Murder's Sad Tale (19 page)

“Now, before you start harping at me,” she said, still in that playful way, “I have decided you are quite right about Lady Dunn. I shan’t pursue the acquaintance.”

“What caused this about face?” he asked, still half suspecting some trick.

“Oh, I have heard rumors, as you apparently have as well.”

“I am glad to hear it. Who have you been speaking to about her?”

“Prance spoke to Byron, who told him she is not at all the thing. It seems she doesn’t even own that house on Grosvenor Square, after asking my opinion about whether she should sell or rent it. Gambling, I believe, is her vice. We were never really close, you know. Just a couple of outings to Bond Street. She was amusing.”

“Yes, I didn’t see much wrong with her myself at that do where she acted as Grafton’s hostess. It is what I have heard since then ...”

“Yes, well, enough about that. Is there any news on the man who murdered Russell and Sykes?”

“It’s time to have a meeting with the others and pool what we’ve discovered thus far.”

“I believe Coffen and Black are up to something. I’ve seen them with their heads together. Black asked for time off last evening and again this evening.”

“I’ll send notes to Coffen and Prance asking them to meet us before we go out. You haven’t forgotten we’re to attend my Aunt Marion’s awful rout this evening? Orgeat and ratafia and memories of the good old days, when gentlemen wore their hair decently powdered and ladies didn’t paint their faces and damp their gowns. We needn’t stay long.”

“I shall wear my dowdiest gown with a shawl to cover my arms.”

“Make it a woolen shawl. She doesn’t believe in wasting fuel. I must dash. Brougham and Ford have coerced me into a dinner business meeting.”

She rose to accompany him to the doorway. “I’m glad we got the Dunn business straightened out without bloodshed,” he said, smiling. “I had thought of coming with a chair and whip, but decided to try flowers first.”

“I half suspected you might have a diamond bracelet tucked in your pocket. I’m glad you didn’t.” Then she added with a conning smile, “but my birthday is coming up. Jewelry is acceptable for a birthday gift.”

“Twenty-fifth, is it not? A quarter of a century, and still on the shelf.”

“True, but I did have a little spell on the shelf, if you recall.”

“Still, it’s high time we got you off it again, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. I am quite impatient. It seems I have to fight the entire Whig party to get my intended to myself long enough to see the preacher.”

“We’ll do something about that very soon. I promise.” He placed a quick kiss on her cheek and left, full of plans. Having succeeded in his first aim of ridding her of Lady Dunn, he was determined to get her to the altar before some other impediment crossed their path.

Black spent his evening following the trail of the mysterious “Pen” and finally ran him to ground in a squalid gin hell. He had, unfortunately, taken too much blue ruin to be lucid, but Black discovered he lived in a room on Wild Street, where he would visit him the next day before he had had time to drink himself incoherent.

Coffen, at loose ends, decided to call on Miss Barker. He couldn’t think of any actual questions to ask her, but you never knew what might come out in conversation. She might have spotted the lady Russell had been pestering on Bond Street, or have seen the limping man, or remembered something Russell had said.

At least the house would be warm, there would be wine, and with luck, food. The welcome was as warm as the house, the wine was plentiful, the food welcome, and Miss Barker was thrilled to have a gentleman caller who stayed later than was quite polite.

* * * *

Prance heard from Byron that Murray, undoubtedly the most prestigious publisher in London — after all he was Byron’s publisher — was interested in seeing his gothic novel. This acted like a rocket to his ambition and he worked till two o’clock in the morning polishing his manuscript. His admirable Villier acted as his amanuensis, doing a fine copperplate copy to present to Murray.

He would certainly have to give Villier some significant reward when the book was accepted. The usual reward was one of his unwanted jackets, but this was a special occasion. A note of thanks in the forward, perhaps. One could hardly say “with undying gratitude to my valet.” No, he would simply identify him as V. That would set tongues wagging!
Tout le monde
would be wondering who this mysterious V could be. Naturally they would think it was a lady. Did he know any pretty V’s?

