Murder on Ironmonger Lane

by Joan Smith

  Luten shrugged. “There are various possibilities. It could mean he had a falling out with a partner, or it could mean more than one party want the studio,” Luten said. “Want it so badly they’re prepared to murder. Attempting to burn the atelier down suggests it’s the land itself that is wanted, not the building. Or the fire may never have been intended to do more than make the place uninhabitable. To get Prance out, in other words.”

  Corinne gave a little start and said, “There were various people trying to get you out of that little cottage your uncle left you in Brighton, Coffen, because of the Tsarina’s diamond necklace hidden there. Would it be something of that sort, I wonder? Some hidden treasure?”

  “Burning the house down would risk destroying the treasure,” Luten said, frowning. “Of course it wasn’t actually much of a fire.”

  “Just a bit of a fire lit by someone trying to scare Prance out,” Coffen said, nodding.

  “I’d have thought that would just about do it,” said Black, who was not one of Prance’s admirers, and knew from past experience that Sir Reginald was no lover of violence directed against himself.

  Coffen was eager to leave. He now had two reasons for going to the studio. It would have to be searched from the bottom for the treasure, while still keeping an eye out for the fire-starter to return. “We’d best let Prance know what’s afoot,” he said. “We’ll get the key for the studio from him while we’re there. Enjoy the play.”

  Sir Reginald led an active social life and was not at home, but his butler did not hesitate to give Mr. Pattle the spare key to the atelier when he explained his reason. Fitz had made the trip to the atelier often enough that he got his passengers there without going very far astray.

  The search was made easier by the fact that the upper story was unfurnished. The plastered walls appeared innocent of secret passages, the uncarpeted floor had no loose boards. The studio and kitchen were subjected to as thorough a search as possible by candlelight but appeared equally innocent of hidden treasure.

  “I recall the cellar door was ajar t’other night,” Black said, and turning to the door, saw it was still ajar. But before they descended they heard footsteps from the studio.

  “That’ll be Reg, come to help us,” Coffen said. Before he could head to the studio, Black snatched at his sleeve and put his finger to his lips to signify silence. “A fellow come to start a fire wouldn’t use the front door. He’d have seen my carriage out front, if Fitz hasn’t gone astray on us,” Coffen said, and went to greet Prance.

  To his astonishment, it was not Sir Reginald who had come in but Mr. Thomson. Before they could charge him, he smiled and said, “Ah, Mr. Pattle, is it not, and Mr. Black? I was happy to see a carriage out front and the lights on. I was in the neighbourhood and saw a chance to enquire about my purse.”

  “What enquiry is that, Mr. Thomson?” Black asked with a blighting stare that revealed he didn’t believe a word the man said.

  “I misplaced my purse last night and thought I might have left it here. I’m eager to recover it as I had a hundred pounds in it. I don’t usually carry so much cash, but I made a sale yesterday—I believe I mentioned I am an art dealer—and hadn’t got to my bank yet. You don’t mind if I just have a look around?”

  “You’ll not find it,” Coffen said. “We’ve just searched the whole place.”

  Thomson looked puzzled. “Why is that, Mr. Pattle, if you don’t my asking?”

  “Why, because of the fire last night.”

  “Fire?” Thomson said, looking all about in confusion. “Fire here, you mean? I don’t see any sign of it.”

  “Never mind that,” Black said. “Your purse isn’t here. You must have left it somewhere else.”

  “Dear me, a fire! I daresay someone careless with his cheroot. Well, I’m happy to see Sir Reginald’s charming pictures are unharmed. If you’ve searched there’s no point in my looking further, so I’ll bid you good night.”

  “Where’s your friend Ruffin tonight?” Black asked.

  “He mentioned attending a concert. I don’t care for antique music myself.” He smiled civilly and took his leave.

  Coffen went to the window and looked out. “Shank’s mare, no carriage,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Happened to be in the neighbourhood,” Black scoffed. “That’s about as likely as that creature having a hundred pounds in his purse. He’d not have taken our word it wasn’t here if he really lost such a sum. He was snooping about to see what was going on. Wanted to see how much damage the fire did, I expect.”

