by Joan Smith
This was an unheard of honour. Sir Reginald always took the keenest interest in choosing his outfits, right down to the shade of his handkerchief. Prance did not use snuff, but he carried a snuff-box for an excuse to use a coloured handkerchief. One did not, of course, use a white handkerchief when taking snuff.
The echo of a smile moved Villier's lips. "Very well, milord. I shall leave for London at once," he said, and took the letter without further squabbling.
The money handed to him to cover the cost of hiring a mount included a generous pourboire, accompanied by a rush of solicitude. "Make sure you have a hot bath the minute you arrive, Villier, for the night is chilly. Sleep as late as you like in the morning. You will still have plenty of time to arrange my toilette."
Eyes glowing like a warrior, Villier declared, "I shall be up with the fowl, milord!"
While Villier battled the elements, Prance enjoyed his well-earned evening before the grate with a bottle of Luten's best claret at his elbow and a copy of miscellaneous quotations from Horace in his hands, through which he rooted to find suitable phrases to amuse Byron tomorrow night.
"Nunc est bibendum" might suit. "Now is the time for drinking." That might be slipped in before quaffing a glass of wine at the party. "Ad unguem factus homo", "a man without a flaw." No, hardly appropriate considering the clubfoot–and the man's morals for that matter. "O noctes cenaeque deum!" "Oh nights and suppers of the gods!" was a definite possibility. His eyelids fluttered, and before he fell asleep he went upstairs.
Really it was the devil of a nuisance not having Villier with him. The whole tedious business of hauling off one's boot and hanging up jackets–to say nothing of having to pack his own bag in the morning. He had decided against using Pelkey after all. No matter how proper his personal habits–and Prance was an ogre for cleanliness in all his servants—a groom always carried that lingering whiff of the stable.
He awoke to another cold, gray, drizzling day. Before leaving Brighton he visited three inns and with the expenditure of a good deal of money was allowed a peek at the registers at two of them. Mr. Brunei's name did not appear in either of them. Mr. Edward Harrelson had indeed put up at the Norfolk when Mrs. Huston said he had. Not knowing what else he was looking for, he found absolutely nothing of interest, unless one could call it interesting that Beau Brummell had stayed two nights at the Bedford. One would have expected him to stay at the Prince's pavilion. In his eagerness to return to London, Prance decided three tries were enough. He would stop at the George on his way home.
Mrs. Partridge was kind enough to fill his thermoses for him and warm the bricks before he left. His mind had already run ahead to London before the carriage left Brighton. Pelkey had his orders to stop at the George. It seemed a great waste of time but Coffen would berate him if he didn't. Pelkey found the half-timbered inn without difficulty, just where Coffen had said it would be. The mulberry tree was still standing, grown to a great height now. At least it looked like a mulberry. The few remaining leaves blowing in the wind were the right heart shape.
Three or four travelers were taking a late breakfast in the dining area. The stench of bacon and the smoke from the grate made Prance feel quite ill.
He decided it was worth another guinea to get a quick look at the registry without enduring what would be, no doubt, a very bad cup of coffee. The proprietor, a Mr. Podey, a stout, hardy man of the sort who wore a poorly cut broadcloth jacket and shouted as if everyone were deaf, proved bribable. He rifled under the counter and drew out a book with a black leather cover and the year 1805 stamped on it. At least it wasn't dusty.
Podey pushed aside a welter of papers on his desk and allowed Prance to sit down to peruse the register. Prance turned a few pages, then gave a start of alarm. There was a page missing! Cut neatly out with a blade. It covered the last days of June and the beginning of July. He called Podey, who stood at the reception desk shouting a welcome at a man, a pig farmer to judge by the aroma.
"I say, Podey, there's a page missing here."
Podey came running, fingered the cut edge and said, "So there is. Now who could of done that? I wonder if he's been at the others." He ran and drew other old registers from under the counter. Prance noticed the others were liberally coated in dust. Podey flipped through them. "They seem to be intact," he said, frowning.
