To Mourn a Murder (2 page)

"Lady Jergen."

"Lady Jergen!" Prance could hardly have been more astonished if he had said "Queen Charlotte." The lady in question was one of the bulwarks of society, and though a chatterbox of the first water, still a lady of good morals, or reputation at least.

"I remembered how your Berkeley Brigade solved that business of the fellow Prinney thought was trying to kill him," Byron explained.

"With your help," Prance inserted hastily.

"Perhaps a little," he said modestly. "I hoped you could induce Luten and his brigade to give Lady Jergen a hand. As it's a matter of the utmost secrecy, I wanted to feel you out before drawing in the full group. Do you think Luten would be agreeable? I was shy to ask him since he half believes I have designs on his delightful fiancée—and he may be half right for that matter. But this is no mere pretext to enjoy the countess's company."

Prance was jealous of his friendship with Byron and reluctant to share him. Nor was he by any means sure that Luten would agree to help. Not only did he dislike Byron, but Lord Jergen was a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, a crone of the Duke of York, and a figure of importance at the Horse Guards, where the war against Napoleon was being mismanaged so disastrously.

"I'll tell you what," he said. "Let you and I call on Lady Jergen and hear what she has to say. If I feel our little brigade can help, then we'll consult Luten. On the other hand, you and I may be able to settle the matter our two selves. One feels instinctively that the fewer who are aware of the matter, the better."

"That's very good of you, Prance. I haven't had to deal with just this sort of thing before in my career of breaking laws and a few heads and hearts."

"To say nothing of the Ten Commandments," Prance added with an admiring smile.

"Especially the sixth. There's something to be said for publicizing one's own sins. It obviates the fear of exposure–and turns a handsome profit as well." He rose. "Can I get you some refreshment while I make myself decent? I'm speaking of my physical self, obviously. It would take eons to reform my soul."

Fearing the offer of hock and soda water, Byron's preferred drink, Prance said, "I've just had breakfast. I'll glance at some of your books while you freshen up." A pile of books sat on the low sofa table by the ottoman.

After Byron limped off, Prance did no more than glance at the volume Byron had set aside. Pope's
An Essay on Man.
Byron often praised Alexander Pope, which was odd, as their styles were so different. Pope an eminent neo-classical writer, while Byron was the pre-eminent romantic. Prance's interest soon wandered to the table on which the books sat. He hadn't seen a tiled top just like it before. Lovely arabesques in blue and white and gold swirled in a twisting pattern. Byron must have brought it back from his travels. There was nothing like it in the furniture catalogues. His eyes moved on to the brass bibelots of unfathomable design that littered many a tabletop. Were they vases, coffee pots, wine jars? Lovely!

He was a little disconcerted to see that Byron emerged from his room wearing an ordinary white cravat, with his hair combed back from his forehead.

Byron smiled, which made him appear years younger. "That kerchief suits you, Prance. It's not everyone who could get away with a violet and gold kerchief, but it suits you." Prance beamed. "We might as well take your rig as it's handy, eh?"

"Certainly. I left it standing outside." Where, hopefully, it had been seen and recognized by jealous passersby. "Where does Lady Jergen live?"

"On Grosvenor Square. I'll give your coachman the directions."

Byron shivered as they walked out to the rig. "One has to wonder what ever made our forefathers think this was a suitable climate to live in. Eleven months of winter and a few weeks of thaw in July that we jokingly call summer. It's my theory that only the mentally deficient who didn't know enough to continue south a few hundred miles set up housekeeping here. I shall head back to warmer climes as soon as I get my affairs in order. You should come with me, Prance. You'd love Italy and Greece."

Prance expressed the keenest interest. He luxuriated in a cloud of rapture as they proceeded through the streets to Grosvenor Square. He would begin brushing up on his Italian grammar that very night. Or perhaps he should work on his Greek. The carriage stopped in front of a mansion much like its neighbours–brown brick in the Palladian style with white pilasters and a fan-lit door bearing a shining brass stirrup knocker.

