“His Highness has got enough money to buy me dozens. I ain’t doing nothing wrong, guv.” He glared at me. “Call off your dog.”
My “dog” growled at him.
“If you truly are visiting your mother, I hardly wish to keep you,” I said. “We’ll walk with you, shall we? I do need to speak with you, lad.”
Clement sent me a belligerent look. “You’ll fit me up for the magistrates. I never killed that bloke.”
Brewster’s grip tightened. “Do I look like a beak?” he demanded. “This is Captain Lacey. He’s not in the habit of fitting people up. Even to save his own neck,” he finished in disapproval.
“I promise you,” I interrupted firmly. “No magistrates. I do not believe you murdered the colonel, but I am not prepared to tell you why on the street.”
Clement looked me over with less fear than he should have being in the clutches of Brewster. Brewster was not a killer, but he didn’t mind rendering a victim unconscious or breaking a limb or two.
At last, Clement gave me a nod. “All right then. But you don’t say nothing about this to my mum.”
“I would not dream of it,” I assured him. I signaled to Brewster, but I knew Brewster only released the lad because he’d decided. Even in the days when Brewster had been briefly employed by me, he’d never done what I asked simply because I asked it.
* * *
Clementand his mother lived on the northeast end of Brighton, in a street of small, neat cottages. A well-kept garden lay before the house where Clement led us through a gate, the clumps of bright flowers and trained rose vines a testimony to a gardener of good taste and hard work.
Clement, followed closely by Brewster, strode up the path made of crushed stone to the front door. The lad gave us a warning glance before he walked inside, singing out, “It’s me, Mum! I brought visitors.”
A woman’s voice floated from a room down the flagstoned hall, her tone filled with alarm. “It’s not your day out. You’d better not be in trouble, my boy.”
“Nah.” Clement shot me a worried look. “Have some gentlemen with me.”
Footsteps sounded and a woman emerged into the hall. She had dark skin, like her son, and resembled him greatly. She wore a frock of light brown trimmed with cream, her hair in a simple but elegant knot.
She did not look old enough to have a son Clement’s age—I put him to be nearly twenty. Her smooth face was unlined and she had no gray in her hair, but from her expression, she was obviously his mother. The admonishing glare could have come from no other.
The lady addressed Grenville, guessing by his clothing and demeanor that he was the most highborn of us. “Clement is a good lad, sir. But not always. What has he done this time?”
Grenville gave her a gentlemanly bow. “Nothing at all, dear lady. Captain Lacey made your son’s acquaintance when he dined at the Pavilion the other night, and today sought him out to give him a shilling for his service. Clement unfortunately got hold of the wrong idea and tried to flee. We thought we’d escort him home and assure him we have only kindness in mind.”
A plausible tale, but Clement’s mother regarded Grenville narrowly. She moved the skeptical gaze to me then Brewster, who hovered near the door, ready to prevent Clement from rushing out.
The lady was no fool. She nodded to Grenville but it was clear she was reserving her opinion. “In that case, gentlemen, let me offer you refreshment. I have a nice pot of tea brewed, and cook has made some of her excellent cakes. Take them into the parlor, Clement, and let them sit down. I won’t be a moment.”
She spoke clearly, with only a hint of the London cant Clement had. She bustled from us without a qualm, and Clement could do nothing but usher us into the sitting room.
I liked the house, clean and tidy, comfortable without ostentation. It was the sort of place I ought to be living in—I’d gone from faded, cheap rooms in Covent Garden to the opulence of Donata’s Mayfair home in one day. I preferred the comfortable and informal to either penury or ostentation.
Grenville, who was at home anywhere, seated himself near the window and admired the view—across the garden and down a hill to the sea. Brewster declared he’d wait outside, meaning he’d station himself near the front door like a pillar.
“I have no intention of upsetting your mother,” I told Clement, who hovered uncertainly as I sat down. “But I do need to ask you about the night Colonel Isherwood died. I want to know what you saw, and who, and when.”
“I sawyou.” Clement rocked on his heels. “Standing over the colonel with a sword in your hand.”
“I know that.” I held on to my patience. “Yet you helped me leave the palace instead of sounding the alarm.”
Clement hesitated. “Because I didn’t think you done it.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you thinkIhadn’t done it?” he countered, folding his arms. He was a big lad, and strong.
“Lack of blood on your clothes,” I said. “Your terror when you saw me with a sword. You had the fear of one thinking he would be killed next, not the guilt of a man caught.”
