by Joan Smith
The cellars were dark, crowded and uncomfortable. Prance made his atelier available for refreshments after the tour, and the ascent from the darkness to the pleasant space Prance had arranged made it seem even finer. The refreshments were limited to wine and biscuits, but the visitors enjoyed seeing the atelier and the luxury of a decent vintage.
Prance was in such a merry mood he hardly cared that Pattle’s caricatures gained more attention than his paintings. In fact he pointed out Coffen’s caricature of him to Boo Rawlins, brother of Sandy, whom he had allowed into the atelier, and expressed a hope that he didn’t find himself in shop windows for his friends to jeer at.
He circulated among his guests, explaining that the series of “little daubs” on the far wall were characters from Shakespeare, and answering queries on what book he was working on at the present, and when would his play open?
Prance received a dozen invitations for that evening. He recognized in them a hint for an invitation to the party Corinne was giving for him, and in a few cases said he happened to be busy, but didn’t think Lady Luten would mind too terribly if they dropped in on a little party she was hosting for him. Horner, from the British Museum, for instance, was a fellow worth cultivating.
But most of the conversation was about the stunning find in the cellars. The discovery was spoken of by some as “the Prance excavation.” Elgin himself said, and was often quoted later as saying, that so far as England was concerned, the Prance excavation would do for awakening interest in ancient Rome what the Elgin Marbles were doing for ancient Greece. “And at a good deal less cost and bother,” the waggish Whig, Brougham, added with a shake of his head.
Neither Lady Luten, Pattle nor Black attended the tour, nor even hinted that they would like to. They had all seen the excavations and had more interesting things to do. Lady Luten’s “little party” for Prance was taking on added importance and she was familiar enough with Prance to realize the guest list would grow proportionately.
Coffen and Black drove past the rooming house where Thomson lived and visited Denny’s Tavern in the vain hope of discovering what the culprits were up to, then drove on to Ironmonger Lane. Carriages were lined up clear to the corner of Gresham Street, and a motley crowd of onlookers gathered in the street. If Thomson or Ruffin were there, it would be impossible to find them, but they at least determined that there was no one in the throng wearing a black beard.
“From the size of that mob you’d think it was something worth seeing, like a hanging,” Black said in disgust.
They had arranged with Patty to make regular visits to the corner of Capper Street and to learn what was afoot at the Ye Olde Toy Shoppe. Patty could report no appearance of Blackbeard nor any beardless gentleman who might be him with the beard removed at either place. No one resembling Thomson or the dog lady had called at the toy shop. The only caller at Capper Street was a female of the lower order—perhaps a modiste as she was carrying what looked like pattern books and had remained an hour. When she left the dog woman walked her dog but she did not go to Ye Olde Toy Shoppe. The only hint of suspicion was that Patty said she called the dog Caesar.
“Here, wasn’t Caesar a Roman?” Coffen said.
“I believe he was,” Black agreed. “Name of Julius, wasn’t he?”
“I’ve heard that name before.” It might be a clue, but it was not the tangible sort of clue Coffen preferred.
Their last visit to Patty was at six o’clock, at which time they told him they would send a replacement and went home to dress for dinner and the party at Corinne’s to follow. They did not call on Luten or Prance first, as they knew they had been at the excavation with what Black called “all the smarts and swells.” If anything of interest had happened, they would hear about it at Prance’s party.
Chapter Sixteen
The party was to begin at eight-thirty. Prance, as guest of honour, was undecided whether to be there at that hour to help Corinne and Luten receive guests or, as he preferred, arrive later to make a grand entrance. He and Villier had contrived a starkly simple cravat christened the Roman in honour of the Prance excavation. It was to be introduced that evening, worn with a dark jacket to display his newly-discovered serious side.
Corinne was in no doubt as to when he should be there. “Luten and I don’t even know half the guests, Reg. You must be here to introduce us,” she said firmly.
