Murder's Sad Tale (13 page)

“Not at all. Mrs. Ballard has been with me for years, and she is by no means a jailer. She’s a regular church mouse. I have to practically shanghai her to join me when I have company.”

“Where did you ever find this treasure?”

“She’s some connection of my late husband.”

“I expect she has her own friends to keep her busy?”

“Just her whist club. She plays cards for pennies once a week.”

“I wonder if I could get my Mrs. Hansen into something like that. She loves cards, though I know perfectly well she cheats.”

“Then she wouldn’t fit in with Mrs. Ballard’s set. They are a quiet group, the men mostly retired clerics. Though despite that, one of them managed to get himself murdered.”

Lady Dunn yanked on the reins, just avoiding collision with a curricle speeding past in the opposite direction. “You’re not talking about that Russell fellow the Brigade is investigating?” she said. “Byron told me about it.”

“Yes, that’s right. Russell was engaged to one of the ladies in the group.”

“And are you making any headway in finding the murderer?”

“Not much, I fear. We’ve learned Russell had a friend with a limp who might be the guilty party.”

“How clever of you! However did you discover that?”

“Oh, Coffen Pattle is the one who goes about digging up clues. He discovered that in Bedford.”

“What led him there?” As she drove and talked, she kept one eye on the shops, as if not quite sure where she was going.

“A hat,” Corinne said, and related the story of the hat left in Cooper’s flat.

“It seems unlikely to me that Russell’s best friend would kill him,” Lady Dunn said. “It sounds as if Cooper is your man. He certainly had a strong motive. How about opportunity? Could he have done it?”

“It happened late at night, so I daresay he could. Pattle will ferret it out.”

“I don’t believe I’ve met this Coffen Pattle. I know Sir Reginald, and of course Luten. I’d like to meet the other member of the Brigade. Your work sounds fascinating. Oh, here is the place I told you about, Madame duMont’s.”

She drew to a stop and tossed the reins to Rankin. The ladies spent a delightful hour choosing silks and patterns. Lady Dunn had a more daring taste than Corinne, who felt Lord Luten would really not like to see her in such diaphanous gowns, or black lace night wear.

“We must do this again,” Lady Dunn said, as she let Corinne down at her door later. “Next time we’ll shop for evening gowns. Just one or two. We might as well wait until we’re married, and let our husbands pay for them.”

As it was still early when they returned, Corinne decided to stop in on Prance while she was still dressed for outdoors and see if he had learned anything from Byron. Byron was sitting in Prance’s bijou drawing room when she entered. Luten wouldn’t like her being here. She mustn’t stay long or he’d be jealous.

It was rather pathetic to see Prance trying so hard to look like Byron, and failing so miserably. The black curl tumbling over Byron’s forehead looked charmingly natural. Prance’s corkscrew curl looked ludicrous. The dotted kerchief knotted casually at Byron’s throat lent him a degagé air. Prance’s yellow silk kerchief was too carefully arranged. Casual wasn’t his style.

Prance considered himself an expert in interior decor, but his drawing room had undergone a few unhappy changes since falling under Byron’s spell. The delicate Fragonard and Watteau paintings jarred with the tiger skin rug he had thrown down on his Persian carpet. His collection of small Murano vases that used to sit on a table in front of the window, their colors chosen to reflect rainbow hues when the sun shone through them, had been replaced by a brass jug with a curved handle and a long spout. A leather ottoman had replaced a small mahogany table in a corner of the room. This intrusion of the orient into his western style drawing room displeased even her taste. How did Reg, so finicky in all his belongings, stand it?

The drink he offered, too, was a new one for him. “We’re having hock and soda water. Will you join us, or shall I call for tea?” Prance said.

“Oh, nothing for me, thanks. I just dropped in for a moment.” She was aware of Byron’s scrutiny, but he didn’t try to flirt with her, except with his eyes, that never left her face, and a little smile lifting his lips.

“Was that Lady Dunn’s carriage that brought you home?” Prance asked.

“Yes, we’ve been shopping.”

“What did you buy?” he asked eagerly.

“Just some, er, clothing,” she said.

Prance lifted an eyebrow in Byron’s direction. “She means intimate apparel for the treacle moon.” Prance was aware of her discomfort, and knew the cause. It seemed an excellent opportunity to stir up a little mischief. “Do tell us what you bought. We promise not to be shocked, eh, Byron?” Byron’s smile stretched to a grin, but he didn’t answer.

