Murder Is Come Again (2 page)

He indicated a thin folder on his desk. “Nothing of much interest, business-wise. Birth certificate, the deed for the cottage. He didn’t use banks, so there is nothing of that sort. You’ve come to see your inheritance. I have the key right here on my desk.” The key, the folder and a cup of tea were the only items on the desk, suggesting no excess of business. He handed Coffen the folder. “The house is just ‘round the corner. We can walk. No point wasting good money on hiring a hackney.”

Coffen’s expectations fell even lower to hear the cottage was in this part of town. “I have my rig out front,” he said.

“Ah, well in that case ...” But when they looked at the sporting carriage, it was clear to them both that either a ladder or a crane would be required to get Weir into the high seat. It would also be uncomfortably crowded as Black had accompanied him in the two-seater.

“If it’s closeby we might as well walk,” Coffen said. “You drive, Black. Just follow us.”

Weir set off at a foot-dragging pace. The house was just around the corner, in a narrow, brick-paved twisting alley called Nile Street. When they stopped, Black drove up and parked. Not two yards from the cottage was a low dive called the Brithelmston Tavern. “Brighton was used to be called Brithelmston in the olden days,” Weir informed him. “Some called it Brightelmstone, but in the Domesday Book ‘twas written thus, Brithelmston
.
”

“Been here that long, has it?” Coffen said.

“Tee hee. That is your little joke, Mr. Pattle. No, the tavern is new. It’s not older than two or three hundred years. Your cottage, of course, dates from a later era. This was thought to be an up and coming part of town when your uncle bought the place. Mostly wooden houses where the fishermen lived but Brighton real estate increased in value when Prinney came to town, bringing all the smarts and swells down from London. A few of the little houses were torn down and these finer houses like yours put up.”

Coffen looked down the street at a few other decent houses surrounded by hovels and said, “Pity more of them didn’t come to Nile Street.” His inheritance was a plain brick building with two small columns in front and a fanlit door. It was two stories high with perhaps four or five bedrooms. The windows were intact but filthy. The black paint on the front door had faded to mouse gray and begun to crack. Three small holes in the door suggested a door knocker had been removed.

“Vandals hereabouts?” Coffen asked, pointing to the missing knocker.

“No, ‘twas Bolger took the knocker off.   He didn’t like being disturbed.”

“Sounds like a dashed hermit.”

Weir ignored this and said, “You won’t find many second stories in this part of town. Just these few newer houses. Shall we go in?”

He thrust a large key into the lock. The door opened with a squawk and Weir led them inside. The expected odour of stale air and worse did not assail their nostrils. “You’ll see all is snug and dry,” Weir told him, pointing carefully to avoid calling attention to the watermarks around the windows. “Some of the places nearer the water are full of mold and rot. Damaging to the plaster, mold.”

The place had the usual rooms — drawing room, dining room, a study and a small back room that had been set up as a kitchen with four bedchambers above. All had been furnished at some time within the past twenty or thirty years with cheap pieces. The drawing room had some aspirations to style in the way of a fireplace with a carved mantelpiece, fancy plasterwork on the ceiling and a chandelier whose crystals hadn’t been polished in decades.

Weir pointed to a smeared brown spot on the floor in the middle of the carpetless room, shook his head and said, “That spot right there is where Mr. Bolger drew his last breath, Mr. Pattle.”

Black, glancing down, said, “That looks like a blood stain.”

“It is. The carpet was bloodied. I had it taken away so as not to upset Mr. Pattle. It was beyond recovery, and threadbare in any case. Mrs. Beazely ought to have washed up the blood. I’ll have to speak to her. She’s getting on, poor soul. She’s the one notified me the next morning when she found Mr. Bolger dead on the floor. His burial orders were in his will, and I took care of that as you were so long in answering my letter notifying you, Mr. Pattle.”

Black usually took charge of Mr. Pattle’s mail, but they had been extremely busy at the time in a case that involved both a robbery at Luten’s house and a murder. The letter said only that Mr. Cyrus Bolger had passed away and left Mr. Pattle a house in Brighton and Mr. Weir looked forward to seeing Mr. Pattle at his earliest convenience. Coffen had put the visit off as he was planning to come to Brighton soon.

