Murder on Charing Cross Road (3 page)

“Tell your ma where we’re off to,”
the father called to the urchins, who scampered off, back into the house.

Prance collapsed on the seat, so distraught he didn’t notice at first the state his carriage was in, the seat covers slashed and the side pockets ripped from their moorings. When he did notice, it flashed into his mind that this made an excellent excuse for a new carriage. But how had all this happened? Where were his own servants? His grandfather’s watch, gone forever. His poor body aching in every atom and his new jacket ruined. And for what?

He had given them his purse containing ten pounds. The purse itself was no small loss. It was made of sharkskin to his own design. The man hadn’t even looked in it, though he hadn’t wasted any time sticking it in his own pocket. They were no ordinary footpads. They just robbed you and ran off.

He drew out his handkerchief and patted gingerly at his bloodied nose. What was it his attacker had said. “Where is it?”
What could it possibly be that he wanted? The trip home seemed endless but eventually they reached Berkeley Square. The carriage stopped and young Tom appeared at the carriage door.

“Which house, mister?”
he asked, and Prance pointed to it, farther along the block. When they reached his house, the father helped him out. Black, ever vigilant, was there like a shot from the house across the street.

“Sir Reginald!”
he cried. “Whatever happened to you? Who are these fellows?”
He cast a suspicious glance at the rescuers.

“My saviours, Black,”
Prance said, casting a wan smile on the pair.

The father got down from the perch and extended his hand. “Mr. Ted Vickers by name, and my lad Tommy. He found this gentleman all in a heap at Long Acre. Been set upon by footpads. He was scarce able to crawl.”

Black took charge at once. “The devil you say. Let’s get him into the house,”
he said, and with a strong arm supporting him on either side, Prance was half led, half carried in. “I’ll send one of your lads off for a sawbones,”
Black said to Prance. Servants seemed to pop out from every corner as he led Prance to the sofa and asked Soames to send one of them for Doctor Knighton.

“Call Villier,”
Prance added in a weak voice, then lay back against the cushions and closed his eyes.

Villier soon came running. He was a weak copy of his master, so alike in size that he could be sent to Weston for the measuring of a new jacket, so similar in taste that there was no danger of too large a button being chosen, or too narrow a lapel. Villier took one look at his master and turned pale.

“Sir Reginald!”
he gasped. “Are you all right? What a foolish question! Hartshorn, and a nip of brandy —
no feathers,”
he said, and dashed off to supply the necessities. Prance abhorred the smell of burning feathers wafting under his nose. After a sniff of hartshorn and a sip of brandy, Prance was able to tell his tale in a halting manner, with Villier hovering at his shoulder, dabbing at his bloodied nose and twittering uselessly.

Black, ever sensible, said, “What of your own lads, Sir Reginald? Pelkey was never in on this vicious attack.
"

“Certainly not. They didn’t come home? Someone should go to the stable and see what became of them. Beaten up like myself, no doubt.”

Black ordered a junior footman to dart off to Sir Reginald’s stable and find out what happened to them. Black spoke quietly to Prance, indicating that if he wanted to be rid of his rescuers, a reward was the quickest way to go about it. “Give them anything they ask,”
Prance said. “They saved my life.”

“A guinea is what they’ll be expecting,”
he said.

“Make it five,”
Prance said. “Surely my life is worth more than a guinea. Villier knows where I keep spare money.”

Black spoke to Villier and the thing was done. The Vickers,
pere et fils
,
left, smiling from ear to ear, so elated the long trek back to Long Acre seemed a mere stroll.

Doctor Knighton duly arrived and ordered Sir Reginald to bed, where Villier cleaned him up and got him into a soft but warm nightshirt. The doctor announced his nose not broken but his ribs cracked, gave him a dose of laudanum for the pain, bound up his cracked ribs and said he would return in the morning.

Black remained at Sir Reginald’s house to have a word with the coachman and post-boy when they returned. He hardly felt it necessary. He knew what they would say. They had been taken by surprise at the mews, knocked out, tied up and left while their attackers stripped off their jackets and hats and took over the carriage. The attackers had been masked, they couldn’t give much of a description of them except that one was bigger than the other. No, neither of them had spoken to the other by name. In fact they hadn’t spoken at all.

