Page 9 of Deadly Murder (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #14)

Six

“What did ye see?” Brodie asked Lily, as we gathered in the first-floor library at Marlborough House.

It was well past midnight, and needless to say, the birthday celebration for the Prince of Wales had taken a deadly turn.

Most of the guests had departed, their drivers crowding the courtyard at the main entrance as word reached them.

A physician had been summoned, but there was nothing to be done for the poor young man who had tragically fallen over the balustrade of the stairway from the second floor. A “dreadful accident” the guests whispered among themselves as they departed.

A police van had arrived and taken the young man’s body to a private mortuary.

The Prince of Wales stood with a hand on the shoulder of his old friend, Sir Huntingdon, who sat at a table, his head hung in disbelief; Lady Huntingdon in the private drawing room, currently being attended by the physician.

“I don’t understand.” Sir Huntingdon looked up at the man he’d known since their university days who would one day be king. The barriers had been dropped with the horrific event of the evening.

Brodie and I had been asked to join the Prince of Wales and Sir Huntingdon in the library, along with Lily and Munro. I looked over at Lily. She sat quietly at a side table in the library with Munro nearby.

She had shown amazing composure when Munro had escorted her back to Marlborough House after that encounter near the stables.

In the chaos and horror among the guests, it did seem that she was the one person who had gotten a good look at the man who assaulted young Huntingdon.

“An accident?” Sir Huntingdon exclaimed, incredulous, his voice breaking. “How could this happen?”

He shook his head, his hand resting on the note with that chilling message that was found inside his son’s coat:

And then there was one…

“Young Salisbery, and now this? What does it mean?” he asked with the grief of a father who has just lost a son, still unable to comprehend what had happened.

I saw the look that passed between Brodie and the Prince of Wales.

“There are matters to be discussed,” his Highness replied with the familiarity of a long-time friend.

“However, not tonight,” he added. “You must see to your wife. Take her home. We will speak of this tomorrow.”

Not precisely an order to be obeyed, but most definitely not a conversation they would have now. Prince Edward nodded to Sir Knollys.

“You will please escort Sir Huntingdon so that he may join Lady Huntingdon, and you will inform the Royal Guard that they are needed immediately.”

In that way that Sir Knollys had served the Prince of Wales for some time, it was obvious that Sir Huntingdon and his wife were to have protection as they returned home.

After they left, His Highness turned once more to Brodie and me.

“I will send word to Lord Salisbery. For now, it is best that the other guests believe that it was an accident.”

Brodie informed His Highness what we had learned so far, which was very little. However, two deaths in a matter of weeks? That first note and now another one?

Coincidence? Hardly, I thought. There could be no doubt that it was murder.

Obviously the two incidents were connected. But how? And what did it mean?

“It would seem, yer Highness, that young Salisbery’s death was not due to robbery. Yet there is little to go on to find who is behind this.” He picked up the note from the table.

And then there was one…

“Do ye know the meaning of it?”

“I have no idea…”

I caught the slight change in Brodie’s manner. He didn’t believe him. Neither did I.

“We canna help, sir, unless ye tell us everything ye may know of the matter. We would be wasting our time and yers. But I will tell ye this from experience, the person who wrote that note will not stop.”

Strong words, perhaps stronger than most would dare use with His Highness.

“I will take the note and add it to wot we already know, but we should meet again tomorrow,” Brodie continued.

The Prince of Wales nodded, his face heavily lined with exhaustion and the horror of the evening’s events.

“You are right of course, Mr. Brodie. It should be in private, if possible, to avoid the newspapers learning of it. I will have Sir Knollys send round a message.”

Aunt Antonia’s driver, Mr. Hastings had taken her home earlier. He had returned and waited with the coach and four in the courtyard, along with her second driver.

He stepped down from atop the coach and waited until we had all stepped inside, then latched the door and climbed atop once more with instructions to take Brodie and me to the townhouse in Mayfair and then return to Sussex Square with Lily and Munro.

The coach lurched away from the entrance, then across the courtyard, and onto the roadway at the edge of St. James’s Park.

“It was no accident.” Lily repeated what she had told me earlier. “I know what I saw. That man pushed that young man over the railing.”

