by Joan Smith
Coffen was smiling from ear to ear, and even Mr. Black was not scowling. “By the living jingo, Black. Clues!” Coffen said. “You’ll have to take us to that house and shop tomorrow, Fitz. Are you sure you can find them?”
“I memorized the street names, Mr. Pattle. Black will know how to get back there.”
“Well done.”
Fitz, surrounded in a most unusual aura of success, drove the carriage around to the mews.
“Not a completely wasted night, Mr. Pattle,” Black said, grinning.
“An excellent night’s work,” Coffen agreed. “I see Luten’s light is on. So we don’t tell him about Corinne’s picture?”
Black said, “No hurry. We’ll have that word with Sir Reginald first.”
“Right. We can put it off for tonight.”
Chapter Twelve
Sir Reginald had called on Scotty Binwell and arrived home as his neighbours were entering the house. “That’s him,” Coffen said. “We’ll just have a word with him now.”
“What a night,” Prance chirped as they approached him. Binwell had been ecstatic at the news of the new discovery. “It was all I could do to keep Binwell from dashing over to the cellar when I told him of our find. I’m taking him over to see it tomorrow.”
“That’s grand, Reg,” Coffen said. “We have to talk to you.”
“Let us go inside. I’m parched. Binwell’s notion of refreshment is a tisane.”
Probably an old Roman drink, Coffen figured, but it didn’t sound as if Prance meant to inflict it on them, nor did he. Prance kept an excellent cellar. Over a bottle of bordeau Coffen gave a jumbled account of their evening’s findings, beginning with Fitz’s part in it. “The woman with the dog again,” Prance said. “Now that is interesting.”
“Again? Do you know her then?”
“Not by name, certainly, but she was walking past my atelier the time I took Corinne home and you two stayed behind. She stared at Corinne and myself until you would think she was memorizing us. She got into a plain black carriage, and there was a dog in it. And she was with the bearded man this time, you say?”
“She was, and Fitz knows where they live. He followed them, but that’s not what we came to ask you about.” He went on to relate the finding of Corinne’s picture in Thomson’s flat and deciding to leave it there. “So do we tell Luten or not?”
“A nice point,” Prance said, steepling his fingers to aid thinking.
“There’s nothing nice about it,” Coffen argued. “Seems to me we’re damned if we do, and damned if we don’t.”
“The word has other meanings than pleasant, but I do see the problem. It will upset him, of course. He’ll want to keep her immured in the house. She’ll never put up with that. I foresee ructions and no end of trouble with her making us help her escape. Well, it is a problem certainly, but not necessarily your problem. Why not tell Corinne, and let her decide what to do?”
Coffen gave Black a satisfied nod. “There, I told you Reg would know what to do. If Luten gets mad at anyone, it’ll be at her, and he never gets mad at her now that she’s enceinte.”
“What you ought to tell Luten at once, however, is about the lady in the carriage and the bearded man and that shop he went into,” Prance said. “If he went into the shop at this hour of the night he has a key, and if he has a key, he either runs the shop or works there. In either case, we can find out who he is. In fact Townsend can do that for us.”
Townsend, the undisputed star of the Bow Street Runners, had apprehended more criminals than the rest of the Runners put together. He handled all the major crimes in the city. The society hostesses often engaged him to monitor their balls, to protect the jewelry of their guests. The government hired him when they were moving large sums of money about the country. He was always happy to work with the Berkeley Brigade.
When Prance reverted to how excited Binwell was about the find, Coffen suggested that as Luten’s lamps were still burning, they might as well visit him right away. Prance was eager to see what preparations Corinne was making for his party and was happy to accompany them.
Luten was in his study looking over some papers from Whitehall and Corinne was in the formal Gold Salon with the butler, Evans, discussing the placement of flowers for the party. She went to the rose salon to meet them. Evans bowed the callers into the rose salon and went to notify Luten.
