Murder on Charing Cross Road (11 page)

“Sorry to disturb you,”
Prance said. “We were afraid you’d go dashing back to the House if we waited too long.”

“We saw Black take off in your hunting carriage and wondered what was afoot,”
Coffen added, scanning the sideboard for food, though he had enjoyed his lunch with Black. The hot dishes had been removed but a fruit compote and ginger cake were still on the sideboard.

No spoken words were necessary. Corinne nodded to the footman and Coffen was served dessert. Prance, who resented that eating was necessary at all, declined the offer with a shake of his head. As soon as Coffen had eaten and they had all had their coffee, they retired to the privacy of Luten’s study to be brought up to date.

“Studying a map of Spain, you say!”
Coffen exclaimed. “That pretty well clinches it.”

“Rather indiscreet of him, doing it in his drawing room, where any caller could see,”
Prance said.

“That’s easily explained though,”
Luten said. “Everyone is interested in our progress in Spain. Taking a keen interest almost lends him the air of a patriot.”

“Did you learn anything about him at the House?”
Prance asked.

“No unsavoury rumours are floating about. No debts worth speaking of, no suspicious friends. The family is influential, of course. In these cases one often hears nothing until the final catastrophe. I’ll keep an ear to the ground.”

It was decided that Prance and Coffen would visit Arthur’s as planned that afternoon and report back after dinner, or before if they learned anything of importance. They took Coffen’s carriage as Prance’s coachman had taken his to Newman’s Stable to be sold “as is”, with the lining torn apart. Fitz could not be trusted to drive, so they borrowed Corinne’s groom.

For an hour they sat in a smoke-filled room, drinking ale. As they wanted to be free to join Morgrave’s table if he came, Prance sat with a group who were chatting before the grate. Coffen picked up a journal and stationed himself in a chair with a view of the doorway where he could see the gentlemen as they entered the parlour.

At three on the dot Morgrave stepped in. Coffen watched him scanning the room to see if he was looking for anyone in particular. This could be a good clue as to who he had come to meet. He hadn’t removed his coat, which suggested he might plan to leave right away. Morgrave didn’t seem interested in anyone in particular, however.

When he turned around and strolled out, Coffen followed him, but he just went to the coat rack and hung up his coat. Coffen made a note of which coat was Morgrave’s, third from the right hand side. Morgrave proceeded into the card parlour but he didn’t play cards. He joined a group who were just looking out the window, drinking wine and chatting.

Prance used his acquaintance with one of the men as an excuse to join them. Morgrave’s friends didn’t seem the least bit suspicious. A retired judge, a minor aristocrat and James Freewell, the younger fellow Prance was acquainted with. Freewell was a writer, like himself. Well, not quite like himself, a journalist actually. The first conversation dealt with Prance’s eye patch and cane, which gave him an opportunity to practice the recounting of his vicious attack at Long Acre. The gentlemen all expressed outrage at this.

Freewell soon asked him the old familiar question, “What are you working on now, Prance? Another gothic to turn our hair gray?”

“Something entirely different, actually,”
Prance said.

“Ah, another poem, like your Arthurian rondeau?”

In his new success, Prance was now confident enough to laugh at that early failure. “I’ve learned the hard way I am no poet, Freewell. No, it’s not poetry, but another novel.”

He was teased to reveal the great secret, but remained mysteriously evasive. After a little bantering, the subject of the war came up. Margrave seemed more interested in this than in literature. He was well informed too. His tone regarding the conduct of the war was quite critical.

“I see you take a strong interest in the Spanish campaign, Morgrave,”
Prance said.

“Naturally. I follow it closely. Doesn’t everyone?”

“To be sure, though I must admit I haven’t quite your grasp of the details.”

“Well, Sam tells me you are a dashed good writer in any case. Pleased to see you here. You’re not a regular. I was talking to Lady Luten this morning. She called on my wife. I meant to ask her if you chaps were having any luck with your latest case. It’s the murder of young Bolton you’re looking into, I understand.”

“Luten’s looking into it for a relative. Bolton was some connection of his. It’s hardly a matter for the Brigade.”

