Murder on Ironmonger Lane

by Joan Smith

  “What kind of carriage was he driving?” Coffen asked.

  “Plain black, but nifty, with matched bays.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He just said his friend was dead. I knew it, for Townsend had been here already. Said he was working for the man’s family, to save them the bother.”

  “Did he have any proof he had permission to take away Burnes’s belongings?” Black asked. “Seems to me anyone could have walked in off the street and made off with them.”

  “He was here before, that’s how I knew he was Burnes’s friend, else I wouldn’t have let him take away the belongings. He was here the very day he died. In the afternoon it was. He had to ask me what room Burnes was in. His name hadn’t been posted yet. But he was a friend. He stayed the better part of an hour, and there was no brawling or fighting. I don’t know what else I can tell you,” the janitor said, eyeing the twirling coin.

  “Did he happen to have a woman with him, p’raps waiting in the carriage?” Coffen asked.

  “No, he was alone.”

  “No sign of a dog either?”

  “No, just himself and the driver, an ugly big ox of a fellow.”

  Coffen handed him the coin. “If you think of anything else, let me know and there’s a tip in it for you. Here’s my card.” He rifled his pockets in vain. Mr. Black handed the man one of his own cards and they left.

  “Blackbeard killed him, sure as God’s a saint,” Coffen said as they went to the carriage. As Prance was not there to correct him, he continued on uninterrupted.

  “That first visit was to set up a meeting for that night; he killed him, then went back right away to clear out any papers that might have given us a clue what he was up to. He’s the one made off with the statues and books that Townsend saw and we didn’t as well, then came with his rig to clear away the lot. I wonder if we missed a clue in the clothes.”

  “I feel the same, but you mind the janitor said he didn’t speak French,” Black pointed out.

  “I wager he don’t wear a beard either, except when he’s up to tricks. A beard and an accent and he’s a different man from himself. If it ain’t Ruffin, I miss my bet.”

  “You know it and I know it, but it ain’t proof he killed Burnes. Not the kind of proof you can take to court. It’s all hypo—you know what I mean.”

  “Hypotenuse,” Coffen informed him. “But when the cream’s spilt and the cat’s sitting there licking his whiskers and grinning, that’s proof enough for me. So what do we do now? Luten won’t be back yet.”

  “I’d like to pick up a copy of that satirical magazine, if Sir Reg hasn’t bought them all. You ought to have one as well, Mr. Pattle. It’s an honour to have your drawing printed up like that.”

  “I daresay Mama and Sis would like to see it.”

  They met Prance on Bond Street in front of a shop displaying the Satirist, happily complaining to his friends of the indignity he had suffered. “Any copies left?” Coffen asked him.

  “Better hurry,” Prance said. “They’re flying off the shelves.” He turned to his audience and said, “Allow me to introduce the wretch responsible for this caricature, Coffen Pattle.”

  Coffen hardly listened to the praise showering down on him. At the first opportunity he turned to Prance and said, “Meet us back at Luten’s later, Prance. We’ve got a bit of news about the case.”

  Then he darted into the shop and picked up the second last copy of the Satirist. Black got the last copy, and Prance had the pleasure of seeing the “sold out” sign being propped up below the copy in the window. He then continued on his way to the next shop displaying his likeness.

  Luten had not yet returned when Coffen and Black called on him. Corinne was lying down as the doctor recommended she do every afternoon. Evans had been left word to ask them to call after dinner.

  Corinne’s body was resting, but her mind was active. She regretted having to use Mrs. Ballard to do a job she would very much like to be doing herself, but the baby’s welfare must come first. If she lost this child by doing anything dangerous or foolish, Luten would never forgive her. She would never forgive herself. She assuaged her conscience that Mam’selle would have recognized her in any case.

  Mrs. Ballard was actually better suited to this particular job than herself. She would know how to talk to the workers. Her weekly whist club seemed to be as much about gossip as playing cards.

