by Joan Smith
Prance was rather pleased with this notion and said, “Too true, Coffen. I’ll think about it.”
Luten then drew Coffen aside and said, “I expect you and Black will have a look around Burnes’s flat.”
“I thought we might take a toddle that way.”
“If you happen to see the little sketch of Corinne –”
“I’ll nab it, but I figure Townsend would have told you if it was there.”
“If he recognized it,” Luten said, and blushed. “Not that it was bad -. It wasn’t that bad. I think he’d have recognized it all right.”
Prance’s thoughts had reverted to what was always uppermost in his mind these days. He joined Corinne, who was waiting in Luten’s carriage. “I was wondering, my dear, if you would mind doing me a wee favour.”
“If I can, Reg,” she said with foreboding. The last little favour she had done him resulted in her house being burglarized due to the presence of some of the actors he had been rehearsing in her salon. “What is it?”
“You know I am interested in becoming president of the Society of Antiquaries.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, assuming he wanted her to puff him off to the selection committee. Lord Luten’s wife would be listened to, even if she knew nothing of the society or its aims. “Of course, but I have never even met Binwell. Who else is on the selection committee?”
“Would you like to meet them?” Her expression displayed not the slightest interest in this offer. He rushed on to make his meaning clear. “I thought a little social evening with the more important members of the committee and a few of the other society members might help.”
“Certainly. We would be happy to attend.”
“I knew you wouldn’t refuse me, knowing how important this is to me. To put the party on myself, however, would look like campaigning. They are all fine people, worth knowing. I don’t mean dinner—nothing elaborate. Just a little social evening. Wine, chit chat, the sort of thing you do so well.”
“But I don’t know any of them, Reggie. I wouldn’t know who to ask.”
“Oh I’ll arrange all that. Just give me a dozen sheets of your stationery and I’ll do the rest.”
“Do you not think it would look odd?”
“Why odd? You are my friend. They are my friends. They’ll be too thrilled at being invited to Luten House to find it anything but gratifying.”
“Luten doesn’t like me to exert myself—”
“Poor girl. You must be bored to tears. It will be a little something for you to do without exerting yourself in the least. Your excellent butler, Evans, will handle everything. You can let the guests know it is your way of repaying me for doing your portrait. As a pretext, I mean—not that I would expect you to pay, naturellement. It has been nothing but a pleasure to have such a beauty to paint.”
He was rather pleased with that bit, combining a compliment with a reminder that he was devoting hours to her picture. And he must remember to have a word with Evans about the selection of the wines.
She could think of no more excuses. “What date did you have in mind?” she asked.
“The announcement of the presidency is to occur in a week, or possibly ten days, so the sooner the better. Say in two or three evenings. That will give Evans time to make the preparations, yet not make it seem like a large, formal do.”
“I should speak to Luten first.”
Prance, knowing Luten would dislike the idea, and also knowing that Corinne could talk him into anything, said, “It might be more acceptable if he thought it was your idea. Better to present him with a fait accompli. It’s just a very small party.”
“Oh very well. How can I refuse when you are doing my portrait? I’ll send the stationery over this morning.”
He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “You are an angel.”
And you are a devil, she thought. “A pleasure, Reggie,” she lied, and even managed a small smile.
Chapter Four
The front door of the tall, narrow building on the corner of Gresham Street was unlocked. Townsend had said Burnes lived on the top floor, which meant a trek up two steep flights of dusty, dimly-lit stairs. Black, accomplished in the art of entering houses illegally, had no trouble unlocking the door of Burnes’s flat. The place was as Townsend had described it, a spartan set of rooms under the eaves of a second rate rooming house.
It had a kitchen that was obviously not being used as it held neither food nor dishes, nor even that basic necessity, a teapot. The bedroom’s furnishings consisted of a small armoire whose few jackets were soon searched without revealing anything helpful.
They next turned to a neatly made up cot with a deal table beside it. The lamp on the table suggested the man might have been reading in bed, but if so, what he had been reading was no longer there. The dresser held a few shirts and some small cloths. A wash basin, a comb and a razor sat on the dresser beneath a scrap of tarnished mirror. The room was soon searched in vain.
They next, made a thorough examination of Burnes’s main room. It held a desk, suggesting he used the room as an office, but when they rushed to it they discovered the open drawers were empty. Why open if he never used it?
On the other hand, Townsend might have left it open. Not a sign of either Prance’s rough sketch of Corinne nor anything to suggest what business Mr. Burnes was in, or where he came from, was to be found. Whatever his reason for wanting Prance’s atelier, no trace of it remained in his flat. Such an absence of any personal possessions strongly suggested that someone had been there before them, and before Townsend as well, as he had had no luck either.
Black, not usually given to understatement, said, “The place is no Buckingham Palace. I wager what Burnes liked about it was that it was close to Ironmonger Lane.”
“Not a single, solitary clue,” Coffen said, with a rueful shake of his head.
“Stands to reason whoever did him in would come here and make off with anything that pointed to himself as the murderer,” Black said with his usual air of knowing what he was talking about where criminal doings were concerned.
