by Joan Smith
Black’s past was a mystery, but whatever it was, it had left him with a wide knowledge of the lower classes and particularly the criminal element. He had been hired by Lord deCoventry a dozen or more years before, and on his deathbed deCoventry had told Corinne that Black was to be her butler, and that he could be trusted to look after her interests. He had more than fulfilled his duties, even saving her life on one occasion. He had been so helpful to the Berkeley Brigade in various cases that Luten had made him a member of the elite group.
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair and a swarthy complexion. The kind of fellow you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. He was a good man to have at your side during a brawl. His physical prowess had been as much help to the Berkeley Brigade as his knowledge of the criminal classes.
“Well, thankee, Mr. Weir,” Coffen said. “I believe we’ve seen enough.”
“We’ve not looked at the cellars,” Black objected, looking about for a door. He found it in the kitchen, got a lamp and headed down.
Weir said, “I shan’t go below, if you don’t mind. My legs ...”
“I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Weir,” Coffen said. “I believe I’ll be selling the place. It don’t suit me.”
“Just as you wish, Mr. Pattle. I’ll be happy to handle the sale for you. You know where to find me.” He hobbled out the door and into the Brithelmston, where he usually spent a good many hours of his day. He lived in rooms above the tavern and in lieu of rent handled the frequent cases brought against the establishment.
Black soon came up from the cellar. “All’s cozy and snug below,” he said. “Your uncle stored his brandy down there. There’s a nearly full keg. You’ll want to salvage that before you sell.”
“I was expecting something better than this,” Coffen said, looking all around with disdain. “I should have known Bolger wouldn’t have a decent roof over his head.”
“As the old gaffer said, it’s a good, solid house. It could be fixed up again,” Black said. “You’ll have noticed someone’s been living here right along.”
“He’s only been dead three weeks.”
“There’s fresh orange rinds in the kitchen, and that journal in the front room is only two days old.”
“Must’ve been squatters,” Coffen said.
“That’s possible, but the place has good locks and the windows are intact. Not knowing what sort of man this Weir is, it’s possible he was renting the place and shoved the renter out when he heard you were coming.”
“You have the mind of a crook, Black. No offence. I can’t be bothered trying to fix the place up. I’ll sell it for what I can get, and let Weir have the job of showing it to prospective customers.”
“I’ll do that for you, Mr. Pattle. No point paying him a commission for what we can do ourselves.” They both knew that the commission would be paid to Black rather than Weir, but Coffen had no objection to that. Like deCoventry, he liked and trusted Black. Whatever he got, he earned. He had already cut the cost of running his London house in half, and it was run a hundred times better to boot. “Thing to do, write up an advert for the journals tonight and I’ll deliver it for you.”
“Good man. Have replies sent to the Royal Crescent. We’ll make appointments. We’d best be getting back. We’re dining at Luten’s place tonight.”
Corinne had included Black in the invitation as it was to be only an intimate dinner party. Black’s status as butler/friend made social occasions a trifle difficult. He fully realized this and showed no offence when he had to be left out. In fact he often invented an excuse and declined an invitation if he felt his presence would be remarked upon.
“I’ll see that Raven has things ready,” Black said.
Raven, Coffen’s valet, was so afraid of losing his position that he had also appointed himself Black’s valet. All was in readiness at the Royal Crescent. The two friends, for Black was as much friend as butler, enjoyed a glass of wine before making their toilettes for the evening. Coffen and Prance had chosen the Royal Crescent as it was an excellent hotel not far from Luten’s house on Marine Parade. They met in the lobby and walked to Luten’s, with the fresh sea air blowing over them. Gulls soared and dove and screeched in their endless search for food.
Prance took a deep breath and said, “This was a marvelous idea, to come here. I feel invigorated already. No writing for me while I’m here, though Murray is after me for another book.”
“I’m looking forward to your next one,” Coffen said. “I read your last one all the way through. I liked it much better than —”
Literary success had made Prance generous. He smiled, unoffended. “Better than my Round Table Rondeaux,” he said. “Yes, I fear poetry is not my strong suit.”
“It was all them footnotes, and leaving out Guinevere and calling King Arthur a duck bell, or whatever it was,” Coffen said in a forgiving way. “Other than that and the dullness, it was fine.”
“That’s dux bellorum,” Prance said.
“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Coffen, as they went up the walk to Luten’s mansion.
