Had he attended the exhibition of the pugilist, Jack Sharp? No, Brandon replied. He did not like blood sports. This caused a murmur of disapproval from all those who had flocked down for their fill of the blood sport.
So far Brandon had delivered his answers in a strong, matter-of-fact voice. But when he began to describe how he had found the body and what he had done, his hands clenched into hard fists, and he kept his eyes firmly fixed two feet to the right of the coroner.
He had gone walking, as he'd said, about nine o'clock that morning. Upon reaching the crest of the hill, he'd notice that branches to the right of him had been snapped and broken, as though someone had tried to force a path through the undergrowth. Upon investigating, he had spotted the body of Lord Breckenridge lying facedown in the brush. The man had been dressed for riding, but no horse was about.
Had he gone down to the body? No? Why not? Because, Brandon said, he could see at once that the man was dead and Brandon would likely need help to lift him back to the road. Thought it more sensible to go at once for help.
The coroner shrugged, but Sir Montague Harris leaned forward. Why had Brandon made for the manor house rather than the village, which was closer? Brandon, reddening, answered that he had been acquainted with members of the house party there and naturally turned to people he knew.
Sir Montague sat back, satisfied. Then Brandon, as if suddenly remembering, said that of course he had sought out Astley Close because Lord Breckenridge had been a guest there and of course his friends would want to know if he'd been hurt.
The coroner, looking uninterested, nodded. Prompted, Brandon continued that he'd entered the stables where the grooms and stable hands had been readying horses for exercise. Brandon had reported the death and asked to be taken to the main house. Upon reaching the house, he'd found the only guest awake had been Mr. Grenville, to whom he had repeated the account of the accident.
The coroner carefully noted all this and dismissed him. Brandon visibly relaxed as he walked back to his chair. He hated to lie, and was bad at it, just as I was. And he was certainly lying about how he'd found the body. Not about all of it, but about a good part, if I were any judge.
Grenville and the stable lad and I all concurred with Brandon's story of his first going to the stables and then to the main house. We each related how we'd gone up the hill with Brandon and found Breckenridge together. Neither Brandon nor Grenville mentioned Brandon's certainty that the dead man had been me, and I did not volunteer the information.
I did mention the saddle. I explained my reasoning, that Breckenridge would have used his own cavalry saddle, which he'd said he preferred, when it was so close to hand. Sir Montague listened, his eyes fastened on me, taking in every word. I used the opportunity to mention the marks I'd found on the road, and concluded that, in my opinion, the death warranted further investigation.
The coroner eyed me in dislike. He was sitting on the body of a viscount-a peer, not an unfortunate farmhand. He wanted a simple accident, and here I was trying to complicate things.
Once all statements were made, a doctor was consulted who agreed that Lord Breckenridge had died when his neck was severed early on the morning of his death. The coroner finished his note-taking, and then instructed the jury.
Notwithstanding Captain Lacey's remarks, he said, they must decide whether they thought this a clear enough accident. There was nothing to stop a man from changing his mind and using a different saddle if the whim took him. The marks on the road could have been made at any time. The horse was found, Lord Breckenridge had been dressed for riding, and for what other purpose could he have gone up the hill?
The jury did not deliberate long. To the coroner's obvious relief, they returned with the verdict I expected- Lord Breckenridge had died while accidentally falling from his horse.
Everyone in the hot room, from the coroner to Eggleston to Brandon to the stable lads, looked pleased with the conclusion.
I kept my feelings to myself.
When we returned to Astley Close, Lady Mary closeted herself with her brother, whom she had summoned home, and left her guests to fend for themselves. The house party over, Grenville ordered his carriage made ready to take us back to London.
I encountered Lady Breckenridge in the downstairs drawing room-entirely by accident; I had been looking for Grenville. I had not seen her since finding her in my bed two nights before. But much as I hadn’t gotten on with her, Breckenridge's death had been sudden and shocking. I paused.
'Please accept my condolences on your husband's death,' I said. 'I am sorry.'
She studied me with glittering eyes that masked emotion. 'My son is now Viscount Breckenridge,' she said. 'Why be sorry about that?'
While I searched for a way to respond, she went on, 'Tell your friend, Mr. Grenville, that his company was most pleasing.'
I supposed this meant mine had not been.
'I will.' I bowed. 'Good afternoon.'
Chapter Twelve
Grenville and I left Astley Close half an hour later. We talked little on the journey to London because Grenville, though manfully remaining upright for the first few miles, soon had to drink a brandy and lie down again. He spent the journey up much as he'd spent the journey down, flat on his back on his makeshift bed, eyes closed.
I had not had the chance to speak to Brandon after the inquest. He had avoided me when we left the inn, and disappeared shortly after. But I did not need him near to speculate. The half-truths he'd told the coroner and magistrate worried me. I spent the journey deep in thought about his actions and about our past and present, while Grenville alternately dozed and woke, pale and preoccupied.
Grenville's carriage deposited me at the top of Grimpen Lane just at sunset. He bade me a feeble good-night and rolled away to be tended by his footmen. I returned to my rooms and spent a restless night worrying about Louisa, Brandon's lies, and Breckenridge's death.
The next morning's post included a letter from John Spencer. I perused it eagerly. Mr. Spencer informed me that he had returned from Norfolk and invited me to meet him and his brother on the morrow at a tavern in Pall Mall. The tone of the missive was rather cold. Mr. Spencer said that he did not see the point of such a meeting, but his brother had convinced him that we should speak.
I wrote a reply that I would attend, and turned to my other mail.
Someone, I did not know who, had sent me a page from the newspaper tucked into a blank letter. The page featured a another caricature of an overly lean-legged, overly broad-shouldered dragoon captain who pointed at a dead dog that had just been run down by a cart. The balloon from his mouth proclaimed: 'It is murder, sir. We cannot let it lie.' In the picture, a fancy carriage was just passing, and women in exaggerated bonnets stared out of the windows, open-mouthed, at the scene.
Beneath the picture ran the caption: 'The Shortcomings of England's policing, or Murder not Recognized.'
I tore it up and tossed it on the fire. The journalists who'd attended Breckenridge's inquest must have found it a perfect opportunity for more levity. I wondered if Billings had sent the cutting to make certain I'd see it.
Lydia Westin had also written. It was a simple note asking me to call on her the following evening, but I savored it a long time. At last laying it aside, I penned a reply that I would be delighted to attend.
I went out to post my letters, then turned my steps to Bow Street and the magistrate's house. The tall, narrow Bow Street house had been lived in by the famous Fieldings-Henry, the author, who had first established the Bow Street Runners, and Sir John, his blind half-brother who had succeeded him. From what I understood, Henry Fielding had taken the post for the money, since he rarely had any, but had grown interested in keeping the peace and detecting crime. The half-dozen men he recruited to help him were at first referred to simply as 'Mr. Fielding’s People.' Then Sir John had built his brother's Runners into an elite machine that now assisted in investigations all over England. The magistrate lived in private rooms at the top of the house, with the jail and court below. I often