“Nothing of interest to you,” she said. “I stopped to see if Byron had learned anything further about Russell.” She turned to Byron. “You were going to see if that man you played cards with could help us.”

“Grimsby, yes,” Byron said, assuming a more businesslike expression. “He said there was another man called Stokes who played with them.”

“A little dark fellow, who limped,” Prance announced, and caused the minor sensation he hoped for.

“Really! This man keeps popping up. We must find out who he is.”

“Unfortunately Grimsby was no help there,” Byron said. “He was just introduced as a friend of Russell. They arrived and left together.”

“At least we now have a name,” Prance pointed out.

“Yes,
a
name,” Byron said. “Much good it will do us. You mentioned Russell was Mr. Hayes in Bedford. There’s no guarantee either of them was using his own name. Fellows like that seldom use the same name two months — or two victims — in a row.”

“But at least he was calling himself Stokes in London,” Prance said. “Someone might be able to get a line on him. What Coffen calls a
real clue
for him to go after.”

There was a knock at the door and soon Coffen was shown in, his hair windblown and his face rosy from the cold. He scowled to see Prance had conned Corinne into meeting here with Byron. Did it on purpose to stir up mischief, tarsome fellow.

“Coffen, come in and have a glass of hock and soda water,” Prance said.

“Eh? Don’t you have any wine?”

“Hock
is
wine,” Prance explained.

“It ain’t red.”

“No, it’s not claret. It’s Rhine wine.”

“Why do you put soda water in it?”

Prance waved a hand toward the decanter on the table. “Help yourself to red wine, if you prefer,” he said.

“Thankee, I will. Any news?” Prance told him about Mr. Stokes.

“Excellent! You’ve got him for the limper. He’s becoming the crook of the matter.”

“He means
crux,
”
Prance said aside to Byron.

“You don’t have to cross my eyes and dot my teeth for me. He knows what I mean. Anyhow, I found he’s the fellow who planted Russell’s hat on Cooper. All we’ve got to do is find him and beat the truth out of him. I’d best get at it. I’m off. You’re coming, Corinne?” he said, with a commanding stare.

She was happy enough to escape. “Yes, I just dropped in on Prance to see if he had any news.” Coffen finished his wine and they took their leave.

“I had no idea Byron was there,” she said, before he could chide her. “Prance must have driven him there. There’s no sign of Byron’s carriage.”

“No harm done. At least Byron’s come up with a clue. I’ll go home with you. I want a word with Black.”

“We’ll not be pestered with Prance while he’s got Byron there,” Coffen said with satisfaction as they crossed the road to her house. “What was that animal pelt he had on his floor? That’s new, ain’t it?”

“I haven’t seen it before.”

“And that brass tea pot on the table — odd looking thing. Something to do with the hock he was trying to palm off on us, no doubt.”

“Let us hope this is only a phase he’s going through. Was there a special reason you wanted to see me, Coffen?” she asked at her door. She hoped he would leave, as she wanted to freshen up and change for the evening before Luten arrived. She and Luten were dining with the Castlereaghs. Castlereagh was the Foreign Secretary in the Tory Cabinet. Whigs and Tories mixed socially after hours and as Castlereagh was from Ireland like Corinne, he had a special affection for her. He was never immune to a pretty lady of any country. His wife Margaret was a noted hostess.

“Don’t mind me. Just go ahead and do whatever you were going to do. It’s Black I want to see.”

“Oh? What for?”

“Just to have a word.”

She assumed the word would involve food or drink and went upstairs. Black, ever vigilant, had been watching their advance and had the door open before they reached it. “Coffen wants a word with you, Black,” she said, as he gently removed her pelisse. She went upstairs, leaving them alone.

“A glass of something wet, Mr. Pattle?” Black said, taking Coffen’s coat and hat before leading him to the drawing room.

“A glass and a biscuit would be dandy, Black.”

Black passed the order on to the downstairs maid, who soon brought the requested refreshment.

“Have a seat, Black,” Coffen said. Black was often granted this perquisite, an unusual one for a butler, when he was helping with a case. His hopes soared that his assistance was required now. Beneath the butler’s jacket beat the heart of Lord Blackwell of Blackwell Hall, suitor to the hand of Lady deCoventry. Often in daydreams, and in a few rare cases in fact, he had saved her from peril.

