Murder on Ironmonger Lane

by Joan Smith

  “Now what the devil is he up to?” Black scowled, as the rig continued away from Berkeley Square.

  “He’s trying to remember to go backwards,” Coffen explained.

  “He don’t need much practise for that.”

  The rig was turned about at the next corner and started back. Black glanced out as they drove back past the alley leading to the back of the shops for delivery purposes. His sharp eye detected a lamp burning in the back window of the second shop from the corner. He watched in silence while the carriage drove on, then said to Coffen, “There’s someone in the back room of the toy shop, Mr. Pattle. I saw a light.”

  “The devil you say. Stop the rig, Black. We’ll have a look.”

  “Let him drive on a ways and we’ll go back on foot.”

  “Right.”

  They did this, slipping quietly back to the shop, sticking to the shadows, then down the alley to peek in the back window. A ragged curtain blocked the view but it didn’t quite meet in the middle. They saw a narrow section of the back room, which was a sort of storage area, to judge by the cartons piled around the edges. They also had a view of one end of a rough deal table with a lamp on it. A man’s hands were on the table, sorting through papers. As they watched, the man’s hands took up the lamp and presumably left, since the room was plunged into darkness.

  “Good. He’s leaving,” Coffen said. “After he’s left the shop we’ll go in and have a look at what’s in those boxes.”

  “He’s likely leaving now. I say we follow him, Mr. Pattle.”

  “There’s that as well, but I want to see if the lady’s head is in one of the boxes.”

  “There were plenty of boxes. Room for the whole lady and a dozen more like her, but it’s more likely them boxes hold the new stuff they peddle out the front door.”

  “Still, there might be a clue,” Coffen insisted. He was frustrated at the serious lack of clues in this case. “You go follow him when he leaves, I’ll go in.”

  “I don’t like you to go in alone, just in case.”

  They argued for a moment, then Coffen said, “I’m armed, Black. Go on now, before he gets away.”

  “I fancy he’ll be going home by shank’s mare, since there was no sign of a carriage out front. I’ll leave the rig where it’s at and come back for you. If you’ve left, we’ll meet back at the house.”

  Black rushed around to the front to look for the man. There was no sign of him, but Fitz was parked not far away. Black rushed to him. “Watch the door of the toy shop, Fitz. When a man comes out, I mean to follow him. You stay here and wait for Mr. Pattle. You understand?”

  “I do, Mr. Black. But is it the fellow with the black beard you mean?”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  “He’s already left.”

  “What!”

  “Just a minute ago. A lady picked him up in her carriage.”

  “Hah! Then I fancy I know where they went. Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

  He rushed back to tell Mr. Pattle the news. Mr. Pattle had apparently succeeded in entering the shop as there was no sign of him. Black tried the door. It was locked. Mr. Pattle would have left it unlocked for a quick escape, if necessary. He looked at the window. It was closed and refused to budge when Black tried to force it up. How had Mr. Pattle got in? He crept along the back of the building, peering up at a doorless wall, with one window up on the next floor, but it was too small for a fellow Mr. Pattle’s size to get in, and no ladder about either.

  There was no other way in, so where the devil was Mr. Pattle? He peered into the surrounding shadows. A few empty cardboard cartons had been tossed against the shrub hedge that grew wild at the rear of the building. A rustling sound came from one of them. Either cats or rats, Black figured.

  Then one of the boxes suddenly broke loose and rolled towards him. Instantly on the alert for attack, Black drew his pistol. Fortunately he didn’t fire, as it was Mr. Pattle who crawled out of the carton. To Black’s astonishment, Mr. Pattle was singing, and in a strange, confused way that sounded as if he were bosky, which he certainly wasn’t after only three or four pints. Mr. Pattle could hold five times that with no trouble.

  The singing stopped and a low voice called, “Is that you, Black?”

  “It’s me, Mr. Pattle,” he said, rushing forward to help him up.

  “Is he gone?”

  “I don’t see no one here. Are you hurt bad?”