  “He didn’t plan to search for treasure or start another fire though, for he knew we were here. As he was in the neighbourhood without a carriage, he must live close by,” Coffen said. “There’s nothing else to bring a fellow here. I wonder now if he lives in that same rooming house as Burnes.” His lifted eyebrow was as good as an invitation to Black.

  “One way to find out,” Black said, and began extinguishing lamps.

  “I’ll nip out and see where he goes before we lose sight of him,” Coffen said. “I’ll tell Fitz to stay here. Make sure you lock the door, Black.”

  He was in time to see Thomson hastening in the direction of Gresham Street. When Black came out, they headed after Thomson on foot. He had disappeared. In the darkness it was impossible to see whether he had turned the corner but when they reached Gresham Street there was no sign of him, so they concluded he had entered the rooming house and went in.

  “We’ll just see if his name’s on the occupants’ board.” Black said, and examined the board. “Humph, it ain’t, but that means nothing. There’s two Smiths and a Jones. This is a hangout of crooks, Mr. Pattle.”

  “We can’t very well search his place when he’s at home,” Coffen said, “and wouldn’t know which flat he’s in either. Pity.”

  Black was not ready to give up so easily. “We’ll have Fitz keep an eye on the place while you and me pay a visit to that little tavern on Gresham and bide a while. Fitz can let us know if Thomson leaves.”

  “The very thing, Black.” There were few places more congenial to either of them than a nice smoky tavern. “We might make a few enquiries for Thomson—let on we’re his chums.”

  “You’re the man for that job, Mr. Pattle.” It was true. Pattle got along famously with the lower orders. His generous way with supplying drinks helped.

  Fitz was given his orders. He parked Coffen’s rig a few doors away from the rooming house, pretty well concealed in the shadows of night. Denny’s tavern was just the sort they both liked—dark, dingy, smoky, and with plenty of boisterous patrons. Other than the lack of a pretty barmaid, it could hardly have been more to their taste.

  A little crowd soon learned free drinks were to be had and gathered around Black and Coffen. Discreet, offhand enquiries eventually told them no one at the pub knew Thomson. The name Ruffin meant nothing to them either. Their descriptions elicited a little interest, but nothing definite. After over an hour spent drinking and chatting to the clientele they decided to leave.

  As Coffen was paying the rather large bill, he was visited by a sudden inspiration. “You wouldn’t happen to know that fellow called Burnes that was killed the other night?” he asked Denny, the proprietor, a big, red-faced fellow with arms on him like legs. “Terrible thing it was.”

  “He was in here a couple of times. New to the neighbourhood. He asked about running a tab, which is how I come to know the name. I told him what I tell them all, no credit.”

  “Anybody with him?”

  “Mostly he was alone. Mind you, he come in with a couple of gents one night. Just the night before he was kilt, I believe it was.”

  Coffen could hardly contain his excitement. “A portly, elderly gent and a black-haired younger lad?” he asked.

  “That’s right. Quite a dandy, the dark-haired one.”

  “Dandy? I wonder now who that would be.” Was it possible Ruffin would be considered a dandy in a place like this?

  “I never got a nam
e, but he’s the one that paid the tab when him and the fat fellow came in. They’ve been here a few times the past month.”

  “Ah, McKay, very likely,” Coffen said in an effort to get the dandy’s description. “A tall, fair-haired drink of water was he?”

  “Fair? Devil a bit of it. He was a handsome young dark-haired fellow with a beard.” He rearranged the dirt on the bar with a dirty towel as he spoke. “Quite a swell, with a snooty accent. I often wondered what use he had for the fat fellow. Or Burnes for that matter.”

  “If they should happen to be in here again, it’d be worth a lot to me if you could happen to overhear what they were saying.” The gold coin that passed from hand to hand caused a wide smile to grace the proprietor’s face.

  “How do I get in touch with you then?” he asked, sliding the coin into his pocket.

  “I’ll be stopping in often.”

  When he and Black were outside Black said, “A bearded fellow. Could that be Ruffin hiding his phiz with a beard and putting on a fancy accent?”