"When is the last time you examined them?"
"The day I put them under the counter. I'd no reason to go over them, had I?"
"It's very odd," Prance said and turned the page to see if more pages were missing. At the top of the next page was a sketch of a bee. His heart gave a jump of excitement. The page must have been cut out recently, since the Bee began his filthy tricks in London. Coffen would have realized at once the importance of this one ledger not being dusty like the others. How was it possible a man who could hardly speak the King's English could be so sharp in other areas?
"May I see your present register?" he asked, and Podey brought it to the desk. Prance started at the last entry and worked back, but found no suspicious entries. If the Bee had been there, he had used an alias.
"What are you looking for, sir?" Podey asked.
"I don't know. This client from London, A.E. Thomson, what did he look like?"
"Old Alfie Thomson? He looks like the king. Been coming here forty years to see his daughter and her kiddies. Grandkiddies as well now. Don't tell me Alfie has gone and got hisself into trouble?"
"No. Are all your customers known to you?"
Podey scanned the register. "These two Fallon ladies, they never stopped here before. They're the sisters of our new clergyman at St. Andrew's."
"I think we can absolve the Fallon ladies of any wrongdoing. Anyone here you don't know?"
"I've known them all a good while. They're regulars, if that's what you're asking me."
Prance decided to describe Lord Jergen, as he had bought out Goodman's and was Prance's favourite suspect. "How about a tall gentleman, dark hair, blue eyes? A good build, smart dresser. He'd weigh about thirteen stone. Might have been driving a crested carriage."
"Ah, him. I had a fellow answering that description in for lunch–when was it? About a week ago, but he didn't book a room so he's not listed. A fine gent. I noticed him in particular for I don't usually get what you'd call quality here. Now that you mention it—" Podey stopped, frowning.
"Did he ask to see your old books?"
"No, but he asked to use my desk to write a letter. He might of got at them then. It being the lunch hour, I was busy in the tavern."
"Thank you, Podey. I think I've learned what I wanted to know." He tipped his hat and returned to his carriage to begin the long trek to London.
He pondered what he had learned as he was driving along. The reason he had asked to see the register was to check that Mrs. Webber had spent the night there with her doctor, as she claimed. So what did it all mean? Did the missing page confirm that she'd been here with her lover, or did it imply that Mrs. Webber had lied, that she hadn't spent that night there? Why would Jergen want to remove that evidence? Or had Mrs. Webber fibbed about the man she had had an affair with? Was it not her beloved doctor, but someone else, perhaps even Lord Jergen? Why else would he be at such pains to slice out the incriminating page? But then he would hardly blackmail her for having an affair with himself. No, her lover was probably Brunei, as she said. Was it possible Jergen had removed the page to protect her after she paid up? He was always punctilious about returning the incriminating letters.
Or was it possible that Jergen himself had been there the same night with some other female? Was he enjoying himself there with Mam'selle Grolier, or one of her sister actresses? And how had he got wind of all the various ladies’ indiscretions? Lady Jergen was a talker. He must have figured it out over the years.
In any case his own trip had been wildly successful. He had discovered that Jergen bought Goodman's Jewelry Shop, and therefore had access to the incriminating letter regarding the pearl necklace she had po
cketed. He had been in Brighton seven years ago and might have picked up the gossip about Phoebe Huston and Harrelson. If he had been at the inn the night of Mrs. Webber's indiscretion, he would know that secret as well. The case was as good as solved. It remained only to find the proof.
With such a wily customer as the Bee, that would not be easy. In any case there was nothing more he could do till he reached London, so he twirled his écharpe around his neck and gave himself over to a delightful contemplation of the evening ahead. He wondered what jacket Villier would select for him, and what accoutrements. He really should try to get a few hours sleep so he would be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the party.
Why was Bryon honouring him in this extraordinary fashion? Was it to announce that they two would soon be embarking for warmer climes? Did it have to do with their jointly writing a play? They had discussed the possibility. With this tantalizing puzzle to intrigue him, he thoroughly enjoyed the trip home.