  And there was no danger in it. Mam’selle had never seen her. She would have no reason to suspect her of anything but wanting a job. So long as she was not asked to lie, there was no danger. Since occasionally working with the Berkeley Brigade, she had become quite adept at giving a false impression without actually sullying her lips with a lie.

  Strange, all these years Mrs. Ballard had been with her and she never realized that beneath that prim exterior there lurked a lady with a taste for adventure. Like Coffen and his hidden talent of drawing caricatures.

  She wondered if she had a hidden talent, and what it might be. She could hardly draw a straight line. Needlework bored her to distraction. She could sing a little and her dancing was often praised, but she was not really musical. Her piano-playing had never progressed beyond a few popular ballads. She liked children. Perhaps she would be an excellent mother.

  Just before dinner Luten received a note from Lord Rochford. Sir Gerard Phipps was to pick up the mosaic at the back door of the toy shop on Tottenham Court Road the next night at midnight. A smile curved Luten’s thin lips. And the Berkeley Brigade would be there to nab the seller.

  Monsieur would have a difficult time explaining how he had legally acquired a mosaic that had been removed after Burnes’s death. Clever of Coffen to have pretended he was a drunk who lost his way when he was caught snooping around his shop last night. He hoped Leclerc had been taken in, and didn’t suspect anyone was on to him.

  Then Luten turned his thoughts to the guard watching the back of the shop. The guard might well be strengthened when a pick-up was to occur. And how were he and his men to conceal themselves to attack? They might hide themselves in whatever conveyance Phipps planned to use, but that meant bringing Phipps into their confidence. Luten knew nothing of the fellow, and Rochford didn’t know much more. He might be the sort of collector who prized a new acquisition more highly than catching a killer.

  His mind raced ahead to where they should take the mosaic tiles after they recovered them. Why not back to Ironmonger Lane, since the guard at the site had been beefed up? Horner, from the Museum, had spoken of having them put back in place. He would discuss all these matters with the Brigade that evening.

  Black was sure to have some ideas about how to conduct the raid. Wonderful luck, recruiting Black. One of nature’s gentlemen, despite the rough edges. It was remarkable how he had tamed that crew of lay-abouts at Coffen’s house.

  When Luten went abovestairs to dress for dinner he stopped in for a word with his wife. She was in bed asleep, her long lashes fanning her pale cheeks, and her silky black hair spread over the pillow. He twisted a lock around his finger. Wonderful luck winning her for a bride too. He had loved her since the evening Lord deCoventry first introduced his sweet, shy, countrified lass. It had been hell all those years, concealing that he was madly in love with his cousin’s wife.

  Patience and persistence had finally paid off. She was now his wife, and soon she would give him a son and heir. Or a daughter, but of course preferably a son first. Then a daughter, hopefully with black hair and green eyes, to drive the gentlemen mad in a few decades. He had so much to be thankful for that he felt unworthy. His reverie was interrupted by a tap on the door. Mrs. Ballard peeped in.

  “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here, Sir. I was just going to wake her ladyship to dress for dinner.”

  “Let her sleep a little longer, Mrs. Ballard, and tell her not to bother changing for dinner. We are not going out this evening.”

  Mrs. Ballard nodded, quietly closed the door and left. What a lovely couple they were. L
uten so thoughtful, and so in love with his wife. So unlike her own boring marriage, though she should not complain. Her dear husband had been a good man. Never a cross word between them. Never any excitement either. Ah well, it was God’s will. Not her place to question His wisdom. But perhaps it was time to set aside her widow’s weeds.

  Twenty years was a long time to wear black. Her ladyship—so generous—had told her she must choose a special gift for helping with this case. A new walking suit would be nice. Hers was thin and shiny from wear, however often she pressed it with a cloth soaked in vinegar and brushed the nap. She wouldn’t want anything garish, but a navy blue suit would be nice.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  After much soul-searching, Corinne decided to tell Luten that Mrs. Ballard was calling on Mam’selle the next morning. She felt Luten would dislike it, and decided to tell him as soon as he entered her room, lest she should lose courage and change her mind. He wasn’t happy to hear it, but he realized well enough that if he tried to keep her out of the case entirely there was no telling what she might do. When she explained the precautions they had taken, and when he considered that the scheme did not put his wife in any danger, he said only, “Mrs. Ballard agreed to this? It doesn’t seem like her. Surely it involves a divergence from the truth.”

