I gave him an inquiring look. Eggleston only stared.
"You must have argued with him long," I continued. "Perhaps he agreed to keep silent, perhaps he did not. You must have known some secret Westin desperately did not want revealed, but perhaps Westin had decided he would rather humiliate himself then let you get away with murder. I imagine Breckenridge was not satisfied, in any event. I think it was he who actually murdered Colonel Westin. Just as he murdered Spinnet at Badajoz, and shot Captain Spencer."
Eggleston nodded readily. "He did. He killed Spinnet because he knew Spinnet would forever block his way to promotion."
I gave him a hard look. "The plan was yours. It smacks of the kind of sneaking subterfuge you would dream of. You advised him not to challenge Spinnet directly, oh no. Instead, take away a good man's life and hide it in the chaos of the destruction around you. What was one more death in the Peninsula campaign, after all?"
Eggleston put his hands to his face. "It was not like that. We saw an opportunity. That is all."
"Which you urged Breckenridge to take. Did you urge him on to kill Westin?"
"No, no. Breckenridge decided that himself. Westin refused to listen to us. He vowed he would reveal all. When he turned away, Breckenridge took out a stiletto and pressed it right into Westin's neck. He died at once. Went down in a heap."
"So," I continued. "You tucked him up in bed, rejoicing that so little blood had been shed to give things away, and let yourself out of the house."
Eggleston's throat worked. "Yes. That was it."
I wanted to rise from the chair and kick him, but I was too tired. My melancholia danced just beyond my vision.
"The death of Westin must have upset you greatly," I said. "Soldiers dying at Badajoz was one thing, but I think you realized after Westin's death that Breckenridge was a cold-blooded killer. You were a witness; who knew when he might turn on you? So you sought the comfort of your lover. Jack probably advised you to leave everything to him." I paused. "He killed Breckenridge, did he not?"
"He did," Eggleston whispered. "To protect me."
The knowledge that I had been right all along comforted me little. "Sharp must have killed Breckenridge somewhere in the garden. Perhaps you had not known he would do it right then. You decided it best to make his death seem an accident, a riding accident-Breckenridge was so fond of rides at ungodly hours of the morning. I doubt you were prepared to handle the body, so Sharp did it all, am I right? He must have, because you would not have made the mistakes he did. He saddled Breckenridge's horse, using the saddle I'd left, not realizing that a cavalryman who took the trouble to travel with his own saddle would certainly use it. He put my coat on Breckenridge's body…" I paused. "I confess, I do not know why he should, or why Breckenridge was in shirtsleeves at all."
Eggleston flinched. "They were boxing. In the garden. Sharp offered to show Breckenridge exactly how he'd been felled by that farmer's lad. Breckenridge took off his coat." He swallowed. "I could not find it in the dark."
Grenville sucked in a breath. "Good lord. So Sharp must have found Lacey's coat and put it on him. He reasoned one gentleman's coat was as good as another."
"I thought it so amusing," Eggleston said. "Breckenridge was so careful about his clothes. And to be caught dead in a shabby coat several years out of date… " He wheezed a little and tears leaked from his eyes. "I laughed so."
I did not find it in the least amusing. The sniveling little twit deserved to have John Spencer lay him out.
Grenville still looked puzzled. "But Major Connaught," he said. "He died peacefully. Or seemed to."
Eggleston shook his head fervently. "We had nothing to do with that. He really did die in his sleep. That was a bit of luck." He eyed us with the smugness of one who was at least innocent of something.
"No," I corrected softly. "Your luck changed when he died. His death renewed my interest in deciphering the truth. And I found it. Colonel Spinnet was the key."
John Spencer cleared his throat. His eyes were red with grief, his hair tangled where he'd raked it. "What about my brother? Why did you kill him?"
Eggleston met his gaze with something like defiance. "He was spying on us," he repeated.
"He must have worked out the truth," I said. "And came here to confront you. He was just as grieved as his brother, even if he kept it quiet. You are not blameless in his death."
"But I killed no one," Eggleston protested. "Jack and Breckenridge did it all."
From the fireside carpet, Brandon opened his eyes. "You were an accomplice to five murders. You will definitely hang for that, my friend."
His brisk, matter-of-fact voice seemed to penetrate Eggleston's haze of denials. His eyes widened. Then the gentleman who had sneered at my clothes and dismissed me as less than nothing, went slack-kneed and fainted.
Lord Richard Eggleston's trial was held a few weeks later. His brother, the Marquis of Hungerford, protested on the strongest terms, but there had been no denying that Eggleston had, at the very least, shot at me, Brandon, and Grenville, and had been party to Kenneth Spencer's murder. Grenville's word on this counted for much. The marquis, however, pointed out that we could produce no concrete evidence that Eggleston had been present at the deaths of Breckenridge or Westin. In the end, the Lord Chief Justice and the marquis made an agreement that if Eggleston wrote out a confession, explaining all, he could commute his sentence to transportation.
So Eggleston's argument that he had not actually murdered any of these gentlemen won out. He wrote the confession and signed it, and was taken to Newgate to await passage on a ship to New South Wales. I had no doubt that his wealthy brother had ensured he'd have a fine room in the jail with servants and wine and food. Such were the wheels of justice for the privileged.
Lady Richard, his child wife, I learned later through Louisa, had gone to the north of England to live with the marquis and his wife.
After the sensational trial, the journalists turned to other fodder. Pomeroy had discovered the bodies of two women in a cellar in Islington and arrested the gentleman who had married, then murdered, them. He was quite pleased with himself, and the journalists, Billings included, lauded him.
Louisa Brandon returned home after I dragged her husband back from Hertfordshire with his leg in splints. She had nearly flown from the carriage that had deposited her at her front door, and rushed to her husband’s bed with rage and fear in her eyes. I walked away from their reunion and closed the door on their rising voices. I did not see or hear from either of them for a long time after that.
Bartholomew recovered from his gunshot wounds, though for a long time he limped from the bullet that had pierced his leg. Grenville had spared no expense on surgeons and doctors, and the lad had lived like a prince while he convalesced. He was young and strong and brave-hearted, and he recovered quickly.
August slipped into September. The days at last cooled, and the evenings became crisp. Grenville talked of going to the country to go hunting. He invited me along, but I’d had enough of country houses. The vice of the city at least wore a face I could recognize.
In mid-September, long after I’d believed Lydia Westin must have quit Town herself, she sent for me.
William greeted me with subdued wariness. He led me in silence to the upstairs room with the pianoforte and Lydia's portrait. He ushered me in, then took the double doors one in each hand and backed out, closing us in, leaving us alone.
Lydia sat on a damask chair, her hands in her lap. She avoided my gaze as I entered. She had given up mourning black, and wore a gray high-necked and long-sleeved gown trimmed with lighter gray. The costume did not become her; her face was too pale for it, though it made her midnight blue eyes bluer still.