The old judge muttered, “Shocking,”
and the subject moved on to Prinney’s latest outrages.

It seemed a long, tedious afternoon. They sat talking and imbibing for a solid hour while Coffen glanced over the latest race results. He made a few trips in the direction of the coat rack, but didn’t achieve enough privacy to search Morgrave’s coat pockets.

When Prance ordered another round, Coffen knew he was in for another long wait. He made yet another trip to the coat rack and this time he had the place to himself. He headed straight to Morgrave’s coat, third from the right, and began delving into his pockets. The first one held only a bill from Hamlet’s for repairs to a necklace clasp — that’d be Samantha’s, and a couple of his own calling cards. In the other pocket, he found what he was after. He felt soft leather, and drew out a gentleman’s purse. Not just any purse, it was Prance’s! The one stolen the night he was attacked in Long Acre. There was no mistaking it.

Like all Prance’s possessions, it was unique. He had designed it himself, with his family motto etched into the soft leather in gold and black. Three lions walking and something, probably the family motto, written in Latin. Coffen stood a moment, his heart thumping in excitement and his mind whirling with indecision. Should he take it as proof of what he’d found? Or should he leave it so Morgrave didn’t suspect he’d been found out? He soon decided discretion demanded that he not remove it. But he did open it, and noticed it held only a few shillings. The bleater had spent the ten pounds Prance had mentioned were in the purse.

He returned the purse to Morgrave’s coat pocket and returned to the card room. The group was finally breaking up. Morgrave was the first to rise.

“I’d best be getting home,”
he said. “Sam and I are dining at my brother’s place tonight.”

“I must be dashing too,”
Prance said at once, and shook hands all around.

Coffen and Prance managed to get out the door before Morgrave and hastened to their carriage to follow Morgrave when he left. The groom already had his orders.

“He wouldn’t have to leave this early to get ready for dinner,”
Prance said. “We’ll follow him.”

“You’ll never guess what I discovered,”
Coffen said, his chest swollen with importance. “Your purse, Reg, the one that was stolen by them roughians at Long Acre. It was in Morgrave’s coat pocket. The ninnyhammer didn’t know enough to discard it after stealing your ten pounds. Still green behind the ears.”

In the excitement of this announcement, Prance didn’t even notice Coffen’s latest mangling of the King’s English. “Are you sure it’s mine. Let me see it.”

“I didn’t take it. I didn’t want him to know we were on to him. As you often say, discretion is the better part of value. I’m positive it’s yours. It’s the only sharkskin purse in town with three gold lions going for a stroll.”

“You’re right. Best to leave it there. There he goes!”
Prance cried, as Morgrave’s carriage took off. They followed it at a discreet distance, and were greatly disappointed when it went straight to Morgrave’s home.

“We can go on home,”
Coffen said. “There’s Luten's hunting carriage just rounding the bend. Black’s on the job. He must have followed him to Arthur’s and been waiting all afternoon. He sticks tighter than a barnacle.”

“This was a good afternoon’s work,”
Prance said. “Morgrave must be the ring leader. Those roughs who beat me up obviously handed their ill-got gains over to him, or how does he come to have my purse?”

“Are you sure he wasn’t one of them? You mentioned one of them was big.”

“No, he was a heavier set man entirely.”

“Do you think we should send Luten a note?”

“He’ll be home soon enough. Morgrave isn’t on the move, and Black is there to follow him if he does leave. Pelkey is having a new carriage brought around for me to look at.”

Prance, like most young men, was greatly interested in horses and carriages. “Dandy! Is it a curricle? I’m after one of them sporting rigs myself.”

“No, just a carriage,”
Prance said, and rather wondered if he shouldn’t be getting a dashing curricle instead.

He was very happy with the plain black carriage with silver appointments glinting in the fading sunlight that stood in front of his house when they arrived. Pelkey jumped down from the box when he saw them approach.

“Perfect,”
Prance said. “Just what I wanted. This is the one, Pelkey.”

“Pretty plain. For you, I mean,”
was Coffen’s opinion. “I’m beginning to think that beating knocked some sense into you, Reg. I notice you’ve left off wearing that funny hat and cape. You’re wearing a plainer cravat as well, and you’ve quit curling your hair. Other than the eye patch and bruised nose, you look almost normal.”