* * *
Chapter 22
Evening shadows were already lengthening when Prance's carriage drew in at Berkeley Square at four-thirty that afternoon. How good it was to be home again! To see the welcoming lights aglow in the windows, and know that Villier was busy abovestairs, brushing and pressing and laying out the evening's clothes. Luten's and Corinne's houses were also lit in anticipation of his arrival. Coffen's was dark–he'd be at Corinne's. His heart swelled to know he had such stunning news to impart. But first he must just refresh himself. He could not bring himself to call on a lady in a jacket rumpled from travel.
He would not make his grande toilette yet, of course. That would take hours. Just a fresh cravat and jacket, and a word with Villier to see that all was in order, as indeed it was. Trust Villier. Within a quarter of an hour he was at Corinne's front door. Black, ever vigilant, had seen him arrive and sent over word that the Berkeley Brigade awaited him at Lady deCoventry's house. Her ladyship would be honoured if he would join them for an informal dinner. That meant they didn't want him to take time to change. How impatient they were to see him! Nearly as impatient as he was to discover from them the details of the party with Byron. But he wouldn't ask and reveal his consuming curiosity. He would let them tell him.
He strode forth, head up, shoulders back, like a general returning from the wars in triumph. Black had the door open for him before he got across the street. He was greeted as if he'd been gone a month. "Good evening, Sir Reginald. Welcome home. A good trip, I hope?"
"Excellent, Black, thank you," he said, letting Black remove his coat.
Three pairs of eyes turned to him in excitement as he entered the salon. He stood a moment, luxuriating in the pleasure of anticipation, fixing it in his mind for future recollection. Corinne looked quite lovely this evening. That rose gown set off her cameo charms to perfection, and for once she wasn't plastered with an excess of jewelry. Luten, as usual, looked perfectly groomed and Coffen looked even more rumpled than usual. None of them had changed into evening clothes yet, and probably didn't intend to for an "informal" dinner. Prance disapproved of this sort of social laxity, but for a special occasion he would forgive them.
"The traveler is returned," he announced, sweeping a bow towards the grate, where they were all gathered.
Without even the courtesy of asking whether he had had a good trip, Coffen demanded, "Did you find out anything?" and Luten said, "Did you get my letter?" It was only Corinne who made him a proper welcome.
"Do come and sit by the fire, Reggie, and tell us all about your trip."
She gave him her own seat beside Luten, poured him a glass of wine and took the chair that Black rushed to set for her.
Prance accepted the wine, said, "Thank you, my dear," to Corinne, "and to answer your questions, gentlemen, yes and yes. I did receive your letter, Luten, and I believe I made a few discoveries of interest."
"What?" Coffen barked.
Prance would have preferred to give the tale its proper due, drawing out the story and adding all the details, but there was no stalling Coffen when he was in this mood.
"I found out who purchased Goodman's shop," he announced. The actor in him allowed a significant pause to examine each staring face before adding, "None other than Lord Jergen." His performance was rewarded with three lovely gasps of astonishment.
Luten was the first to recover. "Jergen! Are you sure?"
"I have it on the best authority. His mistress at the time, one Betsy Grolier. A vulgar little milliner, and pretty as can stare."
"Lady Jergen said he was seeing an actress called Rose Sommers," Coffen said.
"Née Betsy Grolier."
"What do you mean, nay? It's what Lady Jergen told us."
"One and the same, Coffen. Rose Sommers was her stage name."
"Ah, I see, one of them nom de plumes."
"Close enough," Prance said.
Luten shook his head. "I can't believe Jergen–"
"Can you believe that Lord Jergen recently paid a visit to the George Inn on the road out of Brighton, and sliced out the register page for July of 1805?" Prance inquired.
"No need to answer. Rhetorical question," Coffen informed Luten. "He did, eh? There's a brand new copper-bottomed clue. How do you know, Reg?"
Prance went into a full account of his investigations and garnered all the kudos he would wish. "Splendid work, Reggie," Corinne praised. "Well done," the others echoed.
