Murder on Charing Cross Road (23 page)

They waited, listening, every nerve taut, while the three men rode up to the stable and dismounted. There was some discussion amongst them when they saw the broken lock but even Prance, with his knowledge of French, could make little of their patois. Luten silently cursed himself for not having thought of the lock.

After a little discussion, the door was slowly drawn open and a head peered in. No one within made a sound. In the shaft of moonlight they saw the three heads. Soon the Frenchmen entered, leaving the mounts outside. The door swung closed behind them, plunging the stable into utter darkness.

Luten drew out his pistol and said, “You’re surrounded. One move and we shoot. Black, the lantern.”
Even as he spoke, one of them lunged forward, butted him in the stomach, and sent his pistol flying into the air. Black obediently opened the window of the lantern just long enough for Alphonse to see him and attack. The lantern went the way of Luten’s pistol. The melee was underway. Fists and curses flew, as the men fought it out, greatly impeded by the darkness. The horses, frightened, began neighing and whinnying and kicking the slats of their loose boxes.

The horses left outside the barn were also upset by the commotion. Since they weren’t tethered they bolted, just as Corinne and her two guardians reached the stable. “What on earth is happening?”
she cried, alarmed at the noises from the barn. “Jezebel! Roberts, see if you can stop her.”
Jezebel recognized her mistress’s voice and came to a nervous halt, whinnying and rearing up on her hind legs.

“She’ll trample me, milady,”
said Roberts, a city-bred fellow who had never cared for horseflesh.

Corinne went up to her, took the rein and gentled her, then tethered her to the horse rail and tiptoed to the stable, with Evans and Roberts behind her. She eased open the door and was hit a glancing blow by a flying fist. She never did discover who had struck her. A man she had never seen before bolted out the open door. “Get him, Roberts,”
she called, and Roberts tackled Henri, bringing him to the ground. Corinne and Evans went into the barn.

Evans lifted his lantern and a pale yellow beam revealed a scene of utter confusion. Coffen discovered he had been beating Black over the head with the butt of his pistol. Prance had cleverly fallen to the ground beyond the melee. When he recognized Corinne, he closed his eyes and pretended he was unconscious. He trusted that blow to the nose he’d taken would lend verisimilitude to his pose. He could feel blood. Would his poor nose ever be the same again? It had been such a pretty nose too. Really he should never have come here tonight. His ribs hurt like the devil.

But it was Luten that Corinne feared for, and she soon discovered him with his hands around a fat man’s neck and a smaller man on his back. The fat man fell to the ground. Luten shook the smaller one from his back, turned around, landed him a facer, then stood up, looking all around to see who else he might attack. Counting up bodies, he said, “We’re one short.”

“Roberts has one of them outside,”
Corinne said.

“Corinne! I told you to stay in the carriage.”

She could see his eye was swollen, his jacket beyond repair, his chin bloodied, but she also saw the smile on his face. “So you did. It seems you didn’t need me this time.”
She spotted Prance lying on the ground and went to him. “Oh dear, they’ve knocked Prance out.”
She knelt beside him and lifted his head. “Prance, can you hear me?”

“Mama,”
he whispered and allowed his eyelids to flutter open. “Ah, is it you, Corrie? Where are we?”

“You’re safe, Reggie.”
He sat up, moaned, looked all around and decided it was now safe to recover, though his ribs really did ache dreadfully.

Black came forward, patting blood from his forehead with a handkerchief. He was also smiling. “That was a dandy little tussle,”
he said. “Now what do you want done with this lot, milord?”
Looking all around, he said, “We’re one shy. One of the scoundrels got away.”

“Roberts has him outside,”
Corinne said. “It’s the mounts that have got away, except Jezebel. One of you should try to round them up.”
Black breathed a sigh of relief to learn that Jezebel was safely back.

Coffen came limping forward. “Sorry about that, Black. Hope I didn’t hurt you. In the dark I thought you was the big one — Alphonse.”

“No hard feelings, Mr. Pattle. All’s fair in love and war.”
Prance opened his mouth, but wisely decided this wasn’t the time for a lecture on the misuse of quotations. Black prodded the other two Frenchmen to their feet and with his pistol at their backs, led them out. The others all went out behind them. The night seemed almost bright after the darkness of the barn, and the air smelled sweet. The clamour of the alarmed horses in the barn subsided.

