He was a sharp observer, at least of things he saw close to. I couldn’t blame him for knowing no more details of a woman shrouded in a cloak on a dark night.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “If you recall anything else, please send word.” I gave him the address of our hired house, and he nodded before he turned away with his father and ambled back to pulling pints.
“Printed,” I said to Brewster and Captain Wilks. “To not give away who wrote it?”
“How would you know who wrote the bloody thing?” Brewster demanded. “Would ye run around Brighton comparing everyone’s handwriting to it?”
“Perhaps I knew that person well, or had seen their handwriting before.”
Brewster shrugged and sipped his ale, skeptical.
Captain Wilks broke in, “The greater question is, who was the lady? Not your wife, I take it.”
Chills settled over me as I realized who the lady, if it had been a woman, might very well be.
Marguerite had had every reason to hate Isherwood and want him dead. He’d cruelly abandoned her at Salamanca, leaving her to her fate.
I remembered the Spanish sunshine on the walls of the old city, the wide space of the Plaza Mayor, its sandstone a warm, golden hue. I’d loved the town when we’d ridden in after the battle in the hills, soldiers seeking comfort and drink. Bells of the cathedral had silvered the air, and heat shimmered on the stones, the sky arching high and blue.
Isherwood and Marguerite had performed their final quarrel in the square, he turning his back on her and striding away. She’d never wilted, only glared after him as he’d marched off with a sneering Forbes.
Then Marguerite had turned, flung out her arms, and declared at the top of her voice that she was free.
The plaza had teemed with life, the people of the ancient city relieved that the French army, who’d used the town as a garrison, had been chased away, but mistrusting of the English who’d taken their place. They’d been disapproving of Marguerite spinning in the middle of the square, laughing. A group of nuns had eyed her severely, but I’d seen Marguerite’s bitterness, her near despair.
Marguerite had been left alone, without protection, in a country strange to her, in the middle of an army.
As Donata had said, I’d had to be gallant. Marguerite and I had taken up residence in a hostel down a sloping back street near the cathedral, with a cheerful landlord and his wife to look after us. Our room had overlooked the Tormes that flowed languidly past the city, and the many-arched bridge the ancient Romans had left in their wake.
Forbes had found out about our liaison and taken me to task. It had nearly come to a duel, but Colonel Brandon had intervened and sent Forbes off. Brandon had then given me a scathing dressing down, but I’d laughed at him. Marguerite had been a warm, giving, charming woman, and the brief time I’d spent with her had become a happy memory.
Isherwood, of course, had made certain her reputation was blackened. I never discovered why the devil the man had put her aside in the first place, except that he was a selfish bastard—possibly his commanding officer disapproved of her, which would mean Isherwood might not be promoted.
The man had been made a colonel, so obviously the divorce had not ruined his career.
Lord Armitage had posited another reason Isherwood had shunned her, his claim that Marguerite had been a spy for the French.
For any of these reasons, Marguerite could very well have wanted Isherwood murdered. Had she decided I should be the man to kill him for her?
Or had she sent the note to ask for my help? Perhaps I’d become angry at Isherwood for threatening her, and we’d tracked him to the Pavilion. Or perhaps Marguerite had killed Isherwood before I could stop her, and I’d taken the sword from her.
She’d fled, and I’d been left standing with the sword, swimming out of my stupor.
“Damnation,” I whispered.
“The machinations of a lady do not mean you killed the Quaker lad in a drunken rage,” Captain Wilks said. “I would find the lady—she can tell the magistrate you were with her instead of Josh Bickley. Embarrassing for your wife, no doubt, but it would save you from the noose.”
“Pardon?” I blinked. I’d been a long distance from thoughts of Bickley’s son—how could the note and Marguerite have anything to do with him?
Brewster took a noisy sip of ale. “Could have been a bloke waiting for you. Bundled up in a cloak in the dark—might have been a man, pretending to be a lady to draw you out. Once you were with him, he could have taken you anywhere. Be best if you remembered all what happened, guv.”
“Thank you, Brewster. An excellent suggestion.” I gave him an ironic look, pulling myself out of my thoughts. “Thank you in truth, Captain Wilks. This has been helpful. I believe that once I track down this lady, all will become clear.”
Wilks firmly shook my hand. “If I discover anything more, I will send word.” His grip tightened. “I feel it only fair to warn you that if I discover youdidmurder young Master Bickley, I will go straight to the magistrate.”
“I would expect no less.” I gave Wilks a nod as he released me. “I would do the same.”
* * *