  “Odd, though. I took Thomson for the one leading Ruffin at Prance’s party.”

  “That’s ‘cause he had Thomson do the talking, like he had him come to the studio tonight. Smart crooks don’t draw attention to themselfs.”

  When they returned to the waiting carriage they found Fitz nodding over the ribbons, but he assured them Thomson had not left the house.

  “Not a bad night’s work, Black,” Coffen said. “We’ll just make one last trip past the studio, then it’ll be time to go and report to Luten. They won’t go out after the play. I’m surprised they left home at all. You’d think a woman never had a baby before, the way he goes on about it.”

  “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to her, Mr. Pattle,” said Black, who heartily approved of any safeguard to Lady Luten.

  The atelier was in darkness. No one was about. They directed Fitz to Berkeley Square.

  Chapter Six

  Prance’s carriage and Luten’s arrived at their respective front doors at the same time. Coffen’s carriage drew up while the neighbours were exchanging greetings. As the whole brigade was there, Corinne said, “Let us go inside and hear what everyone has been doing.”

  They were soon seated in the rose salon with a glass of wine in hand. “I might as well go first as I shan’t take a minute,” Prance said, and proceeded to give a leisurely account of his doings, which bore no relation to the case.

  “I have endured an utterly boring evening of badly played Vivaldi. We endured two of the Four Seasons, but it felt like the full year. The chaps I was with – Erskine and Brant – suggested stopping off at Ibbetson’s Hotel for a drink after. They mentioned that the prices were reasonable. What price is reasonable when one considers he must drink inferior wine amidst dour clergymen and boisterous young university fellows? I soon claimed a headache, and it was not necessary to fib I promise you.” He smoothed his brow with a weary hand.

  “This Erskine and Brant sound a dull pair,” Luten said. “Writers, are they?”

  “Yes, for the Archaeologia, a publication put out by the Society of Antiquaries, you know. Very intelligent, worthy chaps, but somehow I cannot find much to say to sexagenarians.”

  “You shouldn’t be running about with scoundrels like that!” Coffen charged.

  “Honi soit qu mal y pense, Coffen,” Prance said with a smile.

  “I might have known they were Frenchies.”

  “Selection committee members, I take it?” Luten asked.

  “It happens they are, but that was not the reason I spent the evening with them,” he said, without a sign of a blush. “I have been asked to contribute an article to the Archaeologia. They feel that my reputation as a writer might elicit interest in the periodical. I was discussing a possible subject with them. It would not do to step on the toes of one of the members who is an expert in some field. You will be meeting Erskine and Brant at the party your lovely wife has volunteered to throw for me, Luten.”

  He cast a smile on Lady Luten. “They have received your invitation, Corinne, and are aux anges. Now, what have the rest of you been up to? How was the play, Luten?”

  Luten was seldom rude but he was eager to get on with business. “Fine,” he said briefly and turned to Coffen.

  “What was playing, and who were the actors?” Prance persisted.

  “Oh, some light comedy. I don’t recall who played the roles. No one famous.”

  Prance could only stare at such a lack of interest, but he, too, was curious to hear what Coffen had been up to and knew there was no point in further questioning. So far as Luten was concerned, the play might have been called “My Wife is with Child,” starring Lady Luten.

  Without further waste of time, Luten outlined the information from Townsend as to the time of Burnes’s death and the time the fire started. Corinne added her notion of a hidden treasure.

  “No luck there, I’m afraid,” Coffen said. “We looked.”

  “We had trouble finding the Tsarina’s diamond necklace in Brighton too. We should go back and look in daylight,” she said.

  “We shall certainly keep looking,” Prance said. “Do we have any idea who the fire starter might have been, if not Burnes?”

  Luten said, “Coffen and Black have been nosing about.” He looked to Coffen, who described their evening’s investigations.

  “Do we think, then, that Thomson started the fire, and had returned to try again?” Prance said.

  “I doubt he had setting a fire in mind when he entered a studio with lights burning and a carriage out front,” Luten said.