“I’ll see if I can round up the nags,”
Coffen said, to atone for having attacked the wrong man. Evans showed him the direction they had taken, he threw a leg over Jezebel and rode off.

Evans had Henri tied up leg and wing, using his own cravat for the hands and Henri’s for his ankles.

“I’ll take this lot to Bow Street in my carriage,”
Luten said. “You go home and wait for us, Corrie. The others can ride home when Coffen brings the mounts.”

“What about Ned Sparks?”
Prance asked.

“He must have slept through the racket or he’d be here. He won’t know any of us have been here until he sees that broken lock in the morning. We can put Townsend on to him tomorrow.”

“If you’re going with them alone, you’d best tie them up,”
Prance suggested to Luten.

“I will, and I’ll take Roberts along for good measure. We don’t want to botch it this time.”

They removed their cravats and tied the miscreants’
arms behind them. Prance regretted that he hadn’t brought his own carriage with the ropes in the side pocket. The flask of brandy would have come in handy as well.

They stood, discussing the fight in the happiest terms, considering they all looked in need of a doctor, until Coffen returned, riding Jezebel and leading the others behind him.

“You take Lady Luten home, Evans,”
Luten said. “We’re going to Bow Street. We’ll be home shortly.”

He marched the prisoners to his carriage, the others rode behind. Evans accompanied Lady Luten in the carriage. He smiled softly as they retraced their steps to Berkeley Square. It was his first taste of action with the Berkeley Brigade. He was determined it would not be his last. What a slow top he was not to have got in on the action before. Hadn’t Black stared to see him!

“Mr. Pattle will want some food, Evans,”
Lady Luten said as he held the door for her to enter the mansion. His evening’s excitement was over. He was now once again Evans, the butler, the only difference being that he was opening the door from the outside.

“Certainly, Madam. I shall attend to it.”

She went upstairs to tidy herself for the coming celebration, going softly to avoid alerting Mrs. Ballard that she was home. As she glanced at the French clock on the dresser, she saw it was nearly two a.m. Not much chance Mrs. Ballard would be awake. The night had been a success, except that they still hadn’t captured Eric Martin, the ringleader. Perhaps they would learn something useful from the other prisoners.

She tidied her hair, frowned at her pale face and wished she had some rouge. Luten didn’t like it but all the ladies were using it. Would he even know, if she applied it carefully and hid the pot? She pinched her cheeks and went downstairs to await their return.

Between fatigue, the heat from the fire and the glass of wine Evans gave her, she became drowsy. She was just dozing off at three o’clock when the others arrived. Expecting to hear the usual good-natured laughter and bragging about their success, she was surprised to see their joyful mood had sobered to satisfaction. In fact bordering on dissatisfaction to judge by their relative silence. But at least they were home alive, none of them badly hurt, their mounts recovered and three French spies locked up.

As they ate and drank, the cause of their dissatisfaction was revealed. “Did you find out anything about Eric Martin?”
she asked.

“They call him the
anglais,”
Luten told her. “That appears to be all they know about him. He’s English, he pays well. So far as they’re concerned, they’re doing nothing wrong. They’re Frenchmen trying to help France, which is understandable. It’s Martin who’s the traitor. We’ve got to get him, and we’re no closer to it than ever.”

“They must know more than that. He must give them orders. How do they keep in touch?”

“When he has a job for them, he meets them on Bond Street at noon. One of them goes there every day. They described him the way McRaney described the man who killed Bolton —
tall, young, well-built, a gentleman in so far as appearances go. We’ll be on Bond Street at noon tomorrow, of course, but the place is busy as a beehive at that hour, which is why he chose it, of course. There’ll be half a dozen men who meet the description. When none of the Frenchies show up, he’ll melt into the crowd. Townsend thinks there are a dozen men in the gang. We learned Martin set up the meeting at the Sheepwalk last night. We can assume he made a point of telling Ned Sparks he was staying there, so that Ned would tell us. He probably knows already that we caught those three.”

“How could he know?”
she asked. “They haven’t had a chance to tell him, and from what you said, they won’t see him before noon tomorrow on Bond Street.”

