Murder on Ironmonger Lane

by Joan Smith

  And if he only killed one, the other monster would attack him. Oh why hadn’t he gone below with the others? Well, the thieves obviously hadn’t gone to the cellar yet, so the others would soon be back up. Yes, he heard sounds in the kitchen now.

  Encouraged at the realization that help was within shouting distance and wanting to appear heroic, he stood up and said, “Hands up, or I’ll shoot!” As he spoke, a shot rang out and a bullet whistled past his ear, sending him diving for cover behind a chair. He gave his forehead a nasty knock against the back of the chair as he leapt for cover.

  There was a rush of running feet and shouts coming from the kitchen. The two thieves raced for the window and scrambled out, just as Luten and the others dashed into the studio.

  “After them! They’re escaping,” Prance called, and led the charge to the window. He felt moisture dripping into his eye and, assuming it was perspiration from fear, drew out his handkerchief to wipe it away. Heroes did not sweat.

  “Are you all right, Prance?” Luten asked, hurrying after him. “We heard a shot.”

  “I was aiming for his leg and missed him in the dark,” Prance said, hoping no one would ask to examine his pistol, which hadn’t been fired. “You said not to shoot to kill.”

  Black and Coffen were already out the window and giving chase. Luten went to the window and looked out, but saw only Black and Coffen. “They went out the back way,” Coffen called. “The guards will get them.”

  But when they went to investigate, they found the two guards were knocked out cold, the thieves gone. When the guards came to, they said they couldn’t see very well in the dark and thought the men were Luten and his lads, as they knew they would be here tonight. The thieves had knocked them out, bound and gagged them before they knew what was happening.

  “Did you get a look at them?” Luten asked.

  “Not so as to describe them. They were big fellows, and fast.”

  When Luten saw the bloodied head of one and the bruised eye of the other, he hadn’t the heart to chastise them. No doubt Townsend would give them a good dressing down, but it wasn’t really their fault.

  “Go home and report to Townsend tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll have one of the guards out front come back here. The thieves won’t be back tonight.”

  They closed the window, locked up the studio, arranged the transfer of one guard to the back and left. By the time they finally found a hackney and were driven back to Berkeley Square, it was two o’clock. Corinne was asleep by the fireside. She opened her eyes, sat up, stifled a yawn and said, “Oh dear. What happened, Luten?” she knew by their dejected air the mission had not been a success.

  “They came, we saw, they got away,” he replied. “No one got hurt at least.”

  “How did you get that bloodied forehead, Prance?” she asked. As it was just at the hairline, not very noticeable, and partially concealed by his hat brim, others had missed it.

  “Bloodied?” Prance said, and felt his forehead. It was wet again, or still. He drew out his handkerchief and saw the red stains. He had been wounded! Good God! He almost fainted with shock. How had that happened? Had the shot got him after all? He couldn’t claim he’d been shot as he had claimed he had fired the single shot. Was he dying?

  “Oh dear, I believe he’s going to faint,” Corinne said, and ran to assist him on to the sofa. “What happened, Luten?”

  “I have no idea. I didn’t notice the blood in the dark. Odd he didn’t mention it.”

  “Very odd indeed,” said Black. Entirely unlike Sir Reg to make little of a wound. Not that it was much of a wound. More like a scratch.

  Corinne called for water and a clean cloth, basilicum powder and a plaster. Prance, meanwhile, realized he had given his head a knock on the chair and wasn’t dying.

  “Just a scratch,” he said. “I must have struck something when I was chasing them.” He did not object when Corinne insisted on putting a plaster on the wound.

  Over wine and sandwiches, the whole story was unfolded.

  “Pity,” she said, “but at least they didn’t get the bird.”

  They didn’t learn until the next morning that they had indeed got the bird. Luten summoned the Brigade the next morning after he was informed by Townsend, who had gone to examine the cellars when the dereliction of the guards had been reported to him. The thieves had come back in the night, climbed in through the atelier window, dug up the bird and escaped without being seen by either guard. Investigation showed they had used the side window again. Gaining access had been easier with only the one guard at both back and front.

