Murder on Ironmonger Lane
Page 21
Corinne’s memories were more recent. She thought back to the time her papa had sold her to her first husband for five thousand pounds, and wasn’t sure that selling a daughter wasn’t worse than stealing some old relics, though not so horrid as murder, of course.
She shook away the memory and said, “What about Mrs. Besner?”
“Townsend tells me she wasn’t too heartbroken when he told her he had her husband in gaol,” Luten said. “Townsend got the notion he only married her for her money, and she knew it. Her papa ran a successful drapery shop. She financed the toy shop. Very likely she knew about Mam’selle, but I don’t believe she knew a thing about the relic business. As Besner told you, Corinne, she has a little business of her own that keeps her petty well occupied, and she has her own circle of friends. She’s better off without him.”
“What about Thomson and Ruffin?” Corinne asked.
“Thomson was Besner’s right hand man,” Luten explained. “He hired thugs for Besner, who liked to keep his hands clean. He’s the one set the fire in Prance’s studio for Besner. He was a sort of supervisor of the different excavations, and incidentally the one who removed the books and statues from Burnes’s room. Besner asked him to have a look around since he was living in the same building.”
“And Ruffin?” Corinne asked.
Coffen took over the explanation. “Oh, Ruffin was just a tourist who happened to meet up with Thomson at some tavern. Thomson spotted him as a Johnnie Raw and got him into a card game. Ruffin bought the ring he gave to Mr. Pattle from Thomson, who we figure had pilfered it from the excavation, along with them bullseyes and things he had at Denny’s Tavern.”
“I mind now, Thomson wasn’t happy when he gave you that ring,” Black reminded him. “Let on it was a good luck charm, or some such thing. Very likely Thomson chewed him out for giving it to you, and Ruffin figured out where it came from when the journals wrote the story up and wanted to tip you off, Sir Reg. I’m thinking of that note you got from him and didn’t answer.”
“I dashed to the hotel the instant I got the note!” Prance reminded him. “It said urgent—I wonder if that was because he was leaving town.”
“No harm done anyhow,” Coffen said to placate him. “All’s fine that ends fine, as your friend William says.” He turned to Black and said, “That’s Shakespeare. Reg knows all the writers.”
“When Thomson was hauled in and verified that Besner admitted killing Burnes all right, Besner owned up to it,” Black continued. “Besner called on Thomson that night after the meeting with Burnes. Thomson was horrified when he found out Besner had killed Burnes, but he helped move the body to that alley not too far away. Aided and abetted. He’ll not go scot free.”
“I can understand a fellow bending the law for money,” Coffen said, “but why the deuce did he bother with the Society, and being president of it?”
“For social prestige,” Prance explained. “He was a climber. His wife was of no use to him socially. The only folks of any prominence he ever met were his uncle’s colleagues. He saw them as a step up the social ladder, and took advantage of it. Joined the Society, became an active member and, ingratiated himself with Scotty and the selection committee. With the use of his uncle’s research, he was taken—I ought to say mistaken, as an expert.”
A thorough hashing out of the case while they ate and drank answered all the little questions they had wondered about. Mrs. Ballard enquired of Mr. Pattle for Mrs. Hope and he lauded her contribution to the arrest. She would ask milady if she might write to her and offer her congratulations.
* * *
It was nearly dinnertime before they parted, but Prance said he would pay a quick visit to Scotty Binwell, to bring him up to date. Scotty nodded and allowed that he had caught Besner out in a few lapses of knowledge. He was loud in his phrase of the Berkeley Brigade. He didn’t quite say Sir Reginald had his vote for the next president, but Prance felt he might as well have.
“As you said the other day, Prance, a thorough knowledge of archaeology is not the only qualification of importance. A fellow who mixes in the right society, knows the right people, is really almost as important. Only look how your Berkeley Brigade saved the Ironmonger Lane excavation. Even if Besner had had the best of intentions, he could not have handled that sort of thing so effectively. Don’t you agree?”
Prance, after judicious consideration, had to admit he agreed, even if Scotty had not called it the Prance excavation. He was therefore completely mystified when he saw Scotty calling on Luten later that evening. Luten was also mystified. “Sir Reginald lives next door, Sir Scott,” he said, assuming the aged scholar had made a mistake.
“I know it well, Luten. It is you I have come to see. I have had a word with my colleagues and we all agree that we should invite you to be our next president.”
When Luten opened his lips to object, Scotty raised a hand. “I know you are going to tell me you don’t know much about archaeology, but you care, as your efforts in this recent matter show, and we all agree that what we need as our president, a figurehead you might say, is a well-known gentleman like yourself. So what do you say? Will you do it?”
