Let's Talk of Murder (28 page)

“On the contrary, the fellow leads a modest life, for a lord. He is generous to a fault. He gives money to various charities. No, he does it for the thrill of it. He is debauched in that one area, it seems. And the oddest thing of all is that he never touches the girls himself—in that way, I mean. He arranges every detail of the tableaux and costumes and so on and watches them regularly. It’s a sickness, really. Heaven knows where it comes from.”

“Have you ever noticed, short men are ultra aggressive?” Prance said. “Napoleon, par example.” Seeing no comprehension in his listeners, he added. “It’s as if they are trying to make up for some lack. What I am suggesting is that Clare might be impotent, and gets his sexual thrills vicariously in this rather absurd manner.” He looked around. No one seemed much impressed at his insight. “Why else does he balk at marrying Lady Cecilia?”

“That match is off,” Townsend said. “It was the rumors of the whore house that made the papa put his foot down.”

“Giving the money to charity doesn’t make Clare innocent. How do we prove he murdered Fogg and Fanny?” Luten asked in a cold voice.

“And Rosalie!” Prance said.

“Eh? Who’s this Rosalie you keep mentioning?” Coffen asked.

“Oh, she’s the reason we were so worried about Beth,” Corinne said. “Byron told us about her.” She related the story without, Luten noticed, saying how Byron came to tell them all this. Did he call for that reason only, or did he happen to mention it while he was calling on her?

“I wasn’t on the case myself, or I would have put it all together sooner,” Townsend said with a sad shake of his head. “We had no reason to suspect murder. Many a lass pitches herself into the Thames when she’s in the family way, as she thought she was. A false pregnancy, the doctors call it. Or perhaps Clare only made up the story to account for her being in the home.

“But as I was saying, we have enough circumstantial evidence tying Clare to Fanny’s last hours to take him in for questioning. The hackney driver, the inn keeper. Threaten him with evidence from Bruton and the girls at that infernal house and I wager he’ll do the gentlemanly thing and save the nation the cost of a silk rope. The peers are given the honor of being hung with a silk rope. Thus far, no silk rope has ever had to be purchased.”

Coffen said, scowling into his cravat. “What we need is clues. I wonder what he did with the beard and cleric’s garb.”

“Got rid of them, you may be sure,” Townsend said.

“Where was Fanny’s body found?”

“Right in town, near the Blackfriars’ Bridge,” Townsend replied. “A good distance from the Green Man, to blur the connection.”

“Was Clare still wearing the vicar outfit when he went to the inn, and when he left it?”

“He was, throughout the entire charade, but a black jacket and a beard can only cover so much. And the stable hands will very likely know every inch of the curricle.”

The discussion continued another half hour. When Townsend left, Luten accompanied him. Before long, Prance became bored and also left. Coffen sat on in a corner with his chin in his hands, thinking.

He didn’t think Clare would take off his disguise until he had got Fanny into the Thames. Fog or no fog, he’d keep the outfit as a precaution. It didn’t seem likely he’d take off his outer coat when he was riding an open carriage in damp and chilly weather either. Nossir, he’d wear it back to the stable where he kept his rattlers and prads and hide them there. Or put them into his regular carriage, take them home and burn them. That was the danger, of course. Still, there was a good chance they were stuck away in some corner of the stable. P’raps in the curricle itself.

He wouldn’t have driven his curricle since then, for the damp and chilly weather had kept up. Clare, living on the northwest corner of the square, would likely keep his team and carriages at the mews on Upper Brook Street, just a step away. It was worth a look.

He suddenly lurched up from his seat and said, “I’m off.”

“Oh, don’t leave me alone, Coffen,” Corinne said with a pout. “Where are you going?” He told her. “You shouldn’t go alone. It’s too dangerous.” Within a heartbeat she saw the way she could earn back Luten’s respect. “I’ll go with you,” she offered. That would show Luten she was truly concerned.

She could always talk Coffen into anything. He argued, of course, but eventually agreed. “I daresay there’s no danger if you wait in the carriage while I have a look about. I was planning to hire a hackney, in case Clare chanced along. He might recognize my team–and he’d certainly recognize your rig, with the crest on the panel.”

“I’ll get my pelisse.”

Black, the inveterate eavesdropper, had her pelisse waiting. He handed Coffen a pistol. “Be careful, sir. It’s charged,” he said.

