At about midnight, after supper had finished and dancing had recommenced, Mr. Turner had been found dead in a small anteroom, alone.
"What about the weapon?" I asked.
For answer, Pomeroy held up a knife. It was slim and utilitarian, with a plain handle, unmarked. I'd had one much like it in the army and regretted its loss when I wagered it away in a game of cards.
Pomeroy laid it carefully on Mr. Turner's chest.
"Belongs to one Colonel Aloysius Brandon," he said.
I stared at it in sudden shock, then back at Pomeroy.
"I am afraid so, sir," he said. "He admitted the knife was his, but has no idea how it came to be a-sticking out of the chest of Mr. Turner."
I at last understood why Pomeroy had so urgently sent for me. Colonel Brandon had been my commanding officer during the recent Peninsular War. He'd also at one time been my mentor, and my friend.
Currently, Brandon was my enemy. His actions had ended my career as a cavalry officer and brought me back to London tired and defeated.
"And where is Colonel Brandon now?" I asked tersely.
"At Bow Street. I sent him off with my patroller. He'll face the magistrate tomorrow."
Like a common criminal, I thought. The magistrate would examine him and decide whether there was enough evidence to hold him for trial.
I studied the knife. Nothing remarkable about it except that it had belonged to Colonel Brandon.
"Did Brandon offer any explanation as to how the knife got there?" I asked.
Pomeroy rocked on his heels. "None whatsoever. Our colonel looked blank, said he didn't do it, and that I should take him at his word." He cocked his head. "Now what kind of Runner would I be if I believed every criminal what told me that?"
I could imagine Brandon, his back straight, his blue eyes chill, telling Pomeroy that his word should be enough to clear him of a charge of murder. He had likely marched off with the patroller, head high, indignation pouring from every inch of him.
"That the knife belongs to Brandon does not mean that he stabbed Turner," I pointed out. "Colonel Brandon could have used the knife at any time this evening--to pare an apple or some other thing. He might have laid down the knife, and anyone might have picked it up."
Pomeroy tapped the side of his nose. "Ah, but the good colonel said that was nonsense. Said he never remembered taking the knife out of his pocket. Or so he said."
I hid a sigh. It was typical of Brandon to make everything worse with heated protests. He would expect Pomeroy to simply obey him, as though we still stood on the battlefields where he told us where to ride and who to shoot.
But it was three years since we'd left Spain, Napoleon had been defeated, and Brandon and Pomeroy and I were now civilians. Brandon, with a large private income, lived in a rather opulent house on Brook Street, and I, with no private income, lived in rooms over a bake shop near Covent Garden.
Even so, Pomeroy's instant acceptance that Brandon had stabbed this young man through his so elegant suit irritated me. Pomeroy liked solutions to be simple.
"I do not ever remember Brandon mentioning having acquaintance with Mr. Turner," I said. "He does not look like the sort of young man Brandon would even consider speaking to."
"True, the colonel did not know Mr. Turner, he says. I believe him, for the reasons you give. But he didn't have to know him, did he? Turner was annoying the colonel's paramour, and the colonel killed him in a fit of jealousy."
I stared at Pomeroy in abject astonishment. "Paramour?"
The Colonel Brandon I knew would never have anything so common as a paramour.
Pomeroy nodded. "A woman named Mrs. Harper, Christian name, Imogene. According to guests at the ball, Colonel Brandon became angry at Mr. Turner's pursuit of Mrs. Harper and threatened to kill him."
I stood still in incredulity. Brandon in a temper might call out a man who behaved badly to a lady, but what Pomeroy said was unbelievable.
"Sergeant," I said. "You are speaking of Colonel Aloysius Brandon. He does not have a paramour. He never did. He is the most moral and faithful husband a wife could have. He is tiresome about it. The idea that he murdered a rival lover in a fit of jealousy is beyond absurd."
Pomeroy held up his forefinger. "And yet, not a few witnesses put him walking off alone with her several times during the evening, never mind escorting her in to supper, and these same witnesses say they overheard quarrels between himself and Mr. Turner about Mrs. Harper. Besides," Pomeroy played his trump card. "Colonel Brandon admitted to me that Imogene Harper was his mistress."