“You are right, as always, my pet. And as half of them will never have been at such a ton party they will arrive at eight-thirty on the dot.” Although he tapped his new cravat twice, she failed to notice it. Philistine!
He arrived at eight-twenty, and was happy to see Corinne was wearing the Luten emeralds with her gold silk gown. The ensemble was grand enough to impress but not too overpowering for a small party. She was positively glowing, presumably as a result of her interesting condition. Luten, hovering at her shoulder, looked handsome and dignified as usual and, if not smiling, at least resigned. How blessed he was to have such friends.
Prance could find no fault in her arrangements. The gold salon looked positively regal with a thousand prisms glittering from the overhead chandeliers, lamplight gleaming from the various gilt surfaces and well-polished silver serving dishes twinkling on a side table.
The heady perfume of roses wafted about the room. As he had personally raided Luten’s cellars and “helped” Evans select wines, they would be plentiful and of unexceptionable vintages. Food was of little interest to him, but he approved of her choices of assorted cold cuts, lobster, cheeses, biscuits, olives and salted nuts.
As he had foreseen, the first to arrive were the members of the selection committee. Half a dozen of them came en masse at eight-thirty on the dot. They looked like what they were—academics in ill-fitting evening suits, goggling at the magnificent gold salon and fidgeting as they were greeted by the Lutens. If they had not been on the selection committee he would not have been partying with such social nobodies.
His interest was all in the ton, people who gave grand parties, whose names appeared in the Court News, and who had titles. He recognized this for a failing in himself, but then no one was perfect. He relished the little imperfections in his friends, and was not more severe on himself. He greeted each of the guests like long-lost friends and had taken the trouble to discover what they did for a living, and what contributions they had made to the Society.
“Kudos on your marvelous article in the Archaeologia, Chalmers,” he said to one. “I learned things I did not know about impluvia.” Including exactly what an impluvium was, although he didn’t say that. The Lutens greeted the guests warmly and made them welcome.
By nine o’clock the more socially prominent guests began to arrive. Prance took pains to introduce Cabinet Ministers and politically important gentlemen to the members of the selection committee. It was certainly the high point of their social lives, and he wished to do it up brown. Besner and Binwell arrived shortly before nine o’clock.
“Charmed, Lady Luten. Lord Luten, and of course Sir Reginald,” Scotty said, bowing and bending his stiff neck and smiling from one to the other. “A day and evening to be remembered. You won’t mind if I take a seat? I am not accustomed to such a strenuous day as we have had.”
“Sir Scott feels the cold,” Besner said, after exchanging greetings. Before Prance could oblige Scotty, Besner had him by the elbow and steered him to a chair away from the door and windows to avoid drafts. But it was Prance who beckoned a waiter forward to supply wine, and led various worthies forward to meet the retiring president.
Besner, he noticed from the corner of his eye, headed straight for the selection committee, who huddled together in groups, talking and gazing about. Prance was torn between relief and consternation when Coffen took up a seat on one side of Binwell and Black the other side.
It left him free to circulate, making frequent visits to the selection committee, but heaven only knew what those three by the fireside would find to talk about. He kept glancing at them from time to t
ime and noticed that they seemed to have found something in common. They were chatting and laughing merrily. Coffen had an amazing ability to talk to the oddest people. He could make conversation with a lamp post, but fell mute when confronted with an eligible female.
Coffen, trying to help his friend, said, “Reg talks a good deal about you, Sir Scott. Very keen on all this old Roman business.”
“We feel he is a handsome addition to our little group,” Scotty said, smacking his lips over a fine vintage port.
“Very handsome,” Coffen agreed. “And a great talker. For giving speeches and things, I mean. I daresay you fellows have to make a lot of speeches. Never cared for it myself.”
“Nor did I, Mr. Pattle. Nor did I. We academics don’t, as a rule. Research is lonely work. It doesn’t fit a man for talking to groups.”
“I don’t know much about academics, but I know I don’t like giving speeches. I get all trembly inside and forget what I’m supposed to be saying.”