* * * *

Luten and Corinne escaped early from his aunt’s dreadful rout and got down to making serious plans for their wedding. It was agreed it would be a simple affair. Not a dash to Gretna Green, of course, to be married over the anvil, but a very quiet wedding with only a few of their special friends.

Luten didn’t tell her, but he planned to make a trip to a bishop the next day to procure a special license. Prance would be kept in the dark. He would be furious, but with his novel to distract him, they might escape without completely rupturing the friendship. He could, and undoubtedly would, throw them an elaborate party after the wedding.

Corinne was fretful as she called her carriage in preparation for the visit to Lady Dunn the next morning. It felt, somehow, like betrayal to tell her friend she could no longer see her. It would be so much easier to just be “busy” the next time she called, and sever the connection by degrees.

But that was the coward’s way. It would be kinder to tell her why, and warn her of the gossip that was afoot. She would do it as gently as possible. Surely it was not too late for Mavis to mend her ways. She was a woman of the world. She would understand.

And on top of that worry, she wished to conceal from Luten that she was paying this last visit. She must find some other excuse for taking the carriage out. Mrs. Ballard was too nice to ask, but if she felt the carriage was going to Bond Street, she would want to come. She rarely actually bought anything, but she enjoyed the drive and seeing the sights. One could certainly not blame her for that. Her life was so terribly dull. She must tell her she was paying visits. Mrs. Ballard was not much for visiting Corinne’s friends. And she wouldn’t have to lie either. At least Mavis had been a friend.

Once she had successfully passed that hurdle, she had to contend with Black. Not that he would expect to accompany her, but he would certainly want to know where she was going. His excuse was that Luten might call and ask for her, but the truth was that he was just a nosy old busybody. His curiosity was often helpful and in the usual way she didn’t mind it, but today she wished for privacy.

So when he held her pelisse and asked politely if she would be gone long, she said only, “Probably not. I shall be home for luncheon.”

“A wee bit of shopping, Madame?” he asked archly. “Will you be wanting a footman to accompany you to carry your parcels?”

“Not today, Black,” she said, and headed for the door, which he would normally have had open wide for her exit. Instead he stood with his eyebrows raised, waiting to hear where she was going.

When she reached for the doorknob he was galvanized into action and beat her to it. He noticed her worried expression, just tinged with anger. Best not to enquire further. But he was too curious to let her off with that. He darted down after her. “Would it be all right if I took an hour off this morning, milady?” he asked.

“Of course, Black,” she said, hastening toward the carriage, where the coachman was just letting down the step.

Black found an excuse to linger. He noticed a branch had been blown on to the sidewalk by the winds of February and went out quietly to remove it. Thankfully she didn’t hear him and spoke in her normal tone. He heard her say to the coachman, “Grosvenor Square.”

So that was it! Was she calling on Lady Dunn despite her promise to Luten that she wouldn’t? Surely not. They had been like April and May the last time he called, and had her nose in those flowers half a dozen times since. She had in-laws on Grosvenor Square but she never called on them if she could help it. As he returned to the house, scouring his mind for another name, he could come up with none. Well, he must just wait and see what came of this little mystery.

Corinne planned to make the visit as brief as possible, without being rude. She would warn Mavis of the rumors making the rounds and tell her that for the present, Luten preferred that she not go about with her. And if she became angry, well Corinne could always mention the lies she had been told. She hoped Mavis didn’t cry.

The door was opened by Rankin, the handsome young factotum who also acted as groom. Mavis greeted her with a wide smile and said, “How nice of you to drop around uninvited. That means we are becoming real friends. Here, let me take your pelisse. I have a fire in the drawing room.”

“I can only stay a moment,” Corinne said, keeping her pelisse and hat on. She took the chair Mavis indicated and sat down, trying to find the right words to soften the blow she was about to deliver. She cleared her throat and said, “Actually I am afraid I have bad news, Mavis. I — shan’t be able to continue calling on you.”

“Oh, are you going away for a spell?” Mavis asked.

“No. It’s not that. I dislike to be the bearer of bad news, but I fear there are rumors going about town. About you,” she added, when Mavis frowned in confusion. “About your debts, and — and so on.”

Mavis laughed. “Am I the only lady in London hobbled with a few debts?”

