Free Rosemary Stevens by Murder in the Pleasure Gardens

Count implored in his high-pitched voice. “I’ll stand on the pianoforte bench and turn the pages for Lord Perry to play while you sing.”
    Unwilling to witness such a scene, I took my leave and went home in a thoughtful mood.
    Chakkri was lying in the exact centre of my bed when I arrived, one brown velvet paw flung over his eyes.
    My last thoughts that night before falling asleep were of Nevill alone in his cell. While I could only be happy that he was alone and not suffering at the hands of his fellow inmates, I felt a rising apprehension at the swiftness at which matters were progressing.
    Would I be able to find anyone else in London who would want to see Theobald Jacombe dead before the hangman’s noose claimed the life of the young soldier?
    * * * *
    Wednesday afternoon I decided to pay a call at the Haven of Hope. My purpose was twofold: I wanted to see Molly, to find out how she was getting on and whether or not she remembered anything new about the figure she and the lieutenant saw behind the Cascade. The figure of the murderer.
    Secondly, I wished to see Miss Lavender, to determine whether I could elicit information from her as to Bow Street’s findings. Specifically what her father knew about the operator of the Cascade.
    This second task I was none too sure of accomplishing. Miss Lavender is careful to stay out of her father’s dealings as much as possible. She can be quite tight-lipped when it comes to Bow Street matters.
    The day was pleasantly warm with the sun shining, as I traveled in my sedan-chair to Covent Garden. Ned and Ted were in a cheerful mood, having breakfasted that morning on their mother’s cooking. I expected that soon I would have to have a talk with Andre to make sure the French chef did not feel his territory invaded by the countrywoman.
    Telling Ned and Ted to wait outside the Haven of Hope, I knocked on the door to the shelter.
    Lionel opened the door to me. “Mr. Brummell, sir. Come on in.”
    “Glad of some male company, are you, Lion?”
    He chuckled. “That’s for sure. Bein’ round females all the time makes my ‘ead ache sometimes.”
    “Where are Molly and Miss Lavender?”
    “Back in the kitchens. I’ll let ‘em know yer ‘ere.”
    “No, I shall not disturb their work by having them entertain me in the sitting room. Are the other girls at their lessons?”
    “Yes. That’s where I’m supposed to be, too.”
    “Well, you had better go then. You would not want Miss Lavender to be cross with you.”
    “Before I go, there’s one thing,” Lionel said hesitantly.
    I was immediately alert to the change in his mood. “And what is that, Lion?”
    “It’s Miss Lavender. She’s not been ‘erself since what ‘appened at the Cascade.”
    “In what way?”
    Lionel scratched his head. “It’s ‘ard to say. She just seems quiet and far-away like. When she does talk, it’s all about the murder of that Jacombe fella’.”
    “Hmmm. I shall see what I can find out. Thank you for telling me.”
    “I don’t like seein’ her this way.”
    “Nor do I. Try not to worry yourself over it.”
    I saw Lionel into the room in front of the house where the girls took their lessons. I considered the boy’s words, remembering how Miss Lavender had indeed behaved in a manner quite unlike herself that night at Vauxhall. But who among us could be themselves had they just witnessed a dead body coming over a waterfall?
    I wandered to the back of the house and found myself standing in a modest kitchen, watching Miss Lavender peel carrots for her special stew I imagined. Molly was kneading bread dough. This domestic scene was marred only by the talk of murder.
    “Mr. Brummell, have you seen Nicky?” Molly asked upon seeing me enter.
    “Yes, I have. He has his own private cell now and is doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
    “A private cell? How could he pay—Oh, you must have done that for him, Mr. Brummell! Thank you,” Molly said.
    Miss Lavender