“Certainly, I know where he was staying, but it will do you no good. He left for Dover after the auction yesterday. He was due to sail home to Siam this morning.”
I groaned aloud.
“What is it, Brummell? I confess I was rather surprised you did not attend the auction. Mr. Kiang did get the Perronneau painting you wanted, but I was able to obtain my lute. Petersham almost fell into strong convulsions when
Mr. Kiang outbid him on a snuff box. And after he ventured out of doors early to bid, too.”
I shook my head sadly, imagining Petersham’s remorse over losing the snuff box. I hoped he would not go into a decline. To answer Perry’s question, I said, “It was not convenient for me to attend the auction, after all.”
I avoided telling him the whole story. It was not that I do not trust him, because I do. It is simply that I have no inclination to discuss Freddie’s visit or her request of me to investigate Lady Wrayburn’s murder. A gentleman does not gossip about a lady for whom he cares.
“What did you want to see Kiang about, Brummell?”
“Mr. Kiang left me a gift and I wish to return it.”
Perry’s face registered astonishment. “He left you a gift?”
“Yes, and a devil of a gift. A cat.”
“What?” Perry exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair. “Why would he do that?”
I outlined Mr. Kiang’s note and ended by saying, “The cat is a beautiful creature, but sure to turn my household on end.”
“Robinson threatening to present himself at Petersham’s doorstep again?” At my nod, Perry said, “Really, Brummell, he is forever saying he will leave but never does. Seems his way of winning an argument.”
“Dash it all if you do not have the right of it,” I said, wondering why I had not realized Robinson was bluffing and why I still did not think I could bring myself to call the bluff.
“About the cat, something to consider is that in quite a few of these foreign countries to refuse a gift is a high insult. And if, as you say, the animal is rare, news of your giving it away might eventually reach Mr. Kiang’s ears even in Siam.”
Perry had a good point. I thanked him, and after a few minutes, I made my way out of the club, slipping some coins into Delbert’s hand after he handed me my belongings.
Outside, all appeared quiet in my sedan-chair. I gave the order for home, determined to consider my next move on the way. On the seat next to me, there was a stirring in the wicker basket. Slowly, the lid rose and a wedge-shaped brown face appeared. Chakkri sniffed the air and looked toward the window. He yawned at the sight of the London streets. Then he gracefully hopped out of the basket onto the satin seat.
I braced myself for what I was sure would come next. It has been my observation that most cats like to exercise their claws after sleeping. I pictured taking the sedan-chair back to Mr. Griffin, the satin seats in shreds.
But it was not to be. The instant Chakkri’s paws made contact with the satin, he lowered his nose and began his sniffing routine. Then he promptly dropped to his side and began rolling and twisting on his back, showing every evidence of ecstasy at the feel of the smooth satin. Not once did his claws so much as nick the fabric.
I sat stunned. Here was an animal that seemed to appreciate the finer things in life. You think me mad? Only remember the care he took with the crystal and the Sèvres plate. Why, he actually purred after sniffing the Sèvres!
He slipped off the satin seat and landed on the white fur rug at my feet. Immediately he repeated his joyous writhing on the soft fur.
This was no ordinary feline, I tell you. And the little fellow was immaculate—no disease ridden varmint like Robinson had theorized. I judged his fur was softer than the rug on the floor. I remember thinking it was the softest fur I had ever beheld when I picked him up earlier.
Suddenly I remembered what Mr. Kiang had said in his letter. How he chose Chakkri for me because his disposition reminded him of me. Was Chakkri’s appreciation for beauty and quality the trait Mr. Kiang meant?
No, that was silly. I disregarded Mr. Kiang’s remark and gazed down at the animal on the rug. He lay on his back in a position which begged me to rub his stomach. You know a dog or cat does not offer an exposed belly to pet to just anyone. I reached down tentatively and stroked his soft fur. He began to purr.
Really, when I thought it over, Chakkri would pose no problem to my establishment. He would be content with inexpensive fishheads from the local market to eat. A small box of sand would take care of his most personal needs. And it would be a novelty to own such a unique animal. I would be the only person in England to own a Siamese cat.
Besides which, it was my duty to my country not to strain relations between England and Siam by giving the little fellow away. Who knows, Mr. Kiang might one day return to England and demand a progress report on Chakkri’s life.