Luten knew which of his callers might have news. “Have you learned something?” he asked, looking at Black and Coffen.
“I believe we are on to something,” Coffen said, and opened his budget, omitting only the mention of Corinne’s picture in Thomson’s flat. Luten listened without speaking until the tale was told.
“It seems we are dealing with a gang, seemingly run by the bearded man,” Luten said, when he had heard it all. “We know Thomson reports to him. We know Thomson was with Ruffin, a man of similar appearance minus the beard, at Prance’s party. We have reason to think Thomson was involved in the fire in Prance’s atelier, presumably to force Prance out to allow them free access to his cellar.
“It is only reasonable to assume he is working for the bearded fellow, who has hired men to excavate. He is taking away relics, for either his own pleasure, or for sale. I wonder what sort of shop he has. He can’t be selling those relics out of an ordinary shop. I wager the wares he pedals have nothing to do with the relics, but he could be selling them out the back door, so to speak. We must find out more about him, and the shop.”
“Fitz says he knows how to get there,” Coffen said.
“Fitz?” Luten asked, his eyebrows raised an inch. “Are you sure—”
“He followed the carriage that picked the man up and made a note of the address—Tottenham Court Road—plus the dog woman’s, who lives not far away on Capper Street. He can follow better than he leads.”
Corinne listened and took note of both addresses.
“The lady with the dog, she’s the same one we saw outside your atelier when you drove me home, Prance,” Corinne said. “She was rather handsome. I daresay she is Blackbeard’s wife, or mistress. And you know where she lives. That is another way to discover his identity.”
“I mean to do some nosing around tomorrow,” Coffen said, hoping Prance wouldn’t mention Townsend. Not that he had anything against the fellow. He just didn’t want the case pulled out from under him.
Prance had other things on his mind. He hadn’t had a chance yet to tell them how excited Binwell had been when he visited him. And more importantly, he wanted to hear about the arrangements for his party. “Binwell was aux anges with our news,” he said, using it as an excuse to bring up the party. “He is looking forward to tomorrow evening. Is there anything I could give you a hand with, Corrie? Aunt Phoebe has sent me some rather fine roses from the gardens at Granmaison.” This was his country estate.
“What colour are they?” she asked.
“A gorgeous pink, shading to fuchsia.”
“I’ve used mostly red. I thought they would look impressive in the gold room.”
“Let us go and see,” he said, leading her away while the others remained behind. Red roses in a gold room sounded garish to Prance, but then Corinne was not very artistic. She usually embellished her own ensembles with what he considered an excess of gewgaw.
But when she showed him into the Gold Salon, he had to admit red was the only colour that would do justice to the splendour of that magnificent chamber. In fact, he rather thought she might have had a few more vases. The four on display practically disappeared in that vast gallery of Persian carpets, gold brocade window hangings, priceless furnishings and artworks. Never mind, neither Binwell nor the others would ever have seen anything to equal the grandeur of the chamber.
“Perfect,” he said, and raised her hand to his lips. “It is too kind of you to do this for me. And to repay you, I have to tell you something that I fear might upset you.”
“How many more have you invited?” she asked. That would be a typical Prance stun
t. Ask her for a small favour that grew into a huge inconvenience.
“Why, whatever do you mean, my pet? You saw the list. No one has been added by me. You know of those cabinet members Luten invited. No, it is something else entirely. The fact is, we have discovered who took my little sketch of you, that vanished the night of the fire.”
“Really?” she asked, interested but not concerned. “Who was it?”
“Thomson.”
She blinked. “The fellow who set the fire? Well, that makes sense. He was at your party, and we think he also set the fire. But what is the problem?”
“The problem, goose, is whether we tell your esposo.”
“Oh, I see. I’m glad you didn’t tell him. There is really no danger in it. Obviously Thomson liked your sketch and picked it up.”
“Luten may not see it that way.”