Most gentlemen would have noticed the change of servants, but Sir Reg was more interested in looking fine than anything else. In the dark of night with his mind on the party he was going to, he hadn’t noticed. They had driven him to a dark, lonely area, beaten him up and robbed him.

It gave Black an excellent excuse to visit
her
with all the details when she returned that night. Alas, he had a few glasses of ale at Sir Reggie’s place before leaving. When he got home he resumed his reading of
Shadows on the Wall
to pass the time. His eyes eventually grew tired, he closed them and finally fell asleep. When he awoke at three a.m., the lights at Luten’s house were all extinguished. He’d missed her again.

Heavily dosed with laudanum, Prance didn’t hear a sound when his house was broken into and ransacked in the early hours of the morning. The job was done so quietly that none of his many servants heard a thing. Prance knew nothing about it until nine o’clock the next morning when Villier tiptoed into his darkened bedroom, placed his breakfast tray on the bedside table, opened the curtains and returned to the bedside to clasp his master’s two hands. Prance knew something was amiss when Villier didn’t even wish him a good morning.

"I don't know whether I have the heart to tell you the latest outrage," Villier said, enjoying every moment of the drama. Like his master, whom he resembled in temperament as well as physically, he was in his element. “Are you feeling very brave, milord?”
Villier was allowed to call him “milord”
when they were alone.

Prance drew a sigh, winced and said, “If you tell me you are leaving me, Villier, I don’t think I could bear it.”

“Oh never! It is not that bad!”

“Then I can bear the rest. Tell me.”

“We’ve had a visit from house-breakers!”
Villier announced, and regarded his audience to see the effect of his announcement. His master’s gasp of astonished dismay was quite satisfactory. “Your study is in a state of utter chaos. Papers all over the floor. The library the same and the drawing room. Here, best have a sip of cocoa. I put a wee drop of brandy in it to sustain you.”
He held the cup to Prance’s lips.

“If it weren’t that you’re here, Villier, I could believe I’d died and gone to hell.”
This dramatic speech was followed by a more practical, “Much damage in the drawing room?”

“Nothing irreversible,”
Villier assured him as he drew up a chair and settled in for a good cose. “None of the pictures taken or mutilated, your Aubusson carpet can be cleaned up. It’s just muddied a little. Fortunately your Sevrès boxes and Murano vases had been put away when we redid the salon. Now isn’t it time you tell me what this is all about, Sir Reginald?”
he asked in a severe voice, “milord”
abandoned.

Prance took another sip of cocoa, frowned and said, “These are deep doings, Villier. My study and library were searched, you say?”

“And your drawing room.”

“Does that not suggest they were after written matter? Everyone has been asking me what I am working on now. I indicated I am gestating a new gothic. It’s pretty well known I work from an outline. Some unsuccessful, jealous writer has broken in looking for my notes.”
He could not quite suppress a smile, to think how jealous other writers must be of his success.

“But you aren’t working on anything,”
Villier pointed out. “You’ve complained a dozen times that you’ve run out of ideas.”
Then he added quickly, “For the time being, I mean, while you’re so busy.”

“Which explains why it was necessary to ransack three rooms, Villier. There was nothing to find.”

“But do you think they expected you to carry those notes with you? I am thinking of last night’s brutal attack in your carriage.”

“We writers always carry about a notebook to jot down ideas. Certainly that is the answer. What else could it be? Nothing was actually taken.”

“There was your purse and watch.”

“To make it look like an ordinary robbery. Their having forgotten my cravat pin pretty well proves that. No thief worth his salt would have overlooked that. After they’d robbed me, the ringleader said, ‘'Where is it?’
It obviously was
not money they were after. They just took it to cloud the issue, then came here to continue the search when they failed to find my notebook on me.”

Villier listened and found his master was right. “You must hire a bruiser to guard you when you go out,”
he said. He was rewarded for this excellent notion by a warm smile.

“You are a positive mind reader, Villier. The same thought had occurred to me. Having failed last night, they might very well assault me again. I’ll hire the biggest bruiser I can find, and I shall arm my staff here at home as well. How does it come they got in last night, by the way? Why did no one hear them? Did they break a window?”

