Murder on Ironmonger Lane

by Joan Smith

  “Besner!” Prance cried angrily. “What has he found out?”

  “Nothing so far. At least Binwell didn’t say so. It seems Greene, the fellow that runs the shop, don’t actually spend any time there. He’s the lad we have to find. I’d be surprised if it isn’t just another nome de ploom for Ruffin.”

  “It won’t be easy as he hardly ever goes to the shop,” Black pointed out, before Prance could correct Coffen.

  After a moment, Luten said, “He may be using the woman with the white poodle as a go-between. She was not only seen outside Prance’s atelier by Corinne and Prance, but at the shop, and it was her carriage that picked up the man we’re calling Blackbeard, who meets with Thomson at Denny’s Tavern. I shouldn’t wonder if she’s Mrs. Greene.” He turned to Prance. “You could have a word with Besner, Prance. See if he’s discovered anything.”

  This was the last thing Prance wanted to do. If there was glory to be had, the last man he wanted to share any part of it was Besner. “Binwell indicated he hadn’t learned anything,” Prance replied. “Better to keep the investigation entre nous, n’est-ce pas? It seems to me we already know more than they do. Nothing else will be stolen with the government watching the place.”

  “We have a lad watching the dog lady’s house,” Coffen said. “If Blackbeard calls on her, our lad will follow him.”

  “Good work. We should have someone watching that tavern as well,” Luten said.

  “Denny’s keeping an eye peeled for us,” Coffen said.

  Corinne sat, listening and silent, but her mind was racing. Mrs. Ballard was eager to help. She seemed the likeliest one to make the dog lady’s acquaintance without exciting suspicion. The lady didn’t work in the toy shop. What did she do with herself all day? She was a stylish lady with a carriage and wore an expensive bonnet. She must have friends, interests.

  After a little further discussion the party broke up. Corinne drew Coffen aside as they were leaving and said, “Call on me tomorrow morning—early. I have an idea.”

  “Very well, but I ain’t taking you anywhere dangerous.”

  “I don’t plan to go any place dangerous.” She didn’t plan to send Mrs. Ballard into danger either. When she discovered where the dog lady spent her days, she would decide what to do about it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Luten still had his government duties to perform and left early the next morning for a strategy meeting with the shadow cabinet. Black, watching from Pattle’s front window across the street, went to the breakfast room and said, “He’s left.” Coffen took a last bite of toast, accepted the hat Black handed him and they left.

  “Well, we’re here,” he said, when Evans showed them into the breakfast room, where Corinne and Mrs. Ballard were having coffee. “What is it you want?”

  Black bowed and smiled and took the seat Corinne indicated. “It’s nothing, really,” she said. “I know you’re keeping an eye on the dog lady. I just want you to let me know where she goes.”

  Coffen screwed his face into a scowl and said, “Why?” in a highly suspicious manner.

  “Because, as Luten pointed out, she is probably Mrs. Greene, and the liaison between Blackbeard and the toy shop. She doesn’t work there, and she certainly can’t sit alone in that house all day. We want to find out where she goes and what she does, and make her acquaintance. Now I know she has already spotted me, but depending on where she goes and what she does, Mrs. Ballard may be able to scrape an acquaintance.”

  This made sense to Coffen without putting Corinne in danger. “Are you game, Mrs. Ballard?” he asked.

  “Indeed I am eager to help, Mr. Pattle,” she said at once.

  “Well, I don’t see any harm in it, but mind you don’t take any chances.” Black did not add a warning. He would not have been heartbroken if “the old malkin,” as he called Mrs. Ballard, suffered some little indignity.

  “Lady Luten has already made that clear, Mr. Pattle,” she said.

  “We’ll let you know then,” he said, and rose. “Me and Black are going to keep poking about. Denny’s Tavern, the toy shop and so on. We’ll see what Patty has to say. He’s back watching the dog lady as well.”

  “Will she not be suspicious if a man is lurking about for hours?” Corinne said.

