"You have found me out, Captain." She met my gaze, her voice steady. "Yes, I looked for the letter. I must have gotten the blood on my glove when I did so. I searched Mr. Turner's pockets, but I found nothing. At least, not the letter. He had a snuffbox, a few coins, and a scrap of lace, but no letter." She opened her hands. "You are correct that I came here to look for it."
"A scrap of lace," I said.
She blinked. "What?"
"The scrap of lace. What sort of lace? From his handkerchief, perhaps?"
Not the question she expected me to ask. "I don't know. It looked as though it had come from a lady's gown."
"Interesting. Could you happen to tell me which lady?"
She shook her head. "I am afraid I paid very little attention to the lace. I cared only for the letter."
"I will assume that Pomeroy took all effects from Turner's pockets." I would certainly ask him to let me examine them. "What puzzles me, Mrs. Harper, is why you and Brandon were so afraid of Turner. Your affair ended four years ago. Brandon moved back to England and went on with his life, and that was that. I read the letters that you wrote to him. You were not certain he would remember you or even would want to remember you."
I saw her try to remember exactly what she had penned to Brandon, but she spoke briskly. "It is hardly something one would wish to see made public."
"Is that what Turner threatened? To make it public?"
"I do not know what he threatened. I only know that he had a letter and would make us pay to have it back."
"But how easy it would have been to dismiss his threat," I said. "You could claim the letter a forgery, written by Turner himself. Louisa Brandon would be hurt by the revelation-indeed, she is hurt-but she would hardly take her husband to court over it. Mrs. Brandon prizes discretion and privacy."
Mrs. Harper flexed and closed her hands. "We did not think. How could we? When Mr. Turner approached me about the letter, it was horrible. In panic, I wrote to Colonel Brandon, and he suggested that we do whatever Mr. Turner said in order to get the letter back."
"Have you considered the possibility that Turner did not have a letter at all? That he somehow got wind of your affair and, always liking cash, decided to capitalize on it? I have searched these rooms thoroughly, but I found nothing."
Relief flickered through her eyes. Perhaps she'd worried that I might blackmail her as well, or perhaps she simply did not want me to read a love letter she'd written to Aloysius Brandon.
"The idea had not occurred to me," Mrs. Harper said. "Why should Mr. Turner say he had the letter if he did not?"
"He did not show it to you?"
"No."
"You and Colonel Brandon have behaved like a pair of fools," I said in exasperation. "You took it on faith that Turner had a letter that would betray you. If you were experienced at being blackmailed, you would know to insist that the blackmailer show you what he has to sell first."
The curls on her forehead trembled. "Perhaps we were fools, Captain. But we did not want to chance that he did not have the letter. We did not think of that possibility, I confess." She looked at me a moment, clearly unhappy. "What will you do with the letter if you find it? Give it to the magistrates?"
"I have not yet decided. It is possible that I will burn the foul thing. I do not intend to let Brandon hang for this crime."
"I know you will not believe me, Captain, but I wish no harm to come to him, either. Colonel Brandon was good to me. He helped me when I could turn to no other."
"You knew that he was married," I said flatly.
"I did." Her defiance returned. "I needed him. At the time, that was all I could consider."
Mrs. Harper got to her feet and I did as well, because that was the polite thing to do. She said, "I admire you for standing by your colonel."
She did not offer me any help to save him. Perhaps Mrs. Harper still believed that Brandon had killed Turner, or perhaps she was pushing the blame on Colonel Brandon to save herself.
"May I call on you if it proves necessary?" I asked.
"Can I stop you, if you think I can bring evidence to bear?"
"I am not a magistrate, nor am I a Bow Street Runner. I simply wish to clear Brandon's name, so that his wife does not have to watch him hang by the neck until dead."
At last, Mrs. Harper looked ashamed. "Please tell Mrs. Brandon that I am deeply sorry for the trouble I have caused her. I never realized how much grief a person can bestow when they are fixed on one course."
She did not elaborate on what that one course might be. I imagined loneliness, but looking back later, I realized that the entire conversation seemed wrong somehow. Imogene Harper did not tell me much more than I'd already known. Unfortunately, I was not to realize that fact until other things emerged. I did not know then how murky things would become for me and for Brandon.
I ushered Mrs. Harper to the door and closed it behind us. I stood at the head of the stairs, watching her descend, in order to discourage her from returning to search the rooms again. I had found no letter-Turner's rooms had presented nothing but innocence and badly matched furniture-but she might be willing to try again.
Mrs. Harper glanced back at me once, her expression veiled, then she walked out of the house and into the rain.
I collected Matthias and Bartholomew from the kitchens below stairs. Hazleton, the valet, held up his glass and slurred a greeting to me. One bottle was on its side, empty, a second, upright but half-empty. By the look of things, Matthias and Bartholomew had stuck to one or two glasses each, allowing Hazleton to imbibe the rest. I imagined he'd already partaken of a bottle or two before we arrived.
Bartholomew and Matthias said farewell to him, wishing him luck, and we departed.
Imogene Harper had long since vanished. Matthias took leave of us to return to Grenville's house. He said goodbye to his brother, touched his forelock to me, and trotted off in the direction of Green Park.
Bartholomew and I took a hackney back across London to Covent Garden. The going was slow, the traffic thick. Whenever I rode in a private conveyance, such as Grenville's carriage, things went faster, because people and wagons would move aside for a fast team and a shouting coachman with a long whip.
But at last we reached Covent Garden. The hackney stopped there, and I walked on alone to Grimpen Lane, while Bartholomew lingered among the vendors in Covent Garden to scare together our next meal.
Therefore, he was not present to help me when I was attacked in my rooms.
Chapter Seven
The attacker was not waiting for me; he followed me up the stairs at a dead run, as though he'd been pursuing me through the streets. He was a man of my height with a wiry build, a thin face, dark eyes, and close-cropped hair.
I started to ask him who he was and what he thought he was doing, when he hurtled into me and pushed me back inside my rooms.
Many men have made the mistake of thinking me feeble because I hobble about with a walking stick, but I was still fit and strong. I brought up the walking stick, slammed it into the man's chest, and shoved him away from me.
The man was strong, his slim build disguising powerful muscles. He also knew how to fight, and fight dirty. He kicked my bad knee, hard. As pain knifed through my leg, he took advantage of my weakness and punched me in the face.
I fought back. We struggled, each of us emitting only the occasional grunt as we vied to best one another. I dropped my walking stick and got my hands around his throat, my thumbs going for his windpipe. He kicked my bad leg again, scooping my feet out from under me.