“Now if only we could do something about
your
toilette,”
Prance riposted. He was not offended, however. He liked to have his appearance noticed and commented upon.

Over the next few days the investigation proved to be extremely frustrating. Between Black and the two footmen Luten assigned to the job, they knew where Morgrave was every hour of the day. He did nothing more suspicious than visit his brother, drive in the park with his wife, order a new pair of top boots, visit his tailor and attend Tattersalls with his brother, who bid on but did not purchase a hunter for his wife. His nights were equally innocent.

Finding Prance’s purse in Morgrave’s pocket
proved
that he was involved, if not the ringleader, yet he did nothing suspicious. He received no visits from Henri, Guy or Alphonse. In fact, he was never seen anywhere near a Frenchman. He did not send or receive any suspicious communications, unless it was done through the post office. Black was sent back to the Sheepwalk and reported that the Frenchies had not returned.

Samantha Morgrave was flattered to receive two more calls from Lady Luten. On the second visit she was invited to call Corinne by her first name. Samantha was given to understand she was being considered for elevation to the committee for the Orphans’
Ball for next year, to account for this sudden barrage of visits. On one more occasion John was present, though not studying maps of Spain or drinking brandy. To make matters worse, Corinne
liked
the
Morgraves. And when Samantha blushingly confided that she was enceinte, Corinne was sorry she had ever become involved in the case. How cruel for Samantha if her husband should turn out to be a traitor just when she was having their first baby.

Prance found the eye patch so distracting that he abandoned it, except on one or two occasions when he went out in the evening where
tout le monde
could admire it. His special quizzing glass arrived and was added to his toilette. The sword in a cane also arrived and he and Villier spent an afternoon flailing at each other in the drawing room, Prance with the sheathed sword and Villier with Prance’s malacca walking stick. The long, narrow neckcloths were made up and Villier practised arranging them in intricate folds. Prance bought a black enameled snuffbox that opened at the touch of a button, filled it with pepper and carried it with him everywhere.

His jackets were a little bulkier than usual due to concealed weapons, including a small hasp knife with a cleverly concealed corkscrew.

The side pockets of his coach were bulging with pistols, knives, ropes and handkerchiefs to use for gags, a small bottle of laudanum in case he wanted to put an enemy to sleep and brandy for resuscitation purposes. He even managed to find a pair of manacles. He was prepared for any emergency, but no emergency arrived.

Luten was pulling his hair in frustration when Black finally came up with a clue. Black had been making queries among his many acquaintances in the underworld and called on Lady Luten just before dinner on the third day of inactivity. He took special pains to time his visits when he was likely to find her alone for a few minutes. He found her reading in the rose salon, all dressed for evening and waiting for Luten to come home. She looked even lovelier since her wedding. Less agitated, more serene. Almost like a Madonna.

“Black,”
she said, smiling. “Dare I hope you have brought us news? Luten is so frustrated with this case.”

“I believe I might have a little something, milady. Is his lordship at home?”
he asked innocently.

“Not yet, but he’ll be here shortly. You can tell me. Any little crumb will be more than welcome. What have you discovered? Is it to do with the brandy you ordered?”

“No, I’ve had no word from Freddie as yet.”
To prolong his visit, he said, “If Luten will be along soon, we might as well wait for him. I see marriage agrees with you, milady. You are flourishing, if I may be allowed to say so.”
He cast a sideways glance at the wine on the side table beside her.

“Certainly you may. Thank you. We are very happy now that we’ve finally managed to get married. We hardly argue at all. Prance says we have sunk into a connubial lethargy. Let us have a glass of wine while we wait for Luten.”

They hadn’t long to wait. Sooner than Black liked, Luten arrived. His first attention was a smile for his bride. Then he turned to Black. “Black, what brings you to call?”
he said, his eyes gleaming with hope.

“Black has found out something, Luten,”
his wife announced.

“A little something that I hope will help,”
Black said modestly.

“Let us go into my study,”
Luten said. As Corinne was about to join them Evans entered with a note from one of her colleagues on the Orphans’
Ball committee.