Free Rosemary Stevens by Murder in the Pleasure Gardens Page B

would not normally induce her to talk about Bow Street matters. Why was she so forthcoming now? Not that I am complaining, mind you. Merely curious.
    She chattered on. “Father says he and Mr. Read are sorry for the young soldier, but believe him guilty. Both Father and your man, Robinson, saw the lieutenant holding the murder weapon. The gun was a common pocket pistol of no particular distinction, so worn that the maker’s name was illegible.”
    “The kind that could be purchased anywhere.”
    “Yes. But Bow Street thinks the lieutenant is the one, and that he acted out of passion. I tried to talk to Father, but he won’t listen to me, and it just turned into a big argument. Mr. Brummell, we have to do something to help Lieutenant Nevill. What is your next move?”
    We?
    She argued with her father over the case?
    She wanted to help me in the investigation?
    “Well, Miss Lavender, I own I am grateful for your help. I cannot think what to do, other than find out as much as possible about Theobald Jacombe in hopes that we might uncover an enemy.”
    Miss Lavender studied the carrots intently. “Perhaps he had several enemies.”
    “All the better. But who were they? Were they at Vauxhall Monday night? We need facts.”
    She looked up at me, a flicker of light in her green eyes. “What can I do? I don’t believe the lieutenant killed Jacombe, and I must learn who did. I must know .”
    I stared at her. What was going on here? Why was Miss Lavender suddenly not content to let her father handle Bow Street work? Why was she so passionate about finding out who the killer was? Was it all to do with Molly and the lieutenant, or was something else going on?
    Behind us in the hall, the door to the teaching-room opened and girls spilled out, laughing and talking. There was no further opportunity for conversation.
    Reluctantly, I left the Haven of Hope, but not before noting the deep circles under Miss Lavender’s eyes and the way her hands shook before she rubbed them clean on her apron.
     

Chapter Eleven
     
    On my way to the Jacombe residence, I thought of Miss Lavender’s peculiar behaviour. First at Vauxhall, now at her shelter. Clearly the murder had affected my friend deeply. But why? From the time she had overheard Mr. Nevill talk about her shelter—and mention of Mr. Jacombe’s name, I suddenly realised—through the ugly scene at Vauxhall and now at her shelter, Miss Lavender had not behaved like herself. She is a strong, independent woman, yet, in the face of these events, she had become withdrawn. Now she seemed almost obsessed with the killing. Even Lion had noticed.
    I needed more time to draw her out, but at present, I wanted to pay a call on the new widow.
    The Jacombe’s house off Portman Square was distinguishable by the black hatchment over the door. When I knocked, the portal was opened by a butler wearing a black armband. After giving him my card and asking for the mistress of the house, I was taken past a gleaming hall and into a pristine sitting-room. This room was reserved, I presumed, for guests waiting to be shown abovestairs to the drawing room.
    I admired the green-and-ivory decorated room, which contained lovely pieces of furniture in the Chippendale style. Two green-and-ivory-striped chairs faced a green sofa. Oil paintings and a large gilt-framed mirror graced the walls. By the empty fireplace, pots of flowers stood.
    The door opened after a few minutes, and a woman entered. My first thought was that she was not Mrs. Jacombe, and that I knew her from somewhere. I could not think where. She was a woman of average height and very neat. Everything from her heavy black bombazine gown, with its ring of keys worn on a cord about her waist, to her plain brown hair, dusted with grey, labeled her as housekeeper.
    Perhaps that was why she seemed familiar. Because she looked like dozens of housekeepers I had seen before.
    “Mr. Brummell, how good of you to call. I am Mrs. Hargrove, the housekeeper,”