  “She has become so sly you would think she had been taking lessons from the Tories,” Corinne said. “So long as an actual lie does not pass her lips, she is up for any amount of subterfuge. She is looking forward to it.”

  “I’m glad you told me all this. I must arrange to have someone watching to see she makes it out of Mam’selle’s shop safely. We would both feel culpable if anything happened to her. I hope you will always trust me, my dear. Shall we go down to dinner?”

  “Like this?” she said, laughing and running her fingers through her tousled hair.

  “You look fine to me,” he said, his voice husky with desire. He thought his wife beautiful however she was dressed or coiffed, but decided he liked her best of all like this, all tousled from bed.

  “I haven’t even begun dressing, nor have you,” she said, slapping away the hand that reached for her.

  “Since we’re not going out I thought we wouldn’t bother changing this evening.”

  “Fine, but Prance won’t like it,” she said, as she went to the mirror to run a brush through her hair and tidy her skirts. Then they went downstairs, arm-in-arm, to dinner.

  Coffee was served when their friends called that evening. They met in the elegant rose salon shortly after dinner. Prance was shocked to see Luten still wearing his blue superfine jacket and Corinne an afternoon gown, and a rumpled one at that, and her hair not dressed. Hardly even brushed, in fact. What could account for it?

  Between Coffen dining with his butler and the Lutens not bothering to dress for the evening, the Berkeley Brigade was hardly living up to its reputation as leaders of the ton. To let his host know he disapproved, he frowned at Luten’s bluejacket and said, “Whatever has been going on? If you have some rough work for us this evening, Luten, you ought to have let us know. Villier will be furious if I soil another jacket.”

  “It is my fault,” Corinne said. “I overslept.”

  “And I have been very busy,” Luten added. “We are not going out this evening, and as it is just ourselves, we knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  Prance could find no polite argument to this and said, “What have you been busy at, if it is not a secret?”

  “Making plans for a raid at the toy shop tomorrow night, and I want all of you to put your minds to it.” He told them of his meeting with Lord Rochford and explained that Sir Gerard Phipps was to pick up the mosaic of the head of a lady at the back of the toy shop at midnight the next night. Rochford had described the seller as a bearded Frenchman.

  “Deciding how to catch him will take a deal of sorting out,” Coffen said. “Before we get into it, me and Black have something to say. We found out that Blackbeard isn’t a Frenchie at all, and that certainly sounds like Ruffin to me.”

  After listening impatiently to their exclamations and questions, he continued. “How we happened to find out, the janitor told us he paid a call on Burnes the very day he was killed, likely to set up a meeting for that night to kill him, and he came back the next day to clear away the books and statues and again to get his clothes. He was wearing the beard but speaking English without a sign of an accent.”

  “Good work,” Luten said. “That corroborates that the soi-disant Monsieur Leclerc knew Burnes had been looking into the cellars, knew what was being removed, and hoped to conceal it. Let us hear the whole story.” Coffen and Black between them filled in all the details.

  “We figure the books were about Roman relics, and the statues were from Ironmonger Lane,” Black explained. “Then he darted to Burnes’s flat the night he killed him and took away anything dealing with what he found in the cellars. Notes or letters or what not. Then after Townsend had been there to notify the janitor of the death he went back claiming to be a friend and carted away the rest of what was there, but Townsend was there first and saw the books and statues. And to hide who he really is, Blackbeard puts on the French accent and wears the beard for dealing with his buyers. He wore the beard when he was dealing with Burnes so he had to wear it when he went back to clean the place out, so the janitor would recognize him, but didn’t have to bother with the accent since the janitor only saw him the first time. He didn’t hear him.”

  Luten listened, then said, “Thomson lives in that house as well. Blackbeard might have deputized him to get rid of the books and statues.”

