He sounded cheerful. Even Brewster wasn’t morose. They, like Donata, did not believe I’d murdered Isherwood and thought we’d clear it up soon. It was good of them to trust me, but I with my head still aching a bit, would feel better when I had proof.
Again it was a glorious day, Brighton full of holiday-makers shopping, taking tea or coffee, enjoying life. Ladies with sketchbooks sat overlooking the water, while servants shaded them with large parasols.
Only a few days ago, I’d been one of the happy tourists, strolling in the sun with my daughter on my arm, my stepson picking up stones on the shore. Now I was investigating a murder and trying to piece together missing hours of my life.
The three of us moved along the road skirting the Steine, until we faced the Pavilion, an exotic oddity in this town of clean-lined buildings.
Grenville gained admission by the simple ruse of telling the footman he longed to gaze upon some of the renovations he’d seen the night we’d been there. He knew the Regent had departed, he said, and we’d never bother the workmen …
The royal servants knew Grenville and respected him. Grenville had been skeptical of being allowed in today, but the majordomo welcomed us through the octagon-shaped hall into the main palace. We passed into what was called the Long Gallery, which would connect all the rooms, and to the music room, with its vast domed ceiling.
Young Colonel Isherwood had told us that the majordomo had broken the news of his father’s murder to him. The majordomo today spoke to us serenely, never betraying with one word or twitch of mouth a hint that anything untoward had happened in his demesne.
Grenville and I thanked him, also not betraying our interest, and he left us to wander as we wished.
Brewster already knew the way to the servants’ areas, and disappeared through a doorway set into the wall paneling. The door vanished when closed, looking like nothing more than the rest of the wall. I had found such a door when I’d made my hasty exit from the kitchen.
Grenville and I ambled through the music room and the gallery beyond it. We pretended to be intrigued by nothing more than the lavish architecture as we slowly but inexorably made our way to the banqueting room where I’d found Isherwood.
Today, that chamber buzzed with activity. Painters brushed an undercoat on the walls, men on scaffolding worked on an elaborate plaster palm that would cross the entire ceiling, and two carpenters planed a doorjamb in long, even strokes.
The place where Isherwood had lain was bare, the floorboards clean. I dimly remembered he’d been sprawled across a dust sheet, but that was gone, and no blood marked the wood. I stooped to examine the spot, earning only a curious glance from the workers.
“Here,” I said to Grenville under my breath.
The workmen, sanding, scraping, and pounding, paid little attention. Grenville leaned to study the bare floor then straightened up when he saw nothing, expression unchanged.
“Show me where you went after you found him,” he said.
I took Grenville through the narrow door that had been hidden by draperies that night. The walls were bare today, and the workmen watched us go without comment.
Once we reached the corridor, I stared blankly about, trying to get my bearings, but my memories were still foggy. “I ended up in the kitchen, I think.”
Grenville stepped past me. “It is this way.”
He led me along the hall and through another door. As we stepped into a large busy room, I recalled the huge chamber, dark and still, filled with tables, crates, and food.
Now, of course, the kitchen teemed with people. Men at massive stoves stirred and basted, and women wielded knives to chop produce or hack up fowl. Blood and melted fat dripped to the floor. The heat was stifling, the odors cloying.
The man who must be in charge spied us, and roared, “’Ere! You’re not to be back ’ere!”
Grenville gave him a bow. “Just passing, my good fellow. Your roast on Monday night was a dream. I savored it well. Good morning.”
The chef glared, though he looked somewhat mollified. Grenville beckoned me to follow as the cooks stared at us, and we ducked through another door to the servants’ corridor.
“You know your way about,” I remarked to Grenville.
“His Highness has taken me through the entire house—several times. He is very proud of every inch, or at least of what Mr. Nash has done with it. Clever man, is Nash. He’ll make the place pleasing and not the monstrosity the Regent has dreamed up. Oh, I beg your pardon, good lady.”
He tipped his hat to a maid who’d halted at the sight of us. She pushed herself against the wall so we could pass and did not meet our eyes. I bowed to her as I went by, but that made her cringe even more—she’d hoped I wouldn’t notice her.
“Anything returning to your mind?” Grenville said after we’d gone a little farther.
“Not a bit. I needed my guide, who thankfully showed me the way out.”
“Hmm.” Grenville looked about then abruptly charged off down a passageway. I followed as closely as I could.
After taking us through several corridors and down a few short flights of stairs, he opened a door that led into a small courtyard. “Here?”