“I believe ye, lass,” Brodie replied through the shadows inside the coach. “It would seem there is more His Highness hasn’t told us.”

We rose early the next morning and immediately went to the office on The Strand.

Lily and Munro had returned to Sussex Square after leaving Mayfair the night before. Brodie had asked her to join us at the office this morning to share anything else she might remember from the events of the previous evening.

We had learned before parting that Munro had seen the shadowy figure of a man hurrying toward the queue of coaches but thought it one of the guests leaving the festivities, as several others had already.

He discovered that it was not one of the guests when he encountered Lily. He did seem a bit put off by that as he explained it.

Suddenly overcome with laughter, I had smothered it back in light of the evening’s dreadful turn until my eyes watered at the image of Munro overcome by Lily who weighed no more than seven stone.

“I dropped ye on yer arse, when ye came from behind me,” she clarified so there was no misunderstanding. “Ye’re lucky I didn’t use the knife on ye,” she added.

“A cake knife?” he replied, indignant, and made one of those typical Scottish sounds, not exactly a word, however the meaning quite clear.

“Perhaps ye remember something about the man that could be useful,” Brodie suggested as Lily now sat across from me at my desk. My notebook was opened before me.

“Was he tall?” Brodie inquired. She shook her head.

“Not as tall as yerself or Mr. Munro.” She was thoughtful. “Shorter than ye.” She told me.

“Do ye remember the color of his hair or eyes?”

“His hair was brown, overlong at his collar and curled up. His eyes were grey.”

“Are ye certain?”

She nodded. “I was as close as I am to Mikaela. He turned, surprised that I was there. There was an odd look in his eyes.” She thought about that. “Almost sad. But his expression was… Not angry, but something.”

Sad. That seemed odd to me, as well.

“What else do ye remember?” Brodie asked.

“His face was square,” she continued. “He had a high forehead and there was blood on his cheek as if that young man might have struck him.”

“What sort of clothes was he wearing?” I asked.

“A plain coat and trousers, black, with a jumper under.”

I looked over at Brodie with some surprise.

“What age do you think he might be?” I then asked.

This was always more difficult, depending on a person’s circumstances.

“Perhaps forty years of age.”

She was amazingly observant under very difficult circumstances. However, I shouldn’t have been surprised. One of her tutors explained that she had memorized entire passages of text in her studies.

“Don’t ye want to know about the man’s limp?” Lily then asked.

A limp? I think we both must have stared at her in surprise.

“His left leg. When he ran, he sort of hopped across the green.” She described the man, as best she could, considering it was dark and the green behind Marlborough House only lit by streetlights along the perimeter.

Afterward, we ate luncheon at the Public House to Miss Effie’s delight. She had become quite fond of Lily. And we learned that she and Mr. Cavendish were planning a Christmas wedding at All Saint’s Church.

“In the small chapel,” she clarified, giddy as a schoolgirl. “And thanks to you for puttin’ in a word for us with the vicar.”

It was a reminder that I had promised that Brodie and I would stand up for them for the ceremony.

“I’ve been thinking,” I told Brodie as we returned to the office after midday meal. “Linnie is quite good with charcoal and paper. She always sketches out her paintings before she begins a painting. She might be able to create a drawing of the man from Lily’s description.”

“It could be useful,” he agreed.

My sister had moved from the house at St. James’s after her divorce, a sad affair, and I had been concerned she might simply retreat into her paintings and not wed again.

I had introduced her to my publisher, James Warren, after the release of one of my “Emma books.” Then, while off on a recent case with Brodie, my great aunt informed me that there was “something going on there” between them.

“Thick as thieves,” she’d explained. “Whenever I call to invite her to Sussex Square, she is not available. And then one of her servants mentioned Mr. Warren’s name. Scandalous so soon after her divorce,” Aunt Antonia declared with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

They were wed shortly thereafter, and my niece, Catherine, with all that red hair, was born a scant eight months later.

Scandal, scandal!

As if that was the first time something like that had ever happened among the ton of London society.

I was thrilled for my sister. Not only was she in love and now had a family of her own, but James had encouraged her to return to her painting, which she had previously been forced to give up.

We had traveled together for her Paris exhibit shortly before Catherine was born. I emphasize the word “shortly,” as she gave birth to her less than a day after our return to London.