Binwell slapped his bony knee and tee hee’d. “Exactly my problem. The first time I had to address the Society I required a little liquid courage. I imbibed courage till I was brave as a lion, then passed out on the podium. I put about the story that I was coming down with the flu.”
“At least you had the courage to face the crowd. I turned tail and ran before I even entered the building. Let on I got the date wrong.”
“A clever ploy. And what is your field of expertise, Mr. Pattle?”
“Eh?”
“To what group were you to make your speech?”
“Ah, it was my cousin George Pattle’s wedding. You wouldn’t know him. Not a Roman bone in his body.”
“He means what do you do, Mr. Pattle,” Black translated. “What’s your line of work?”
“Oh, field of expertise,” he said, not much enlightened. “I don’t have a field, exactly. More of a city fellow.”
“I thought perhaps from that ring you’re wearing that you shared my interest,” Binwell said. “That is a reproduction of an old Roman ring, is it not?”
“I believe you’re right. I picked it up at a shop on Tottenham Court Road.”
“Ye Olde Toy Shoppe you mean?” Binwell asked.
“That’s it. You know the place?”
“I do. I’ve taken an interest in it. They sell pretty good reproductions. I would like to know where they get their models. That ring was not designed by chance. The design is certainly Roman. Similar rings have been unearthed just outside Rome.”
“Like this?” Coffen said, drawing the original from his pocket.
Binwell took it and drew a loupe from his pocket to study it. “Why yes, this one is genuine! An agate mounted in simple steel. They have dolled your copy up in silver and lapis lazuli to make it look more handsome. I would be curious to know where you got the original, Mr. Pattle.”
“A fellow named Ruffin gave it to me.”
“Ruffin? I don’t know the fellow but I’ve heard that name recently.
Sir Reginald mentioned it to me. What do you know about him?”
“Known him for years. Salt of the earth.”
Black nudged his elbow and said, “He means Ruffin, not Reg?”
“Ah, Ruffin. I don’t know much about him. I believe he’s some sort of crook, though I didn’t know it when he gave me the ring. He certainly has something to do with looting Ironmonger Lane. The ring leader, in my opinion.”
“Ah, so that was Sir Reginald’s concern, that we had been infiltrated by criminals. It is as I feared,” Binwell said with a tsk. “Interesting finds have already been removed from that cellar. I don’t mind about the reproductions, but I would like to know who is removing the originals, and what they’re doing with them once they have the design for their copies. The originals ought to be in a museum, or at least in a collection such as we at the Society are building up.”
Coffen handed the ring to him. “Here, you take it for your museum.”
Binwell was nonplussed. “That is very public-spirited of you, Mr. Pattle. Very handsome indeed. It will be one of our treasures.” He examined the ring again, delivered more thanks, then stuck it in his pocket. “About this Ruffin person, where would I find him?”
“I wish I could tell you. I’ve been looking for him myself. Thing to do, I believe, talk to Mr. Greene. I understand he owns the toy shop.”
“Ho, Mr. Greene! Just try if you can find him. He owns the shop, but he’s never there. I have been in that shop upwards of a dozen times and he’s never there. I’ve tried to set up appointments but he’s always ill or out of town. Besner is working on it for me now, as I’m not able to get about much. Ah well, this is mere shop talk. I shouldn’t bore you with it at a party.”
“Oh contrary! I’m not a bit bored,” Coffen said at once.
“I was asking about your interests. What is it that you do?”
“I like crime,” Coffen said. “Not to do it, of course. Ain’t a dashed criminal. What I like is to solve it, find out who did do it. Murder and so on. Fascinating.”
“Ah, the Berkeley Brigade, of course. Speaking of criminals, the Romans were intriguing criminals. Take the Emperor Nero, now.”
“Would that be the fiddler you’re talking about? Bit of an arsonist, wasn’t he? Burned down Rome.”
“He is blamed for it, though I doubt he was directly responsible. Under the influence of Seneca he did some good, but he is mostly remembered for the burning of Rome. And of course for murdering Agrippina—his mother. And one of his wives as well, Octavia I believe it was. Not a nice man, even for that barbaric period.”