“Why don’t you leave it to me, Reg? When and if I think he is in the proper mood, I’ll tell him. Meanwhile he won’t want me to set a foot out of the house if he thinks some criminal has a tendre for me. You know what he’s like.”
“I do indeed. That is why I told you.”
“Good. Say nothing about it. Now about the flowers, what do you think?”
“I think the room looks positively regal. You have done yourself—and me—proud.”
At the sound of approaching footsteps they turned to the door to see Luten and the others coming in.
“Coffen and Black are going to have Fitz drive them to Blackbeard’s shop and that house the woman went into tomorrow morning,” Luten said. “If there’s nothing else, I have some work to do. Corinne will give you a glass of wine.” He turned to her, “Don’t stay up too late, my dear. I shall soon be finished my work.” He said goodnight to the others and left.
“Did you tell her?” Coffen asked Prance.
“I did. Corrie will handle it—tell him when she feels the time is right.”
“Right, after the case is solved,” Coffen said, nodding his comprehension. “I know you’re going to ask us to take you with us tomorrow, Corrie, but—”
“No, I am not. The woman with the dog has seen me.”
“Corrie will be busy preparing the party,” Prance added. “By the way, who has Luten invited?”
“A few of the elite. Elgin, Castlereagh, Brougham. You will be in excellent company to impress your friends, Reg.”
He disliked her way of phrasing that, but as he was pleased as punch, he said only, “My guests will be immensely impressed. À demain.” He lifted her hand again and passed his lips above it. “We’ll leave you now and let you get your beauty rest. Not that you need it, ça va sans dire. “
“Au revoir,” said Black, who was studying French in his efforts to polish up his rustic style. He would like to have kissed her hand too, but didn’t risk it in front of Prance.
“We’re off then,” said Coffen, and they all left.
Corinne returned to the rose salon and sat, scheming how she might insert herself into the investigation without Luten’s knowledge. She loved him to distraction, loved being Lady Luten, living in this grand house and enjoying all the privileges of wealth and position but there was no denying a hovering husband curbed a lady’s freedom.
Neither Black nor Coffen would take her, no point even asking. No, she must go on her own. She and Mrs. Ballard often went for a drive in the fine weather, usually to Bond Street, where Mrs. Ballard like to peruse the shops. A shopping spree for her was a packet of pins or a pair of stockings.
Tomorrow they would drive to Tottenham Court Road, and they would see if they could find that house the woman went into as well. The woman might recognize her, but she would not know Mrs. Ballard from Eve. Mrs. Ballard had proved an excellent helper in the past. The trick would be to let her know Luten was not to know of their little trip. But then she seldom spoke unless spoken to, so it wasn’t much of a problem. Blackbeard had never even seen Mrs. Ballard, so she could go into the shop and snoop around.
It felt good to be up and doing again. She was even looking forward to Prance’s little party. He was a dreadful nuisance, of course, but interesting, always involving himself in some new artistic venture. The awful failure of his first literary effort, Round Table Rondeaux, a recounting in iambic pentameter of the Prince Arthur legend with copious footnotes, had not discouraged him. Of the three hundred or so copies that had been sold, Luten had bought two hundred. And what a time they had burning them so Prance wouldn’t find out!
He had gone on to write the amazingly successful gothic novel, Shadows on the Wall, followed by other successful literary efforts. She would have thought that whatever insecurity pushed him to crave attention and praise would have abated with all his new-found fame, but it had not happened.
It seemed it was just his nature to love attention, unlike Coffen who didn’t care a whit what anyone thought of him. And everyone loved him. Luten also had his interesting quirks, not the least of which was his marrying her, a widow of small fortune, when he could have had his pick of the heiresses. He cared nothing for titles. He had turned down a dukedom he felt he didn’t deserve. Yet he wanted desperately to be Prime Minister—of a Whig government, of course. A sense of guilt at his privileged position drove him to help the less fortunate.
Tomorrow promised to be an interesting day, seeing what she could learn about Blackbeard and the woman, and Prance’s party in the evening. Her lethargy and nausea had left her. She felt up to anything.