“He knew what he was looking for, and he got it,” Coffen replied. “He didn’t leave his clothes rumpled or the bed mussed up or the waste bin emptied on the floor. Leaves us at a bit of a loss for clues. Nobody lives like this. If it weren’t for the shaving things and the few clothes, I’d think he didn’t live here at all.”
Black rubbed his chin and consulted his favourite advisor, himself, before speaking. “What he left behind don’t tell us anything. Didn’t Townsend mention some little broken statues? I don’t see them about.”
“You’re right. They’re gone. He mentioned books as well. There’s not a scrap of reading material, not even a journal or magazine.” He looked around the room again, went to the desk, rubbed his hand over the wooden surface, then wiped his fingers on his buckskins. “There’s some dust here—dirt, rough dust. Might have come off the statues. It’s gritty.”
“I wonder now if that would have anything to do with Burnes wanting the studio. They make statues in such a place, I daresay.”
“I daresay, but why would anyone take them? Townsend said they were rubbish.”
“The artist might of took them,” Black suggested, “if Burnes ain’t the artist, I mean.”
“True. Artists always think what they’re making is good, like Reg’s pictures.”
Black nodded his agreement. “If he left them with Burnes to pedal for him and found out he’d been killed, he might of come to get them back.” After a frowning pause, he added, “Or the artist might have killed Burnes, and feared the statues would lead to him.”
“It’s odd, though, Townsend didn’t find any personal or business papers, yet the statues and books were here,” Coffen said, as much to himself as to Black. “That looks like someone searched the place before Townsend got here, so either the first searcher forgot the statues and came back, or somebody else came and took them.”
“If they pointed a finger at
him he’d hardly forget to take them the first time,” Black said. “No, it looks to me like two were here.”
This smacked of coincidence to Coffen. “Books and statues are heavy. If he was on foot first time, he might have taken the important things—papers I mean—and come back with a carriage or wagon for the heavy load.”
“Well, whoever killed Burnes darted straight here and took away his business papers and personal property for sure. Either he came back or he told someone else, and the man he told came between Townsend’s visit and ours. That’d mean they were chums. You don’t tell a stranger you just killed somebody. It don’t make sense to me, but what is pretty clear is that Burnes is dead, he wanted Prance’s studio, and someone tried to burn it down. Let us go back to the studio tonight and see he don’t come back and try again.”
“You’re forgetting, Black, he can’t come back. He’s dead.”
“Burnes is dead right enough, but who’s to say he set the fire, or if he did, that he was working alone? He don’t seem to have had any money. Someone must have had the blunt to pay Prance twice what the place is worth, along with buying up a year’s lease on the other two places. Whoever the money man is, he might come back hisself and try again.”
“You’re right. Let us toddle along to Luten’s place and set his mind at ease, let him know Burnes didn’t take Corinne’s sketch.” They left, setting the lock behind them.
“Unless whoever took the business papers took it as well,” Black added. “This case is getting some weird twists in it already, and it ain’t hardly a case yet.”
Coffen took exception to this. “Not a case? We’ve got a murder, don’t we, and missing statues, and an arson? I’d call that a dandy case.”
“Aye, there’s something afoot right enough.”
“What we don’t have is clues.” As their carriage drew into Berkeley Square, Coffen said, “I think, Black, we shouldn’t bother mentioning to Luten that whoever took the papers might have nabbed Corinne’s picture as well. It’ll only set him to fretting.”
“You’re right. In fact I don’t think Burnes did take it. It was still in the studio the night of the party. Burnes wasn’t at the party.”
“If he took it, he did it when he started the fire if he’s the one started the fire, and like Townsend said, why would he burn the place down when he wanted it enough to pay twice what it’s worth? Depending on when the fire was set, Burnes might already have been dead. I wonder if Townsend has made any headway in finding out when the fire was lit, and just when Burnes was killed.”
They found the Lutens in the small rose salon, Corinne’s favourite room, having tea. The rose velvet window hangings and dainty furniture had been chosen by Luten’s mama before her death a decade before. The grand gold salon was used only for formal entertaining. Luten’s scowl when they entered was a hint that he didn’t want them to mention the sketch in front of Corinne. She smiled to see them. She always enjoyed a visit from her cousin and Black was also a favourite.
Upon her first husband’s death he had bequeathed Black to her, told her to trust him. It had been good advice. He was always looking out for her welfare. On one occasion he had even saved her life. Unbeknownst to her, he was madly in love with her, but he was wise enough to know he must play only the role of butler, friend and confidante. It was only whim alone, usually in his bed at night, that he became her hero and lover, Lord Blackwell.
Knowing Coffen’s love of a murder case, she gestured them to chairs and said, “I wager you two have been to Burnes’s flat looking for clues.”
“We have, but we didn’t find anything,” Black said. He turned a sapient eye on Luten and added, “Nothing of interest, that is to say. Nothing at all.” Luten nodded his understanding.
“The only clue we found wasn’t there,” Coffen added, in his usual scrambled way.