My mind was made up. I prepared to face Robinson and determined I would not argue further with him on the subject. I would call his bluff on taking employment with Petersham if I needed to. Then, I would see Chakkri settled and pay an afternoon call on Wrayburn House. I did not want to postpone interviewing the family members any longer.
The vehicle halted in Bruton Street. I placed Chakkri in his basket. “Welcome to the Brummell household, Chakkri. Continue on your best behavior, and I daresay we shall rub along together well enough.”
I thought I caught a smug expression on his face.
I probably imagined it.
Chapter Eight
After his initial shock at seeing me return home with Chakkri in tow, Robinson grudgingly agreed to my arguments that the cat remain with us. Added to my persuasion, a lavish increase in his wages, one which would enable him to indulge his passion for collecting Derby china, helped my valet reach this positive decision. Still, I knew he viewed the cat as trouble.
I left Robinson searching for a container he could fill with sand to meet the cat’s private needs; a task he took great exception to until reminded of his newly acquired funds.
Downstairs, the men from the Porter & Pole were waiting for me to give the signal to depart. As I entered the sedan-chair, the thought crossed my mind that it would grow devilishly inconvenient for me to have to send round for two men every time I wished to venture beyond my own four walls. In addition, the men sent were strong enough, but hardly clean.
The solution would be for me to employ my own servants, but I shuddered at the expense, which I felt could be better spent on wine, Sèvres, clothing, or wagered at White’s. Although I must say I have been sadly unlucky at gaming recently.
A short time later, when I arrived at Wrayburn House, I noticed a burly man lingering by the front door. Inside, the morose Riddell silently led me to the same dreary drawing room I had been in on my previous visit.
There, Miss Ashton and The Reverend Mr. Dawlish sat together on the brown settee. The rector had seated himself close to the young woman and appeared to be speaking to her with great passion.
“... protection of my name,” were the only words I caught before Miss Ashton saw me and their conversation ceased.
“Mr. Brummell,” she cried, rising to greet me, the skirts of her black bombazine gown rustling. Her expression led me to believe she perceived my arrival with some measure of relief. “How good of you to come. I must speak with you. Oh! Where are my manners? May I introduce Mr. Dawlish?”
I bowed to her, observing the lines of worry creasing her ivory brow. “Here I am as promised, Miss Ashton. And I have already met the rector at Lord Perry’s musical evening. Good afternoon, Mr. Dawlish.”
Like Miss Ashton, the rector was dressed in black, making me feel a bluebird in a nest of crows. He had risen from the settee with obvious reluctance. Perhaps he did not appreciate his privacy with Miss Ashton being interrupted.
“Mr. Brummell,” the rector said. “I fear I’ll not be able to enjoy music—nay,
any
of the delights God has given us here on earth—until this dreadful business unjustly involving Miss Ashton has been put behind us.”
I raised a brow at this speech. Miss Ashton colored a bit, the pink serving to emphasize her pallor. Dark smudges under her eyes implied she had slept poorly the night before. I wondered if she had seen the article in the
Morning Post
. It would be enough to keep her awake.
She did not look like she appreciated Mr. Dawlish’s cloying attention either. Remembering Perry’s comment that there was a romance between the rector and Miss Ashton, I reflected that it might be one-sided. Freddie had told me Miss Ashton shunned the married state. Like the proverbial leopard, the independent Miss Ashton did not appear likely to change her spots.
“I was not aware you were acquainted with Mr. Brummell,” the rector said to her. His manner implied he resented her keeping this deep, dark secret from him.
“The Duchess of York introduced us,” Miss Ashton answered repressively. “Shall we all sit down? I confess I am awfully glad you are here, Mr. Brummell.”
She and Mr. Dawlish resumed their places on the settee. After declining her hasty offer of tea, I took a place in an armchair across from them. “Miss Ashton, tell me what has happened. Has there been a further development in the investigation?”
To my exasperation, Mr. Dawlish seemed determined to control the conversation.
“You will forgive us if we are not very entertaining company, Mr. Brummell. I fear we have serious matters to contemplate this afternoon,” the rector said in his best pious tone.
