Murder on Charing Cross Road

“So how does being a married lady again suit you, Corrie?”
Coffen Pattle asked his cousin. They met in the rose salon, not the grand gold salon that was only used for formal occasions.

The former Lady deCoventry was not yet accustomed to the idea of being Lady Luten. She was still considered a bride, having worn her new honours for only five weeks. “The housekeeper and Evans between them pretty well take care of this big house, so that is very little bother. Nothing has really changed much,”
she replied, “except that now I’m sure of seeing Luten twice a day, before he goes to the House in the morning, and after he returns. He keeps as busy as ever. Busier.”

“Aye, he would,”
Coffen said. No one had really expected that to change when he married. An ardent Whig, Luten had been waging war against Mouldy and Company, as he called the Tories, for years. It was his passion, and his way of earning the many privileges and wealth his position conferred on him.

“I miss having you right next door,”
Coffen said, sniffing the air for the aroma of coffee, and hopefully, toast. Her having moved across the street meant her former butler, Black, was no longer on hand to pamper him. Black could always be depended on to supply him with the sustenance so sorely lacking in his own house.

 Coffen’s servants were a byword for inefficiency. His cook had very little notion how to cook, his valet had a strong aversion to the iron and boot black, his groom was afraid of horses, and road maps were as mysterious to him as hieroglyphics. Coffen did occasionally turn off a servant for some particularly egregious misbehaviour but somehow the new man was no better than the old.

Undeceived by this wistful remark, Lady Luten said, “I’ll ask Evans to bring some coffee.”
She rang for the butler, then said, “Have you seen Reggie today?”

These four —
the Marquess of Luten, Lady Luten, Coffen Pattle and Sir Reginald Prance, Bart., were jointly known in society as the Berkeley Brigade as they lived close together on Berkeley Square. The Brigade, leaders of the ton in matters of style, were equally famous for their hobby of solving crimes. Coffen, in particular, loved a nice bloody murder.

Sir Reginald had an aversion to any kind of violence. He also preferred that either the victim or murderer have a touch of class. He was really more interested in the arts and recently in writing. Unlike his first effort at literature, a long, tedious, footnoted poem on the Arthurian legend entitled
Round Table Rondeaux,
his latest effort, a gothic novel, had astonished everyone, including himself, by being a huge success. He had been inspired while visiting Lord Byron at Christmas. The abbey in
Shadows on the Wall
was based on Newstead Abbey. He had induced Byron to write an introduction.

“He’ll be swanning down Bond Street to hear praise of his book,”
Coffen said.

“Shadows on the Wall
was surprisingly good though, wasn’t it?”
Corinne said.

“It was. Gave me the creeps. I read every bit of it. I don’t usually read books but I was up till dawn the night he gave it to me. I got nearly halfway through it. Mind you, it’s gone to his head something fierce. He dresses up in that funny hat and cape and acts all gloomy, as if he had the cares of the world on his shoulders. Making a dashed cake of himself.”

“He’ll soon get over it,”
she said. “His crazes never last long. You know how he likes dressing up. He’s really an actor manqué
.
”

“Monkey? That’s a bit harsh.”

“It’s French,”
she said. Coffen didn’t ask for further enlightenment. He never looked for any sense from the French and was always satisfied with this explanation of any word or phrase he didn’t understand. “It’s really Luten I’m worried about.”

Coffen’s sharp blue eyes narrowed. Were it not for those eyes, he might be mistaken for a man of no consequence, even a bit of a fool. His undistinguished appearance —
tousled, mud-coloured hair, rumpled blue jacket and dusty topboots —
certainly added no distinction to his dumpy frame.

“Ain’t cutting up on you, is he?”
he demanded. It was unnecessary to be more explicit. He referred to doings with other women, and they both knew it. This was a grievous iniquity. Luten was a very model of marital fidelity, but in his role of crime fighter, he sometimes became involved with scheming ladies.

“No, no, nothing like that,”
Corinne said hastily. “He just seems worried and even busier than usual. It has something to do with politics I expect.”

“That’s all right then. Ah, here’s Evans with the coffee.”

Evans, the stately butler, had also brought toast and jam. Evans had not been slow to learn the ways of his new mistress, having been primed by her ladyship’s former butler, Black. As he admired Lady Luten and was eager for her approval, he was always happy to oblige her.

The breakfast was consumed by the time Evans announced Sir Reginald. Reg was so fond of his new ensemble that he refused to remove his cape before joining them. A demon for propriety, he had to take off his hat, but carried it in his hand, and would put it on before leaving the room. He was letting his hair grow in an effort to lend his narrow face a menacing gothic touch that didn’t really suit his slender, graceful body. “A face like a greyhound and a body like a cat,”
was Coffen’s way of describing his old friend.

“Morning, all,”
Prance said with a weary sigh, but he was too happy to keep up the gloomy pose with these close friends. “I’m on my way to Bond Street. I just popped in to see if there’s any errand I could perform for you, Corinne. I’m signing books at Hatchard’s at eleven. My poor hand positively aches.”

He shook it and winced. “Everywhere I go I’m besieged by autograph hunters. Then I must visit Murray. The first run of five thousand has sold out and they’re printing another edition of my little gothic. He thinks seven thousand this time. John wants my approval for the new introduction. Ah well, the price of success.”
He put in that “John”
to let them know he was on a first name basis with the famous publisher.

“We were just saying how much we enjoyed your book, Reg,”
Corinne said. “No, I don’t require anything, thanks. Mrs. Ballard wants to go downtown this afternoon, so I can pick up anything I need then.”