“And what was that?” Luten asked. He knew that despite Coffen’s mangled speech, he was a sharp observer.
“Them statues and books Townsend mentioned, they were gone. Since Townsend didn’t find anything of a personal nature there, we figure the murderer got to the place before Townsend and took away his papers. Black thinks the fellow that killed Burnes took the papers, told his pal, then the pal came and carted away the books and statues. I think the books and statues were heavy, and he came back with a carriage or wagon.”
Luten nodded. “In either case, someone came and removed the statues and books after Townsend left. That doesn’t prove either visitor was the murderer, but it is certainly suggestive. If not, how did he know Burnes had been killed?”
Corinne ordered fresh tea and biscuits—Coffen was always, hungry, and they discussed those same aspects of the case that Coffen and Black had been discussing. Luten suggested it was possible Burnes was the sculptor, but that didn’t seem to lead anywhere, except the possibility that Burnes might have a studio somewhere that they could search, if they could find it, and that he might have wanted the three houses on Ironmonger Lane to turn into a studio.
“I’ll send a note off to Townsend and ask him if he’s discovered at what time Burnes was killed, and if he has had any report of when the fire started,” Luten said. “There’s a chance one of the neighbours saw someone leaving. Pity the houses on either side are vacant.”
“There might be someone living in the houses across the street. Ask him to send a man there to enquire,” Corinne suggested.
“So, any news here at all?” Coffen asked. “Have you heard what Prance is up to?”
“It seems he is having a party—here,” Luten said, with a rueful smile at his beloved.
“Another one?” Coffen said, surprised. “He just had one last night.”
“This is for the antiquarian crowd.”
“Ah, a bit of arm-twisting to get made president,” said Coffen, who knew his friend very well.
“Since he is doing my portrait, I felt obliged to offer,” she said, not quite truthfully. “Just a small party.”
“Does that mean we ain’t invited?” Coffen asked.
“Of course you are invited,” she said at once, though she was pretty sure Prance would not send them invitations. After all, it was her party. Well, she was the hostess at least. She would explain to Prance that having a few of her own friends made it less obvious what they were up to.
When the tea and biscuits were gone, Coffen and Black rose. Before taking their leave Coffen said, “Me and Black are going to loiter around the studio tonight and see if anyone comes to burn the place down. You’ll let us know what Townsend finds out, eh Luten?”
“Certainly. Why don’t you stop by here after you leave the studio this evening and tell us what happens, or doesn’t happen?”
“We might be there quite late, but if your lights are still burning we’ll step in and let you know.”
They made their bows and left, heading the few steps across the street to Coffen’s house. “So Prance has cozzened her ladyship into having a do for him,” Black said with a tsk of disapproval. “And in her condition. He ought to be ashamed of himself.”
“She wouldn’t be doing it if Luten thought it was too much for her. She likes having parties, though this one sounds a dull enough do. We don’t have to go if the case gets lively.”
“Aye, that dull lot wouldn’t have anything to do with murder,” Black said with authority, but quite mistakenly.
Chapter Five
When Black became Coffen’s factotum, he brought order to the chaos reigning in his master’s house. None of his servants had been proficient at their jobs, all of them were crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Black soon learned there was twice as much food going out the back door as ever made it to the table. And what cook sent to the table was barely fit for human consumption. Wine disappeared from the cellar faster than a dozen men could possibly imbibe it. The same slackness went on in the dressing room, where it was by no means sure there would be a clean shirt available when necessary or boots polished or jackets brushed and pressed.
All that had been rectified by Black. It was only Coffen’s groom, Fitz, who defeated him. Despite his best efforts, Fitz could still not reach the desired destination without making several detours. Maps might as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all they meant to him. He didn’t even know left from right.
Dinner, at least, was now not only edible but in some cases quite tasty. Master and servant dispensed with the custom of the master eating alone at the table. Black had dined with Pattle from the first, served by the senior footman. The only one bothered by this irregularity was Sir Reginald, who was a tyrant for form.
That evening they enjoyed a juicy beefsteak, potatoes and peas that were not boiled to a mash and an apple tart, the whole accompanied by appropriate wines. Daylight lingered late in spring, and to pass the time until it was dark they dropped in on the Lutens again to see if they had heard from Townsend. They caught the couple as they were about to go out to the theatre. After a little cajoling, an evening of sitting in a comfortable theatre box was permitted the mother-to-be.
“We were going to drop in and tell you before leaving,” Luten said. “We have heard from Townsend. It seems Burnes’s body was dumped in that alley around eleven-thirty, so he was killed some time before that. As to the fire, a woman living across the street says she saw two men running away from the atelier shortly after midnight. She was up tending to a toothache. She couldn’t give much of a description of them but says they acted ‘guilty’. Two men – not boys, she thinks, but can’t be sure of their size or age. They were running, and it was dark. Her husband ran out to notify the watch, but a passing pedestrian had seen the flames and already done it.”
“So we can strike Burnes off as the arsoner,” Coffen said. “Does that mean the fire had nothing to do with him wanting the studio?”