Before I left my rooms, I wrote a short letter to Sir Montague Harris, the magistrate of the Whitehall Public Office, informing him of my thoughts on the death of Turner.
Bartholomew agreed to post the letter for me, and I walked from the narrow cul-de-sac of Grimpen Lane to Russel Street. I turned left onto Russel Street and traversed the short distance to Bow Street, my knee barely bothering me this morning.
The spring day was warm, and people thronged the lanes. Women with baskets over their arms and shawls against the damp threaded their way among the vendors, working men hurried about with deliveries or on errands, and middle-class women strolled arm-in-arm with their daughters looking into shops.
Bow Street was crowded. Rumor of a murder in elegant Mayfair had reached the populace, and many waited for a glimpse of the murderer that Bow Street had apprehended. I had not looked at a newspaper yet, but I imagined their stories would be lurid. As time went on, every snippet of Brandon's life would be splashed across the pages of the Morning Herald.
I let myself into the magistrate's house and asked one of the clerks for Pomeroy.
'Ah, there you are, Captain,' Pomeroy bellowed across the length of the house. He shouldered his way down the corridor, pressing aside the assorted pickpockets and prostitutes who'd been arrested during the night. 'Come to see the colonel committed, have you?'
Chapter Four
I became aware that every person in the vicinity turned to watch us. 'He must be examined, first,' I said.
'Oh, aye, him and the witnesses. I called in Lord Gillis and Mr. Grenville. Lord Gillis because it was his house and he'd likely know what went on in it, and Mr. Grenville because he makes a decent witness. And he was first on the spot when it happened. I wanted to call Mrs. Harper, but the magistrate said wait until she's a bit less distressed.' He shrugged. 'He's the magistrate.'
I wanted very much to meet Mrs. Harper myself, but I agreed that traveling to Bow Street and enduring the scrutiny of last night's crop of prostitutes might be beyond her. 'Lord Gillis is coming?' I asked.
'Not the thing for an earl to come to the magistrate, Sir Nathaniel says,' Pomeroy said, naming Bow Street's chief magistrate, Sir Nathaniel Conant. 'Sir Nathaniel will go to him later today. But Mr. Grenville should be arriving at any time.'
Grenville liked to be in the thick of things. I knew he would not mind walking among the muck of Bow Street in his perfectly shined boots if he could indulge his curiosity. I would be happy to see him, though. He'd been on the spot, and he was quite good at noticing things out of the ordinary. A decent witness, as Pomeroy had called him.
Grenville arrived as Pomeroy and I started for the stairs. His fine phaeton stopping in the street caused some commotion as those inside craned to look out windows at the most elegant horses and rig in town. Grenville leapt down and handed the reins to his tiger, a young man whose sole purpose in life was to look after Grenville's horses when he was not driving them.
Grenville swept inside, removing his hat, and was instantly bombarded by a mass of humanity.
'A farthing in me palm, milord. Wouldn't say no,' an elderly man with few teeth breathed at him. 'Spare a penny for an old man?'
'Yer a fine one. Remember sweet Jane when she's done with the magistrate, won't you?'
Grenville blushed but he sprinkled pennies among the others until Pomeroy lumbered forward and shouted, 'Clear off. Let him through.'
'Good morning, Lacey,' Grenville said with his usual politeness. We might be meeting at his club. 'Mr. Pomeroy.'
Grenville looked as though he'd not slept much the night before. His face was impeccably shaved, but his cheeks were pasty white and dark smudges stained the hollows beneath his eyes.
We did not speak further as Pomeroy took us up the stairs and to the room where the chief magistrate waited.
Sir Nathaniel Conant, an elderly gentleman who'd presided over the Bow Street court for the last four years, sat behind a table upon which waited a sheaf of paper and a pen and ink. The room felt damp and smelled faintly of unwashed clothes, an inauspicious place to decide a man's fate.
Colonel Brandon sat near Sir Nathaniel, but he got abruptly to his feet when he saw me.
Brandon looked terrible. His usually crisp black hair was disheveled, although he'd made some attempt to smooth it. His chin was covered in black stubble, and his dark and elegant suit was rumpled and stained. He gazed at me with blue eyes that resembled cold winter skies and were just about as friendly.
'Good, Pomeroy,' Sir Nathaniel said. 'We can begin. These are your witnesses?'
'Mr. Grenville is.' Pomeroy introduced him. 'He was at the ball when the murder took place. This is Captain Lacey.'
Sir Nathaniel peered at me, his watery eyes taking more interest. 'I have heard Sir Montague Harris speak of you. He regards you as intelligent. Why have you come? Are you also a witness?'
'I was not at Lord Gillis's ball, no,' I said. 'But I know Colonel Brandon. He was my commander in the army.'
'Ah, a character witness. Sit down, if you please.'
'Sir Nathaniel,' Brandon said stiffly. 'I do not want Captain Lacey here.'
Sir Nathaniel looked surprised. 'Do not be foolish, sir. At this point, you need all the friends you have. Sit.'
He pointed his pen at the chair Brandon had vacated. With another belligerent glare at me, Brandon resumed his seat.
Colonel Aloysius Brandon was a handsome man. At forty-six, he had black hair with little gray, a square, handsome face, and an athletic physique that had not run to fat. I had often wondered why he seemed oblivious to the attentions women wished to bestow on him, although, as evidenced with this business, perhaps he was not so oblivious after all.
I took a straight-backed chair next to Grenville. Pomeroy sprawled across a bench, and we waited for the procedure to begin.
At least, I thought, as Sir Nathaniel scratched a few words on his papers, Brandon did not have to suffer the indignity of standing in the dock before the sitting magistrate downstairs, with thieves and prostitutes and other poor unfortunates awaiting their turn. Sir Nathaniel had obviously kept Colonel Brandon's standing in mind, as well as the fact that murder was a bit more serious than pickpocketing or laundry stealing.
'Colonel Brandon,' Sir Nathaniel began. 'This is an examination, not a trial, in which I will determine whether you should be held in custody for trial for murder. Do you understand?'
Silently, with an angry glint in his eye, Brandon nodded.
'Excellent. Now, Mr. Pomeroy, please present the evidence that made you bring in this man for the murder of Mr. Henry Turner.'
Pomeroy climbed to his feet and plodded forward. He took from his pocket a wad of cloth, and unwrapped the dagger that had killed Turner. He clunked the knife to the table.
'This was plunged into the chest of Mr. Henry Turner, coroner says near to midnight last night,' Pomeroy said. 'The body was found at twelve o'clock, and witnesses saw the deceased alive and well at half past eleven, so there's not much doubt about the time of death. When I arrived, I asked who the knife belonged to. Colonel Brandon told me that the knife was his. His wife, Mrs. Brandon, said that she could not remember whether the colonel had such a knife, but he was pretty certain.'
'It is mine,' Brandon said, tight-lipped. 'I never denied that.'
Sir Nathaniel gave him a sharp glance then made a note. 'Any other evidence?'
'No, sir. I examined Colonel Brandon's gloves and found that they were clean. The colonel denied having killed Mr. Turner, and denied having gone into the anteroom where he was found at all. But a few witnesses, Mr. Grenville included, saw Mr. Turner and Colonel Brandon enter the room together at eleven o'clock. However, they
