He turned that shrewd eye on me. "Anything else you wish to tell me, Captain?"
I had avoided talking about Colonel Naveau and the paper he wanted me to find. I was not yet certain what it meant for Brandon, and I somehow did not want Sir Montague examining the matter too closely.
"No," I said.
His eyes twinkled, as usual. "This is where I, as a common magistrate, have the advantage over you, Captain Lacey."
I tried to look puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that when I investigate crime, I am purely outside it. I can look at the facts without worry, without knowing that a suspect is a dear friend."
I barked a laugh. "I hardly call Brandon a dear friend these days."
"But you are close to him. His life and yours are tied in many ways. You feel the need to protect him, for various and perhaps conflicting reasons." He spread his hands. "I, on the other hand, see only the facts."
I could not argue that he viewed things more clearly than I did where Colonel Brandon was concerned. "And what do the facts tell you?"
Sir Montague gave me a serious look. "That Brandon was mixed up in something he should not have been. That the death of Turner was an aid to him. That Mrs. Harper knows more than she lets on. That you are afraid to trust yourself."
The last was certainly true. I had some ideas about Brandon's involvement that I did not like. I had admired Colonel Brandon once, and some part of that admiration lingered. He'd disappointed me-as much as I'd disappointed him-but I still wanted my hero of old to exist.
"What do I do?" I asked, half to myself.
"Discover the truth. The entire truth, not just what you want to know. Did Saint John not say, The truth shall make you free? "
I looked at him. "Will it?"
"It will." Sir Montague nodded wisely. "It always does."
I left Sir Montague more uncertain than ever and returned home. I thought about all I had learned that day over the beef Bartholomew brought me, and then tried to distract myself with a book on Egypt that I'd borrowed from Grenville.
That evening, I put on a thoroughly brushed frock coat and traveled to Gentleman Jackson's boxing rooms in Bond Street to meet Basil Stokes.
When I entered the rooms at number 13, I saw the unmistakable form of Lucius Grenville. He detached himself from the gentlemen he'd been speaking to, came to me, seized my hand, and shook it warmly.
"Well met, Lacey," he said. "And thank you."
Chapter Fourteen
Basil Stokes came up behind Grenville and eyed us curiously. "You seem damned grateful, Grenville. Has the good captain given you a tip on the races?"
"More or less." Grenville released my hand and turned away, his dark eyes sparkling.
"Perhaps I'll have more tips for you tonight," Stokes said jovially. "What shall you do, Captain? Box? Or just observe?"
"Observe, I think. The damp is making me long for a soft chair and a warm fire."
"Too much of that renders a man weak, Captain. You stride around well enough even with your lameness, but better take care." He laughed loudly.
I decided that Basil Stokes was the sort of man who said whatever he liked then laughed afterward to soften the blow. He wore his white hair in an old-fashioned queue and dressed in breeches and shoes rather than the newer fashion of trousers or pantaloons.
He was an old Whig, much like my father had been, probably a crony of the late Charles James Fox, the famous statesman, and vehemently opposed to the now conservative Prince Regent and his followers. I suspected that my father had embraced Whigishness not only because it was traditional for the Lacey family to do so, but because most of the men to whom he owed money were Tories.
Stokes led us across the room and introduced me to several gentlemen of his acquaintance. They already knew Grenville, of course. We talked of the usual things: sport, politics, horses. Then Gentleman Jackson entered and attention turned to the lessons he gave in the middle of the room.
"Gentleman" Jackson had been a famous pugilist until his retirement, when he'd decided to open a school for gentlemen who wanted to learn the art of boxing. These gentlemen, the cream of the ton, would never fight a match in truth, but we all enjoyed learning the moves that made pugilists prized. Grenville made a decent boxer; he was wiry and strong and could move quickly. I was more ham-handed in my moves, but I could hold my own.
Tonight, I sat on a bench next to Stokes and watched while two younger fellows stripped to shirt sleeves and took up positions in the center of the room, fists raised.
"A quiet wager?" Stokes said into my ear. He might have said "quiet," but I am certain everyone in the room heard him. "Ten guineas on Mr. Knighton."
"Done," Grenville said before I could speak. Stokes beamed at him and nodded.
"Captain?"
"I do not know these gentlemen," I answered. "Let me study their form before I throw away my money."
Stokes chortled. "I like a careful man. I do not know their form myself. That is why it is called gambling." He sat back, laughing, but did not prod me to wager.
The gentlemen commenced fighting. They had apparently taken many lessons with Gentleman Jackson and boxed in tight form, keeping arms bent and close to their bodies. After a time, Jackson moved in and gave them pointers. Several of the observing gentlemen tried to imitate what he told them to do.
"Well, then, Captain, what did you want to ask me about the night poor Turner died?" Stokes said loudly into my ear.
I glanced about, but the others, except Grenville, were fixed on Gentleman Jackson and his instructions. "I want only a report from another witness," I said. "No one seems to have noticed much."
Stokes gave me a shrewd look. I sensed, for all his tactlessness, that he was an intelligent man. "The truth on it, sir, was that no one saw much, because all the gentlemen were vying for the attention of the beautiful Mrs. Bennington. Many a man would be glad to escort her home for an evening."
Grenville's smile died, and his eyes began to sparkle.
"Is that what you did?" I asked, ignoring Grenville. "Vied for Mrs. Bennington's attention?"
"Not me, sir. Oh, I'd love to give the woman a tumble, but at my age, a warm glass of port is more to my taste on a cold night than a lass who'd not look twice at me. That is what I was searching for at the fatal hour of midnight-drink. Gillis did not lay in near enough. I had to walk the house looking for more. Your colonel was doing the same."
"Was he? You spoke to him?"
"He was growling about lack of servants. Where were they all? he wanted to know. I told him that the house had been built so that servants walked in passages behind the walls. That's why we couldn't find a footman when we needed one. The colonel said it was bloody inconvenient and walked away, toward the back stairs. I assume he was about to descend to the kitchens, but I don't know, because I went back to the ballroom, still wanting drink. When I reached it, Mrs. Harper began her screaming. She stabbed him, Lacey, mark my words. Women are easily excitable. Lord knows my wife was, God rest her."
What he said interested me. "Would you be willing to swear to this in court?" I asked. "If you saw Brandon making for the back stairs at the time the body was discovered, perhaps I can prove that he didn't have time to kill Turner."
"Oh, he might have had the time," Stokes said cheerfully. "I did not see the colonel until a minute or so before the screaming commenced. He might have done it before that." Stokes chuckled at my expression. "But truth to tell, Captain, I do not believe he did. If Colonel Brandon wished to kill a man, he'd call him out and face him in a duel, not quietly shove a knife into him. A question of honor, don't you know."
Honor, yes. I agreed with him. But I thought of the missing document Colonel Naveau wanted. Something dangerous was going on here that might make a man throw honor to the wind.