  “Devil a bit of it. He’s got a broom and push cart and is sweeping both sides of the street—very slowly, and at night him or another footman takes over as a link-boy.”

  “Good. Let me know as soon as she goes somewhere. Where is Prance today?”

  “He said he’d be heading down to Ironmonger Lane. P’raps stop off at his studio as well. He mentioned bringing your picture home to work on here or at his place.”

  * * *

  Later that morning, after a stop at Denny’s Tavern for refreshment, they noticed Prance’s carriage in the street outside his studio. They didn’t stop but slowed down. As they passed, Black said, “That looked like Villier at the window.”

  “Stands to reason Prance wouldn’t go alone.”

  “You’re right. Not when there might be danger lurking about. Villier is beckoning to us, Mr. Pattle.” He gave the drawstring a jerk and the carriage stopped. They went into the studio, where Prance was strutting about in a snit.

  “One would think with two guards out front and two in back, the excavation would be safe from further attack,” he said.

  Black and Coffen looked about. “I don’t see nothing amiss, Reg,” Coffen said.

  Prance batted his hand. “The side window,” he said. “It’s been pried open and someone’s been in. That window was closed before I left yesterday. There is soil on the window ledge and they left the window partially open. They don’t seem to have done any damage, but someone’s definitely been here. How did the guards miss him?”

  Black went to the window to investigate and saw the signs of dirt on the ledge and a little dirt on the floor from their boots. He stuck his head out the open window and looked up and down.

  “They slipped in between the houses,” he said. “It wouldn’t take a minute to slip in at night when the guard was looking t’other way, and the hedge provides good cover. But I can’t for the life of me see why. Now if they’d sneaked into the other cellar with the jumble of bits and pieces, it would make more sense. There was nothing in your cellar but that picture on the floor.”

  “It hasn’t been touched, Reg?” Coffen asked.

  “I — we didn’t look,” Prance said. “They could hardly carry away a floor.”

  “Shall we nip down and have a look, Sir Reginald?” Villier asked. “All of us?” he added, as he had no more courage than his master.

  Black was already heading to the kitchen. “Did you leave this cellar door ajar, Sir Reginald?” he demanded.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, it’s ajar now. Where are the lamps?”

  They lit lamps and Black led the way down. It was soon clear the vandals had indeed been working on the mosaic floor, and removed the tiles forming the head of the woman.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Prance said, and stamped his foot in vexation. “How will this look to the Society? They will think I’ve been negligent.”

  “This ain’t your fault, Sir Reginald,” Black said. “This site was protected by the government.” Prance took consolation from this.

  “If there’s fault to share, it’s all the government’s,” Coffen added.

  “They didn’t take the little birdie,” Villier said, tilting his head right and left in an effort to determine what kind of bird it was.

  “Oh, the bird!” Prance scoffed. “It is the head that was important. Now we shall never know who she was. We don’t even have a sketch.”

  “There’s a bit of her head left, there on the right,” Black pointed out.

  “Which?” Coffen asked, staring into the pit. “Right or left?”

  “Right side, that cluster of black tiles, that’s her hair.”

  “Ah, right. Right on the left—er, right,” Coffe
n nodded.

  “You notice they left their tools,” Black said. “A lever and shovel. If we don’t let on we were here and saw this, they might come back for the rest of the head and the bird tonight. We hide upstairs and catch them.”

  “An excellent idea, Black,” Prance said, brightening. “Ought I to leave the window open as an enticement?”

  “P’raps just leave it up an inch at the bottom for easy getting in,” said Black. As usual, his advice in criminal matters was followed.

  Prance gave the guards a good Bear Garden jaw before leaving. As they were not the same guards who had been on duty the night before, they took it in good spirit. The group then went to Luten’s house to report the break-in and removal of the head. He was not at home, but he had left word with Corinne, who said he planned to be home for lunch, and suggested they all come back after lunch.