  “If he did, Thomson didn’t leave them in his flat. They weren’t there when me and Mr. Pattle were there,” Black said.

  “It doesn’t really matter which of them took the books and statues,” Luten said. “Does this disguise business not suggest that the buyers would recognize him without the beard and accent?” He looked around the group for comments.

  “It wouldn’t fool me,” Prance said at once. “I have seen enough of false beards and bad accents in my theatrical work to recognize them. Who it would mislead is anyone not intimately acquainted with the theatre who didn’t know him, but became curious and began asking questions.”

  “Anyhow, he had a black beard and he drove the black rig with matched bays so it’s our Blackbeard for sure,” Coffen said. “That black beard is as phony as the French accent, and the gentleman part of it as well. A gentleman don’t steal and murder people.”

  “The merest glance at the history of England would tell you otherwise,” Prance said.

  “We’re not talking about history books, Prance,” Coffen said with an air of impatience. “We’re talking about real people nowadays.”

  “We have personally met more than one gentleman murderer recently,” Prance reminded him. “What of Lord Clare, and—”

  “Not what I’d call a gentleman,” Coffen said, cutting him off. “Murdering in cold blood puts a man in the pail.”

  “In gaol, you mean,” Prance said, “and only if he is caught.”

  “I said pail and I mean pail—in it or past it.”

  “Beyond the pale, in fact,” Prance translated.

  “Exactly. So what about tomorrow night, Luten? I’m looking forward to ripping the beard off that wretch and finding out who he is.”

  “We all are, Coffen,” Luten said, “and what we have to decide now is how we go about it. We’ll have to conceal ourselves behind the toy shop without being seen, and we know the place is guarded. Anyone have an idea?”

  All eyes turned to Black, whose heart swelled at this bow to his superior criminal knowledge. “What’s next door?” he asked, and went on to answer his own question.

  “A shop selling old books on one side, and a cobbler on t’other. Not likely to be anyone there at midnight. But of course our best bet is to be waiting outside at the back of them two shops. There’s good cover—you know where, Mr. Pattle. There’s bushes between the shops there at th
e back. They might not hide a man in day time, but at night you couldn’t see your own hand in front of you.”

  “I know I am a worrier,” Prance said, “but waiting outdoors – what if it is raining buckets? One could hardly use an umbrella, but to stand for hours in the rain ...”

  Coffen gave him a fierce scowl. “An umbrella!” he scoffed. “Calling yourself a warrior. A warrior don’t worry about rain and umbrellas, Prance.”

  “I did not call myself a warrior. What I said was worrier.”

  “You’re right there. And so is Black. Rain or no, we’ve got to be close enough to see what’s going on and stop them before they get away. Has anyone got a better idea than hiding in the bushes?” He looked around but no one spoke.

  “All right. We go early and conceal ourselves in the bushes,” Luten said. “We should be there well before midnight. Say eleven. It will be a long uncomfortable wait, but we daren’t take any chances. We’ll all be armed, of course.”

  “We don’t know how many men will be there,” Prance said. “There will be the seller and at least one guard, probably more, along with some workers to do the lifting and carrying.”

  “He won’t need many to carry them few tiles from your cellar,” Coffen pointed out.

  “We don’t know that is all he is buying. There is no saying how many men Phipps will bring with him, or whether he is to be trusted.” He realized the others were exchanging displeased looks at the perfectly logical points he was raising and added, “I do hope my nit-picking has not given you the idea that I am reluctant to tackle Blackbeard. Quite the contrary. This case is just so important to me, as a fellow of the Society, that I should hate to see anything go wrong. As a precaution, Luten, do you think it might be wise to speak to Townsend?”

  “I plan to tell him,” Luten said. “We could handle the others all right, but it would be convenient for him to be there to haul the miscreants off to Bow Street. I’ll ask him to bring a few men. We don’t want to lose this opportunity. It might be our only chance.” He looked around at his little cadre. “Any questions?” When no one spoke, he turned to Corinne. “I think you have something to say, Corinne?”