Mrs. Ballard, widow of a minor cleric, had been her companion since her marriage to Lord deCoventry seven years before. Seven years later she was still wearing nothing but black. Upon Corinne’s marriage to Luten, her duties were less onerous, mostly that of dresser.

“And how is Luten?”
Reg asked, as no further praise of his book was forthcoming.

“Busy. Very busy.”

“Ah, plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”

Coffen narrowed his eyes and said what he always said when he lost track of the conversation. “Eh?”

“It’s French, Coffen,”
Reg said.

“Something shady in other words.”

“
Pas
du tout.
It merely means
—
oh never mind. I am in a hurry and getting such a troublesome idea into your head might take hours. I must be off. Shall I see you at Jergens’
do this evening?”

“We’ve sent an acceptance,”
Corinne said, “so I daresay we shall drop in, probably late.”

Prance also planned to arrive late, to make a grand entrance. “You, Coffen?”
he asked.

“I thought I’d toddle along to that new burlesque at Coventry Garden. I may stop by later if — that is — “
He frowned at Reggie.

“Quite, if you have no luck at the theatre.”

Coffen was an avid attendee at the theatre, where he mostly enjoyed the Green Room after the play, to try his luck with the lesser actresses. Other than Corinne, in whom he had no romantic interest, he didn’t get along with bona fide ladies, despite his considerable fortune, but he was always a success with maids and seamstresses and actresses.

“Then I expect I shall see you all this evening. Give my regards to the ladies in the Green Room, Coffen.”
On this knowing speech he put on his broad-brimmed slouch hat, pulled it down over his eye, gave his cape a whirl to lift one corner over his shoulder and made his exit.

Coffen just shook his head. “It almost makes you wish he’d fall in love with Byron again. The corkscrew curl hanging over his forehead and them dashed spotted kerchiefs weren’t as silly looking as this new get-up. Gudgeon. I’d best be off, too. Going to Tatt’s. I hear Alvanley’s selling his matched greys. I’m thinking of setting up a curricle, now that spring’s on the way.”

“That sounds very dashing. I’m going home to bring a few things here. Mrs. Ballard has been packing for me. I’ll get that tablecloth I promised you. You can pick it up later."

“Home”
was her little house across the street where she had lived since deCoventry’s death. He had married his penniless Irish bride in hope that a lady a third his age might produce an heir. In this she had failed him, but in all other respects the four-year marriage had been a success. His cousin, Luten, had waited the necessary year after his demise to offer for her. Stunned at the offer, she had not only refused, she had laughed! It had taken him another two years of intermittent pursuit and quarreling to get over the insult, but eventually they had got together.

Prance, who loved arranging parties, had been incensed that he hadn’t been put in charge of the wedding, but as he had just sold his novel at that time he had been so busy he forgave them, and made do with throwing a party in their honour a week later. He wished he had made it a gothic-themed party, though perhaps that would have been a tad sombre for a wedding celebration. No matter, he would arrange his gothic party as soon as his duties as a successful author permitted. His elaborate parties were not planned and executed in a day, or even a week.

“I’ll drop in tomorrow morning,”
Coffen said
,
struggling out of his chair.

“I’ll go with you,”
she said, and rang for her pelisse and bonnet.

He looked at her in alarm. It was unusual for folks to visit him at his home, due to the manner in which it was run by his slovenly servants.

“I’m going home to bring a few things here," she explained. “Mrs. Ballard has been packing up for me.”

“Ah, that’s all right then,”
he said, relieved.

“Have your servants perpetrated some new horror that you don’t want anyone to see?”
she teased.

Evans brought her pelisse and Coffen helped her on with it. “I’d not call it a horror. Could happen to anyone. Accidents do happen.”

“Especially at your house. And exactly what accident happened today?”

“I wouldn’t call charred gammon an accident. Nothing’s happened so far. It was last night. I daresay I left the decanter too close to the edge myself. Tipped over, the wine made a bit of a mess on the sofa and carpet. I’ve been thinking it was time to replace them.”

“Why bother?”
she asked with a weary sigh. “They’ll only do it again.”

They left, Coffen to visit Tattersall’s auction mart for horseflesh. Corinne dashed into her former home, where Black had the door open for her.

Prance took lunch at his club and spent a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon on the strut on Bond Street showing off his outlandish outfit. Murray had been positively euphoric about his book’s success and was eager to hear his plans for the next book. He said he hadn’t had such a rush on a book since Byron’s
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.
He wished he had printed an initial ten thousand, as he had for Byron’s poem. The crowd at Hatchard’s had fawned over him. And to complete the day’s delights, he ran into Byron who invited him to “have a bite”
with him before going home.

Prance didn’t hesitate a moment and even agreed to sit down in his afternoon clothes. In the usual way he was a martinet for wearing the proper outfit. Somehow, for dinner with Byron, the clothes he had on seemed appropriate; especially as the hour was so irregular, only five-thirty, and the other patrons at the tavern they went to didn’t look as if they would own evening clothes. As they both knew formal attire was necessary for Lady Jergen’s party, however, they had to change before going.

Prance couldn’t resist one last promenade down Bond Street in his cape and slouch hat before going home. At the corner of Bond and Glasshouse Street, Harry Bolton, an old friend from Cambridge, came running up to him. “Prance, I thought it was you,”
he said, panting and smiling. “Congratulations on your new book. I hear it’s excellent, very exciting.”

Prance modestly allowed that it was having some small success —
“five thousand copies sold out in a week and seven thousand more going to press as we speak.”

Harry looked over his shoulder a few times as they talked. He seemed nervous.

“Are you living at the Albany, Harry?”
Prance asked, as this was where many bachelors lived.

“No, I have a flat on Shaftesbury Avenue, in that big building just at Charing Cross Road. You’re still on Berkeley Square?”