  “I assume I may report all this to Binwell now, Luten?” Prance asked with a sneer.

  “Do, by all means. The damage is done now. I’ll have that hedge between the buildings removed. Blackbeard is making monkeys of us. We have to find out who he is.”

  “If he even is the man behind it all,” Prance said.

  “Me and Black can go back to Denny’s Tavern,” Coffen volunteered. “Thomson still goes there often. Yesterday he was talking to that red-headed waterman about bullets and creps.” He turned to Black. “Wasn’t that what Denny said, Black? Something about bullets or bull’s eye and creps.”

  “Crepons, I believe is what he said.”

  Prance jerked to attention. “Bullae and crepundia, you mean? Was that what they said?”

  “We didn’t hear what they said. ‘Twas Denny told us what he thought they were talking about,” Coffen said. “They were playing with some little marbles or toys of some sort.”

  “Bullae and crepundia,” Prance repeated.

  “Very likely,” Coffen agreed. He turned to Black. “Told you Reg’d know.”

  “What are they, Reg?” Corinne asked.

  “Bullae are old Roman ornaments for a child’s necklace. Rather like medals. The term is also used for seals. Crepundia are children’s toys—they might be small rattles or beads worn on a chain around a child’s neck. If Thomson had such objects, he got them from Ironmonger Lane. They are certainly pilfering the cellars.”

  “Are these little gewgaws worth anything?” Black asked.

  “They are invaluable artifacts! They tell us how the ancient Romans lived. That such objects were found in these particular cellars confirms that the remains are of a private residence, the villa of a family with children. God only knows what else they have pilfered. A wealthy Roman would have jewelry.”

  “Binwell figured that’s where my little ring came from,” Coffen said.

  “Probably belonged to a servant,” Prance said. “The Romans had precious metals—gold, and all the valuable gems except diamonds. They particularly valued pearls. I was reading in Pliny the elder just last week that Emperor Caligula’s wife had pearls and emeralds worth forty million sesterces.”

  “What would that be in money?” Coffen asked.

  “Sesterces are money, Coffen. I expect you mean in pounds and pence. The answer is millions,” he said, with a vague wave of his hand as he had no idea.

  “It ain’t likely that whoever lived in that villa abandoned such treasures when they left.”

  “We have no idea why they left,” Prance countered, working up a heat. “They might have been sent running by the forces of Queen Boadicea with only the togas on their backs for all we know. That is why it is so important that things be left in situ.”

  Coffen was frustrated by all this talk of insitoos and crepundias and sesterces. Once Prance got going he might lecture for hours. “Me and Black will be toddling along,” he said, rising.

  “I’ll see you out,” Corinne said, and reminded them en route to let her know if they learned anything about the dog lady.

  Prance soon left to report to Sir Scott, Luten went to have a word with Townsend about having the hedge cut down and beefing up security, and Corinne discussed with Mrs. Ballard how she might befriend the dog lady. “Of course she mustn’t know you have any connection at all with me, Mrs. Ballard.”

  “I dislike to tell an untruth,�
� her companion said, but in no firm way.

  “In that case I don’t see how –”

  “I believe I can avoid a direct answer, milady. I shall tell her, perfectly truthfully, that I am the widow of a churchman, and spend my time helping the less fortunate. My collecting clothing for the poor, you know.”

  “But if she wants to know where you live—”

  “I shall tell her, again with perfect truth, that I have a good friend who lives on Baker Street. No doubt she will assume that I live there with her. Mrs. James will be happy to oblige me if a letter, for instance, should be involved, or if she wishes to call on me. Not actually lies, you see, but a little prevarication in a good cause.”

  Corinne smiled her approval. “You are awake on all suits, Mrs. Ballard.”

  Mrs. Ballard flushed in pleasure and made a mental promise to donate a whole pound to the orphans’ clothing fund, to atone for any irregularity in her moral behaviour, for charity, she knew, covers a multitude of sins.

