One of the mourners was Leland Derwent. He had seen me when we all arrived at the church and had given me a nod of greeting. Now he stared down at the grave, his young brow furrowed.
Next to him stood a young man called Gareth Travers. I'd met Travers during the affair of Colonel Westin last summer. He was Leland's closest friend, but he lacked the complete innocence of Leland and had a bit more worldly intelligence.
The vicar launched into the Lord's Prayer. I heard Grenville murmuring along, although most of the attendants remained silent. A soft spring breeze carrying the scent of new earth touched me.
The service finished, and we turned away from the graveside. In tacit agreement, Grenville and I hung back while Mr. Turner led his wife away.
Leland and Gareth Travers waited for us at the gate to the churchyard. "It was kind of you to come, Captain," Leland said as he shook my hand.
"I am afraid that my motive was not entirely kindness," I said. "I came to obtain an idea of Turner's character, and to find out who would want to kill him."
Leland looked puzzled. "I thought your colonel had been arrested."
"He has, but his arrest does not mean he is guilty. I intend to bring forth evidence that he is not guilty before his trial."
I had expected, if anything, for Leland to look interested, but his expression became troubled. "You think someone else committed this crime?"
"Yes, but I'm damned if I know who. You went to school with Henry Turner, I believe."
"Yes, but he was two years ahead of us." As Grenville had indicated, Leland sounded apologetic.
The other mourners had dispersed, leaving us alone. "Will you tell me about him?" I asked.
Leland fell into step beside me on a path that skirted the edge of the churchyard and swung out across the downs. Travers and Grenville came behind.
"There is not much to tell," Leland said. "I do hate to say anything bad about Mr. Turner, now that he's lying in the ground."
"I assure you, I will repeat nothing that is not relevant to my problem. But I need to know everything I can if I'm to discover who killed him."
Leland settled his curled-brimmed hat against the breeze. "I admit that he was a bit of a bully. I didn't fag for him, but I knew the lads who did. He put them through their paces and was never happy with anything."
"Was he-forgive me for putting this bluntly-a blackmailer?"
Leland looked startled. "A blackmailer? No. No, I do not believe so. I never heard anyone say anything like that."
"Did he ever seem desperate for money?"
"He liked money, that is true, but I do not know that he was desperate for it. His allowance was plenty for him, I would think."
I stifled my impatience at his nicety. "Anything you can tell me will help us, Leland. I need details. Did he have lovers? Did he keep to himself? Did he seem to have more money than could be accounted for from a father's generous allowance? Was he a gambler?"
"Yes, he did like to gamble." Leland seized on my last question in seeming relief. "But he generally won. Chaps always owed him money for some wager or other."
"And they paid him?"
"Oh, yes. Well, you have to, don't you? Pay up your wagers. All in good sport."
"He played cards? Dice?"
"He was not so much a gamer," Leland said. "I do not think he had a head for cards or hazard. No, he would wager on other sorts of things. Something as simple as a horse winning at Newmarket or as obscure as whether an ill housemaid would get well on Wednesday or Thursday. He had an uncanny knack of always being right."
"If he won so often, why did the other chaps wager with him?"
"Couldn't resist." Leland flashed me a smile. "One always wanted to best him. And betting whether or a cat would walk to the left or right around the quad seemed safe. But he still managed to win."
"Perhaps," Grenville said behind us, "he enticed the cat with a bit of chicken or put ipecac in the maid's tea."
Leland gave him a horrified look over his shoulder. "Cheated?" He sounded as though we'd accused a heroic a man of being a traitor. "I do not think he would have cheated, Mr. Grenville. He was simply lucky."
"Perhaps," I conceded, more to calm him than because I agreed. "Aside from his great fortune at games, was Turner particularly liked or disliked?"
Leland shrugged. "Not particularly disliked-or liked, I suppose. He had his friends, his circle."
"Did you particularly like or dislike him?" I asked.
Leland started. "Why do you ask that?"
"You turned up for his funeral," I said. "Is that because he was a great friend, or did you wish to make certain he was buried?"
Leland gaped at me. "How can you say that? I came out of respect, Captain. I was at the ball where he died. I thought it well that I come to show his father how sorry I was." His face had gone white, his lips, tight.
"I should not have said such a thing, Leland. I'm sorry. I am simply trying to ascertain why someone would want to kill him. You say he had no particular friends but no particular enemies, that he usually won at wagers but that those he bet against paid up without fuss. You paint a picture of a young man with a gaming streak but of rather neutral temperament. But this does not bear out what others have told me, nor does it explain his appalling rudeness to Mrs. Harper at the ball."
"Well, I cannot help that," Leland said weakly.
"What I am getting at is that someone might have killed Turner because he owed Turner a great deal of money. Suppose the Frenchman who attacked me was not looking for a letter, but a note of hand, perhaps a ruinous gambling debt. My bruises attest to the fact that the Frenchman was capable of violence."
"I saw no Frenchman in the Gillises' ballroom," Leland said, bewildered.
"I know." I sighed. "The man seems to have been inconveniently invisible at the critical moment. What did you see, Leland? Did you observe anyone trying to corner Henry Turner, perhaps leading him to that little anteroom?"
Leland shook his head. "I am sorry, Captain. I saw nothing out of the ordinary."
I hadn't thought he would have. "What is it about Turner that you do not wish to tell me?"
Leland stopped walking, his walking stick arrested in midair. "I beg your pardon?"
"Mr. Grenville says that you had a conversation with Turner at the ball, in which you became angry with him. What did you argue about?"
"Nothing. Nothing in particular. I'd lost a bet with him on a London-to-Brighton race recently, and perhaps he gloated a bit."
"But you paid up your wager, without fuss?"
Leland flushed. "Of course I did. Why would I not?"
I knew I was being hard on the boy, but I was frustrated, and Leland was holding something back. "You knew Turner in school, but you did not like him, that is obvious. Why not? What is it about Henry Turner that would drive someone to murder?"
Leland looked at me with wide eyes, disconcerted. "Please, I cannot answer any more questions. The air is too warm, and I am tired. I- " He broke off, flushing. "I must rest. Good day."
He spun on his heel and set off back the way we'd come. His long and hurried stride belied his claim that he was tired. He would quickly cover the three miles back to the village at that pace.
Grenville watched him go, brows raised. "Good Lord."
I feared I might have spent my last pleasant evening at the Derwent's home. Leland would tell his father, Sir Gideon, that I was a bully, and gone would be the lovely meals and warm conversation I enjoyed once a fortnight. Worse, I feared that Leland's nervousness meant he had something to do with Turner's death, and I desperately hoped I was wrong.
I expected Gareth Travers to rush after him, or to berate me for browbeating his friend, but Travers simply stood and watched Leland go. He leaned on his walking stick, the April breeze stirring the brown curls beneath his hat.