Let's Talk of Murder (3 page)

“Charming,” Prance said, gazing all around. A large yellow dog, vaguely hound-like, strolled into the room and clambered on to the ottoman between Prance and Byron. Prance steeled himself not to move away from the beast, as Byron began patting it fondly.

“Let me offer you some refreshment,” Byron said. “Wine, coffee, tea, brandy?”

“Fine, whatever you’re having.”

“Are you sure? That would be hock and soda water, to cleanse the palate. I had rather a - er, lively time last evening. Drank a little too much. One of my many vices,” he said, again with no air of apology.

“Hock and soda water. Excellent!” Hock? What was it? A sort of German wine, was it not?

“Fletcher!” Bryon ignored the pull chord at his elbow and bellowed, “Fletcher!” until the butler appeared at the doorway.

“A glass for my guest. And take Abu with you. Give him a bath. I’m sure the hound has fleas.” The dog, on cue, sat up and applied his right paw to his ear and scratched vigorously. This was enough to make Prance nudge to the far end of the ottoman.

Fletcher took the dog’s collar, scowled and dragged him, barking and snapping, from the seat. Man and dog disappeared, the man to return in a moment with a glass on a round, brass tray. Byron prepared the drink, equal parts of hock and soda water.

“To your very good health, Sir Reginald,” Byron said, lifting his glass.

Prance sipped and found the drink, at least in Lord Byron’s company, enchanting.

“I believe you’re a friend of Lady deCoventry,” Byron said, studying Prance from under his infamous eye lashes.

“Yes, we’re friends and neighbors.”

“A beautiful woman. I should like to meet her.” He examined Prance with a long, level look. “Or would I be poaching on your territory? That is something I never do—by design at least.”

Woman? Surely he should have said lady? “Oh no! No indeed. We’re friends, no more.”

“You find it possible to be friends, no more, with a woman like that?” Byron said, and laughed in disbelief. “I take off my hat to you.” He playfully removed an imaginary hat. “But truly I’m not quite as bad as folks say, you know. I occasionally allow a friend’s lady to seduce me, but I never go after ‘em.”

“A meeting might be arranged,” Prance said, with a thought of how this would annoy Luten. “Actually I have come on a rather important errand. For His Royal Highness,” he added.

“About that shot outside Hertford’s place last night, I expect,” Byron said, with diminished interest.

“Just so. The prince has asked Lord Luten to look into it. As he is laid up with a busted ankle, I’m assisting him.”

“Much ado about nothing,” Byron said, with a careless wave of his hand. “The man was certainly drunk. The shot missed me by miles.”

“Missed you? Then you think you were the target?”

“So I and any sane person, which excludes the prince, would assume,” he replied blandly.

“But if it was some jealous husband or lover—why attack you when you were with the prince? Much safer to get you alone on a dark street.”

Byron massaged his chin a moment, then nodded. “You have a point there, Prance. Prince-icide is a serious offence against the law, no matter how well justified on humanitarian grounds. As I’ve been out of town for some weeks visiting the Oxfords at Eywood and have not made any mortal enemies since returning a few days ago, perhaps I was not the target after all. Truth to tell, I had forgotten the little incident last night.”

Forgotten an attempted murder! What a life the man led! Those near-treasonous aspersions against the prince were shot off very calmly as well. Prance could only stare.

“It might very well have been an attempt on Prinney’s life. He don’t want for enemies, but if a man could miss a target that size, he must either have been drunk, blind, or an infernally bad shot.”

They discussed the matter for a few moments. Byron had not gotten a look at the man, could not even confirm that it had been a man. He had not seen the shadow. To judge by his nonchalant comments, he was so accustomed to being shot at that he had hardly bothered to look. “If I can be of any further help, don’t hesitate to call.”

His business done, Prance rose. He disliked to leave without some little discussion of poetry. He saw a note pad on the ottoman by Byron’s side and was eager to see what he was writing. Some mention of the
Rondeaux
would also have been welcome.

Byron rose. Something in his expression told Prance the poet also had something else he wished to discuss. Better to let him initiate the subject.

“About Lady deCoventry,” Byron said. “She is a widow, I believe?”