The story of Bolger’s sad death did not increase Coffen’s desire to inhabit the house. He had assumed it would not be located in a slum, and that it would be on the water or at least have a sea view. Mr. Weir spoke on of possible improvements to the house, but as Coffen had already decided to sell the place, he took little interest in it. Black, who had some familiarity with a lack of grandeur, took a keener interest.

Black’s past was a mystery, but whatever it was, it had left him with a wide knowledge of the lower classes and particularly the criminal element. He had been hired by Lord deCoventry a dozen or more years before, and on his deathbed deCoventry had told Corinne that Black was to be her butler, and that he could be trusted to look after her interests. He had more than fulfilled his duties, even saving her life on one occasion. He had been so helpful to the Berkeley Brigade in various cases that Luten had made him a member of the elite group.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair and a swarthy complexion. The kind of fellow you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. He was a good man to have at your side during a brawl. His physical prowess had been as much help to the Berkeley Brigade as his knowledge of the criminal classes.

“Well, thankee, Mr. Weir,” Coffen said. “I believe we’ve seen enough.”

“We’ve not looked at the cellars,” Black objected, looking about for a door. He found it in the kitchen, got a lamp and headed down.

Weir said, “I shan’t go below, if you don’t mind. My legs ...”

“I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Weir,” Coffen said. “I believe I’ll be selling the place. It don’t suit me.”

“Just as you wish, Mr. Pattle. I’ll be happy to handle the sale for you. You know where to find me.” He hobbled out the door and into the Brithelmston, where he usually spent a good many hours of his day. He lived in rooms above the tavern and in lieu of rent handled the frequent cases brought against the establishment.

Black soon came up from the cellar. “All’s cozy and snug below,” he said. “Your uncle stored his brandy down there. There’s a nearly full keg. You’ll want to salvage that before you sell.”

“I was expecting something better than this,” Coffen said, looking all around with disdain. “I should have known Bolger wouldn’t have a decent roof over his head.”

“As the old gaffer said, it’s a good, solid house. It could be fixed up again,” Black said. “You’ll have noticed someone’s been living here right along.”

“He’s only been dead three weeks.”

“There’s fresh orange rinds in the kitchen, and that journal in the front room is only two days old.”

“Must’ve been squatters,” Coffen said.

“That’s possible, but the place has good locks and the windows are intact. Not knowing what sort of man this Weir is, it’s possible he was renting the place and shoved the renter out when he heard you were coming.”

“You have the mind of a crook, Black. No offence. I can’t be bothered trying to fix the place up. I’ll sell it for what I can get, and let Weir have the job of showing it to prospective customers.”

“I’ll do that for you, Mr. Pattle. No point paying him a commission for what we can do ourselves.” They both knew that the commission would be paid to Black rather than Weir, but Coffen had no objection to that. Like deCoventry, he liked and trusted Black. Whatever he got, he earned. He had already cut the cost of running his London house in half, and it was run a hundred times better to boot. “Thing to do, write up an advert for the journals tonight and I’ll deliver it for you.”

“Good man. Have replies sent to the Royal Crescent. We’ll make appointments. We’d best be getting back. We’re dining at Luten’s place tonight.”

Corinne had included Black in the invitation as it was to be only an intimate dinner party. Black’s status as butler/friend made social occasions a trifle difficult. He fully realized this and showed no offence when he had to be left out. In fact he often invented an excuse and declined an invitation if he felt his presence would be remarked upon.

“I’ll see that Raven has things ready,” Black said.

Raven, Coffen’s valet, was so afraid of losing his position that he had also appointed himself Black’s valet. All was in readiness at the Royal Crescent. The two friends, for Black was as much friend as butler, enjoyed a glass of wine before making their toilettes for the evening. Coffen and Prance had chosen the Royal Crescent as it was an excellent hotel not far from Luten’s house on Marine Parade. They met in the lobby and walked to Luten’s, with the fresh sea air blowing over them. Gulls soared and dove and screeched in their endless search for food.

