Let's Talk of Murder (18 page)

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“We’ll park the rig here and go on foot,” Coffen said, as Prance’s carriage approached the environs of the Morgate Home. The three went quietly slipping down the shadowed street, turned in at the two tall trees, their branches creaking in the wind. They turned the corner to the cobbled walk leading to the rear. By nine o’clock, it was pitch black, save for a thinly veiled moon, adrift on a pewter sea of trailing clouds. Only one light eased the dark hulk of the front of the building. When they reached the rear, several of the windows of the annex showed a lamp within.

“Looks like the girls are preening for another night out,” Coffen said.

“Which window is Fanny’s?” Corinne asked, craning her neck upwards.

“That one without a light,” he said, pointing to the third window from the right on the second floor of the annex. “It seems she ain’t going. I wonder if that’s by choice or Clare’s doings. One way to find out.”

With Prance’s assistance, he got the ladder up to Fanny’s window without bringing a servant to the back door. Prance and Corinne steadied the ladder while Coffen crept up. The window was closed and the curtains drawn. He tapped, there was no reply. He tapped again, and again, more loudly. When he still got no reply, he slid his fingers between the frame and the bottom of the window and heaved, grunting softly with the effort. It was hard to keep his balance, teetering on the ladder. Once he got the window open an inch he had no trouble. He wrapped his fingers around the frame and heaved it up.

He pulled the curtains apart, stuck his head in and called quietly, “Fanny! Don’t be afraid. It’s me. Pattle.” He was met with a dead silence.

His shoulders followed his head in, and soon he landed in a heap on the floor. He drew the curtains wide to gain a little light from the moon. As his eyes adjusted, he could see the bed was not only empty but had been stripped. It looked as if the whole room had been stripped. No feminine clutter of comb and brush and bottles decorated the dresser top. No linen in the drawers, no clothes in the clothespress. The only movable item in the room was the Bible, that sat on the bedside table.

Beyond the room, hurried footsteps and excited chatter sounded in the corridor as the girls prepared for going out. Their chatter was of the happy sort, interrupted with giggles, which didn’t sound as if they were being forced to do something they didn’t want to do. At least they were willing pawns in Clare’s sordid game. He rather thought Fanny would have been willing too, to judge by last night. So why had they moved her out of the annex?

He had a bad feeling about that. A little shiver ran up his spine, bristling the hair on the back of his neck. As there was nothing to discover here, he climbed out the window and back down the ladder.

“What did Fanny say?” Corinne asked.

“Tell you later. Let us be off, before we’re discovered,” he whispered.

They took down the ladder and walked back to the waiting carriage, huddling together against the brisk breeze. As they walked along, the carriage carrying the ladybirds to the house in Lambeth rumbled past. Echoes of merrymaking sounded from within. “There they go now,” Coffen said, “merry as grigs, poor things. Fanny’s gone.”

“Gone with the others in the carriage, you mean?” Prance asked.

“No, gone away. Her room’s empty. Your clothes are gone along with the rest, Corrie. No clues at all.”

“What, you mean they’ve moved her out of the annex?” Corinne exclaimed in rising alarm. “Where could she be?”

“I don’t know where they’ve moved her to, I only know she’s gone, bag and baggage. I wonder if she mentioned to anyone that I was quizzing her. I mean to say, maybe she got asking questions about Henry and Clare heard about it–”

Corinne gasped. “You mean– he– Surely he wouldn’t kill her!”

“Do you have one of your feelings?” Coffen asked in alarm. Corinne had had some luck in the past with seeing glimpses of the future. Her being Irish was held accountable for this feat. He placed some faith in her sensing of trouble.

“I didn’t, until you asked me.”

“Aren’t we overlooking more reasonable possibilities?” Prance said. “Isn’t it possible that Fanny decided to run off on her own? She’s an enterprising sort of girl, from what we know of her.”

“Where would a pregnant girl run to?” Coffen asked.

“Home, perhaps. She might have received forgiveness in a letter from home.”

“I don’t see her going home to face the scorn of her provincial neighbors,” Corinne said.

“Run off with some other man, then. Or perhaps Clare just removed her from the annex to the other part of the building. Surely that’s the more likely explanation.”

“I doubt they’d move her when she’s sick,” Coffen said. “Bruton said she was sick. Knew she was lying her head off.”