This was as good as saying she was available. A gentleman would never seduce a maiden, but a widow knew the way the world wagged and was considered fair game. Prance knew it was his duty to tell Byron she was engaged to Lord Luten. His reply was, “She has been widowed for three years now. As I said, we’re neighbors. Drop in on me any time, milord. I’m sure she would be as thrilled to make your acquaintance as I would be to oblige you.”

Byron’s dark eyes gleamed. A saturnine smile curved his lips. “Where do you live? Leave me your card, Prance, or I shan’t remember your address.”

“Let us exchange cards,” Prance replied. He would leave Byron’s casually on a sofa table or mantle for any caller to see. Byron rifled through some papers on the table and found a card. The address on it was Newstead Abbey, his ancestral home, but Prance was not likely to forget the London address.

Prance drew a calling card from his pocket and handed it to Byron, feeling a dastard and a traitor as he did it. But he knew that this would bring Lord Byron calling on him, and that was worth any pangs of guilt or any retribution fate might exact. When Byron called, he would tell him that Corinne was engaged to Luten. No harm in postponing it. And it would be good sport to see Luten fuss and fume, and pretend he wasn’t jealous as a green cow.

He left, highly pleased with the visit, rehearsing how he would casually drop a mention of this visit and any subsequent visits into future conversations. Pity they hadn’t discussed poetry, but that might come on their next meeting.

He went straight to Luten’s house to report, as requested. Corinne and Coffen were already ensconced before the grate in the painted drawing room, enjoying a cup of tea. “What news?” he asked.

“Lady Hertford fears the shot was intended for the prince and is most eager that we find the perpetrator, but she had absolutely nothing useful to add,” Corinne said. “She made rather a point of letting us know both her husband and her son were at their clubs, with plenty of witnesses.”

“They’d hardly kill the goose that lays the golden eggs for them,” Coffen said. “I got Fogg’s address, rooms at Albany, but he wasn’t in. In fact, he didn’t come home last night. That’s pretty odd, don’t you think? Maybe the shot was meant for him, and the fellow followed him and got him. We was just wondering if we ought to have a word with Bow Street.”

“Did the prince not want absolute discretion?” Prance asked.

“That’s just what we was talking about. A word about Fogg’s disappearance needn’t involve the prince. Did you discover anything?”

“Byron had nothing to add. He didn’t even see the shadow. Felt the shot was meant for him, until I pointed out the unlikelihood of attempting murder in the prince’s presence, as you said, Coffen.”

“Did he praise your
Rondeaux
?” Coffen asked, knowing this would be of interest to Prance.

“We didn’t take time to discuss poetry. We shall have that interesting discussion when Byron calls on me. As I knew you were in a rush, Luten, I darted straight here. Byron made a point of discovering where I live and says he’ll call soon. A charming fellow,” he added. A god, was what he meant, but was ashamed to say.

“Can I pour you a cup of tea, Prance?” Corinne asked.

“You wouldn’t have any hock and soda water in the house, Luten?”

“No, I’m afraid not. When did you start drinking hock and soda water?”

“Plain as a pikestaff. It’s what Byron served him,” Coffen said. Prance ignored this shot.

“Would you care for wine?” Luten asked.

“Tea will be fine, thank you.” He rose to take his cup, then lifted his coat tails and perched daintily on the arm of a sofa. “So, what is our next step, folks?”

“We must follow up this missing Fogg business,” Luten said.

Coffen rubbed his ear and said, “Strange to think of a Fogg being missing in London. There’s usually nothing but. Do you want me to have a word with Townsend, or will you summon him here and talk to him yourself, Luten?”

Townsend was the most famous of the Bow Street officers who policed London. He was often used by the government to accompany the mail coaches when large sums of money had to be transported. The aristocracy also hired him to safeguard their guests’ jewels at their balls during the Season. It was said he had taken more thieves than the rest of the Bow Street officers together.

“I have a good mind to have myself hauled into my carriage and go down to Bow Street,” Luten said.

A rattle of the door knocker brought them all to attention. Seconds later Evans appeared at the doorway. “Officer Townsend of Bow Street would like a word with you, your lordship.”

The assembled group exchanged a startled look. “Send him in,” Luten said.

