Murder on Charing Cross Road (2 page)

“That’s right. Lovely running into you, but I really must be off. Lady Jergen is having a do this evening.”
He didn’t ask if Harry would be attending. He was from a good county family but was not a member of the haut ton.

“I wonder if you would do a little favour for me, Reg?”

Prance assumed it was a request for an autograph. As Harry wasn’t carrying a book with him, he said, “Just bring your copy to Berkeley Square and I’ll be happy to autograph it.”

Instead of a book, Harry drew an envelope out of his pocket. “Actually, it’s a message for Lord Luten. I know you two are neighbours. It’s an —
er, an invitation to a party from my aunt, Lady Hastings. It’s rather urgent. For this evening. Somehow their invitation got left behind and she’s most anxious that they receive it.”

“I’ll be happy to, Harry, but I happen to know they’re promised to Lady Jergen this evening.”

“Well, auntie is very eager for them to know they were invited in any case, so if you wouldn’t mind —
“

Prance accepted the invitation and put it in his inner pocket. From the corner of his eye he noticed a couple of fans waiting for Harry to leave before coming forward. Always eager to oblige a fan, he shook Harry’s hand in farewell. “We must get together soon, Harry.”

“I look forward to it. You
will
make sure that invitation is delivered tonight?”
Then he left at a hurried pace.

Prance looked about for his carriage, then looked to where the two fans had been waiting. They were gone, but his carriage, which had been following him, drew up across the street. He hailed it and waited for the footman to
open the door and let down the step. He was surprised to find Coffen Pattle inside.

“G’day, Reg. I spotted your rig and figured you’d be heading home about now. I lost Fitz half an hour ago and have been waiting for him to find me. Who was that you were taking to?”

Prance told him and directed his carriage to Berkeley Square. A dark carriage followed them. “Did you buy Alvanley’s greys?”
Prance asked.

“Somers outbid me. Truth to tell, I wasn’t sure I could handle such high steppers. Big brutes, they were. Sixteen miles an hour easy.”
They discussed horses until the carriage reached home. The carriage following them drew to a stop a few houses back.

When Prance alit, he said, “Harry asked me to deliver this invitation to Luten,”
and drew the envelope from his pocket. “It’s not really urgent, though he thinks it is. It’s for a party this evening that they won’t be likely to attend. I’ll have a footman pop it over.”

“I’ll take it for you if you like,”
Coffen said. Prance handed it to him. “I’m to pick up a tablecloth Corinne’s giving me, one from her own house. It ain’t grand enough for Luten’s table.”

“I didn’t know you used tablecloths.”

“I don’t, but it’ll come in handy if I ever have to throw a dinner party. It’s too good for rags.”

They parted. Coffen, always hungry, decided to have a bite before delivering the invitation. When he had changed into evening clothes and gnawed his way through a few bites of tough mutton and watery potatoes his cook called dinner, he decided to drop in on Black. Black would feed him. He was acting as caretaker for Corinne’s house until they found someone to rent it. Luten wanted to keep the property in the family. He took the card for Luten from the salver by the door where he had left it and popped in on Black, who had the door open for him.

Black had been in the habit of monitoring all the comings and goings of the friends on Berkeley Square to keep his mistress informed of their doings. This was no longer possible now that she wasn’t living here, but old habits died hard. And there was always the possibility that he’d catch a glimpse of
her.

Black had been in love with her from first moment he had seen her. Black had been associated with Lord deCoventry for years before he married his Irish Bride. There had been occasions when even a lord had doings with the demi-monde, and deCoventry had found Black to be reliable in dealing with them. As death drew near, he had fears for the future of his young widow-to-be. Such a beauty — raven hair
,
a face like an angel, eyes as green as the grass of Ireland and no notion of how wicked the world was — would be bait for all sorts of ne’er-do-wells.

The estate went out of her hands but deCoventry had provided the little house on Berkeley Square, along with a country place and a competence —
enough to attract fortune hunters. DeCoventry had charged Black with the job of seeing to her safety. He then told his wife that Black was to be her butler, and she was to trust him. She had found it good advice. But now that she was married to Lord Luten, Black’s job was over. Luten would see to her safekeeping.