“Mother and wife! Whew, that’s a caution!” Coffen said, much impressed. “We can’t match that for wickedness, though we’ve come across some bad eggs.”
“Tell him about the Tsarina’s diamond necklace,” Black said, to help the conversation along, and Coffen regaled Sir Scott with that and other cases of the Berkeley Brigade. It all sounded like a fairy tale to Sir Scott. He was enchanted.
“Ah, for a life of action,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “I have spent my life in books, Mr. Pattle. You make me wish I could live my life over again.”
“Meeting a scholar like yourself, I wish I’d paid more heed to books, Sir Scott,” Coffen lied amiably. “I had three months at Cambridge before I caught on books weren’t for me. I feel the lack, you know. Latin, Greek—all that fine stuff.”
Black beckoned a waiter and told him to leave the decanter on the table beside him, and he kept the glasses topped up as he was not taking part in the conversation.
Roman antiquities and the Prance excavation formed little part of the conversation in Luten’s set. After their social obligation of circulating, the politicians gathered in a group like the selection committee to discuss the war, finances and other weighty matters, leavened with a few current scandals.
Besner tried his hand at setting up a flirtation with the only lady present, Lady Luten. Mrs. Ballard had declined the invitation. Corinne found him quite fascinating. He resembled a former flirt, Lord Byron, and not just in appearance either.
“Are you married, Mr. Besner?” she asked pointedly, when she sensed what he was up to.
“I am, as a matter of fact, to a charming lady.”
“Any children?”
“Not yet. Actually my wife is one of these modern ladies who has a business.”
“Really! Good for her. What sort of business?”
“A sort of home decorating business. She works on assignment with one of the large furniture companies. She advises ladies on decorating their homes.”
“It sounds fascinating.”
“I can see you wouldn’t require any help from her,” he said, looking around the room. “A magnificent house you have, Lady Luten.”
“I can’t take the credit for it. The house is as it was when I married Luten a few months ago.”
She saw Brougham and some of the other guests were leaving, and excused herself. Once the social lions had left, the
selection committee decided it was time to go as well. The last to leave were Binwell and Besner. Between age and wine, Binwell was barely able to walk, but he had had a marvelous time. He thanked Coffen for the ring again, graciously thanked Lady Luten and even raised her hand to his lips before Besner trundled him out to his waiting carriage.
When they were all gone, the Berkeley Brigade talked over the party. Prance was warm in his praise and gratitude to Corinne before complimenting Coffen on donating the ring to the Society’s museum, which Black mentioned to him. He could then proceed to what really interested him and ask for details of what else Coffen and Binwell had been talking about.
“Nero, the wife and mother killer, and a scoundrel even if he didn’t burn down Rome,” Coffen replied.
“You were talking about Nero?” Prance said, astonished.
“We were busy puffing you off as well, Reg,” Coffen assured him. “Told him how good you were at talking. Giving speeches, not just talking about yourself I mean.”
“Speaking to other interested groups will be an important part of the President’s duties, with this excavation,” Luten said to distract Prance from the snit he was preparing at any suggestion that he liked talking about himself. “I should think there will be a good deal of work that has really little to do with the artifacts per se. I am thinking of liaison with the government, the press, the British Museum and so on.”
“Quite right. Quite right,” Prance said, and was happy to hear it. He wasn’t really much of a scholar of Roman relics, unlike the others who had made it their life’s work. But when it came to making speeches and puffing a thing off, he could outdo any of the other contenders, including Oliver Besner.
“You might be interested to hear what else Binwell had to say,” Coffen said, and told them what Binwell had said about Ye Olde Toy Shoppe. “He’s had Besner keeping an eye on the place for him. He thinks someone’s taking pieces from the cellars on Ironmonger Lane and making models. He don’t seem to care about the copies, but he’s curious to know what’s happening to the originals. He has Besner looking into it.”