“Thankee, Black.” He said to Corinne as they left. “Now there is a butler who knows his business. Worth his weight in gold.” Black smiled complacently, then he went to the front door and blew his whistle to summon a hackney.

They didn’t wait, but hurried along until they found a passing cab, hopped in and gave their destination. Coffen’s fiddling with the charged pistol made her nervous. “Do put that thing down before you shoot yourself,” she scolded. He placed it on the seat.

“You crouch down when we get to the stable,” he said. “I’ve a feeling Luten won’t be too happy that you came along.”

“What I choose to do has nothing to do with Lord Luten.”

“He’s a better man than Byron, my girl. And for a jealous sort like you, Byron wouldn’t do at all.”

“I’m not jealous!”

He mentioned a few instances from the past, and clinched it by saying, “You’re even jealous of his work.”

Defeated, she sniffed and said, “Are we nearly there?”

“We’re there–here, now. You’d best crouch down.”

Coffen looked out on a set of wooden stables ranged around a cobblestoned yard. A torch lit the yard, silvering the cobblestones, but the stables were in darkness. A light gleamed in the window of an office at the end of the stables. A youngster was coming from the pump, his shoulders bent under the weight of a bucket of water.

Coffen approached him and asked, “Which one is Lord Clare’s?”

“The one on the end,” the boy said, nodding to the right. He examined Coffen’s clothes and decided he was a gentleman. “But his lordship ain’t there,” he added. “He took his rig out an hour ago. “

“Is his groom there?”

“Nay, there’s nobody there now. We look after the nags. His lordship only keeps a single team in town. He hires a mount when he wants one.”

“Thankee, lad,” Coffen said, and tipped him a coin. The stable boy pocketed it and went on his way.

In the carriage, Corinne waited. She decided it was dark enough that she could take a peek out the window without being seen.

Coffen went to Clare’s stable and tried the door. It wasn’t locked. He opened it just enough to slide in. As he crept into the dark stable his nostrils were assailed by the pungent odor of horseflesh. He wished he had brought a lantern with him but as he hadn’t, he had to feel around for the curricle.

The manager of the mews called the water boy as he passed. “What did that gent want?” he asked.

“He was looking for Lord Clare. I told him he ain’t here.”

Lord Clare was mighty fussy about his stable. There might be a quid in it if he let him know this fellow was poking around. As the caller looked harmless and the manager had no idea where his lordship might be found, however, he decided he would just mention it to him when he returned.

As Coffen’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could discern the outline of the sporting carriage from the dim moonlight at the window. He hurried forward and began to feel around the floor of the rig. He was soon aware there was no jacket there, and no beard. All he found was a piece of cloth, probably a handkerchief. He stuffed it in his pocket and began a systematic search of the stable, feeling his way around the edge of the floor, behind the bales of hay, with particular emphasis on the corners.

He knocked his shin against a bucket and muttered a curse when the water splashed out on his trousers. He felt beside the bucket, behind it, and leapt back, fearing a rat when something furry brushed his fingers. There was no rustle of scampering feet. He reached out and felt the furry thing–it was hair, a beard. And beneath it was a jacket.

Corinne heard a carriage drive into the stable. She took another peek out the window and saw the lozenge on the door that told her it was a nobleman’s carriage. There might be more than one noble carriage stabled here, however. But when the coachman hopped down from the box and held the door open, it was Lord Clare who climbed out.

The stable manager ran forward and had a word with him. Corinne had seen the manager speak to the water boy. Very likely he was now telling Clare that there was someone in the stable. Clare nodded, the manager went into his office and brought Clare out a lantern. Clare headed toward his stable. Thank goodness Coffen had a pistol.

But Coffen was not a very accurate shot. And if he were caught offguard— She really should warn him. She quietly opened the carriage door. A glimmer of something on the opposite banquette caught her eye. She looked more closely, and in the dim moonlight, she saw the pistol lying on the seat where Coffen had left it. Her heart began to pound. She picked the pistol up, wishing her trusted butler was with her. Black would know what to do. Why hadn’t she asked him to come along? She climbed out of the carriage and began to walk toward the stable, looking around to see that no one was watching.