Luten, with his head reeling, said, “I am deeply honoured, Sir Scott, but much as I am honored by the offer, matters of state keep me very busy at the House at this time. Bonaparte, you know,” he said vaguely. “I really don’t feel I can devote the time and effort to the Society that you require, though I would be happy to help in a lesser capacity. Who is keenly interested and would do much better job is Sir Reginald.”
“Yes, he is our second choice,” Scotty admitted sadly. “Well, I might as well go next door and tell him now. It will save another trip tomorrow.”
“I – er, shouldn’t mention to Sir Reginald that he is second choice. It might lessen his enthusiasm for the post,” he said vaguely.
“No, of course not. A man has his pride after all. If he happened to see my carriage, I shall say I mistook the address.”
He went along to Sir Reginald’s house and gave the good news. Prance was delighted, but highly curious about that stop at Luten’s house. Surely he had not offered the post to Luten first? No, it must be something else. He would ask Luten. Scotty’s rig had hardly left the curb before Prance ran over to Luten’s.
Luten met him with a broad smile. “Congratulations, Mr. President,” he said. “I trust you accepted? Sir Scott stopped here, looking for you. He asked if I thought you would have time to handle the position, with all your other interests.”
“So that’s why he came here first,” Reg said, and felt as if a shadow had been removed from his joy.
* * *
Coffen and Black had one more chore before calling the case closed. They made a quick trip to Thomson’s place and rescued Prance’s little sketch of Corinne. “What do we do with it?” Coffen asked.
“I’ll get rid of it. Burn it, I believe is the best thing,” Black said. But he was very careful not to crush it when he rolled it up to take home. It would be safe hidden under the cover of his French dictionary. No chance of Mr. Pattle coming across it there.
They were home in time for the Argus-eyed Black, on his way out to call on Mrs. Hope, to spot Binwell’s trip to Luten’s, then on to Prance’s house. He darted in and reported both visits to Coffen. “Sir Reg has got the job for sure,” he said.
Coffen grabbed his hat. “Let’s go and congratulate him.”
“Aye, might as well get it over with,” Black said with resignation.
Corinne joined them, and the group was soon raising a glass to “Mr. President.”
After a few rounds Black left and Luten turned to his wife. “We can now proceed on our little sojourn to the seaside,” he said. “I have a couple of offers of suitable places. You can choose where you would like to go.”
Coffen turned to Prance. “I daresay your new job means you won’t be going with us, Reg?” It had already been decided that Coffen and Black were due for a seaside holiday as well.
“I fancy you’ll want to write it up for your journal,” Coffen said.
“Oh certainly. I shall include a tribute to Burnes, who after all gave his life to save the relics. I can write up the report as well at the seaside as here. Everyone leaves town in the summer, so the Society cancels meetings until September. Truth to tell, I could well do with a rest, to get away from the constant harassment. I can’t set foot out the door without being hounded for an autograph. Half of London has bought a copy of the Satirist and wants me to sign the cover.”
“I know what you mean,” Coffen said. “Folks have been hounding me to draw a picture of them as well. Dashed nuisance. I’m sorry I ever did it, Reg.”
“Oh it’s not your fault, Coffen. It was the dastard who gave it to the magazine that is responsible,” he said.
“I wonder who it was,” Corinne said. She noticed a little flush creep up from Prance’s collar. As she suspected, he had done it himself! When he immediately changed the subject, she knew she was right.
How different he was from Luten, who had been at such pains to let Prance believe he had been first choice for President. Prance, eager to spread word of his victory, was the first to leave. Her smile was no less warm or sincere than usual as she saw him out. No one was perfect, and Prance had his good points as well as his little foibles.
When Luten spoke to Townsend about notifying Burnes’s family and arranging the funeral, he was told that Reg had already taken care of it. He had even ordered a handsome headstone and paid for it, without saying a word to them. He would make a good president. And he had sent her a lovely bouquet of roses to thank her for hostessing his party as well.
“So, what did Scotty really want?” Coffen asked Luten. “He never mistook your place for Prance’s. Everybody knows Luten House. He tried to talk you into being President, did he?”
“He wasn’t sure which house was Prance’s. He knew where I lived from the little party and stopped to ask me the way.”
Luten was not a convincing liar. “Right. I won’t mention a word to Reg. Wouldn’t want to spoil his victory. Well, you’ll let me know tomorrow where we’re going for the summer, eh? I want to be prepared for fishing or swimming or boating, or whatever we’ll be doing.”
“We’re just going to relax, nothing strenuous,” Corinne said.
“I’ll pack a pistol, just in case. Something’s bound to turn up.”
They shared a little laugh, unaware of the prophetic quality of his jest.
Copyright © 2016 by Joan Smith
Electronically published in 2016 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads [ISBN 9781610849753]
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