  They went for a drive, stopping at Baker Street to visit Mrs. Brown, who was so flattered to receive a call from Lady Luten that she would have agreed to jump into the Serpentine, and didn’t even ask why, which was fortunate as the ladies had not discussed an excuse.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Prance sent Villier and two footmen to his atelier to bring home his unfinished portrait of Corinne and the necessary oils, brushes and so on to continue with the portrait. As the weather was fine and he had not yet filled in the background, he decided to paint her in his garden, where the roses were in glorious bloom and some rather pretty bushes would provide a green backdrop to suggest her Irish ancestry. He asked Corinne to join him to help select her preferred backdrop. It was in the garden that Coffen ran her to ground later that afternoon.

  “G’day, Reg, how’s the old pate?” he asked, and heard that it ached like the devil, but it would take more than a tap on the head to stop him.

  “Good,” Coffen said, before he could get started on one of his harangues, and turned to Corinne. “The reason I came, the dog lady finally went out. She went to Mam’selle Marie’s hat shop.”

  “I told you she was wearing one of Mam’selle’s bonnets when we saw her, Prance,” she said. Unfortunately this wasn’t much help as she would have left the shop by now. “Where did she go afterwards?”

  “I don’t know. She stayed so long I gave up, hailed a hackney and came home. Black’s still there to see where she goes next. How long does it take to buy a bonnet?”

  “It takes me fifteen or twenty minutes. It might take half an hour, if you insist on trying every bonnet in the shop. How long did she stay there?”

  “I waited over an hour and she was still there.”

  “Really! It shouldn’t take that long,” Corinne said, intrigued.

  “She either left by the back door or she works there,” said Prance with an air of certainty worthy of Black.

  “Her carriage was still out front,” Coffen said.

  “Then she must work there.” Prance said. He frowned, then added, “It is highly unlikely a milliner would have a carriage, unless her cher ami gave her one, yet that plain black rig was not the sort of rig a lady of pleasure would drive. Perhaps her lover has given her the use of his. I wonder who he is.”

  “I don’t believe she works there at all. She don’t go every day and she don’t keep a tradesman’s hours,” Coffen said.

  “She didn’t dress like anyone’s mistress, Prance,” Corinne said. “A quite plain black outfit. Perhaps she owns the shop and the carriage, and goes there from time to time to check up on business. Some ladies do have business interests outside the home nowadays. Besner mentioned his wife is a consultant for some furniture company. She helps ladies plan their home decor.”

  “I didn’t know he was married,” Prance said. He was interested in anything to do with Besner, who was suspiciously close about his private life.

  “Yes, he’s married, but has no children yet.”

  “Who does she work for?”

  “He didn’t say.” She turned to Coffen. “Mam’selle Marie’s millinery shop, you said, Coffen?”

  “That’s right. Quite a smart little shop on Wells Street, just off Oxford.”

  “Not exactly a smart address,” Prance sniffed.

  “We should be able to find out her name if she owns it,” Corinne said. “I’ll ask around. Some of my lady friends might know. Now where can I find them in a hurry?”

  “Lady Middleton’s rout party tonight,” Prance suggested. “They’ll all be there this evening. I expect you have an invitation?”

  “Yes, I shall make Luten take me. I have already sent in our regrets, but she won’t mind that.”

  Coffen said, “Good. I’m going back to Wells Street to see if Black’s still there, and what he has to say.”

  “I’ll go now too,” Corinne said. Then remembering why she was in Prance’s garden, she turned to Prance. “The bamboo garden chair, then, in front of the rose bush?”

  “Which rose bush? You will have noticed I have white, various pink tones and one vibrant red.”

  “You choose, Reggie. You have such an eye for artistic detail.” Having mollified him, she turned back to Coffen. “I must go. Luten will be more likely to oblige me this evening if I have a little rest this afternoon.”