“We’ve got to find out where she is,” Corinne said firmly. Once Coffen put the notion of trouble in her head, it grew until she was trembling with apprehension.

“I’ll ask around at the whore house,” Coffen said. Prance cleared his throat to hint that this was broad talk to let loose on a lady. “In fact, I’m going there right now. You can leave me and take Corrie home, Prance. I’ll get a lift with some other fellow, or hire a hackney. I’m feeling nervous about this. Don’t want to waste any time.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Corinne asked. “If Clare is there, he might– I don’t know. He might decide to kill you as well.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Prance scolded. “You’re making each other nervous with this unfounded talk of killing.”

“You’re forgetting somebody did kill Fogg,” Corinne reminded him.

“Now you’re making my flesh crawl!” Prance complained. “We’ll drop you off at the house and wait for you in the carriage down the street a bit, Coffen.”

Coffen gave directions to the coachman, they climbed in and the carriage lurched forward. As it was Prance’s rig, it headed in the proper direction. “How long do you figure you’ll need, Coffen?”

“Depends on what I find out. I’ll be as fast as I can. I don’t mean to actually– I’ll pretend I don’t find any of the girls to my liking. Just walk in, have a glass of something wet, chat up a few of them and nip out again.”

“It might help if you act drunk,” Prance suggested.

“If Clare’s there, I will. A good idea, Prance. I’m surprised you came up with it.”

Prance prided himself on his ingenuity. “Surprised?”

“No slight intended. It’s just that your notions are usually more farfetched.”

“Perhaps I am rather imaginative. I remember once at Lady Silverton’s masquerade ball–”

Coffen gave the draw string a jerk. “I’ll be toddling along. I’ve heard your story about having Lady Silverton’s husband dress up like her lover at that masquerade ball. A nasty trick it was, too.”

“So you say, but nine months later she gave her
mari
a beautiful baby boy,”

“Yes, but who was its papa?”

“There’s no saying. She’s so clever all her lovers have the same size and coloring as her husband, which, of course, worked to advantage at the masquerade ball.”

The carriage pulled to the side of the road and ground to a stop. Coffen lumbered out and disappeared into the night.

Coffen’s first concern was to make sure Lord Clare wasn’t on the premises. He was met at the door by a man he had never seen before. The fellow was dressed like a gentleman in a decent dark jacket, but his speech and his greased hair and sycophantic face betrayed his true nature.

“Evening, sir,” the man said, running a practised eye over Pattle’s toilette, and discerning a gentleman beneath the rumpled exterior. “I’m Horner, the manager. Welcome to Paree.”

Coffen blinked and said, “Eh?”

“It’s French night. Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“We have a special night from time to time. Arabian night is popular. Might I ask who sent you, Mr. Smith?”

Again Coffen said “Eh?” Then he realized that all the callers were given the courtesy name of Mr. Smith, or perhaps Mr. Jones.

“Who put you on to the place?”

“Lord Clare. Is he here?”

“Not tonight.”

Coffen breathed a sigh of relief and muttered, “Pity.”

“A friend of his lordship, eh? Then you’re welcome, sir. Is it cards you’re after, or a bit of t’other?”

“Like to have a look about.”

“The girls are in the drawing room on the left. Every one a beauty. Young and eager to please. You’ll pass the card parlors on the way.”

“Thankee,” Coffen said and turned left.

He recognized some of the faces in the card rooms and knew a few of the men’s names. Well-known, even famous names. He dodged along quickly, not wanting to be recognized. At the end of the hall a curtain of some shimmering red material hung swaying in the breeze. He pushed it aside and peered into the room.

A miasma of perfume assailed his nostrils. The word harem that popped into his head was probably due to all the reclining women, because the place was actually rigged up like a smart saloon, with chandeliers, a good carpet and all the usual furnishings. But the chandeliers weren’t lit. The room was dimly illuminated by lamps in each corner. A fellow dressed up like a troubadour strolled about, playing a violin.

A closer look showed that in lieu of sofas, there were chaises longues on which the women reclined in seductive poses, some with a man in attendance, some alone. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, it gave him a bit of a turn to see all the ladies had white hair, until he noticed it was piled high on their heads in the French fashion from the last century. Wigs, in fact. Their gowns were also in the French style, cut immodestly low in front, with small waists and big skirts. Some of them wore patches at the side of the eye or mouth, in the style of the last century.