Then Luten took up his cane, rose and began pacing slowly. "What does this mean? Why would Jergen go to so much trouble to remove that proof of Mrs. Webber's rendezvous with her doctor when he knows we already know about it? He didn't do it to protect her. He must be protecting himself. Is it possible it was Lord Jergen, and not Mrs. Webber's doctor that she had a liaison with that summer?"
"I thought she was overdoing it. Her whole performance had the whiff of Covent Garden," Coffen mentioned.
"But why would she lie about the man involved?" Luten said to himself.
"Because she is now Lady Jergen's friend," Corinne suggested. "She couldn't admit to having an affair with her friend's husband."
Luten nodded. "That would explain it. Jergen was already keeping Rose Sommers, though. He hasn't much reputation as a womanizer. I would have thought one mistress at a time was his limit."
Prance winced in annoyance. He might have known Luten would start complicating everything. At this rate they'd never get around to discussing the party with Byron. "Jergen could hardly blackmail Mrs. Webber when he was equally open to blackmail himself, if he was the man involved," he said.
Coffen looked up from massaging his knee to say, "Why would Jergen use his own name if he was there with Webber anyway? Married men usually call themselves Mr. Smith or Jones when they're carrying on with a lightskirt. Odd he'd take her to a dump like the George as well. Mean to say, if his pockets were deep enough to buy out Goodman, he could have afforded a decent place for his featherbed jigging. I see your point, Reg, but why would he cut out that page if it didn't incriminate him? His proof that Mrs. Webber spent the night there with her lover was on that page. After all this time, it was the only proof. "
"Not at all. His proof was the billet doux from her doctor, which he purloined at that inn at Bath."
Coffen, who kept track of all the details, supplied names. "The Hart Inn. Andrew Hale was her doctor. You're right, Reg. That's his proof."
Prance acknowledged this with a curt, "Thank you, Coffen," and continued, "It's my theory that Jergen was there with a woman, but not Mrs. Webber. That's the only way it makes any sense to me. He removed the page not to protect Mrs. Webber's reputation, but to protect his own. And furthermore, if he was there and saw her–well, that's how he knew she was there. He's the Bee. He'd have no reason to suspect we'd be checking out the George and thus remove that one page if he's not the Bee. The victims and ourselves are all keeping mum about it."
"That's all true," Luten said, "But you're assuming it was Jergen who removed the page. We don't actually know that."
"Keep your shirt on, Reg," Coffen said. "It ain't a fact till we prove it. I'm sure you did your best, but what Luten says makes sense. It would've been downright stupid of Jergen to drive his crested rig when he went to pull out the page. The Bee's supposed to be so sly, why didn't he hire a hackney? Mean to say, this points the finger straight at him. Jergen's the only lord involved. Looks like someone's impersonating him. Something havey-cavey here, Prance. Are you sure you got that part about the crested carriage right?"
"Quite sure," Prance said through thin lips. "The proprietor confirmed it and my description of Jergen. It would be overextending coincidence's notoriously long arm if some other lord fitting Jergen's description should pop out of the woodwork at this late date."
"I suppose it would," Coffen conceded, "all the same, I wish I could've gone myself."
Prance threw up his arms in exasperation. "There's gratitude for you. I spend two days hurtling through the damp and fog, visiting decrepit inns and consorting with lightskirts, and that's all you have to say? You wish you could have gone yourself. So do I wish it. Betsy Grolier would have been just your cup of tea, vulgar chit."
"No offence, Reggie," Coffen said at once. "I know how much you hate being put out. You found out all sorts of new clues. The trouble is, they just don't hang together."
"They hang together perfectly! We've known all along that all the mischief began at Jergen's household. We have solved the mystery of why we were called in. Lady Jergen is unaware that her husband is the Bee and didn't hesitate to call us. Jergen removed the page at the George because he was there with another woman that night, which is nothing but a red herring. Did I mention the infernal gall to draw a bee on the register he had plundered, taunting us? He did that to confuse us."