Chapter Thirteen
Before her marriage to Luten and before Black had brought order to the chaos of Coffen’s household, Coffen was Corinne’s frequent guest for breakfast. At that time Black kept her minutely informed of the doings of her neighbours, especially Luten. Nowadays she had to rely on Evans for information, and though he was eager to help he was not so sharp an observer as Black.
It would be tricky to follow Coffen and Black without their noticing her carriage. She required an excuse to have her carriage standing at the door or they would twig to it she meant to follow them. She knew the general area of their destination, but not the specific shop, and she wanted to be close by in case they required rescue, as had happened occasionally in the past.
The most recent rescue had required her to follow the four male members of the Brigade to an isolated area where they had been set upon by French spies, robbed, beaten, gagged and tied to trees. If Black and Coffen went into a shop and didn’t come out, she must call for help.
Unfortunately a small fib was necessary today. She would claim she and Mrs. Ballard were going to do some shopping. Mrs. Ballard had proven surprisingly docile in the matter. Almost eager, in fact. Corinne feared trouble was brewing when her companion asked if “his lordship was aware they were going.” But when Corinne said she didn’t like to worry him, Mrs. Ballard nodded and said, “Best not to mention it to him, then. I would not like to tell a lie, but it is not likely he will enquire.”
The two ladies darted out to the waiting carriage as soon as Coffen’s rig appeared at his door. He and Black came out immediately. Coffen waved, and she called across the street, “We are just off to the shops. Can we do any little errand for you?” She would normally have said “off to Bond Street,” but with Mrs. Ballard on board she tried to avoid direct lies.
“Not today, thanks,” Coffen said, and climbed into his rig.
For the first few blocks the carriages were heading in the same direction, so that was all right. And by the time Fitz changed direction, there were a few carriages between them to conceal that she was following them.
After a few wrong turns, Fitz delivered the occupants of his carriage to Tottenham Court Road, where Black and Coffen got out. The street held several little shops and small businesses, wedged in between houses. The street was busy with people out to have their shoes soled, their sewing picked up, or just to enjoy the pleasant spring weather.
Corinne had ordered her driver to drive past while she took note of which shop they went into. As they lingered a moment at
the doorway before entering, she had time to see they went into Ye Olde Toy Shoppe, according to the hanging sign in front.
Coffen and Black stopped outside and read the sign. “Curios from around the world, elegant trifles, toys for ladies and gentlemen.” The window display featured the usual fans, snuffboxes, perfume vials and patch boxes, along with small porcelain statues of dogs, horses and ladies wearing the monstrous coiffures and gowns of pre-revolutionary France.
The goods were of a notably inferior quality to similar goods available on Bond Street. Nothing in the window suggested either the name of the shopkeeper or Roman relics. Peering through the window they saw behind the counter a young man unknown to them both. He was reading a book, as there were no customers. “We’ll step inside,” Black said.
The clerk, a tall, thin, bespectacled fellow scarcely out of his teens laid down his book and came forward, bobbing his head in greeting. “Can I be of any help, gentlemen?” he asked in a provincial accent. The book and spectacles led Coffen to peg him as a university student.
“Just having a look about, thankee,” Coffen said.
“A birthday present for my nephew,” Black added, finding a specific excuse for browsing more credible.
Given this encouragement, the clerk asked, “How old is he?”
“About your age.”
“We have a fine assortment of snuff boxes, hasp knives, patent pens, purses ...” He looked for elucidation as to what might appeal to the nephew.
“He collects old things,” Black ventured.
“Pictures, books?”
“Statues,” Black said. “Antiques, really old things, from Roman times.”
“Ah, it is the proprietor, Mr. Greene who could help you there, though I shall do my poor best. Unfortunately Mr. Greene is not in today.”
“When will he be back?”
“I couldn’t say for sure. He has other business interests and doesn’t spend much time here.”