His eyes went from sofa to sofa, looking for Fanny. The girls all looked alike with those wigs glistening like mountains of snow on their heads. To make it even harder, they were batting fans in front of their faces. One of the hussies lifted her index finger and beckoned him forward. Maybe it was Fanny. He went closer, peering into the shadows.

“Sally! Sally Linden, what the deuce are you doing in a place like this?” he demanded.

“G’day, Coffen,” she said with a coquettish smile. “A girl’s got to eat, hasn’t she? My play closed. There was nothing else opening up. I ran out of money. I’m just here till I get another role.”

Coffen crouched on the edge of the chaise longue. Sally had been an actress for a decade, occasionally getting a small part in some comedy, but mostly she just hung around the Green Rooms to pick up gents. She was still attractive, nice and plump, the way he liked women, with flashing brown eyes that looked strange with the white wig. She had her mole pasted under her left eye. “You been here long?” he asked.

“A month. First time I’ve seen you here. Nobody to please you at the Green Rooms tonight?”

“It ain’t that, Sally. The fact is, I’m looking for a girl called Fanny. Fanny Rowan. Have you seen her about?”

Her flirtatious manner left her. “Fanny hasn’t been here for a few nights.”

“She ain’t at the annex. Do you live in the annex?”

“What do you know about the annex?” she asked sharply.

“I know you girls stay there.”

She shrugged. “That’s all there is to know. That’s where we stay when we’re not here.”

“You’ve got to help me, Sally, for old time’s sake. Fanny’s in trouble.”

She looked around to make sure no one was attending. “What kind of trouble?”

“She’s disappeared. If you know anything, please tell me. I’ll not tell anyone where I found out.” She looked doubtful. “There’s five pounds in it for you.”

She worried her lip a moment, then said, “You promise you won’t tell!”

“You know you can trust me.” She looked at him and smiled a soft, wistful smile. “Are you– “ He looked at her small waist. “Are you enceinte, Sally?”

“Don’t be daft, Coffen. What would I be doing in a place like this if I was having a kid? Us in the annex aren’t in the family way.”

A liveried footman came forward, carrying a bottle of wine on a tray. “Something to drink, sir?” he asked.

“Just put it right there,” Coffen said, nodding to the table.

“That’ll be a guinea, sir.”

Glancing at the label, Coffen realized he could buy a hogshead of the wine for a guinea, but he paid up to be rid of the footman without a fuss. “I thought the Morgate Home was for unwed mothers,” he said, pouring two glasses of the wine and handing her one.

“They keep them in the big house.”

“So Fanny wasn’t in the family way?”

“Not her!”

“How’d she get into the home, do you know?”

“She had a friend that knew Clare.”

“She ever mention his name?”

“I think she called him Henry. I never heard his last name. She’s from the country, you know. Found it dull as ditchwater. She let on she was having a kid so her da would let her go. She told Henry the same thing, and he fixed it up with Clare.”

“Did Henry call on her?”

“No, not that I know of. He just did it as a favor for a neighbor in trouble. He wrote to her, though. They used to exchange letters through Willie Sykes. She had the notion Bruton was reading her mail.”

“Oh yes, I’ve met Willie. Did she know what kind of a place she was going to?”

“If she didn’t know, she didn’t mind much when she found out. She was merry as a grig, but she put on airs, you know. Thought she was better than the rest of us. She only came here when she felt like it at first, and Clare let her get away with it. Then just lately, something happened. Clare soured on her.”

“Any idea what happened?”

“Not really, but they had an argument in her room. I heard him mention Henry’s name, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Maybe you could ask this Henry fellow, except I don’t know his last name. I might be able to find out from one of the other girls.”

“No, I know his name, Sally. It’d be wiser if you not mention it. How do you come to be here? How’d you hear about this place?”

Sally shrugged her handsome shoulders, revealing another few inches of enticing bosom. “I was chatting to Lord Clare in the Green Room at Drury Lane one night, mentioning it was hard to pay the rent when jobs were in short supply. I thought he might slip me a few bob, like you always did, Coffen, when I hinted. He said he had a room to let, rent—free with meals thrown in, if I’d give him a couple of nights a week here.”