wondered how easily he slept in his bed of nights.
I asked for my former sergeant, Milton Pomeroy, and a clerk led me through the hall where the day patrol were bringing in their catches for the morning, to a small private room where he offered me muddy coffee.
I waited on a hard chair while Pomeroy finished his report of his previous night's arrests. He wrote slowly, his pen squeaking, his tongue pushed against his large teeth. A copy of the Hue and Cry lay at my elbow, and I idly studied the reports of various criminals or supposed criminals lurking about England.
Pomeroy shuffled out to deliver his report, then returned with more coffee. Pomeroy was a big man with bright yellow hair and blue eyes that twinkled. He seated himself heavily and sent me a grin. 'I heard, sir, that you twitted the magistrate in Kent about Viscount Breckenridge. Ha. I'd have liked to see that. Why were you so certain it was murder?'
I explained my reasons and my speculations. Pomeroy nodded over his coffee, his round face serious. 'Could be. Could be. I know you, sir, sometimes you're right. What did you come to me for? Hiring me to investigate it? Have to talk to the magistrate.'
'I came to ask you about Colonel Westin. You were investigating him for John Spencer and his brother. I want to know what you found.'
His eyebrows climbed. 'Do you, sir? That's interesting. I stopped at his death, saw no reason to go on. Can't prove anything one way or another, but I found eyewitnesses that put Colonel Westin at the shooting at Badajoz.' He grimaced. 'That was a bad time, eh, Captain? Nasty goings-on.'
I had to agree. 'Do you think Westin was the true culprit?'
Pomeroy shrugged. 'Couldn't say. He was there, all right, but I found little more than that. Truth to tell, Colonel Westin was a fine and quiet-spoken gentleman. When I first asked him about Captain Spencer and Badajoz, he behaved like he'd never met the man. And then one day he asked me to call on him.' Pomeroy leaned forward, eyes bright. 'He said he'd thought it over, and he believed that he had, in fact, shot Captain Spencer. He'd been drunk after the siege, he said, and couldn't remember, but now he was having flashes of it in his mind. He was upset like, sorry he'd caused Spencer's sons so much pain.'
'And what did you think?'
He pursed his lips. 'Ain't paid to think, am I?'
I eyed him severely. 'Yes you are. You are a Runner, an elite investigator.'
'Fancy names for sergeanting. All right, sir, yes, it sounded a little too easy. But the magistrate says, we gather some proof, and then we go and arrest him. But before we can get there, Colonel Westin up and falls down the stairs.'
He sat back, thick hands cradling his cup of coffee, his eye on me.
'Conveniently avoiding the dock,' I finished. 'And what truths he might tell there.'
'I thought of that, sir. Bit too convenient, eh?' He slanted me a glance. 'Think his wife pushed him? Would have gotten him out of her life and just in time, too.'
'No,' I said sharply.
But the possibility that Lydia herself had killed her husband had occurred to me, much as I disliked the idea. Westin had died quickly, by Lydia's account, without struggle, and she'd found him in bed. We assumed the murderer had killed him then put him there.
But what if Colonel Westin had already been in bed, perhaps with Lydia by his side. She could have stabbed him in the neck and rolled him onto his back once he was dead. I couldn’t help imagining her rising up, her dark hair snaking about her, her body naked and beautiful, with a thin knife in her slender hand.
I tried to banish this vision, but I could not. It had been she who had decided that her servants should not report the murder, she who had decided to tell the world it had been an accident, she who'd pointed the finger at Breckenridge, Eggleston, and Sir Edward Connaught.
'His fall was witnessed by the footman and the valet,' I said carefully. 'He slipped and fell.'
'Could be.' Pomeroy grinned. 'Widow's a bit of a stunner, eh, Captain?'
I eyed him coldly. 'Keep your remarks respectful, Sergeant.'
His grin was wide. 'Might have known you'd have noticed. You're always one for the ladies.'
I ignored him. 'What about Breckenridge and colleagues, who were with Westin at Badajoz? Did you discover anything interesting about them?'
He shook his head. 'Not much, except they were present when Captain Spencer was shot. But they're lordships. Didn't like a Runner poking about their business, did they? No, Colonel Westin was a gentleman about it, but the others did everything but set their dogs on me.'
This information did not surprise me. Breckenridge and Eggleston might have continually insulted each other, but I remembered how they had closed ranks to confront me at the boxing match. I had not yet met Connaught, but I would not be surprised to find him cut from the same cloth. 'Poke some more,' I suggested. 'If you cannot speak to the gentlemen themselves, speak to their servants or friends, or even their enemies. I want to know everything about them, where they go, who they meet, what they eat every day.' I was certain Eggleston had plenty to do with both Spencer's and Westin's deaths, and I damn well wanted to prove it. Breckenridge's death I had different ideas about.
Pomeroy grinned. 'A tall order, sir. You want me to do this as a favor?'
He knew bloody well I could not pay him. 'Yes, Sergeant. As a favor to your old captain.'
He was laughing at me. ''Twill be a pleasure, sir. I always like the look on your face when I tell you something interesting. I'll be sure to let you know.'
I left Bow Street deep in thought and returned to my rooms.
A note from Grenville had been hand-delivered in my absence to say that he felt much better and would send Bartholomew with the carriage for me that evening. His note was short, only four lines on an entire sheet of heavy white paper.
Did I envy a man who could afford to throw away an expensive piece of paper on a short note, or think him a fool? In any case, I carefully tore the clean end of the sheet from the written area and tucked it into my drawer to save for my own letters.
I spent the day thinking about what Pomeroy had told me, and about the character of Colonel Westin. When Bartholomew arrived later that afternoon, I was dressed and ready. We arrived at the Grosvenor Street house just as clocks were striking eight. As Bartholomew helped me descend and led me to the house, I was very aware that Lydia Westin reposed only ten doors down.
Grenville greeted me and informed me I was to take supper with him. After we had enjoyed a few glasses of excellent port, he led me to the dining room.
'Anton is experimenting again,' he said as we entered. 'I have no idea what he will offer us, but please tell him you like it, no matter what you truly think.'
Anton was Grenville's celebrated French chef. The man was an artist with food, as I had come to know to my delight.
'He has been doing this all summer.' Grenville informed me in a low voice. 'He spends the day creating a dish then brings it to me to sample. If ever I say it is not his best, he crumples into tears and refuses to cook for a week.' He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. 'So praise him and swallow it, even if it tastes like sawdust.'
I assured him I would dissemble, though, as I suspected, he needn't have worried. Anton brought us a delicate mussel bisque, so smooth and light it flowed like silk on the tongue. He followed this with grouse in a wild raspberry sauce, then a salad of cool greens, and ended with a lemon tart, not too sweet, and a rich chocolate soup.
I ate every bite and sang his praises without compunction. He beamed at me and glided away, back to his sanctum to no doubt create more delectable feasts.
Once left on our own with brandy, Matthias entered the room bearing a tray stacked neatly with papers and two ledgers. He set this down before his master, bowed, then departed.
To the questioning look on my face, Grenville said, 'I did not invite you here simply to soothe Anton's temperament. I managed to procure Colonel Westin's financial papers, in hopes that they might tell us why Eggleston and Breckenridge might have blackmailed him into confessing to Spencer's murder.'
I leaned forward, my interest quickening. 'How did you get them?'
He gave me a modest look. 'I know people. Some of whom owe me favors. Shall we begin?'