  “Just a tap on the back of the head. He was in too much of a hurry to finish me off. I reeled and sang, to make him think I was bottled.”

  “Quick thinking! Did you see who –”

  “Too dark. I couldn’t get much of a look till he was leaving, and I was half knocked out by then. I couldn’t tell you if he was big or small.”

  He shook his head, wishing Black would stand still. He seemed to be whirling in circles. “He must have heard me trying to get in. He sneaked up on me so quiet I never got farther than trying to lift the window. Could have been Thomson or Blackbeard, but I couldn’t swear to it. How about you?” he asked as Black picked up his hat and handed it to him.

  “It wasn’t Blackbeard.”

  “Did you spot him leaving?”

  “He’d already left. Fitz said the man had a beard. A woman picked him up in a carriage. He didn’t mention a dog, but—”

  “Blackbeard,” Coffen said. “I wonder if the shop’s empty now. We’ll have a look as soon as you stop whirling about.”

  “The lad that coshed you will still be in there, watching. Better stagger to look bosky. I’m taking you home, Mr. Pattle. That’s enough looking for one night.”

  “P’raps you’re right. I do feel a bit woozy.” Black offered him an arm and Coffen sang a few more bars of Green grow the rushes, ho.

  “It seems Blackbeard has posted his own guard on the shop, same as Luten’s done at Ironmonger Lane,” Black said. “Why else would there have been a man there? You don’t hire guards for the sort of rubbish sold out the front door. Nossir, he’s guarding the goods taken from Ironmonger Lane.”

  Black assisted him down the street to the carriage. Fitz had been rehearsing his rights and lefts so that he could make the proper turns and they were soon back at Berkeley Square. The windows at both Luten’s and Prance’s houses were in darkness. They had retired for the night, or the front hall would still have a welcoming light burning. Reporting on what happened at the toy shop could wait till tomorrow. It was really only confirmation of what they already suspected.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Corinne had sent word to Prance, Coffen and Black asking them to join her and Luten for a meeting at ten-thirty that morning. Luten was up and active long before that time. He had made brief visits to his solicitor, to Lord Rochford and to Mr. Homer at the British Museum in an effort to learn certain things and verify others.

  Prance was the first to arrive, flourishing a copy of the Satirist with his caricature on the cover. “I am ashamed to show my face in public,” he declared. “I’ll be a laughing stock. Pattle shall pay for this!”

  Corinne eagerly snatched the magazine, suppressing a smile as she handed it to Luten, who looked at the comical likeness and hid a grin by faking a frown. “A demmed nuisance, Prance. It won’t interfere with your run for the presidency, will it?”

  Prance emitted a gasp, the first real emotion he had shown thus far. “Oh lord! I never thought of that. Do you think it will act against my chances, Luten? It does seem rather frivolous. If I fail, I shall know whom to blame.” This was some relief as there was still a chance that Besner would outdo him.

  Coffen and Black were announced. Prance pointed a finger at Coffen and declared in accents worthy of Lear, “I hope you’re satisfied, traitor!”

  Coffen stared, turned to Black and said, “I believe that tap on the head I got last night has come back to bite me. Or is he rehearsing another play?”

  Black was unable to answer. Corinne was more interested to hear that Coffen had sustained a
blow to the head. This was no new thing for him, but as he was calmly helping himself to coffee, she decided he was not much harmed. Luten handed the magazine to Black, who looked, smirked and handed it to Coffen. “Why that’s my sketch of you, Prance,” Coffen said. “How the deuce did you manage to get it on a magazine cover?”

  It was all the excuse Prance needed to go into a fine rant. “Manage it! You surely cannot imagine that I had anything to do with this jape! It is an unwarranted invasion of my privacy. If I had had any idea, I would have got out an injunction to stop it. Who did you give the sketch to? That is what I should like to know.”

  “I didn’t give it to anybody. It was my most popular picture. Someone must have snatched it when they took your little sketch of Corinne.”

  “You said your sketches were all present and accounted for.”

