Amusement flickered behind Miss Farrow’s sorrow. “Nothing like that. Josh had friends among the Quakers who were women, of course, but he was too unworldly for an interest in anything beyond friendship.” Miss Farrow cocked her head. “Or, perhaps I should say, the ladies had little interest inhim.”
She was painting the picture of a friendly young man who obeyed his father and went to church as often as he could. I’d only seen him in death, but he’d been plump and round-faced, like Bickley, not lithe and handsome. Even a saintly young Quaker woman might want someone a bit more dashing.
Even so, it did not mean that Joshua did not have a secret lady or any wild oats to sow. It only meant Miss Farrow and his father saw the dutiful side of him.
“Speaking to his friends could help,” I said. “They might know why he ended up in a boat when he disliked them so.”
Miss Farrow nodded. “I see the sense in that. But after we grieve, please, Friend Gabriel. We know Joshua is in a better place, of course, but selfishly, we will miss him.”
That was the trouble with death. I too had been brought up to believe we should rejoice that the one we loved was with the Lord, but somehow I never could. I could feel only emptiness, the lessening of myself for the absence of that person. Miss Farrow might call it selfish, but I called it inevitable.
* * *
When I arrived home,I found a small man with dark hair and blue eyes, his brown suit wrinkled from traveling, conversing with my wife in the sitting room. The man rose as I entered to hold out a neatly gloved hand.
“Captain Lacey. Well met. Well met, indeed.” He beamed, very glad to see me.
“Mr. Quimby.” I shook his hand, both pleased and trepidatious.
I’d first met Lamont Quimby, Runner from the Whitechapel house, earlier this year when he’d been sent to investigate a murder in St. Giles in London, one I’d feared Brewster had committed.
I’d gone to the Whitechapel magistrate, Sir Montague Harris, who’d become a friend, to ask for his help, fearing the zeal of Pomeroy and the vindictiveness of Spendlove. Sir Montague had provided Quimby.
Mr. Quimby was far quieter than Pomeroy and more careful. Runners worked for rewards they received upon conviction—the more wanted a man, the higher the reward. Quimby had struck me as being interested in truth rather than reward, though I suspected he gladly took the money when his man was convicted.
“I wish this could be a more cheerful reunion,” Mr. Quimby said, releasing me. “Her ladyship has been explaining things.”
“An even sadder mystery has just occurred.” I waved Mr. Quimby to a seat and told him about Josh Bickley.
Donata looked stricken. “Oh, Gabriel, I didn’t realize it was your Mr. Bickley’s son. How awful. I am so sorry.”
“Truly, a sad tale,” Quimby said. “Do you know if the young man had any connection to Colonel Isherwood?”
I thought, but had to shake my head. “I do not see how. Mr. Bickley’s son was a pious Quaker, having nothing to do with army men. The Friends are pacifists, and live simply. I doubt Josh would have gone near either the luxurious Pavilion or Preston Barracks.”
“But he went missing before Colonel Isherwood died,” Mr. Quimby said in his thoughtful way. “Perhaps young Master Bickley encountered the colonel’s killer and was silenced. How long has the lad been dead?”
“From the look of things, a few days perhaps? I really could not say.” In the army, I’d been able to judge how long a man had lain dead on the battlefield, but that had been on dry land. Water, especially salt water, changed things.
“I will inquire of the coroner,” Quimby said. “He might, of course, have been a victim of an unfortunate accident.”
“Not if he hated boats. Why should he have been in one?”
“Precisely,” Quimby said. “I will have to find out.” He turned to Donata. “I thank you for receiving me, your ladyship. I will have to speak to your husband and hear his rendition of the tale of Colonel Isherwood, but then I will leave you in peace.”
“Of course.” Donata sent him a gracious nod. “You will not be disturbed here. I am happy to leave everything in your hands, Mr. Quimby.”
Quimby gave her a bow—I could see he was taken with Donata—and she glided from the room.
As Bartholomew, who’d sprung to open the door for her, closed it once more behind her, Quimby sobered.
“I will tell you plainly, Captain, that if I did not know you to be an honorable gentleman, I would, upon hearing your wife’s story, immediately believe Colonel Isherwood’s murderer had been you.”
I acknowledged this, feeling bleak. “I wish I could explain exactly what I had done that night, and state with conviction that I didnotkill him.”
“I understand. Sir Montague Harris speaks highly of you. Very highly, and I agree. Sir Montague thinks so of very few. He was most pleased that I should journey down and discover what has happened. He promises discretion, but he is a man of justice.” Quimby met my gaze. “As am I.”
“I would not expect you to be otherwise,” I said quickly. “Mrs. Lacey wrote to you because she trusts you.” I cleared my throat. “But if you discover that the culprit is indeed me, I am willing to bear the consequences.”