  This left Coffen and Black free to pursue their investigations. The dog lady did not leave her house that morning, nor was Blackbeard spotted at any of the places they hoped to find him. When Luten was informed of the theft he was suitably outraged and said he would attend to it, hiring more guards if necessary.

  “But not yet,” Coffen said. “We’re going to hide in Reg’s studio tonight and hope the rascals come back for the hair and the bird if they don’t know we’ve twigged to their scheme. They didn’t take the bird, just the lady’s head.”

  “Since they left their tools there, it looks like they plan to come back,” Black added.

  “There was no interference at the other two cellars,” Luten said. “We get reports at the end of each shift. We didn’t ask for a report on your cellar, Reg. We didn’t think there was anything to remove. Whoever thought they would take the very tiles from the floor? Strange they would take such a chance, just for a small piece of the mosaic pattern.”

  “But the head, the most important part of the pattern. It was very handsome too,” Prance said. It had already occurred to him he would like something similar at his country estate, Granmaison. Perhaps in a gazebo.

  “It was,” Luten agreed, “but doesn’t this daring theft suggest they have a client who would pay handsomely for it?”

  “I daresay it does,” Prance agreed. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to discover who collects that sort of thing. I’ll run down to the Society office and have a word with Scotty.”

  After a frowning pause, Luten said, “I shouldn’t mention it to him just yet, Prance.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect him?” Prance said, ready to be outraged if there wasn’t a good reason for Luten’s suggestion.

  “Only of indiscretion. You noticed he imbibes rather freely? The collector whom we think might be after that mosaic might very well know Binwell. If Binwell should happen to mention to anyone that the head is missing, it might get back to the thief.”

  “Yes, yes. I see. Then the thieves would be told not to return tonight.”

  “I think until after tonight it might be wise to say nothing to anyone. Agreed?”

  “Waiting one day won’t do any harm,” Reg agreed.

  “Good. Finding out who collects those old Roman bits will give us another clue to follow up,” Coffen said with satisfaction. The more clues the merrier, especially since they weren’t making much headway with the toy shop and the dog lady and Denny’s Tavern. “And we’ll be in Prance’s studio tonight to catch whoever comes in.”

  Luten cast a worried glance at his wife. “Don’t worry, Luten,” she said. “I have no intention of spending any part of the night crouched in the dark in Prance’s atelier. I shall have refreshments ready when you return.”

  She managed a private word with Coffen as he left and learned he had nothing interesting to tell her about the activities of the dog lady. She had visited a stationer and a flower shop and taken her dog for a walk.

  As the street was swept clean, Patty would become an inspector of pavements and keep looking. Wear a cap with a bit of gilded brooch on it, stop at every little hole, carry a pad and pencil and make notes, and the worst people think is that you’re wasting their taxes.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Berkeley Brigade met in Luten’s rose salon after dinner. Prance’s sharp eye noticed a card on the table by Corrine’s chair, and he soon noticed the vase of flowers it sat beside was not red roses left over from the party but a showy mixed bouquet.

  Always enjoying to annoy Luten, he said, “I see someone has sent you flowers, Corrie. A new beau?”

  “Hardly. They’re from Besner, thanking us for the party.”

  Prance decided on the moment that he must send a much bigger bouquet. Why had he not done it? Those roses from Granmaison he had sitting at home would look lovely in her rose salon.

  “A nice gesture on Besner’s part,” Luten said rather curtly. “Now let us discuss the evening’s job.”

  Black, the expert, assured them the thieves would not come before midnight, and likely later. “It’ll hardly be a night’s work to dig up the little bird and the rest of the head, so they’ll wait till the guards are getting sleepy. There’d be no point going before dark, say about eleven. The guards know we’re going, Luten?”

  “That’s all arranged,” Luten said. “Each of you take a pistol but don’t shoot unless necessary, and don’t shoot to kill.”

  “Right,” Black nodded, giving voice to the only reason that occurred to him. “We want them alive to question them.”