  “Very true. Not likely he went looking for hidden treasure either, so why the deuce did he go in?”

  Coffen frowned, then said, “Just curious to see what was going on, I expect. P’raps to see how much damage the fire did. We think he’s living in the same house as Burnes, and that says to me that they were both after the same thing.”

  “Might he not be the fellow who made off with Burnes’s papers, and/or the books and statues?” Luten asked.

  “We’ll find out for sure if he lives there, and have a look,” Coffen said. “Denny, at the tavern we visited, mentioned Thomson used to meet up with whoever he worked for there. The night before Burnes was killed the two of them met him at the tavern. Oh, did I mention the fellow with Thomson was wearing a black beard, and always footed the bill when he was there with Thomson? Denny, the publican, described the black-bearded fellow as a dandy. We figure it might have been Ruffin in disguise.”

  Prance emitted a little squeal at this description. “If that yahoo with Thomson at my party was a dandy, I’m a dragoon.”

  “Very likely he wore fancy clothes to go with the beard,” Coffen allowed. “Denny mentioned he might have been an actor. Any idea who he might have been, Prance? You know all the actors.”

  “Only the good ones,” Prance corrected. “I never saw Ruffin before he invited himself to my party. Actors don’t usually grow beards. Too limiting. If a role requires one, they use a false beard. It sounds like a ruse to alter his appearance.”

  After a moment during which they all considered this, Luten said, “Whatever is going on, your atelier is at the very centre of it, Prance. Burnes tried to get you to sublet it, and he held leases on the buildings on either side. Coffen and Black have searched your atelier. What we must do is get into the other two houses and see what we can find.”

  “You mentioned picking up the leases on those other two houses,” Prance said. “Any luck there?”

  “It takes an age to settle estates. My lawyer is looking into who actually owns the buildings. Not that that will tell us anything. If the owner suspected something of value was hidden there, he would have gone after it himself rather than lease it. How could Burnes have learned of a treasure hidden there if the owner himself didn’t know?”

  Black was frequently amazed at how the upper class went about conducting business. They bent some rules into sharp angles, and followed others to the lette
r of the law. “You don’t have to go buying up leases for me and Mr. Pattle to have a look through the houses,” Black said to Luten.

  “Couldn’t Townsend arrange to let us do it, as part of the investigation into the fire and Burnes’s murder?” Corinne suggested.

  “Why bother with Townsend?” Coffen countered. “Two empty houses, what’s to stop us from prying open a window after dark and climbing in?”

  “We could search better by daylight,” Luten countered. “I’ll speak to Townsend.”

  He did speak to Townsend the next morning. Townsend agreed to help, but said it might take a day or two to get permission from the Commissioner. The others were watching for Luten’s return and went to his house to learn the result of the meeting when he got back.

  When Luten relayed this information to them, he realized from the look that passed between Coffen and Black that they had no intention of waiting for approval to get into the house, and did nothing to deter them. Fortunately for his wife, he did not see the small smile that caused the dimples to show in her cheeks. She knew Luten had a meeting that morning and would soon be leaving for the House. She was bored to flinders sitting idle. She would go with Coffen and Black.

  Prance also knew that Coffen and Black wouldn’t wait a day to begin their investigations. As he was at the centre of the whole case, it behooved him to go with them. He really did not want to lose his atelier, and if there was some threat to his occupying it, he must find out what it was, and stop it. It would be interesting to discover a hidden treasure as well.

  Chapter Seven

  Luten consigned his wife to her companion before leaving for the House the next morning. Mrs. Ballard, the widow of a minor cleric and a connection of Lady Luten’s first husband, had been with her since her first marriage. She had remained with her after deCoventry’s death, as a young widow required an older lady to act as her chaperone.

  In that capacity she was about as much use as a straw hat in a rainstorm, despite her high morals. She was a shy, retiring dame whose notion of chiding her mistress was to purse her lips and look miserable. To Corinne’s considerable astonishment, this mouse-like lady had recently revealed an unlikely streak, not of independence but of daring, during one of the Berkeley Brigade’s cases.