his tongue protruding. Around his neck was a deep line, dark red with blood. The puddle had come from that wound, from the veins that had been severed.

  “He’s been garroted,” I said in a grim voice.

  Spendlove was next to me in an instant, bringing with him his scents of sweat, smoke, and stale breath. “Bugger me,” he said in a near whisper.

  The footman who’d brought us in turned away, retching. Bartholomew stared, his mouth open.

  Spendlove recovered quickly and snapped his fingers. “You,” he said to Bartholomew. “Run to Bow Street. I need patrollers here. You—” This to the footman. “I want anyone working in this house rounded up and brought upstairs. Put them in the next room and do not let them leave. Where is His Royal Highness?”

  “Not here,” the footman answered in a wheezing breath. “He was at the house of a friend late and stayed there.”

  I suspected he was with Lady Hertford, whether at her own house or in a secret love nest, I could not know, but I wondered. The Regent was reputed to have a temper, and his brother, the Duke of Cumberland, was widely thought to have murdered his valet one night about ten years ago. The valet’s throat had been cut, and Higgs had been strangled—not quite the same, but close. And why had the murderer then struck Higgs over the head?

  Bartholomew, at a nod from me, made to depart, but the footman stood his ground. He was a sturdy young man, perhaps twenty-five years in age, tall, handsome of face, and stubborn.

  “You’ll not be bringing in the patrollers,” he said. “The journalists can’t get wind of this.” He sent me a look of appeal, his dark eyes wide. “You see how it is, sir.”

  Spendlove scowled at him. “What I see is a dead man that someone in this house killed, maybe the captain standing right next to me, maybe even your master. I need to put my hands on someone I can bring up before the magistrate. Want it to be you?”

  The footman continued to address me. “We can’t have the journalists, sir.”

  “It will get out sooner or later,” I answered, keeping my voice gentle. “You know that. Who is in charge of the household?”

  The footman gulped but looked relieved he could pass the problem higher. “The majordomo, sir. I’ll fetch him.” He ran off before Spendlove could stop him.

  “Shall I go, sir?” Bartholomew, who’d paused at the door, asked me.

  “Yes,” I said heavily. “This is a murder. Have Hagen drive you and bring the patrollers back with you. Keep the location secret until they get here. The journalists can wait.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bartholomew was gone in a flash, looking happy to have something to do.

  Spendlove eyed me in annoyance, but he didn’t try to countermand my orders. He bent over Higgs, running a careful gaze over his hands, his throat, and the statue used to bash him on the back of the head. I realized, as I glanced at the statuette, that it was a bronze of Louis XIV of France on horseback.

  “He didn’t fight,” Spendlove declared.

  I looked at Higgs again, not liking to. He’d been a modest, efficient man, and as I said, I’d liked him.

  My ire at his killer stirred through my numbness. Higgs had not deserved this.

  “No bruising on his hands,” I said, following Spendlove’s reasoning. “No ripped nails, no sign he struggled for his life.”

  “Someone walked right up behind him and …” Spendlove waved his hand to indicate the rest. “Either they were very, very quiet, or he knew the man and didn’t fear him.”

  “That man was not me,” I said emphatically. “I had every reason to want Mr. Higgs alive—he was helping me find out who was stealing things from the Regent, helping me fulfill your commission. I needed him, and I thought well of him. Unless you believe I ran mad, gained entry to the palace last night, lured Mr. Higgs to this room, and strangled him with a garrote.”

  As I rambled, I wondered again why he’d come to this room at all. Had he found something odd here? The desk was bare as I’d observed, no books or papers in sight. Then where had the ink come from?

  Higgs might have been making notes in one of his ledgers and discovered something that had uncovered the thefts. The killer could have been with him, realized he’d been unmasked, killed Higgs, and taken away the ledger, pen and ink bottle. Higgs no doubt had knocked over the bottle in his struggle. The killer would not have been able to clean up the spill or the blood without getting either on himself. There would have been plenty of time for the killer to take the things away and be halfway to Dover by now.

  Spendlove studied me in irritation. “I know you visited your Mr. Denis sometime in the night. Yes, I keep a careful eye on him and know who comes and goes at his house. Maybe you had no reason to kill this man, but perhaps Mr. Denis did. He tells you to do it, and you obey.”

  “I am not a hired killer,” I said impatiently. Denis had those at his disposal, but I did not mention that fact. “Mr. Denis summoned me to ask me to cease investigating the thefts. I told him to go to the devil. If he’d instructed me to kill a man for him, I would refuse, no matter how much he threatened me. He’d have to choose a better man for the task anyway.” I tapped my injured knee with my walking stick. “I’m hardly fit to run about murdering people.”

  “You’re an army man,” Spendlove pointed out. “Do not tell me you are not used to killing.”

  I clenched the stick. “Fighting for my life on a battlefield and strangling a man as he sits at a desk are two different things. I’d only ever face a man honorably—if I wanted to kill someone, I’d give him an even chance.”

  “Such as fighting duels in Hyde Park of a March morning?” Spendlove grunted. “You’re lucky Lord Stubbins recovered from his wound.”