The door opened at the first tap and a butler wearing a scowl like a Methodist minister at an orgy admitted them. Lady Jergen was waiting for them in front of a blazing grate in her private parlour. She rose from a striped sofa when they entered and rushed to Byron with her two hands out to welcome him. While she gushed her thanks, Prance studied her. The dame was not far from forty, and looked every one of her years. Her figure went beyond fulsome to border on fat. A man would be hard up to lose his head over this ripe Venus.

Mind you, she still held some remnants of beauty in her big dark eyes and full cheeks. That tousle of curls was better suited to a younger lady but at lest it was still dark brown with no sign of silver. A lady of her size ought not to wear yellow and green stripes, especially when she sat on a puce and cream striped sofa, but the gown was of good material and well cut.

"This is the gentleman I mentioned last evening, Sir Reginald Prance," Byron said and completed the introduction. Prance bowed, the hostess curtsied.

"But of course," she smiled. "One sees Sir Reginald everywhere. I can't think how we haven't become friends. I believe we both very nearly attended a weekend at Middleton last spring. I'm sure Lady Jersey said you and Luten were to come, but you were off with your chums solving crimes, I daresay." She gave his fingers a squeeze. "So kind of you to come."

They sat around the blazing grate while Lady Jergen babbled out her dilemma. Much sifting was required to separate the story from the diversions. "I married young, you know," she began, which threatened a long tale. "Truth to tell, I didn't care for Jergen in the least when first he offered for me. I was rather in love with my drawing master at the time, but of course Mama soon put a stop to that. Mine was that sorry thing, a marriage of convenience, though whom it was convenient for other than my parents I'm sure I don't know.

"Jergen didn't find it at all convenient to have a sulking wife and I didn't find it convenient to live with a positive ogre. But that was when I was young and foolish. Now I realize he's just like all my friends' husbands, but at least he is away a good deal of the time. Jergen works in the Foreign Office, you know."

"Sir Reginald is interested in hearing about the missing letters," Byron said, to cut her tale short.

"Yes, dear Byron, I am just coming to that but I wouldn't want Sir Reginald to think I'm a loose woman. Mr. Brunei was the only one I actually had an affair with, and as Jergen was carrying on scandalously with an actress at the time, I don't see why he should complain but you may be sure he will if he discovers my little romp is costing me five thousand pounds. I should like to know how much
he
spent on Rose Sommers that year at Brighton. She was a cheap little ingénue in a play there."

"How damaging are Mr. Brunei's letters?" Prance asked.

"Well, they're pretty warm," she said with a blushing simper. "He was half French, you know, and they know how to sweet talk a lady. Unlike English gentlemen. Present company always excepted," she added with a leer at Byron.

"When did you discover they were missing?" Prance asked to deflect further diversions.

"I didn't! That's the strange thing. I have kept them hidden at the bottom of my stocking bag forever. I didn't know they were gone until I received that horrid letter. Then, of course, I ran straight upstairs and they were gone!" She tossed up her two white hands in dismay.

"When was the last time you saw them?"

"It must be two years ago. After a while, you know, one stops looking at old love letters."

"When did you actually receive them?" Prance asked.

She furrowed her brow and after much mention of social events–"The year before young Algie went to university, and Sukey wasn't married yet, for she visited us that year and was much courted," she said rather uncertainly. "Seven years ago last spring. I daresay I might have noticed they were missing sooner, but whoever took them was so sly! He folded up some of my own stationery and shoved it into the bottom of the bag so that I just felt the paper there from time to time when I was rifling through my drawers, and Semple the same. Semple is my dresser. She's been with me forever and would
never
steal them. I exonerate her completely. Her papa is a curate," she added as a clincher.

"Your house hasn't been robbed, I take it?" Byron asked.

"Only of the letters."

"Then it must have been someone of your own household who took them. What other servants would have access to your room?"

"Oh any of them, I expect, if he was bent on mischief. I mean one doesn't set a guard on one's bedchamber all day long. There are weekends in the country when the servants are here alone, to say nothing of a month in the Lake District this past summer. So lovely, but I didn't care for what they call the fells, and the rain was very wet. God only knows what the servants get up to when we're away. I know Jergen always takes the keys to the wine cellar with him when we go away."

