head and one arm on the desk and letting the other arm hang to the floor. 'Like this, I think.' His voice was muffled.
I moved to the doorway and looked in. 'Interesting.'
Grenville sat up. 'I found it rather appalling, myself. Are you finished?'
I started to tell him to stay a moment longer, then I realized that he found sitting in the dead man's chair distasteful. 'Of course. I beg your pardon.'
Grenville stood, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his lips. 'I know you must have seen worse sights than a man dead in a chair, but the entire business gave me a turn. It was so quick- '
He broke off and patted his lips again.
I thought I understood. The month before, Grenville had received a deep knife wound in his chest, one that had barely missed killing him. The sight of the knife and the fact that it had killed Turner instantly must have given him pause.
Grenville tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and assumed his usual air of calm. If I hadn't come to know him well, I would think he'd found the whole thing a dead bore. But he betrayed himself with the twitching of his fingers and the tight lines about his mouth.
'If Imogene Harper entered and saw Turner sitting here, she might have thought him drunk or asleep,' I said. 'But as soon as she touched him…' I moved to the chair and laid my hand on an imaginary Turner's shoulder. 'She would have noticed he was dead. How, then, did she get the blood on her glove?'
I saw Grenville's interest stir. 'Yes, I see what you mean. He bled very little. If she'd merely shaken his shoulder, where would she have picked up the blood? She would have had to reach down to grasp the knife or press her fingers to the wound.'
'And why should she?'
Grenville looked grim. 'Unless she did the deed herself.'
'Then why scream and draw attention to herself and the blood on her glove? Why not quietly walk away and dispose of the glove somewhere?'
'Perhaps she never meant to kill him. Perhaps there was a quarrel, she shoved the knife in, then realized what she'd done in her anger. Horrified, she began screaming.'
I wandered around the desk again. 'He was sitting down when he was killed, or the killer took the time to arrange his body so. He was a healthy young man. Would he not be able to deflect a blow from a woman? Even one crazed with anger?'
'Not if he were taken by surprise.'
'As you were,' I finished for him. 'This is different. It was pitch dark when you were stabbed. You did not have a chance to defend yourself.'
'No, I didn't.'
I remembered fighting to save Grenville's life, remembered him lying in the dark on cold stone cobbles, his breath so very shallow. I had watched him, fearing every breath he drew would be his last. But Grenville's constitution was strong, and he'd recovered.
The incident had happened over a month ago, but the wound still pained him, I knew. It had made him a bit more nervous as well, though he strove to hide it.
'The circumstances here are entirely different,' I said. 'A brightly lit room, a hundred guests outside, a strong man facing his attacker. In addition, if Imogene Harper indeed killed him, how did she obtain Brandon's knife? I refuse to believe Brandon handed it to her and told her to kill Turner with it.'
'She might have stolen it,' Grenville suggested. 'Or Brandon might have left it lying somewhere. Or it might be her knife, and Brandon lied to protect her.'
'No, I do believe the knife belonged to Colonel Brandon. Such knives were common in the army-they are utilitarian and handy to have.'
For a time we both looked at the desk and its herringbone inlay. I imagined Turner lying there, his curled brown hair, nearly the same color as the satinwood, splayed over the desk.
'Lacey,' Grenville said in a quiet voice, 'we can speculate all night, but the fact is, it looks pretty damning for your colonel. Brandon tried to place himself next to Imogene Harper from the moment he arrived. He was seen speaking sharply with Turner by more than one person-myself included. He even followed Turner into this room, although, admittedly, they emerged together not a few minutes later. An overheard quarrel, the knife, and Brandon seen chasing Turner from Mrs. Harper earlier, all point to one conclusion.'
'I know that.' I closed my fists. 'And yet, it is the wrong conclusion. It feels wrong.'
'Your Sergeant Pomeroy does not much care about how a thing feels.'
'He is a practical man, is Pomeroy. It makes him a good sergeant, but not a good investigator.'
'No?' Pomeroy boomed behind me.
He filled the doorway, the tall bulk of him crowned with pomaded yellow hair. His face was red, his right cheekbone creased by a scar from a cut he'd recently received from a thief reluctant to be caught. Pomeroy grinned at me, his stalwart good humor in place.
'No,' I said. 'You see much and see nothing at the same time.'
'Now that, Captain, is why you are the captain and I am the sergeant. You do the plotting and the planning and the inspiring, and I do the drilling and the fighting. We get it done in the end. You should have seen him on the Peninsula, Mr. Grenville. His men would have followed him to the mouth of hell itself. A fine sight.'
'You flatter me,' I said dryly.
My men had followed me because they knew I'd make damn sure they'd come back. I'd seen no reason for us all to die in a heroic charge to satisfy a general's lust for glory. The generals had often disagreed with me, and I'd told them exactly what I'd thought. Shouting back at those above me, many of them aristocrats, had earned me the reputation as a hothead and made certain I never progressed to the rank of major. Colonel Brandon had, many times, had to intervene between myself and a superior I'd insulted, thus, if only temporarily, saving my future.
'He did not do it, Sergeant,' I said.
Pomeroy shrugged. 'That's as may be. But it's my duty to take in a man to face the magistrate. If you believe you can get him off, then I leave you to it. I won't hinder you.'
He would not. Pomeroy liked getting convictions, because he would receive the reward money, but if a man were proved innocent, well then, the gent had had a bit of luck, and who was Pomeroy to rob him of it?
'I will certainly try,' I said.
'Best to you,' Pomeroy said cheerfully. 'I'll be off then. Done all I can do here.'
'What about Turner?' I asked. 'If the coroner's been and gone, what is to become of his body? You cannot leave him in Lord Gillis's spare bedroom.'
'Already taken care of, sir. Lord Gillis sent for Turner's man, who will trundle it back to Turner's ma and pa.' He tugged his forelock. ''Night, sir. Mr. Grenville.'
Grenville murmured his good-night, and Pomeroy trudged out, whistling a tune.
'Who is Turner's father?' I asked Grenville.
'Retired MP, lives in Epsom. Cousin to the Earl of Deptford.'
As always, Grenville had everyone's pedigree in his pocket. 'I would like to speak to him.'
'I would, as well,' Grenville said. 'I will fix an appointment. But what about tonight? Will you speak to this Mrs. Harper?'
'Not yet,' I said. I did need to visit her-she was key to this matter, but I had an even greater need to see someone else. 'I must go to Louisa.'
Grenville shot me a look. 'She is with Lady Aline.'
'I know. But I want to reassure her.'
I broke off, uncertain of how I could reassure her. I wanted Louisa to know that I would pursue this inquiry and find out what had truly happened. Brandon might well be guilty, and, if so, I had to make that shock easier for her. If he were not guilty, I would work to get him free. I had to.
'Do you want me along?' Grenville asked.
I shook my head, and he cleared his throat. 'Very well then, I'll leave you to it. I need to look in at Clarges Street.'
He meant that he would visit Marianne Simmons, an actress who had lived upstairs from me in Grimpen Lane until recently. Grenville, whether wisely or not, had taken her to live in luxury in a house he owned in Clarges Street.