  “I wasn’t looking for one of you. I was looking for the one of Corrie. No harm done, is there? Everybody says it looks just like you.”

  Prance raised his open hand to his brow and said in a dying voice, “No harm done? No harm? Everyone who is anyone reads the Satirist. On the off chance that anyone missed it, I am in a dozen windows as well.”

  “Ah, been out looking, have you?” Coffen said.

  “Certainly not! Villier told me.” As this was as good as admitting he’d sent Villier out, he added, “Villier goes out in the morning to pick up broadsheets for the servants.”

  “If you don’t like the picture, I’m sorry,” Coffen said, “but that ain’t why we’re here, is it? Me and Black have important things to report.”

  Prance subsided into silent indignation and they took up seats, coffee was served to the others, Coffen’s cup refilled and the meeting came to order. “Tell us about how you got hit on the head last night, Coffen,” Corinne said. “I trust it was not serious.”

  “No, luckily he just got my head. It’s falling off my nag that’s serious. Hard on the knees. Slows you down when you have to limp.” Coffen spoke on, outlining what he and Black had done the night before.

  “That is verification of what we’ve been suspecting,” Luten said. “Pity we couldn’t get a look at those cartons. They might very well contain the relics removed from Ironmonger Lane. Would it really be necessary to set a guard on the sort of merchandise sold legally in the shop? And Blackbeard is at the heart of it again. I do wish you could have met up with Ruffin yesterday, Prance, to learn what he was after. He has been in on it from the beginning. That ring he gave Coffen suggests he’d been pilfering the cellars. He seemed to just disappear for days, but I doubt very much he was sight-seeing while putting up at Ibbetsons. Perhaps it was just a convenient pied à terre to lead astray anyone who took the notion he was Blackbeard. If Blackbeard is the lynch pin, it jibes with what you learned last night, Corinne.”

  This had to be explained. “So we are led to the conclusion that Monsieur Leclerc and Mam’selle Marie are behind the pillaging,” Luten said. “I believe suspicion of removing valuable items from a building not belonging to them would be enough evidence to get a search warrant to look at those cartons.”

  “There we are, then,” said Prance, who was eager to leave and go on the strut, to see himself in shop windows. “You’ll arrange it, Luten?”

  “There are a few problems. It was Burnes who leased the Ironmonger buildings. Leclerc will claim he bought the items, not knowing where they came from. Also, if the cartons contain only the reproductions, we’ve let him know we’re on to him. He’ll discontinue business for a short period, squirrel the relics away to some safe place where we’ll never find them.”

  “What action do you suggest, then?” Prance asked, to hasten the meeting along.

  “Rochford is trying to discover who is buying the mosaics. He is pretty sure Leclerc is the seller. He didn’t know him by name, but the description fits.”

  “You must pardon me if I am asking a foolish question, Luten,” Prance said, “but have you not just explained that it isn’t actually illegal to purchase these ill-got gains if one is unaware they were obtained illegally? Both Leclerc and the putative buyer can and surely will make that claim. Leclerc will no doubt claim to have bought them in good faith from Burnes, who is unable to defend himself.”

  “He can hardly claim he got the head of the woman in your cellar from Burnes,” Luten countered. “It was stolen after Burnes was murdered. I also have some evidence that Burnes was killed because he objected to the removal of the relics. If Leclerc is the one selling them, then he is obviously the one who had a reason to kill Burnes, or arrange his death.”

  “But we don’t know that is the reason Burnes was murdered,” Prance pointed out.

  “I had a word with Mr. Horner at the Museum earlier this morning. He has learned that a junior clerk at the Museum had been approached by Burnes regarding the discovery of the relics the very day he was murdered. He had been to the cellar and discovered what was going forth there. In fact he brought along a few remnants of items found in the cellar. He thought perhaps it was the Museum that was doing the digging.