"May we see the note you received?" Prance asked.

"I burned it! Because of Jergen, you know. I was afraid he might see it, but I can tell you exactly what it said. It demanded that I take five thousand pounds in cash to the corner of Oxford and Duke Streets tomorrow at midnight. Such an awkward hour! A hackney cab would be waiting. I was to get in, give the money to him and he would give me back my letters. That's all. Oh, and he signed it with a little sketch of a honey bee. So Odd!"

"A bee? Does that have any special significance to you, Adele?" Byron asked.

"Only that a bee makes honey," she said with a shake of her head.

"And in this case, stings," Prance added. "So you are to meet this bee tomorrow at midnight. That doesn't leave us much time. Do you have the money?"

"Yes, I received the note two days ago. I sold my Consols, the only money I have in my own name. I don't know what Jergen would say if he found out I lost it."

Byron looked a question at Prance and said, "We could be waiting at the corner of Oxford and Duke, armed. Go after the coach and nab the fellow."

"After I get my letters back," Lady Jergen said.

"Yes, of course. In fact, there's no need for you to go at all, Adele. There won't be two hackneys waiting at the corner at midnight. We'll take care of it for you."

Prance frowned and said, "It seems so ridiculously simple. Surely any thief worth his salt would have foreseen that possibility."

"I daresay he thought I wouldn't tell anyone," Lady Jergen said, "and a lady could hardly go after him herself. He did specify I must go alone. I could hardly ask Jergen to accompany me."

"I don't believe you have anything to worry about, Lady Jergen," Prance said. "The whole arrangement is so crude it can only be some simple servant who arranged it. It seems no one else had access to your letters. We'll have them back to you tomorrow night, and it won't cost you a sou. Or say the next morning. You won't want us at your door after midnight."

"Oh God bless you, Sir Reginald." She rose, threw herself into his arms and placed a kiss on his cheek. "And dear Byron," she added, repeating the performance with him. "I knew I did the right thing to take you into my confidence. I'm sure you have encountered worse treachery than this with all those nasty foreigners you've had to deal with."

"Some treachery, along with a good deal of kindness," he replied. "In fact, the nasty foreigners behave very much like Englishmen, only friendlier."

"Well, now that is settled, let us have some refreshment." She was just reaching for the bell pull when Byron rose.

"Actually we must be off," he said, murmuring something about a meeting with his publisher.

"I hope you're writing another poem, Byron," she said, leading them to the door. "I've finished
Child Harold's Pilgrimage
and am ready for a new one. But this time I hope you find yourself a nice English girl."

"Ah, so do I, madam. So do I. Every man needs a good woman." His flashing eyes made a mockery of the words but Lady Jergen was not the sort to suspect sarcasm from a gentleman.

She thanked Sir Reginald two or three times. They were about to escape when the dour butler appeared at the door.

"Mr. Danby is waiting to see you, madam," he said. "Knowing you did not wish to be disturbed, I have asked him to wait in the visitors' parlour."

Byron kept walking toward the front door. Sir Reginald stood his ground. Who, pray, was a Mr. Danby, calling at this particular time? Byron turned to urge him forward. Prance tossed his head, indicating that they should wait. With a sigh of annoyance, Byron turned back.

"This is my nephew, Mr. Danby," Lady Jergen said, drawing the visitor forward and completing the introductions in the hall. "I had no idea you were back in town, Charles. The last I heard you were off to Somerset or Devonshire or one of those shires visiting friends."

"In Surrey, actually. I just returned this morning from visiting Aunt Miranda, who is ailing. She sends her regards."

"You don't mean Miranda is still alive! I thought she died a decade ago. She must be ancient."

While the two exchanged a few words, Prance observed Mr. Danby. He was tall, well set up, about thirty-five years old, with conventional good looks. The most striking feature was his eyes, of a pale blue. What made them appear striking was the contrast with Danby's tanned complexion. His skin was as dark as Byron's was pale, which was odd when one remembered that Byron had been in tropical climes. Such a complexion was often seen on officers returned from the Peninsular wars in Spain and Portugal. Mr. Danby's square shoulders suggested he might have acquired his tan there.