Coffen had the beard and clergyman’s black jacket in his hand when the stable door opened. Lord Clare’s lithe, broad shouldered form was silhouetted in the doorway. He lifted his left hand, and a beam from a lantern shone on Coffen’s pale face. Clare saw the black jacket in his hand—and in the same instant, Coffen saw the pistol in Clare’s right hand. It was not until that moment that Coffen realized he had left his pistol behind. A bit of a tricky situation.

The only ray of hope Coffen could see was that Clare couldn’t close the stable door when he had both his hands full. And he wouldn’t likely shoot when it was open, and someone might look in and see him. If he could work his way behind the curricle, it’d provide a bit of protection. But as soon as he took one sideways step, Clare’s voice, cold as ice, said, “Don’t move, Pattle. Drop the jacket. I want to see your hands,” Coffen dropped the jacket but managed to stuff the beard up his sleeve. “Ah I see you’re unarmed. Pity.”

Coffen correctly interpreted this to mean Clare wanted to shoot him, and claim self defense. “Never mind,” Clare’s voice continued. “By luck, I have another gun in my curricle. It will be in your hand, when they find you. Walk slowly forward. That’s right, no tricks. Now, close the stable door and bar it.”

Coffen walked slowly forward. “They don’t lock from the inside.”

“I said bar it.”

“How? The doors open outwards.”

“Then close it, dammit!”

Coffen drew it closed. He knew by the shaking light that Clare’s hands were trembling. He was losing his nerve. “People know I’m here, Clare,” he said, in a quiet voice. “If you shoot me, they’ll know you did it. We know you killed Fogg and Fanny. We know what was going on at the Lambeth house.”

The laugh that came from Clare’s lips was edged with hysteria. “As well hang for a sheep as a lamb.” His finger moved nervously on the trigger. “It was Fogg who came begging me to take that miserable whore, Fanny, into the Morgate Home. I only did it as a favor to him.” His voice rose as he ranted on, trying to justify his iniquity. “They’re all whores, and the men are as bad, paying to see those disgusting acts.”

“You’re the one that puts them up to it,” Coffen said. “Why did you do it?”

“I’m only giving them what they want! I don’t keep the money. If they didn’t come to me, they’d go somewhere worse.”

“You shouldn’t force innocent young girls–”

Clare’s voice lashed out like a whip. “Shut up! Shut up and let me think.”

Corinne felt a tremble when she saw the door being drawn closed. She heard the echo of voices and hurried forward to listen, but the voices had stopped. She heard only silence. “Coffen!” she called, and pulled the door outwards.

“Don’t come in!” Coffen called.

Of course she ignored his order. “Are you all right?” She stepped into the darkness, and saw the wavering puddle of light.

Clare’s head turned toward the opening door. Quick as a wink, Coffen shook the beard into his hand, threw it in Clare’s face and made a leap for the gun while he was distracted. The pistol went off, creating a deafening roar in the stable. A bullet careened against the side of the curricle. Clare dropped the lantern and grabbed Corinne by the wrist. He shook her arm, trying to dislodge the gun she held. She screamed but held on. Coffen rushed in to rescue her. Another shot rang out. In the darkness, it was hard to see exactly what was going on. But before long, he saw the fire from the lantern had lit some loose straw on the floor, and was working its way toward the bales of hay along the walls. He didn’t feel the heat yet, but he heard the crackling sound and saw the tongues of flame licking at the dry hay.

Running footsteps came pelting toward the stable. “We’d best get out,” Coffen said, and took Corinne’s hand. She tried to move, but she was pinned to the curricle, with Clare’s weight sagging against her.

“He’s been shot!” she cried.

“Stand aside. I’ll drag him out.”

“Here! What’s going on?” the manager called, bustling in. “Gorblimey! The place is ablaze. The hay’ll go up like a tinder box. Water, lads! Run for the buckets.”

While the manager raised the alarm to summon all available help, Coffen dragged Clare’s body free of the stable. “What happened?” Corinne asked, staring at the still form. In the shadowed moonlight, Lord Clare’s face wore a beatific expression. He looked younger and more peaceful than she had ever seen him look.

Coffen took her pistol and smelled it. “Don’t worry. You didn’t kill him. This hasn’t been fired. I don’t know if he killed himself on purpose or it was an accident. Either way, it’s for the best. I’ll give these lads a hand with the fire. I wouldn’t want to lose my clues. Then I’ll take you home and pay a call at Bow Street.”