The Berkeley Brigade knew nothing of Black’s dealings with deCoventry but they knew his past was shady. They also knew deCoventry trusted him, and that he was an excellent butler. He had often helped them with cases in the past when knowledge of the criminal classes was necessary.

“Evening, Black,”
Coffen said. “I see you’re keeping on the
qui vive.”

Black gave a weary sigh. “I am, though I hardly know why I bother. Things ain’t the same for me since she left.”

“She didn’t go far,”
Coffen pointed out.

“True, but she’s not
here.
Have you ate, Mr. Pattle, or will you join me in a wee bite? I’d be happy for the company.”

“I could do with a bite,”
Coffen admitted.

Black led him to the kitchen, where he rustled up some tasty gammon and eggs. In his dreams, Black assumed the role of Lord Blackwell, friend and beloved of Lady Luten. He usually kept his infatuation on a tight leash, but his conversation that evening gave Pattle the hint he was sorely missing her.

To cheer him up, Coffen said, “You can go see her right now. I have this invitation Prance wanted me to give her. It’s not important, an invite to some do they likely won’t be attending.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Pattle. I’ll see she gets it,”
he said eagerly, and took the invitation.

“Thankee, Black. And if you get lonesome, just pop over to my place for a chin wag, any time.”

Black’s lined face creased in a smile of gratitude. Mr. Pattle was his favorite of all the gentlemen of the Brigade. Coffen left and Black made a careful toilette before going to call on Lady Luten. But when Evans answered the door, he learned that the Lutens were dining with the Greys before going on to Lady Jergen’s party. They must have left while he was getting dressed. “I’ll see it’s delivered when they return,”
Evans said, taking the envelope.

Black returned across the street to his lonely vigil. Since
she
was out for the evening, he’d continue reading Sir Reginald’s novel, which
she
had been kind enough to lend him. It was surprisingly good, if a bit creepy to read alone in a house at night. Gave him goosebumps.

* * * *

Meanwhile Sir Reginald was making a grande toilette to attend a party he would never reach. His butler, Villier, was hard pressed to come up with a toilette that was dashing enough to turn heads while still adhering to the gothic mode his master now favored. A step too far and he would look as if he were attending a funeral. They compromised on a black jacket, severely arranged white cravat with a dark amethyst pin and of course the cape and slouch hat. To his delight, Prance had already seen three similar capes and one hat about town. It had always been his dream to come up with a new sartorial style. He was in perfect humour with his little world when he left home that evening.

Prance had not yet gotten around to changing his carriage. He was uncertain just what sort of carriage a gothic hero would drive. It must be black, of course, with perhaps a black team drawing it instead of his bays. Deep in the throes of this problem, he stood a moment, imagining how the new carriage and team would look. Unfortunately, that combination was fit only for a funeral. Would a team of greys do? He would have to consult with Villier.

Meanwhile, it was a perfect April night, clear and cloudless with a slim wedge of moon silvering the neighbourhood. He didn’t even glance at the post-boy who held the door open for him, or notice that his groom
'
s shoulders were inches wider than when last seen. His thoughts were all directed inward, until the jostling of the carriage over the rough roadway became too tumultuous to ignore.

Glancing out the window, he saw not the stately mansions of Grosvenor Square with footmen holding torches to light the guests’
way from their carriages, but a row of mean hovels. What the devil was going on? Pelkey had taken the wrong route and become lost. But Pelkey would never make such a monstrous error.

He gave the drawstring a sharp yank. The carriage drew to a halt and he sat waiting for the post-boy to get down and open the door, to make explanations and apologies. As soon as he saw the masked face at the door he knew having taken the wrong route was not his only problem. Something was dreadfully amiss. The masked man wore his livery, but the jacket was ill-fitting. And the man was not alone either. Another masked man hopped down from the driver’s perch and loomed up in front of him. A huge bruiser of a man he was, squeezed into Pelkey’s jacket that hung open in front.

His heart began thumping wildly in his chest. Prance was averse to physical violence, especially when directed against himself. He assumed they were footpads, but how the deuce had they got hold of his rig, and where were his own servants?

