Ashley Gardner
A Body in Berkeley Square
Chapter One
At two o'clock in the morning on the fifth of April, 1817, I stood in an elegant bedchamber in Berkeley Square and looked down at the dead body of Mr. Henry Turner.
Mr. Turner was in his twenties. He had brown hair arranged in fashionable, drooping curls and wore a black suit with an ivory and silver waistcoat, elegant pantaloons, and dancing slippers. An emerald stickpin glittered in his cravat, and his collar points were exceedingly high.
Only a slight red gash marred the waistcoat where a knife had gone in to stop his life. Except for the waxen paleness of his face, Mr. Turner might be asleep.
"And he died where?" I asked.
"In a little anteroom off the ballroom downstairs," Milton Pomeroy, my former sergeant, now a Bow Street Runner said. "Right in the middle of a fancy ball with the creme de la creme. Lord Gillis had him brought up here, so the guests would not be disturbed by a dead body, so he said."
Lord Gillis was an earl who lived in this opulent mansion on Berkeley Square. Tonight he had hosted a ball which the top of society had attended, including Lucius Grenville, Lady Breckenridge, Lady Jersey, and the Duke of Wellington.
Colonel Brandon and Louisa Brandon had been invited also because Lord Gillis had been an officer before he'd inherited his title, and he loved to gossip with military men-at least those ranked colonel and above.
After supper had finished and dancing had recommenced-about midnight-Mr. Turner had been found in a small anteroom, alone and dead.
"What about the weapon?" I asked.
For answer, Pomeroy held up a knife. It was slim and utilitarian, with a plain handle, unmarked. I'd had one much like it in the army and regretted its loss when I wagered it away in a game of cards.
Pomeroy laid it carefully on Mr. Turner's chest.
"Belongs to one Colonel Aloysius Brandon," he said.
I stared at it in sudden shock, then back at Pomeroy.
"I am afraid so, sir," he said. "He admitted the knife was his, but has no idea how it came to be a-sticking out of the chest of Mr. Turner."
I at last understood why Pomeroy had so urgently sent for me. Colonel Brandon had been my commanding officer during the recent Peninsular War. He'd also at one time been my mentor and my friend.
Currently, Brandon was my enemy. His actions had ended my career as a cavalry officer and brought me back to London tired and defeated.
"And where is Colonel Brandon now?" I asked tersely.
"Bow Street. I sent him off with my patroller. He'll face the magistrate tomorrow."
Like a common criminal, I thought. The magistrate would examine him and decide whether he had enough evidence to hold Brandon at Newgate for a trial.
I studied the knife. Nothing remarkable about it except that it had belonged to Colonel Brandon.
"Did Brandon offer any explanation as to how the knife got there?" I asked.
Pomeroy rocked on his heels. "None whatsoever. Our colonel looked blank, said he didn't do it, and that I should take him at his word." He cocked his head. "Now what kind of Runner would I be if I believed every criminal what told me that?"
I could imagine Brandon, his back straight, his blue eyes chill, telling Pomeroy that his word should be enough to clear him of a charge of murder. He had likely marched off with the patroller, head high, indignation pouring from every inch of him.
"That the knife belongs to Brandon does not mean that he stabbed Turner," I said. "Colonel Brandon could have used the knife at any time this evening-to pare an apple or some other thing. He might have laid down the knife, and anyone might have picked it up."
Pomeroy tapped the side of his nose. "Ah, but the good colonel told me that was nonsense. Said he never remembered taking the knife out of his pocket."
Typical of Brandon to make everything worse with heated protests. He would expect Pomeroy to obey him without question, as though we still stood on the battlefields of the Peninsular War.
But we'd left Spain three years ago, Napoleon had been defeated, and Brandon and Pomeroy and I were now civilians. Brandon, with a large private income, lived in a rather opulent house on Brook Street, and I, with no private income, lived in rooms over a bake shop near Covent Garden.
Even so, Pomeroy's instant acceptance that Brandon had stabbed this young man through his so elegant suit irritated me a bit. Pomeroy liked solutions to be simple.
"I never remember Brandon mentioning having acquaintance with Mr. Turner," I said. "He does not look like the sort of young man Brandon would even consider speaking to."
"True, the colonel did not know Mr. Turner, he says. I believe him, for the reasons you give. But he didn't have to know him, did he? Turner was annoying the colonel's paramour, and the colonel killed him in a fit of jealousy."
I stared at Pomeroy in abject astonishment. "Paramour?"
The Colonel Brandon I knew would never have anything so common as a paramour.
Pomeroy nodded. "A woman named Mrs. Harper, Christian name, Imogene. According to guests at the ball, Colonel Brandon became angry at Mr. Turner's pursuit of Mrs. Harper and threatened to kill him."
I stood still in incredulity. Brandon in a temper might call out a man who behaved badly to a lady, but what Pomeroy said was unbelievable.
"Sergeant, you are speaking of Colonel Aloysius Brandon. He does not have a paramour. He never did. He is the most moral and faithful husband a wife could have. He is tiresome about it. The idea that he murdered a rival lover in a fit of jealousy is beyond absurd."
Pomeroy held up his forefinger. "And yet, not a few witnesses put him walking off alone with her several times during the evening, never mind escorting her in to supper. These same witnesses say they overheard quarrels between himself and Mr. Turner about Mrs. Harper. Besides"-Pomeroy played his trump card-"Colonel Brandon admitted to me that Imogene Harper was his mistress."
My mind whirled. "Pomeroy, this is astonishment on top of astonishment. I cannot credit it."
"It has much credit, sir, and 'twill be the colonel's debit, so to speak." He chuckled at his joke.
I stood still a moment, trying to take it all in. "Mrs. Brandon was at the ball with him, you say?"
"Aye. That she was."
"Did he admit this in front of her?"
Pomeroy nodded, losing his smile. "Aye, that he did. Mrs. Brandon refused to leave his side while I questioned him."
She would have insisted on staying, thinking it must all be a mistake. I imagined the blow of Brandon's admission striking her, her face whitening, her gray eyes growing moist with pain. I would wring Brandon's neck when I saw him.
"Where is Mrs. Brandon?" I asked sharply.
"Gone home."
"Alone?"
"No, sir. Her maid toddled off with her, and the Viscountess Breckenridge and Lady Aline Carrington."
Aline Carrington was Louisa's closest woman friend, and I was happy that the lady had chosen to take care of her. The addition of Lady Breckenridge surprised me. She was a young widow, friend to Lady Aline, but she'd not been acquainted with Louisa. Also, Lady Breckenridge was a woman about whose motives I was not always clear.
Pomeroy went on, "Mrs. Brandon told me to fetch you here."
"Mrs. Brandon is a wise woman."
"Aye, sir. I always obey when Mrs. Brandon gives orders."
"Good man."
I lifted the knife and held it between my palms, the point touching one hand and the handle touching the other. The knife told me little. The blade was slim and stained with blood. Neither blade nor hilt contained any markings or engravings. In itself, the knife indicated nothing.
I laid the knife on the table. "Please show me where he was found."
Pomeroy raised thick yellow brows. "Don't know what good that is. It's just a room."