Hazleton glanced at me, categorized me, and dismissed me. I would not be likely to hire an out-of-work valet, and he knew it.
"I would like to ask you a few questions about your master, if I may," I began.
Hazleton looked sorrowful. "Why? I never killed him, and I don't know who did."
"Mr. Grenville and I are simply curious," I said.
Hazleton regarded me dubiously, but he nodded as he continued folded linen cravats.
"How long were you Mr. Turner's manservant?" I asked.
"Seven years." Hazelton sounded depressed. "All through his long Oxford years I looked after him. It was me what had to lie to the proctor when Mr. Turner had been out all night, me what had to roll him out of bed in the mornings and get him to lectures. And what did he do? Wagered my pay on horses, he did. And any other thing he could think of. Always kept good drink, though."
He trailed off wistfully. Servants' posts were difficult to obtain, and no matter how irritating the master, most preferred employment to the prospect of having to look for work.
"And then," Hazleton continued, "he went and got himself done in and left me high and dry. Typical."
"Getting himself killed is typical?" I asked.
"Leaving me to bear the brunt of his problems is. After all I've done for him."
I pondered my next questions with care. A manservant could know more about his master than his master did himself. But a manservant could also have fierce loyalty to his gentleman and never reveal that man's secrets.
"Was Mr. Turner ever hurting for money? If he had to wager your pay on the horses, that must mean he was short of blunt from time to time."
"He got an allowance from his pater, but he was always in need of more funds. Had to be, hadn't he? He had to dress and keep rooms and go to White's and Tattersall's. Spent all his pater's money, but he would win on his wagers. Sometimes quite a lot, but then the money would be gone again, to high living." Hazelton glanced at his master's clothes strewn about the room. "Little good it's done him now, though, eh?"
I ran my hand over one of the coats. The cloth was fine; the coat as costly and elegant as what Grenville might wear. Indeed, Turner probably had many of his clothes made to imitate Grenville's. Most young men-about-town did.
"His father continued to give him money?" I asked. "He did not cut him off with a shilling over his gaming, as angry fathers sometimes do?"
"No, no. Mr. Turner's family are quiet people. Too respectable for the likes of my master. Must have been an embarrassment to them, he was. His father kept up the allowance but sent him pleading paternal letters to mend his ways."
I wondered whether Hazleton knew this because he'd read his master's mail. Or perhaps he'd known Turner well enough to guess exactly what the man's father would say to him.
"Had he recently received more money than usual?" I looked out of the window as I asked the question, as though only half-interested in the answer.
"Not that I know of, sir. Leastwise, I saw no sign of it. Of course, Mr. Turner would not be likely to give anything spare to me."
I wondered what Turner would have done with any money Brandon or Mrs. Harper had given him. Would he hoard it or pay his tailor and his gambling debts? Was he experienced at blackmail, or had he simply seized upon an opportunity?
I sent Bartholomew a meaningful look. I wanted to have a look at Turner's rooms without Hazleton hovering over me.
Bartholomew took the hint. "Well then, Hazleton, what about this claret?"
Hazleton perked up, at least as much as Hazleton would ever perk up. His mournful mouth smoothed the slightest bit. "Ah, yes. His pa told me to put his things together and send them home. But a bottle of claret wouldn't travel very well now, would it?"
I thought it would make no difference to the bottle, but I welcomed the chance to clear Hazleton out of the way for a few minutes. Bartholomew told him to lead the way, and he and Hazleton and Matthias clattered out.
Left alone, I searched the bedchamber but found very little. I went through the pockets of the coats strewn on the bed and chairs and then checked the cupboards. I found nothing but shirts and undergarments and other accoutrements of a gentleman's wardrobe in the armoire, but nothing tucked inside any of them. Turner, or perhaps Hazleton, had kept his things very neatly.
I left the bedchamber and entered the front room, where I went through the small writing table. Remembering Brandon's secret drawer, I went carefully through the desk, but I found no hidden drawers and nothing very helpful in the ordinary ones.
Turner had kept no correspondence, no dunning notices from his creditors, and none of the tearful letters from his father Hazelton had mentioned. In short, Mr. Turner seemed to have no personal papers in his rooms at all.
As I closed the last drawer, I was startled by the sound of the front door opening behind me. I knew how long Bartholomew and Matthias could linger over a glass, and they'd both understood that I'd wanted time to search the rooms.
But when I looked around I found neither the tall footmen nor the long-faced Hazleton. Instead, a woman I did not know entered the room. She did not see me until she'd walked well inside, then she froze, the color draining from her face.
She swung around and reached for the door. Moving with a speed I'd not known I had, I made it to the door and pressed my hand against it. The woman looked up at me with startled brown eyes that were rather too small and sparsely lashed.
We stared at one another for a full, silent minute. The room was chill, because Hazleton had not bothered to start a fire. The woman had wrapped a cashmere shawl around her, but the skin on her neck stood out in gooseflesh, and her lips were thin and almost bloodless.
"I beg your pardon," she said stiffly. "I seem to have entered the wrong room."
I did not think so. In wild surmise I said, "Mrs. Harper."
Her eyes widened, but to her credit, she did not faint or grow hysterical. Her assessment was one of surprise, not fear.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"My name is Gabriel Lacey."
If she'd heard of me, she hid it well. "Yes, I am Mrs. Harper. Mr. Turner… " She broke off. Perhaps she'd prepared a story for the servants but not one for the likes of me.
I answered for her. "You were looking for a letter or paper that belonged to you that you thought Mr. Turner had."
Now, some fear did enter her eyes. "Why do you say so? Exactly who are you?"
"I am a friend to Colonel Brandon."
She looked me up and down with new scrutiny, her lips tightening. I saw that she was not sure whether to categorize me as friend or foe. A friend of Colonel Brandon could be for him and against her.
I returned her look with the same curiosity. Brandon might have been having an affair with this woman; indeed, he might well have tried to leave Louisa for her, but she was not beautiful. Her brown dress was trimmed in black braid, with black buttons making a neat line down the bodice, and the cashmere shawl was also a rich brown. She knew how to dress tastefully, and her bonnet, brown straw trimmed with cream silk ribbons, was of a very late fashion.
The hair that straggled from under the bonnet was brownish yellow, the color to which some blond women find their hair turning as they grow older, much to their despair. Her face was round, her nose straight, and her eyes, as I had observed, were small, though a pleasing shade of brown. She was not by any means a radiant beauty, although she was not ugly. I would describe her overall as pleasant.
I gestured to a rather gaudy crimson damask sofa. "Shall we sit down, Mrs. Harper, and talk about Mr. Turner?"
Mrs. Harper searched my face, her eyes wary, but at last she inclined her head and moved to the sofa. She sat down, adjusting her skirt and her gloves, not looking at me as I limped across the room.