“Here is my purse, gentlemen,”
he said, trying to sound friendly and not afraid, though his shaking voice betrayed him. He regretted the loss of the purse more than the money in it. He had designed the purse himself and had it decorated with his family crest —
three lions passant, gold on sable.

The man at the door snatched the purse and grabbed his extended hand. “No need for roughness, gentlemen,”
Prance chided. The bruiser yanked, and Prance landed in a heap at his feet. The next five minutes were pure, undiluted horror, worse than his worst nightmare. The man pulled him up by his cape collar, clenched his large paw into a fist and landed him a facer that sent him sprawling again. Blood spurted from his nose, his eyes refused to focus. The attacker looming above him seemed to have multiplied into two or three men, all of them scowling at him over a black mask.

The smaller fellow began ransacking his pockets, then jumped into his carriage and proceeded to tear it apart. He rifled the side pockets, took out Prance’s pistol and stuck it in his waistband. The bigger bruiser yanked Prance to his feet again and demanded in a gruff voice, “Where is it?”

Prance felt the blood running down from his surely broken nose, over his lips and chin, falling in drops on his cravat. "I gave it to you! It’s all I have with me. Here, take my watch.”
He pulled out his watch, a family heirloom given to him by his grandfather. The man grabbed it and stuck it in his pocket. The other man called something from the carriage.

In his distress, Prance couldn’t make out the words. “What is it you want?”
he cried.

A footstep was heard at the entrance to the dark laneway. A bobbing light came toward them. The Watch, thank God! The two thieves exchanged a look, knocked Prance down again, gave him a sharp kick in the ribs, and took off on foot, leaving Prance an aching, bleeding heap on the ground.

The bobbing light came nearer. “Gorblimey!”
a young voice said. Not the Watch, but a link-boy with his light of tow and pitch to lead pedestrians through the dark, but as welcome as the rain after a drought. “The footpads got you, eh mister?”
the boy said.

“Help me up,”
Prance gasped, and the boy reached out a dirty hand to pull him up. Every bone in his body ached. His nose was bleeding copiously, splattering his cravat and waistcoat. He couldn’t stand up straight for the pain in his stomach and ribs. He feared he was going to cast up his accounts, but the feeling passed, leaving him weak.

“You want I should go for help?”
the boy said.

“Yes, please. No!”
He didn’t want to be left alone. They might come back and go at him again. “Just help me along out of this place.”

“What about your rattler and prads? You can’t leave ‘em here. They’ll be took.”

“I can’t drive. I’m in pain.”

“I’ll drive you,”
the boy said, grinning from ear to ear.

“Do you know how to drive a team?”

“I’ve droved a dog cart.”

“Just take the reins and walk them. I’ll get into the carriage.”
It proved impossible to lift his leg to get into the carriage, however, so he slowly limped along, using the link-boy’s shoulder as a crutch.

“You shouldn’t oughter of come into Long Acre alone, mister,”
the boy said. “Everybody knows
that.”

“Is that where we are? What are you doing here?”

“I live here, don’t I? Just setting out on my rounds. Where do you want to go to, mister?”

“To Berkeley Square.”

“You’ll never make it. Why don’t I git my pa? He’ll help you.”

“Where does he live?”

“Just a few steps along.”

They turned a corner, continued a few steps past ramshackle buildings that looked ready to fall down. A mangy dog began following them till the link-boy threw a rock at it. They soon reached a building that looked abandoned, but for the dim light of a rush lamp at one window. A dark-visaged hulk of a man loomed up in the doorway. For an awful moment Prance feared he had been delivered to the den of his attackers who had beat and robbed him. And he had nothing left to give them but his cravat pin. Odd the footpads hadn’t taken it. Suddenly a swarm of young urchins came streaming out of the doorway, pointing and jabbering.

“The footpads got this here gent, Pa,”
the link-boy said. “He wants to git to Berkeley Square but he can’t drive hisself.”

“Well now,”
said the man in a kindly way. “You done right to bring him here, Tommy. I’ll git him home.”

“Thank you,”
Prance said in a weak voice. The man helped him into the carriage. “You come along, young Tom. We might need a messenger. Park your light and hop up here with me.”
Tom handed his light to the biggest of the boys who had come out of the house, gave him a few sharp orders and scrambled up on the box with his father.