A stout little fellow wearing a flaxen wig, kerseymere breeches and a blue jacket of a peculiar, square cut came pouncing into the saloon. He was known to them all from former doings. Officer Townsend bowed all around, making a particularly fine leg to Lady deCoventry, before accepting a chair.

“Well now, what do you make of this mess, eh?” he said to the group, shaking his head in consternation.

“What mess are you referring to, Townsend?” Luten inquired.

“Why to be sure, the murder of young Fogg.”

“Fogg has been murdered!” Prance cried. Luten shot him a quelling glance.

Seeing it, Townsend smiled quietly. “Aye, Henry Fogg. There’s no need for us to spar with each other, folks. I know all about the business at Manchester Square last night.”

“Who told you?” Coffen asked, in his usual blunt way.

“My inquiries led me to discover it,” he replied. “A word with Fogg’s cousin, Lady Hertford, after his untimely demise soon brought the whole sad tale out. At least there is one ray of sunlight in it. The attempt was not on the prince’s life. Her ladyship was much relieved.”

Luten knew some expression of joy, or at least relief, was expected but his feeling was one of irreparable loss, almost of having been robbed at having the brass ring dangled before his eyes, then snatched away so rudely. It galled to give up his hope of the Prime Ministership. “We can’t be certain of that,” he said.

“I grant you there is one chance in a million we’re dealing with two assassins,” Townsend allowed, “but the details don’t suggest it. Fogg’s murder was no random affair of footpads or such, you must know. He was hunted down in his own rooms at the Albany within hours of the first attempt. Common sense says he was the intended victim of the first shot.”

Coffen sat like a dog watching a bone. “The assassin must have been in a great rush, to take a shot when the prince was there. When did you find out about it?” he asked.

“Seven this a.m., when young Fogg’s servant arrived to begin his duties. The coroner says Fogg had been dead for five or six hours. No suspicion falls on the servant. Her ladyship recommended the fellow and vouches for him. He doesn’t live in and has an alibi besides. There was no break-in. Fogg had shared a glass of wine with someone, someone he must have mistaken for a friend.”

“A funny hour for a caller,” Coffen mentioned. “Pretty late, I mean, after he left Manchester Square.”

“ ‘Twas,” Townsend agreed, “but these young bucks think nothing of drinking till dawn.”

“How was he killed?” Corinne asked in a small voice.

“Shot in the heart.”

She winced and drew back, as if the shot had hit her own heart. She had seen a few corpses since the Berkeley Brigade had taken up crime solving as a hobby, but familiarity never lessened the horror of it. “Poor fellow,” she said. “What do you know of him? I’m not familiar with the name.”

“The Foggs are a county family of some importance. His mama is cousin to Lady Hertford,” Townsend said. “The prince visited the family last spring and took a fancy to the lad. Young Henry was not getting along with his family, not settling into a good country farmer after university. Felt himself too grand for them, I daresay.

“It was arranged that he would come to London and some situation would be found for him, as it was. A sort of curator at Somerset House, but I don’t necessarily look for the murderer there. It was more of a synecure than anything else. Fogg didn’t put in what I would call a good day’s work. Came and went as he pleased. He had friends from his university days. He ran with an arty crowd here in London.”

Several eyes turned in the direction of Prance, the artistic one of the group. “I never heard of him,” Prance said.

“I believe there is some lady in the case,” Townsend continued.

“Surely a lady didn’t shoot him!” Prance exclaimed.

Corinne just listened. She knew from personal experience of a lady who had not only murdered, but murdered her own papa in cold blood. Why did these foolish men think a lady incapable of violence?

“Why do you think a lady is involved at all?” Coffen asked. “Was there clues?”

“You might call them that,” Townsend replied. “A lock of his hair had been cut off. After the murder, I think. The shears were left on the table, and a lock of hair, right in front, was cropped close to the scalp. Common sense says it would have been done with more finesse had Fogg been alive. A further quizzing of Lady Hertford revealed that a ring was missing as well. A little gold ring he had taken to wearing on the smallest finger of his left hand the past months. Lady Hertford had teased him about it. She thought from his blushes it was from a lady, but he would never admit it.”

“Starting to sound like one of them
crimes
passionels
,” Coffen opined.

“You have hit the nail on the head, sir,” Townsend said. “That is just the way my mind is tending.”