Prance said, “I expect he was watching or had someone watching the whole thing last night, beginning at the Sheepwalk. Martin appears to leave nothing to chance. Alphonse and company are merely his minions. I suggested we let one of them out and have him followed, but Townsend says they’re on to that old dodge. He’d just go home, and you may be sure Martin won’t go within a mile of that place.”

“I’ll check it out tomorrow all the same,”
Coffen said. “I got the address from Black. There might be a clue.”

Evans loitered about on the pretext of serving wine and food, but was not invited to sit down, which was gratifying to Black.

After a long, frowning pause, Luten said, “We have to come up with a plan to flush Martin out. I wonder —" But he didn’t want to worry Corinne, and as his plan might seem dangerous to her, he decided to keep it to himself.

They all looked at him expectantly. “I’ll sleep on it and we’ll meet again tomorrow morning before I go to the House. Here at nine.”

Prance suppressed a moan, to consider being roused up with only four or five hours of sleep. He had been planning a morning in bed to recuperate. Such was the life of a spy! The new man of action steeled himself to do his duty. He was the first to speak. “We’ll be here,”
he said, looking all around. “I believe I can speak for us all.”
Black and Coffen seemed surprised that he asked. They nodded their agreement.

The group soon parted. As they walked away, Coffen said, “I believe I’ll ankle along to check out that rooming house where Henri and Guy lived before I turn in. Mean to say, no time to waste, and it’s too late to bother going to bed anyhow since we have to be up with the fowl.”

“I’ll go with you, Mr. Pattle,”
Black said at once. Prance placed an arm against his ribs and moaned. “I suggest you get straight to bed, Sir Reginald. I can see you’re in no shape to do any more tonight.”

“I believe you’re right, Black. I want to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow. I wonder what Luten is planning.”

“Whatever it is,”
Coffen said, “he don’t want Corinne to know, and that tells me it’s dangerous.”
Prance winced in the darkness.

Black shook his head in admiration and said, “Luten’s a game chick, right enough. Shall we stroll along to the corner to whistle for a hackney, Mr. Pattle? It’ll be faster than arranging for a carriage.”

“Yes, let’s. See you tomorrow, Reggie.”

Reggie walked along home where Villier awaited him with a heating pan already in his bed and a brandy posset by the bedside. “Now not one word,”
Villier ordered. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow. I can see you’re half-dead. And just look at that jacket! Covered in mud — and worse. Why it reeks of the stable. But just tell me one thing — did you catch them? Dare I hope the horror is over?”

“I fear not, Villier,”
he said, allowing Villier to remove the reeking jacket. Villier held it at arm’s length, then tossed it to the floor and kicked it out the door, lest it contaminate the air. “We caught three underlings. I must be up and about by nine tomorrow.”

“Nine in the morning! But it’s already nearly four!”

He gave Villier a gently chiding look. “No one said it would be easy, Villier.”

“I’m sure it will be the death of
me,”
Villier said with a pout. “I’ll never get that jacket clean. As to those boots!”

* * * *

The hackney driver had no trouble finding Little Hart Street. Once there, they soon spotted Mrs. Horsely’s rooming house by the size of it and the sign in the front window offering rooms. They looked all around, and when they were satisfied that no one was watching, they went inside.

Black reminded Coffen that Henri was living in the basement. They crept silently down the dusty stairway into a pitch black space that spread ominously around them. The air had the dank, moldy smell of a cellar, though it had been roughly finished and the space divided to allow it to be rented out as rooms.

In the distance they could see a faint light issuing from under a door and went silently towards it. As they drew nearer, they were surprised to hear noises from within. Each put an ear to the door and discovered that Henri and Guy either shared their rooms with two other Frenchmen or had company. Two men were there, talking in an excited manner, but unfortunately in French. “Should we tackle them?”
Black whispered.

Before Coffen could answer, a voice whispered from the shadows. “Hsst!”

Coffen leapt and stared.

“It’s me, Pattle. Townsend.”

Coffen and Black tiptoed down the hall and met him. “I had a lad with his ear to the door, he speaks the bongjaw. We crept away when we heard you coming. The lads in there don’t seem to know a thing about the real business,”
Townsend said. “They’re suppliers of brandy. I’ll follow them when they leave and see they’re not up to anything serious, like sending messages back home.”