“I fear in the dreadful confusion last night after you arrived home, the back door got left unlocked when Pelkey returned. It seems André is the culprit.”
André was Prance’s French chef, and a great favorite of his master. Lady Cowper had favourably compared André to the great Carême.

“That doesn’t sound like André. Perhaps a gentle reprimand.”

“Really one can hardly blame him. We were all so upset, and he had to make tea and sandwiches for everyone before he went to bed. It was very late by then. They stayed up till all hours talking about it. I expect André
had a little nip of something to help him sleep. I know
I
did.”

“Quite understandable. I must go belowstairs and see the damage.”

“The doctor ordered bed rest for a few days.”

“Rest? How am I expected to rest with my whole house and even my life under siege? I must be up and doing, Villier
;
and you must help me. Bring me the sturdiest walking stick I possess, help me into my dressing gown, and lend me an arm to go below. The blue brocade gown and my Japanese slippers.”

“After you’ve eaten. I’ve made you a nice coddled egg.”

They both laughed at this prime jest. Prance wouldn’t touch an egg with a pair of tongs, unless it was well disguised in a soufflé
or meringue. He did finish his cocoa and nibble a few bites of toast, which was as much breakfast as he ever ate.

“Shall I prepare your shave?”
Villier asked. He stood back and examined his master. “I must say you do look rather dashing with that little whiskery shadow on your chin and your nose all mushey. Here, let me get you a hand mirror.”

Prance examined his face and had to agree that the whiskers became him. “I can’t wait to make a toilette. I’m too eager to go below. And besides my whole face aches. I can’t subject it to a blade.”

Villier fetched the walking stick, got him into his navy brocade dressing gown with the crested pocket and fringed belt and helped him downstairs. Prance was much gratified to find Soames, the butler, and André
waiting to make their apologies, while a bevy of maids and footmen hovered behind, looking anxiously apologetic.

Prance graciously forgave them all, with a little reminder that there might be more trouble ahead, and they must all be on the
qui vive.
Soames was to see to the distribution of pistols for the men. The rooms were as Villier had described them. He had ordered the maids not to touch them until he spoke to Sir Reginald.

Prance limped about, examining things, picking up small objects and shaking his head, complaining about spines of books being broken, scratches on table tops and a broken lock on his latest acquisition, an Italian desk which he called an
escrivata.

He was about to return to his bed when Soames announced, “Mr. Pattle.”

Coffen wandered in, took one look at Prance’s discoloured face and swollen nose and said, “Good God! What happened to you? Did you fall downstairs?”

“Nothing so tame, Pattle. I was set upon by a brace of vicious footpads last night, beaten and robbed.”

“That explains it. I wondered why you didn’t show up at Jergen’s do. Everyone was asking about you.”

Prance was highly gratified to hear this but decided a recital of his ordeal would be more exciting. He eased his aching body into a soft chair and made a good story of the attack.

“Got your watch and purse, eh? That’s a pity,”
Coffen said. He looked around the drawing room and added, “I’m surprised to see you rearranging your room when you look as if you ought to be in bed. I came over to tell you what happened to me, but your story puts mine in the shade entirely.”

“I am not rearranging the furniture,”
Prance said. “Did I forget to mention the little detail that my house was broken into last night?”

“So the ken smashers got you as well! I came to tell you they broke into my place. Any clues?”
Coffen dearly loved a clue, by which he meant something tangible he could pick up and hopefully associate with the criminal. He found these clues useful in solving the various cases in which the Berkeley Brigade became involved.

“You mean your house was broken into last night too?”
Prance was disappointed at this sharing of the drama. It made him wonder, too, whether it was the imaginary outline for his next novel that had been the aim of his assault and the break-in.

“Torn apart,”
Coffen said.

“How could you tell?”

Coffen
'
s took no offence at this facer. “Books scattered about the floor in the library. No one reads at my house. Bills and invoices all over the floor in the study. Nothing actually broken. I’m pretty sure that red vase I use for a waste basket was already cracked. Odd they didn’t take anything.”