Quimby studied me with quiet eyes, as though wondering if my resolve was firm. “Take me through the evening, Captain.” He seated himself at Donata’s delicate writing table and drew from his pocket a worn notebook and small box that contained quills and ink.
Ignoring the rosewood and gold inlaid inkstand that adorned the desk, he dipped his pen into his plain bottle and scratched a few words into his notebook.
“Please begin,” he said.
I paced as I spoke, too agitated to sit. “My wife and I received an invitation to dine at the Pavilion Monday night—Mrs. Lacey and the Regent are old friends, as are the Regent and Grenville. The majordomo took us and the other guests around the finished rooms so we could admire them. I avoided Colonel Isherwood, to be honest, and spoke mostly with Grenville and Alvanley—Lord Alvanley and I share an interest in horses.
“Eventually we went into supper. I enjoyed the food, though the conversation was not to my taste. When we weren’t praising the Regent on the cleverness of the Pavilion, there was talk of farming and what sort of yields were expected this year, and the general state of the country. The Regent excused himself before the pudding was even served, but no one was surprised. He is easily bored, and his gout must make things uncomfortable. After supper …” I paused.
“This is where things grow hazy. I know I spoke with Isherwood while we drank port, and it was not a congenial conversation. When I left the house, Isherwood was alive and well, growling he had to rise early and go to the barracks. I more or less remember walking with Grenville through the Steine, but not about what we said, or exactly when he left me.” I ceased pacing and faced Quimby. “The next thing I knew, I was standing over Isherwood’s body, his sword in my hand …”
Quimby scribbled in his book, his pen loud in the stillness. “How did you feel?” he asked without looking up. “In body, I mean, when you came to yourself?”
“Horrible.” I shuddered. “The room was cool, and I was shaking but blistering hot at the same time. My mouth was powerfully dry, and I had pain in every limb. When I finally reached home, I had unnerving nightmares and slept the day away without realizing it. My friends believe I was given some potion…”
Mr. Quimby lifted his head. “Indeed, such a sudden illness in so healthy a gentleman might indicate poison of some sort. You ate and drank the same things as everyone at the supper?”
“As far as I know. The footmen served us out of the same dishes, poured wine out of the same decanters or bottles.”
“Hmm.” Quimby carefully blotted his page with another piece of paper, and then leafed back through the book. “Your wife told me that you had pieced together a few more things. You spoke to the Quakers between leaving Mr. Grenville in the Steine and waking up to find Colonel Isherwood. When you saw Mr. Bickley yesterday, he asked you to help find the missing Joshua, who is now deceased.”
I nodded regretfully. “Joshua and another woman—Miss Purkis. Or perhaps Mrs. Purkis—I am not certain whether she is spinster, wife, or widow.” I hoped very much that whoever she was, she had not come to the same end as Josh.
Another jot of the pen. “Have you remembered anything else since then?”
I closed my eyes to think, blotting out the fine sunshine streaming over the garden, the scent of sea in the air.
“No,” I had to say. “I’ve had odd feelings and a few flashes, but when I try to grasp them, they are gone.”
Quimby made another note before he laid down his pen. “I would like to speak to Colonel Isherwood’s son. Can you arrange that for me, Captain?”
“I will.” I hesitated. “I do not blame him trying to keep the murder quiet—journalists would make a meal of it, especially since it happened at the Pavilion. Will you follow his wishes?”
“As I assured you, I am a man of discretion.” Mr. Quimby shut his notebook and rose. “Even so, a man has been killed, violently. I will not announce my intentions regarding Colonel Isherwood, but Iwillfind who killed him and make an arrest. What the colonel’s son wishes to do after that is up to him, of course.”
“Of course,” was all I could say in response.
“And now it seems we might have to find out who killed young Mr. Bickley. That death can obviouslynotbe kept quiet, but will provide a plausible reason for me to be here, if an unfortunate one.” He let out a breath. “Well, I certainly will have much to do.”
Quimby gave me his affable smile as he shook my hand and took his leave. I accompanied him to the front door, which a footman opened for him, and I watched him walk steadily down the lane.
I reflected that the small Runner who took quick, firm steps, moving aside for and tipping his hat to a passing lady and gentleman, might be the most dangerous man in England. Mr. Quimby was quiet and unremarkable, yet he worked with an efficient ruthlessness that could topple the most violent of criminals.
I hoped he would not have cause to topple me.
* * *
I senta message to Grenville after that, asking him to set up a time when I could speak to Lord Armitage. I wanted to know what had jarred me so much upon seeing him and his wife at the lecture. I ought also to meet with others who had been at the meal. Grenville should be able to arrange things so that the encounters wouldn’t seem unusual.
While waiting for his response, I continued to be doting husband and father, suggesting a promenade before our evening activities. We had all been distressed about the death of Josh Bickley, and a walk in the fresh air would do us good.
It was fine to stroll arm in arm with Donata, she staving off the bright sunshine with a parasol, Gabriella carrying a matching one. Peter ran about on the shingle, playing games only he knew the rules to. At one point, Donata and Gabriella walked out to meet Peter, but I preferred to remain on the road, not as easy on the shingle with my bad leg.
I reflected as I watched them that our dog, Oro, would have enjoyed running on the beach and into the water. However, we’d had to leave the fellow at Donata’s father’s estate in Oxfordshire, Donata rightly pointing out that our very small house in Brighton, which had no stables, had nowhere to put up a large dog.
As I waited for my family to return, a woman emerged from a nearby house and headed in my direction. Behind her came a gentleman in a well-made if not fashionable suit.
The woman had grown somewhat plumper than I remembered but there was no mistaking her. I stared in surprise as she halted before me, but she seemed not surprised at all.