“Was there some way I might be of help, Mr. Pattle?” Black said, as Coffen munched biscuits and cheese.

“I hope so, Black,” Coffen said, wiping crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. “Have you given any more thought to the limper? You know a lot of havey-cavey people, thieves and such. No offence.”

“None taken, Mr. Pattle.”

“Good. I don’t know how you know them, and I ain’t asking. We now have a name for the limping fellow, at least
a
name, the one he was using in London. Stokes he called himself. A friend of Russell’s. I don’t have to remind you who Russell is.” Black’s eavesdropping was no secret.

“Miss Fenwick’s fiancé what was murdered.”

“That’s him. It’s beginning to look like the limper might be the one did Russell in.” He reviewed what he knew, about their being together in Bedford, their hasty departure without paying their bills, and the hat put in Cooper’s room. Black nodded throughout, happy to have his memory jogged. “They were still on friendly terms a week or so ago. They met up at a card game with some friend of Byron’s, but they’re not Captain Sharps. That’s not their lay.”

Black’s forehead pleated in a frown as he ran his various acquaintances, past and present, through his mind. “Then it can’t be Eddie the Gimp,” he said. “He’s a long drink of water. Nor it’s not Red Roger either, though he’s the right height. An ankle-biter, but he’s a carrot top. Course he could’ve dyed his hair but I doubt it. He’s proud of his red curls. And besides he don’t limp. Louie’s the right size and color and does drag his foot a little due to breaking some bones when a carriage ran over it, but he’s doing twenty years for killing his wife’s brother. I haven’t heard he’s broke out.” He assumed a noble expression and said, “I don’t keep in close touch with my old associates. I’ll have to ask around, Mr. Pattle.”

A coin moved almost invisibly from Coffen’s hand to Black’s. “I’d appreciate it if you’d do that, Black. The sooner the better.”

“I’ll get on it this very night, Mr. Pattle.”

“Good lad.” Coffen picked up the last biscuit and left, strewing his waistcoat and the carpet with crumbs as he went to retrieve his coat and hat.

Black remained at his post at the window, and when Corinne came downstairs dressed for the evening in a mint green gown that took Lord Blackwell’s breath away, he was able to tell her, “He’s back from the House, but there’s a gent with him. A young fellow I haven’t seen before. He landed in ten minutes after his lordship.”

“It’s probably politics,” Corinne said with a sigh. She hoped it didn’t mean some new crisis required his presence at the House after dinner.

“It wasn’t the little fellow from the House that usually brings the messages.” This familiar trouble-maker was known to carry papers of a sensitive nature for Luten’s perusal.

“Good!”

He brought her a glass of wine and modestly inquired if she would mind if he took a few hours off this evening, as she was going out. “Of course not, Black,” she said, smiling. “Stay as late as you wish. Luten will see I get in safely.”

He bowed and left. She glanced over the
Observer
while waiting for Luten. The antics of Princess Caroline, the Prince Regent’s estranged wife, were always amusing. They were truly under the microscope now, with a daughter to marry off. There was also a rumor floating about that the Prince wanted to divorce his wife. Poor Prinney! That’s what happened when one was forced into a marriage of so-called convenience. He had visibly paled and fled when first he laid eyes on the Princess chosen as his wife. Really the lady was too farouche to grace the throne of England. Pity the Whigs had to support her, since Prinney was a Tory this season. Ten minutes later Black stuck his head in at the door to say, “The lad’s gone.” Another fifteen minutes passed before Luten arrived, dressed for the evening.

Like Black, he was impressed by Corinne’s beauty. “I wish we weren’t going out,” he said, placing a light kiss on her cheek.

“We’ll leave early,” she said as he offered her his hand to help her rise. “There’s a nasty rumor afoot that Lady Castlereagh has hired an Italian tenor.”

“My head aches just thinking about it.”

“Black tells me you had a caller.”

“Yes, I’ll tell you about it on the way. We’d best be going. We’re already late.”

Black placed her wrap around her shoulders and held the door. Luten had called his carriage and led her out to it. “My caller was a Mr. Collins, one of our young M.P.’s,” he said. “He’s from Manchester, knew Miss Fenwick’s father. I asked him to call on her and see what he could find out. She confirmed that she and Russell were planning to buy a house together. His excuse for asking her to help pay was that his money was tied up in other business ventures. No specific steps had been taken yet. They both rather liked Grosvenor Square.”