Although he had spoken to me politely enough, disapproval at my association with Miss Ashton radiated from him. I could not think what I had done in our brief meeting at Perry’s house to earn his censure, so I gathered it must be my reputation which had put him off. Remember, I am known to be a foolish dandy. I reflected that a man of the cloth could not be expected to hold a man of clothing in high regard.
If Mr. Dawlish was intent on keeping me out of Miss Ashton’s troubles, I would have to let him know I was bent on assisting her. There was my promise to Freddie to be considered, and even if I were to be released from it, I found that I genuinely wished to do whatever I could to help the girl. Heightening my resolve was that cursed article in the newspaper. By their deplorable lack of decency, the
Morning Post
had cast doubt upon Freddie’s reputation. And that I could not have.
I settled my gaze on Miss Ashton. “I hope you know I did not come here to be entertained,” I told her candidly. “What has upset you? Have you had another visit from the Bow Street investigator?”
“Not a visit, at least not yet. I have had a distressing note from Mr. Lavender. In it, he says he will be calling on me later today to discuss some new evidence that has come to light regarding Lady Wrayburn’s murder.” Miss Ashton struggled to maintain her composure. “He said I was not to leave Wrayburn House! He has actually positioned a guard outside.”
I remembered the loutish fellow I had seen outside upon my arrival.
Mr. Dawlish patted Miss Ashton’s hand and turned a dark look on me. “Mr. Brummell, I cannot help but feel this is an inappropriate time for an afternoon call. You can see Miss Ashton is not in any fit state to receive admirers.”
What one could see was that Mr. Dawlish had an overly-loving relationship with the pomade jar. Truly, you could view your reflection in his hair.
“I agree with you completely, Mr. Dawlish. I am the only
Beau
she needs to see, since I am the one wishing to help her by discovering who really poisoned Lady Wrayburn’s milk,” I told him pleasantly enough.
Mr. Dawlish folded his arms across his chest.
I smiled at Miss Ashton and attempted a bit of levity. “You must use the excuse of not being able to leave the house to commission your friends to execute your errands. What may I bring you? A pastry from Gunter’s? A book from Hatchard’s?”
Miss Ashton’s expression eased a bit. “Mr. Brummell, you are kind. There is nothing I need, though, except perhaps a new journal.”
“A journal?”
“Yes, you will think me the veriest peagoose, but I have misplaced my journal. I am afraid I am one of those creatures who likes to record her daily activities no matter how mundane.”
“I see nothing wrong with keeping a journal, Miss Ashton. I have been known to keep one myself. Life is fleeting after all, and it can be comforting to record its trials and tribulations as well as its joys,” I said.
“Exactly,” Miss Ashton concurred. “I always leave my journal in the desk drawer in my room, but now I find it has disappeared. In the confusion of the past few days I must have put it down somewhere else, although I cannot remember where.”
A disturbing thought occurred to me. “In his note, did
Mr. Lavender mention what this new evidence he has might be?”
“Why, no. He merely said some new evidence had come to light.” Miss Ashton pressed her fingers to her temples. “I cannot think what it might be.”
Mr. Dawlish had sat by quietly long enough. “Miss Ashton, why do you not go upstairs and lie down for a while. I am persuaded you have a headache coming on and would be the better for some rest.”
“Perhaps I shall, later.”
I hesitated, not liking to upset her further, but I saw no choice. “Miss Ashton, you say you like to record your daily activities in your journal.”
“Well, yes,” she answered, puzzled that we were back to the topic of her journal.
“It would only be natural to also include your feelings about places you have been, people you know. Did you do so in your journal?”
“Yes, I did. Sometimes, writing about my feelings helped me sort them out.”
“That is understandable. You must have written often about Lady Wrayburn.”
Miss Ashton suddenly sat very still. Her eyes met mine, and I hope the sympathy I felt for her showed.
“See here,” Mr. Dawlish said. “This conversation grows tiresome.”
“On the contrary,” I said. “Now, Miss Ashton, you must not feel ashamed about anything you wrote in your journal. Lady Wrayburn was a ... difficult employer, I have no doubt. Concentrate on the members of this household. Who here would like to see you charged with the murder of the countess enough to turn your journal over to the Bow Street investigators?”