  “It’s not even nine o’clock,” Coffen said, pulling out his turnip watch. “No point sitting here twiddling our thumbs for a couple of hours. Me and Black will toddle along to Denny’s Tavern and be back here at quarter to eleven.”

  “We don’t want to leave any carriages anywhere near the atelier,” Luten said. “It will only alert them to trouble. We’ll take hackneys.”

  “Suits me,” Coffen said, and he and Black left. Denny had nothing of great moment to report, although Thomson had been in that afternoon with a fellow Denny called “a regular” named Dooley, a red-headed Irish waterman who would drink with an axe murderer if the drinks were free. Blackbeard had not been there.

  “No talk between them of – er – floors?” Coffen asked, wondering if he should mention a lady’s head.

  “No sir, nothing about floors,” Denny said, frowning.

  “Or digging, anything of that order?” Black added.

  “Nossir, I’d remember that. Dooley’s a waterman. He couldn’t dig anyhow, for he got an arm busted in a fight t’other night, and Thomson’s hands have never seen a shovel. They’re soft and white as a lady’s. They said something about bullets though.”

  “Bullets, eh!” Coffen exclaimed. “That’s interesting.”

  “I don’t believe they meant to shoot anyone. They were talking about bullseyes. I figured they’d been doing target practise. And they said something that sounded like crepun—something or other. Thomson had some little—things he was showing Dooley, but they weren’t bullets. Just little metal balls and medals—trinkets. I couldn’t say just what they were.”

  “Keep up the good work, Denny,” Coffen said, passing a generous tip into the shovel-sized hand that shot out. “We’ll be back.”

  Black frowned and said, “Crepun – that mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing, Black. Probably Greek or Latin. Reg’ll know, but bullets mean something to me all right. I wager the bullseyes they have in mind come with heads and feet. These lads are dangerous.”

  The tavern was cozy, the ale excellent, the toy shop would be closed and they had a watch on the dog lady, so they decided to remain until it was time to go to Luten’s place. Luten already had two hackneys standing by when they arrived. “Why two?” Black asked him. “We could all go in one.”

  “With luck we’ll need one to take the thieves to Bow Street,” Luten explained with a smile.

  “Ah, right,” Coffen said, and reported what they had learned at Denny’s Tavern about Thomson and Dooley.

  “They were talking about bullets, so
be prepared for trouble.” He and Black went in one rig, Reg and Luten in the other. They alit a few blocks from the atelier and slipped quietly through the dark night. The guards in front reported no sign of intrusion. They went into the atelier, checked that the window had not been raised beyond the inch it had been left open, or if it had, it had been lowered again. They concealed themselves in various nooks and corners. For two hours they remained quiet, waiting, watching, till they were thoroughly cramped and frustrated.

  At last Prance could take it no more. He stood up and said, “Both my feet are sound asleep. I couldn’t chase them if they did come. This is a waste of time. They’re not coming. Let us go.”

  “P’raps we ought to just check out the cellar, see if they’ve been and gone,” Black suggested.

  “We would have heard them working. And how could they have got in?”

  “A lever lifting out them tiles wouldn’t make much noise,” Black insisted. He felt guilty as he was the one who had suggested they wait till eleven. “I daresay they could have got here before us.”

  “The guards said no one had come.”

  “We only spoke to the guards out front. There’s the back door as well,” Coffen said.

  “With two more guards,” Prance snipped. He was bored and frustrated and wanted to go home to bed. “They obviously were watching and saw us come in.”

  “Since we’re here, let’s have a look,” Coffen insisted, and headed for the kitchen, stumbling against chairs and tables in the darkness as he went. Luten and Black went with him. Prance, in a snit, stayed behind, stamping his feet until he had restored circulation.

  He was the only one in the atelier when the side window slid up and a dark head appeared. He froze, terrified, while first one very large, tough-looking thug climbed in, then another. He should do something—but what? Luten said not to shoot unless necessary, and not to shoot to kill. Prance was not an accurate shot. What if he accidentally killed them?