  I said nothing. Last year, I’d potted a man called Stubby Stubbins, the son of a marquess, for beating a game girl. The man was disgusting and had deserved every bit of fear I’d seen in his eyes over the barrel of my pistol. But I’d given him a fighting chance, and Stubbins had survived. He’d made himself scarce from London and had not tried to prosecute me for wounding him.

  However, I was not foolish enough to acknowledge to Spendlove even now that I’d been involved in a very illegal duel. I did not trust what he’d do with such an admission.

  “I give you my word I did Mr. Higgs no harm,” I said. “Why would I let you come here with me if I had? I needed his expertise to tell me if the statuette I recovered indeed belonged to His Highness.”

  Spendlove only gave me another grunt.

  I moved to the statuette and peeled away the paper. A few bits of paint had flaked off, revealing the bronze beneath. I was fairly sure the statue was the same but I needed to be certain.

  I picked it up, wrapped it in the paper again, and strode the length of the large room for the door.

  Naturally, Spendlove followed. “Where are you taking that?”

  “To see if my ten shillings were wasted.”

  Spendlove could move faster than I and he reached the door before me. He did not try to stop me, however, but led the way out.

  I hobbled with some difficulty through the jappaned room and the anteroom to the stairs, hampered both
by my walking stick and the statuette. Spendlove made no offer to carry the bronze for me, though I’d refuse if he did.

  The footman must have roused the house, or his frantic mood had alerted the other servants, because they had emerged from the woodwork and were now rushing about trying to understand what was happening.

  I saw distress on all faces, murmurs of, “Mr. Higgs? Is he really dead? Lord love him, sir.”

  Spendlove stood aside as we reached the grand staircase, he clearly unsure where I was going. I went down, with no one attempting to stop us, and at the bottom, made my way through to the library. Spendlove followed in silence, his tread heavy.

  Light from the long windows spilled into the library, glittering on the gilding, dancing on the facets of the crystal chandelier and wall sconces. This chamber and the others along the floor were rooms made to catch the light and play with it, sending it back over the inhabitants for their delight.

  The library, with its soaring ceiling and bookcases awaited us in silence. So did the bronze of Theseus and Antiope, sitting proudly on the table where I’d seen it last.

  I shoved the clock next to it aside, plunked my statuette down on the table, and stripped off the paper.

  The statues were identical. Except for the white paint, hastily applied, the size, poses, and artistry were the same.

  “Bloody hell,” Spendlove said. “Which is the real one?”

  “I have no idea.” They looked exactly alike to me. “I am no expert. I know a man who is, though. His opinion could possibly tell us what the devil has happened here.”

  “Yes.” Spendlove gave me a hard nod. “Have him fetched at once.”

  “Grenville?” I asked, surprised he’d agreed so easily.

  The smile Spendlove gave me was unfriendly. “No, Captain. Mr. Denis.”

  * * *

  I argued but to no avail. Spendlove stood firm.

  He said, “If Mr. Denis didn’t have a copy of this statue made himself, he’ll know who did. I know he is the man behind these thefts—everything about it speaks of him. I want him standing here to explain himself.”

  “He will never come.” Denis wasn’t such a fool as to rush to Carlton House and calmly explain that he’d stolen a statue and had it copied. “In any case, why go to the trouble to steal an expensive piece of artwork and then let me purchase it for ten shillings at a market?”

  Spendlove’s eyes glittered as much as the sun-dappled chandelier. “No doubt he sent you to retrieve it for him—you’d be the owner fair and square—and hand it over to him.” He gestured in imitation. “Get him here, Captain. You are persuasive. He listens to you.”

  “As I have said, I told him to go to the devil.”

  Spendlove didn’t look worried. “You will find your neck in a noose for this murder fast enough if you do not assist. You know I can make it happen, and what the shame will do to your lady wife. I’d wager she’d abandon you in a trice if it meant keeping disgrace from her son.”

  Meaning if I were to be condemned, Donata would do everything in her power and her father’s power to distance herself from me, perhaps even attempt to have our marriage annulled. After all, my first wife was still alive and our divorce had been kept very quiet. Donata’s wily solicitors could concoct something to free her from me, whether strictly legal or not.

  I also knew Spendlove would hound her, perhaps making things difficult for Peter and my daughter—both my daughters—as well. Though I knew Donata was capable of fighting back, Spendlove could make Donata’s existence hell if he chose.

  This was not the life I wanted for her or for Anne. I did not want Donata to constantly have to defend herself against Spendlove’s attacks because I’d decided to defy him.

  Denis had threatened Marcus if I continued my investigation. Spendlove threatened Donata and my young family if I didn’t.

  My decision, I was sorry to say, came easily. I would throw Marcus to the wolves. He was my kin—I firmly believed that—and I felt responsibility for him, plus I’d been growing to like him. But he would have to stand on his own. I would be courteous enough to send him a warning, but I would do what Spendlove wanted and disobey Denis’s wishes.

  “Very well,” I said tightly. “I’ll need a hackney.”