Prance took a deep breath and said, “This was a marvelous idea, to come here. I feel invigorated already. No writing for me while I’m here, though Murray is after me for another book.”

“I’m looking forward to your next one,” Coffen said. “I read your last one all the way through. I liked it much better than —”

Literary success had made Prance generous. He smiled, unoffended. “Better than my
Round Table Rondeaux,”
he said. “Yes, I fear poetry is not my strong suit.”

“It was all them footnotes, and leaving out Guinevere and calling King Arthur a duck bell, or whatever it was,” Coffen said in a forgiving way. “Other than that and the dullness, it was fine.”

“That’s
dux bellorum,”
Prance said.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Coffen, as they went up the walk to Luten’s mansion.

Dinner at Luten’s mansion that evening was an altogether more informal affair than in London. In this holiday home the dining room couldn’t seat more than a dozen and the array of crystal and silver was kept at a minimum. The decor, too, was simple, the main attraction of the room being the charming view of the garden behind the house. In spring the roses in full bloom rioted up trellises and over walls. A few modest statues graced the corners of the garden, to be enjoyed from an iron table and chairs placed in the shade of a linden tree.

The housekeeper and her husband, the Partridges, were the only staff employed on a full-time basis. The Lutens had brought their butler and a few of the London servants with them, but their chef had been given a holiday and the cooking was done by Mrs. Partridge with the help of one kitchen maid. This suited everyone except Prance, who preferred fancier dishes, with the meat — if they
must
eat dead animals — concealed by sauces and spices. The others, especially Coffen, had no complaint with the plain fare. Coffen was a special pet of Mrs. Partridge. He got his gingerbread with raisins, and was even given a generous slab to take back to his hotel.

Over dinner they discussed their plans. Prance, who considered eating pig a particularly heinous incivility, piled mashed potatoes on top of a slice of roast pork and said, “I paid a visit to Herr Stoeffel’s workshop this afternoon. Fascinating. I hadn’t realized engraving was such hard labour. I’ll have arms like Gentleman Jackson when I’m through.” He was just as glad no one chose to question him on the work involved. The ten minutes he had spent with Stoeffel were enough to confirm what he had seen in London. Engraving was no work for a gentleman.

“How did it go with your inheritance, Coffen?” Corinne asked.

“The house is a mess. Black thinks it’s not too run down to be fixed up. The trouble is it’s in a wretched neighbourhood with a noisy tavern next door. I’m going to sell it, if I can find anyone fool enough to buy it. Black’s handling it for me. We put an advert in the Brighton journals. It should run tomorrow morning.”

“I hardly know what price Mr. Pattle should ask,” Black said. “Perhaps you’d come and take a look at it, Luten. You’d have a better notion than we would what it’s worth.”

“Certainly, I’d be happy to,” Luten said at once. “I’ve been curious to see Coffen’s inheritance. Property here in Brighton has increased a good deal since I bought this house. It might be worthwhile to hang on to it, rent it. Property’s a good investment.”

Black, always on the qui vive for criminal doings, said, “The odd thing is that although Cyrus Bolger’s been dead close to a month, someone’s been living in the house just lately. I was wondering if old Weir had rented it out and pocketed the rent.”

“If he had posthumous power of attorney, he may have rented it legally, in which case the rent money should have gone to Pattle,” Luten pointed out. “That’s easy enough to find out. Check that statement Weir sent you, Coffen. It suggests, does it not, that the place is rentable?”

“I daresay I could do that,” Coffen said, though he had no intention of renting it, and wasn’t about to set up a quarrel with old Weir over a few shillings. For that matter, who was to say Weir hadn’t read a journal and eaten an orange there?

Corinne just shook her head, aware that her husband never liked to see property go out of the family. He had convinced her to hold on to the little house on Berkeley Square that deCoventry had bought for her. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “A woman’s eye will be useful to see what needs doing in the way of cleaning up to make it easier to rent.”

“We’ll all go,” said Prance. “I’m curious to see it myself.” It sounded appalling, but one never knew when such experiences would prove useful in his writing.

A time was agreed on, the address and directions given and the conversation turned to other matters. The dinner party broke up early as everyone was tired after the rigours of the trip.