“Of course not. There’s the matter of gambling and — not telling the truth. You told me you own this house, and you don’t.”

Mavis jumped to her feet. “Who told you these things?”

“What does that matter? Are they true?”

“Of course not. Well, I owe a few hundred guineas, but that is nothing.”

“I have heard you asked Grafton for a large loan, for gambling debts.”

“Everyone gambles. What am I supposed to do with my time when Grafton is busy so many evenings? As to asking him for a loan — well, I meant to repay him.”

“How? Do you own this house? You told me — “

A maid suddenly appeared at the doorway. She was young, thin and looked frightened. “Go away, Peggy,” Mavis said angrily.

“It’s important, mum, or I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Well, what is it? Speak up, girl.”

“It’s private, like,” the maid said.

“Oh very well.” She turned to Corinne and said in a cool, commanding voice, “Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.” Then she left.

Angered at the command, Corinne decided to leave instantly. She picked up her gloves and headed to the door into the entrance hall. She was about to flee when she heard Mavis exclaim in excitement, “What? They’ve found Alfie’s body?”

Instead of leaving, Corinne moved closer to the open doorway and listened. The conversation was taking place in the hall beyond. “Yes, mum. Murdered. Whatever are you going to do?”

They lowered their voices and Corinne hesitated a moment. To leave, she had to pass them. Her mind was awhirl with speculation. Who on earth was Alfie? The word “murder” called to mind the murders of Russell and Sykes. Was his name Alfie? Obviously Mavis was mixed up in it somehow. That “What are you going to do?” proved it.

She certainly wasn’t the sort of lady Corinne had taken her for. Why had she lied about owning this house? It was a house — a small house on Grosvenor Square that Miss Fenwick said Russell was particularly interested in. They drove past it often. Was it this house? Was Russell really driving past to keep an eye on Mavis?

Why would he do that? Did Russell own the house? Had he left it to her in his will, and she killed him to get it? Was Mavis the “small man” who had met Russell in the park and killed him? Luten had mentioned the item being used for blackmail might be a marriage license. Mavis’s marriage license? And if Russell had it, then — was he the husband? She must get away where she could think quietly.

She squared her shoulders and strode toward the doorway that would lead to the front door, and escape. Mavis glared at her. “I told you to wait,” she said in an angry voice, as if speaking to a servant. Her eyes narrowed as she continued staring at her guest.

“I told you, I could only stay a moment.”

“I’ve ordered tea,” she said in a more conciliating tone. But she hadn’t. The woman could lie as fast as a dog could trot. This was just an attempt to get her to stay, when every atom of her being impelled her toward the door to the street. “Foolish maid,” she continued, trying to make light of it. “Interrupting me only for a burned pudding.”

Corinne stared at her with disbelief and dismay. “Oh, I thought it was about Alfie’s murder,” she said, and immediately regretted the rash statement.

For an instant Mavis froze, but there was fire in her eyes. Bright pink spots glowed on her pale cheeks. Corinne turned and made for the door. She heard the footsteps hurrying after her but didn’t look back. Her hand was on the doorknob when she felt the strong hands on her shoulders, pulling her back. She wrenched away. Mavis called to the maid, “Help me, you fool. We can’t let her go now. She knows too much. Call Rankin.”

The maid darted off and while Corinne was struggling with Mavis, Rankin came running forward. “What do you want me to do with her, Polly?” he said, grabbing Corinne around the waist and pinning her arms down. A proper servant didn’t call his mistress by her given name. Just what was Rankin’s position in the house?

“Put her in the cellar for now. Bind and gag her.”

“Someone’ll come after her.”

“She came alone.” She ran to the doorway and said, “Her carriage isn’t in the street.”

“He’s just driving around the block,” Corinne said.

“Pity you left while he was gone,” Mavis said. “Get her out of here, Bernie. I need peace and quiet to think.”

Polly — Rankin had called her Polly. The note to Russell was signed P. She noticed, too, that the mistress used Rankin’s first name.

Corinne opened her mouth to shout. Surely there must be one servant in the house who wasn’t aware what sort of creature she worked for. What of Mrs. Hansen?