I tried to banish this vision, but I could not. It had been she who had decided that her servants should not report the murder, she who had decided to tell the world it had been an accident, she who'd pointed the finger at Breckenridge, Eggleston, and Sir Edward Connaught.
"His fall was witnessed by the footman and the valet," I said carefully. "He slipped and fell."
"Could be." Pomeroy grinned. "Widow's a bit of a stunner, eh, Captain?"
I eyed him coldly. "Keep your remarks respectful, Sergeant."
His grin was wide. "Might have known you'd have noticed. You're always one for the ladies."
I ignored him. "What about Breckenridge and colleagues, who were with Westin at Badajoz? Did you discover anything interesting about them?"
He shook his head. "Not much, except they were present when Captain Spencer was shot. But they're lordships. Didn't like a Runner poking about their business, did they? No, Colonel Westin was a gentleman about it, but the others did everything but set their dogs on me."
This information did not surprise me. Breckenridge and Eggleston might have continually insulted each other, but I remembered how they had closed ranks to confront me at the boxing match. I had not yet met Connaught, but I would not be surprised to find him cut from the same cloth. "Poke some more," I suggested. "If you cannot speak to the gentlemen themselves, speak to their servants or friends, or even their enemies. I want to know everything about them, where they go, who they meet, what they eat every day." I was certain Eggleston had plenty to do with both Spencer's and Westin's deaths, and I damn well wanted to prove it. Breckenridge's death I had different ideas about.
Pomeroy grinned. "A tall order, sir. You want me to do this as a favor?"
He knew bloody well I could not pay him. "Yes, Sergeant. As a favor to your old captain."
He was laughing at me. "'Twill be a pleasure, sir. I always like the look on your face when I tell you something interesting. I'll be sure to let you know."
I left Bow Street deep in thought and returned to my rooms.
A note from Grenville had been hand-delivered in my absence to say that he felt much better and would send Bartholomew with the carriage for me that evening. His note was short, only four lines on an entire sheet of heavy white paper.
Did I envy a man who could afford to throw away an expensive piece of paper on a short note, or think him a fool? In any case, I carefully tore the clean end of the sheet from the written area and tucked it into my drawer to save for my own letters.
I spent the day thinking about what Pomeroy had told me, and about the character of Colonel Westin. When Bartholomew arrived later that afternoon, I was dressed and ready. We arrived at the Grosvenor Street house just as clocks were striking eight. As Bartholomew helped me descend and led me to the house, I was very aware that Lydia Westin reposed only ten doors down.
Grenville greeted me and informed me I was to take supper with him. After we had enjoyed a few glasses of excellent port, he led me to the dining room.
"Anton is experimenting again," he said as we entered. "I have no idea what he will offer us, but please tell him you like it, no matter what you truly think."
Anton was Grenville's celebrated French chef. The man was an artist with food, as I had come to know to my delight.
"He has been doing this all summer." Grenville informed me in a low voice. "He spends the day creating a dish then brings it to me to sample. If ever I say it is not his best, he crumples into tears and refuses to cook for a week." He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. "So praise him and swallow it, even if it tastes like sawdust."
I assured him I would dissemble, though, as I suspected, he needn't have worried. Anton brought us a delicate mussel bisque, so smooth and light it flowed like silk on the tongue. He followed this with grouse in a wild raspberry sauce, then a salad of cool greens, and ended with a lemon tart, not too sweet, and a rich chocolate soup.
I ate every bite and sang his praises without compunction. He beamed at me and glided away, back to his sanctum to no doubt create more delectable feasts.
Once left on our own with brandy, Matthias entered the room bearing a tray stacked neatly with papers and two ledgers. He set this down before his master, bowed, then departed.
To the questioning look on my face, Grenville said, "I did not invite you here simply to soothe Anton's temperament. I managed to procure Colonel Westin's financial papers, in hopes that they might tell us why Eggleston and Breckenridge might have blackmailed him into confessing to Spencer's murder."
I leaned forward, my interest quickening. "How did you get them?"
He gave me a modest look. "I know people. Some of whom owe me favors. Shall we begin?"
We divided the stack between us and sorted things out across the dining room table. Matthias and Bartholomew kept us in brandy and also brought in black coffee as rich as chocolate.
For the next several hours, we leafed through papers, passed ledgers back and forth, and discussed our findings. The Colonel Westin I found here had been as meticulous as the one I'd come to know in his private papers in Lydia's house. He or his man of business had kept strict accounts for everything: for the country house and the London house, for servants' wages and clothing, for food, for fuel, for horses, for his wife's clothing and jewelry.
My fingers felt a bit sticky as I turned over the pages describing Lydia's personal finances. These were none of my business, and yet, I desperately wanted to discover anything that would point away from her and to Eggleston, Breckenridge, or the elusive Connaught as her husband's murderers.
I found that Lydia was just as careful as her husband in the matter of finances. Her bills for her dressmaker, her glovemaker, her milliner, and her shoemaker were high, but not extravagant, and well within Colonel Westin's means. Likewise her household budget bore the marks of a woman who could spend wisely and still manage to live in elegance.
The Westins appeared, by all accounts, to have been a model couple of moderation, good taste, and financial sense.
Grenville sat back as the clock struck one. "Well," he said. "We have learned that Westin had no heavy debts, gambling or otherwise. Pity."
"Yes," I answered, subdued. "It seems that he led a blameless life."
Grenville sighed and tossed down the sheet he'd been perusing. "So why would he suddenly sacrifice this blameless life for Breckenridge, Eggleston, and Connaught?"
"He would sacrifice his family as well," I remarked.
"Perhaps Breckenridge and Eggleston were instrumental in persuading Allandale to propose to the daughter. Then Allandale could look after both daughter and Mrs. Westin after Westin had been tried and executed."
"Is Allandale such a catch?" I asked. The opinion I'd formed upon meeting him in Lydia's house had not been high.
Grenville thought a moment. "I would not have chosen him for my own daughter, but yes, Geoffrey Allandale is, from what I have heard of him, a catch. He has money and he has connections and the beginnings of a political career. Everything a father could want for his daughter."
What about a mother? I wondered. Lydia disliked Mr. Allandale. I read that in her tone when she spoke of him and in her face when she'd looked at him. And yet, she'd not opposed the match. Or perhaps she had, and had been overruled. I wondered if the daughter, Chloe, had been happy with the choice.
"Providing an excellent marriage for the daughter would fit," Grenville speculated. "Westin let his friends set up the marriage knowing he would go to the gallows. His daughter and wife would simply be absorbed into Allandale's family."
I could sincerely hope not. Perhaps another reason Lydia had expressed relief at her husband's death was that she would no longer be at the mercy of Allandale. Westin had died technically a free and innocent man, and she would come into whatever money and property he had left her absolutely. His sudden death had saved her from the fate of living in Allandale's household.