  “The clerk assured him the Museum knew nothing about it. The clerk made a report, which sat unread on some manager’s desk until news of the Ironmonger Lane business surfaced. Horner tells me Burnes discovered the excavation after he leased the buildings. His main interest was in safeguarding the relics. Surely the timing is prima facie evidence at least as to why he was murdered.”

  Coffen’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Preemy facie, is that any good, or is it t’other kind, conjection?” Coffen asked.

  “More conjecture than proof,” Luten replied.

  “It might account for Burnes’s murder,” Prance conceded, “but as we cannot consult Mr. Burnes, it is within the realm of possibility that the owner of the buildings is the man selling the relics. We never did discover who he is.”

  “I have had my solicitor speak to the agent handling those houses. I learned from him this morning that the owner is a Mr. Owens, an octogenarian from Devonshire whose only interest in renting the buildings was to make a little money on them until he could find a buyer. He had no idea the Roman remains were in the cellars.”

  “I wonder how anyone did twig to it?” Coffen said. “Why was anyone digging such a deep hole in the first place, unless he planned on burying a body?”

  “The Society has been publishing articles suggesting the probable location of Roman antiquities in London,” Prance said. “And before someone suggests a fellow from my Society is responsible, I will just point out that the articles are widely read by the general public. Also there are half a dozen lesser societies of antiquities whose members read our publications.”

  “We’re certainly not saying it was a fellow from your society who is responsible, Prance,” Luten said. “Horner is arranging for the British Museum to buy the leases from Burnes’s heirs, when we learn who they might be, and eventually purchase the three buildings from Owens. The point is, it is pretty clear Burnes was murdered as he was raising objections to the removal of the relics, and taking steps to prevent it.”

  “One wonders why Burnes bought those leases in the first place,” Prance said. “You recall he was very eager to buy up mine as well, at double the price I paid.”

  “He spoke to you the day he was killed. I expect he had figured out that the Roman villa lay beneath all three houses and had some notion he could get a better price from the Museum for all three than if your lease stood in the middle of the site. His intention when he bought the leases, incidentally, was simply to clean them up a little and rent them. That is what he told the agent he dealt with at least. I see no reason to doubt it. Something Burnes said to him gave him the notion Burnes was a school teacher who had inherited a little money from a deceased uncle.”

  “Odd that he was living in a little hovel, if he had some money,” Prance said.

  “I expect he was an honest, ambitious man who was willing to sacrifice present comfort for future gain. If he had had less conscience, he would h
ave sold the relics himself.”

  “And still be alive,” added Black, who did not subscribe to the belief that honesty was always the best policy.

  Prance drew out his watch and gave an impatient tsk. The best hours for strutting on Bond Street were creeping away. “So what are we to do about all this, Luten?”

  “It’s poor Burnes’s murder we ought to be working on, not some rubbishing old statues,” Coffen said. “Sounds like it was Leclerc. Catch him for that and the robbing of cellars will come to a halt as well.”

  Prance gave a little moue of distaste. “The death of a minor businessman in itself is not the sort of case to interest the Berkeley Brigade.”

  “Any murder deserves to be investigated,” Luten said sharply. “We wouldn’t want a man who gave his life to save the relics to end up in a pauper’s grave. As he died in an effort to save our Roman heritage, we must avenge his death. I am sure that you, with your great interest in archaeology, agree, Prance.”

  “Oh of course!” Prance said at once. “He deserves a proper burial.”

  “Well said. I agree unonymously,” Coffen declared.

  “Townsend is looking into where he came from, whether he has a family and so on to arrange the burial,” Luten said.

  Coffen said aside to Prance, “It won’t do your chances at the president’s job any harm to catch the wretch selling off what you fellows at the Society are interested in, Reg.” Then he turned to Luten. “So what do you want us to do?”

  “Get proof that Leclerc killed Burnes. We know approximately when and where Burnes was killed. The body was found not far from the toy shop. Working on the assumption that Leclerc is our slayer, we must find out where he was at that time. If we could prove that he arranged a meeting with Burnes that would be pretty good evidence against him.”

  “Preemie facey,” Coffen nodded.