  * * *

  Carlton House’s staff was at such sixes and sevens none could run to fetch a hackney for me. Indeed, they seemed to completely ignore my presence and Spendlove’s to deal with this crisis in their midst.

  I strolled out of the house and beyond the columned screen to the street, the statuette once again wrapped and under my arm. I had no intention of leaving it with Spendlove, who would probably pinch it in the name of evidence.

  I’d paid over my own money for the bronze, not Donata’s, using the few coins I allowed myself from my half-pay packet. This statuette was mine until I decided otherwise. Nor would I tamely turn it over to Denis as Spendlove implied. I’d keep it and put it up in the library to mull over on a rainy afternoon.

  I walked the length of Pall Mall but found no coaches to hire—St. James’s was full of vehicles by this hour, but no hackneys awaited. I set off walking up St. James’s Street. With determination, despite my protesting knee, I could make my way to Piccadilly and then north to Curzon Street. I’d be exhausted by the time I reached Denis’s house, but so be it.

  A plain black coach pulled alongside me as I walked past the narrow opening to the lane called St. James’s Place. A man leapt out and seized me by the arm. Without worry, I thrust the statuette into his hands.

  “I’m too weary to carry that any longer,” I said. “How did you know I needed a hackney?”

  Brewster glowered at me over the paper-wrapped Theseus. “Your butler peached,” he rumbled. “Said you ran off with the Robin to the prince’s house. Should have waited for me.”

  “He gave me no choice. As I have no choice now. We’re off to beard the lion in his den—that is, call upon Mr. Denis when he is not expecting us.”

  Brewster’s brows lowered further. “You, guv, are like a compass for danger.”

  “I agree with you.” I reached for the door of the hackney. “Higgs is dead.”

  The way Brewster’s eyes widened in pure astonishment told me he knew nothing about it. He kept quiet, though, until he’d laid the statuette on the hackney’s seat and boosted me inside.

  “Did the prince kill him?” Brewster asked from the seat opposite me as the hackney started. “His brother murdered his valet they say. And His Royal Highness is taking his wife to court to try and rid himself of her. Fine lot they are. A shame to their dad.”

  “I don’t believe the Regent killed him,” I said, though I’d reserve judgment. Who knew what sort of relationship the prince had had with his curator?

  “Who did, then?” Brewster asked.

  “Who indeed?” I replied, annoyed I could not answer.

  We soon arrived at Denis’s house in Curzon Street. I descended, as did Brewster, who was determined not to let me walk inside alone.

  I often wondered whether, if I turned up unexpectedly at Denis’s home, I could catch him doing something astoundingly human, such as just rising from a bath, his hair a wet mess, or wiping a runny nose, or slipping back inside from the privy.

  I was to be disappointed today, because when the doorman admitted us, Denis was walking down the stairs, fully dressed in suit, greatcoat, and hat, pulling on his gloves—on his way out.

  Denis halted in the middle of the last flight and cast a cold look over myself and Brewster. I saw his eyes stray to my open greatcoat and my hands, as though he looked for a sign of a weapon.

  The place he’d stopped had been well chosen. If I’d brought a knife or intended to use the sword in my cane, he’d have plenty of space and men between us. I’d never reach him before I was stopped. If I pulled out a pistol, he could dash back up the stairs while his men knocked the gun from my hand and me to the ground.

  As Denis continued to stare at me coldly, I announced, ??
?I need you to come with me to Carlton House.”

  I enjoyed the flicker of surprise in his eyes before he answered in his cool tones.

  “I have an appointment. An important one.”

  He might be leaving to intimidate one of the magistrates he had in his power, or he might be off to view antiquities at the British Museum. Anything Denis did was equally important to him.

  “Let me tell you why, and then you can decide,” I said. “I need to know whether this is real or not. And the same for its twin.”

  Brewster, cued, tore the paper from the bronze and set it on a table in the hall. Denis leaned over the balustrade to peer at it.

  I saw when his interest was caught. Denis’s expression did not change but what was in his eyes changed from annoyance to attentiveness.

  He slowly descended the stairs, his two bodyguards flanking him so that neither I nor Brewster could come too close. Denis removed his hat as he approached the statue on the table, handed the hat to one of his lackeys, and ran his gaze over the statue.

  He bent to study it carefully, and then rubbed his finger over a bit of paint. “Hmm,” he said, his brows drawing together.

  “What does that mean?” I asked in irritation.

  Denis straightened, brushed a fleck of paint off his glove, and reached for the hat his lackey handed him. “It means I will not know until I look at the other one. Shall we go, Captain?”

  Chapter 14

  I was surprised Spendlove would let James Denis anywhere near a treasure trove like Carlton House, but Spendlove looked satisfied when Denis stepped out of his carriage at the front steps.

  Brewster and I had ridden in the hackney whose driver had been persuaded to wait—Denis had not asked us to join him in his own coach, and neither Brewster nor I wanted to insist. I’d ridden in Denis’s carriage before, and though it was luxurious, being confined in its splendor with him was not always comfortable.