  Coffen was saved the trip to Wells Street. Black arrived as he and Corinne were leaving. Coffen wasn’t one to waste time or words when he was on a case. “Where did she go?” he asked before Black set foot on the ground.

  “Home,” Black replied, equally tersely. “And she wasn’t carrying a hat box either. Patty’s watching her house. There’s more.”

  “We don’t want to stand talking in the street. Come in and have a drink,” Corinne said. “You two must be parched with all this dashing about.”

  “I could do with a wet,” Coffen agreed, and they all went along to her house. When they were comfortably ensconced with a glass of wine he continued, “So, what is it, Black? You said there was more.”

  “Paddy says Blackbeard showed up at her house shortly after we left,” he announced, and looked about for their reaction.

  “The devil you say!” Coffen exclaimed. Corinne said nothing, but she looked very interested.

  “Yessir, and the odd thing is he went in without knocking before she got home and stayed, even though she wasn’t there. Don’t that look like they’re either married or ought to be?”

  “Is he still there?” Coffen asked, rising to leave.

  “No, he left. Paddy said he stayed about an hour, then left. Paddy didn’t know whether to follow him or stay and watch the house. He followed him on foot for a block or so till Blackbeard hailed a hackney, then Paddy went back to watch the house. He arrived on foot. That looks like they share the rig—that plain black one with the team of bays. I’d swear they share that rig, and it looks like they share the house as well.”

  “It looks that way. Which way was Blackbeard’s hackney heading?” Coffen asked.

  “Turned on to Tottenham Court Road. He lost sight of it there in the traffic, so it could be going anywhere.”

  Coffen rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “So we have an even stronger connection between him and the dog lady, and Corrie’s going to find out who she is. If she owns the hat shop, that is to say.”

  How Lady Luten was to accomplish this had to be explained to Black. Like Luten, he felt she oughtn’t to involve herself in the case, but a rout party—no harm in that. Luten wouldn’t let her stay late. She didn’t mention that she and Mrs. Ballard were working on another angle. Plenty of time for that, depending on what she discovered that night. It was arranged that she would tell Luten what they had learned thus far, and they would all meet back at Luten’s house after dinner. Coffen volunteered to let Prance know what was afoot and to inform him of the meeting. Black did not offer to join him.

  Prance was sketching the outline of the roses that would form the background of the portrait. “
I wonder if the dog lady is not a dog lady at all, but a chien lady,” was his remark when he had heard Coffen out.

  Coffen said what he always said when he didn’t understand something. “Eh?”

  “Chien, Coffen.”

  “Shee-en yourself. Can’t you stick to English? You know I only speak the King’s English.”

  “The King’s footman’s English, perhaps. Chien is French for dog.”

  “I believe poodles are French.”

  “I believe so, but my meaning was that the dog lady herself might be French.”

  “I don’t see why. Mama has a scotch terrier and she’s as English as mutton or beefsteak.”

  “The shop, you recall, is called Mam’selle Marie’s.”

  “There is that. So you think the Frenchies are behind all this Roman business, Reg? I don’t see how stealing broken statues and digging up floors will help Napoleon.”

  “Oh he is a famous – one ought really to say infamous – art thief. Only think how he plundered Greece and Egypt.”

  “Like Lord Elgin robbing the Parthenon of its marbles, you mean?”

  “Elgin paid for them, though hardly enough as they are priceless. Actually I was just referring to the French name of the shop. If the dog lady owns it, then she might be French.”

  “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. We don’t know that she’s married to Blackbeard.”

  Prance rolled his eyes. “And only the French, of course, enjoy extramarital relationships.”

  “You’re wrong there, Reg. You’re forgetting Lady Cowper, and her mother, and Lady Jersey and—”

  “Precisely.” Prance tossed up his hands. “This conversation is futile. Very likely she is English and only uses the French name for her shop to make it sound stylish. So, is there anything on for tonight?”

  “Me and Black will continue with our investigation. What are you up to? Doing anything to help at all?”