Chapter Three
Dinner at Luten’s mansion that evening was an altogether more informal affair than in London. In this holiday home the dining room couldn’t seat more than a dozen and the array of crystal and silver was kept at a minimum. The decor, too, was simple, the main attraction of the room being the charming view of the garden behind the house. In spring the roses in full bloom rioted up trellises and over walls. A few modest statues graced the corners of the garden, to be enjoyed from an iron table and chairs placed in the shade of a linden tree.
The housekeeper and her husband, the Partridges, were the only staff employed on a full-time basis. The Lutens had brought their butler and a few of the London servants with them, but their chef had been given a holiday and the cooking was done by Mrs. Partridge with the help of one kitchen maid. This suited everyone except Prance, who preferred fancier dishes, with the meat — if they must eat dead animals — concealed by sauces and spices. The others, especially Coffen, had no complaint with the plain fare. Coffen was a special pet of Mrs. Partridge. He got his gingerbread with raisins, and was even given a generous slab to take back to his hotel.
Over dinner they discussed their plans. Prance, who considered eating pig a particularly heinous incivility, piled mashed potatoes on top of a slice of roast pork and said, “I paid a visit to Herr Stoeffel’s workshop this afternoon. Fascinating. I hadn’t realized engraving was such hard labour. I’ll have arms like Gentleman Jackson when I’m through.” He was just as glad no one chose to question him on the work involved. The ten minutes he had spent with Stoeffel were enough to confirm what he had seen in London. Engraving was no work for a gentleman.
“How did it go with your inheritance, Coffen?” Corinne asked.
“The house is a mess. Black thinks it’s not too run down to be fixed up. The trouble is it’s in a wretched neighbourhood with a noisy tavern next door. I’m going to sell it, if I can find anyone fool enough to buy it. Black’s handling it for me. We put an advert in the Brighton journals. It should run tomorrow morning.”
“I hardly know what price Mr. Pattle should ask,” Black said. “Perhaps you’d come and take a look at it, Luten. You’d have a better notion than we would what it’s worth.”
“Certainly, I’d be happy to,” Luten said at once. “I’ve been curious to see Coffen’s inheritance. Property here in Brighton has increased a good deal since I bought this house. It might be worthwhile to hang on to it, rent it. Property’s a good investment.”
Black, always on the qui vive for criminal doings, said, “The odd thing is that although Cyrus Bolger’s been dead close to a month, someone’s been living in the house just lately. I was wondering if old Weir had rented it out and pocketed the rent.”
“If he had posthumous power of attorney, he may have rented it legally, in which case the rent money should have gone to Pattle,” Luten pointed out. “That’s easy en
ough to find out. Check that statement Weir sent you, Coffen. It suggests, does it not, that the place is rentable?”
“I daresay I could do that,” Coffen said, though he had no intention of renting it, and wasn’t about to set up a quarrel with old Weir over a few shillings. For that matter, who was to say Weir hadn’t read a journal and eaten an orange there?
Corinne just shook her head, aware that her husband never liked to see property go out of the family. He had convinced her to hold on to the little house on Berkeley Square that deCoventry had bought for her. “I’ll go with you,” she said. “A woman’s eye will be useful to see what needs doing in the way of cleaning up to make it easier to rent.”
“We’ll all go,” said Prance. “I’m curious to see it myself.” It sounded appalling, but one never knew when such experiences would prove useful in his writing.
A time was agreed on, the address and directions given and the conversation turned to other matters. The dinner party broke up early as everyone was tired after the rigours of the trip.
They met on Nile Street at half past ten the next morning. Prance looked at the house, he looked at the Brithelmston Tavern next door, where a few undesirables were already hanging about, and shook his head. What would the place be like after dark? “You couldn’t pay me to live here. Wretched neighbourhood. Sell it,” he said.
“That’s what I thought myself,” Coffen agreed.
Luten looked along the street to the other few respectable houses and said, “Let’s have a look inside.” Black drew out the key, they went in and had a good look around. When they met again in the main room, Corinne said, “I think the place has possibilities. The main room is a good size, a pretty fireplace, and has that nice chandelier. Someone’s definitely been living here, though, and whoever it was was a wretched housekeeper. Mice are running riot in the larder.”
Black shook his head. “I had a word with Weir this morning after your hint last night, Luten. He never rented the place.”
“Well, someone’s been here recently,” Corinne said. “There were glasses in the kitchen that still had some liquid in the bottom. It would have dried over all that time. Furthermore, he left the back door ajar, and half a bottle of gin in the sink.”
Black said, “There was no bottle in the sink yesterday, nor was the back door unlocked. I tried it before we left. That back door lock isn’t much good. I could open it myself with a hairpin. Might be wise to get new locks on the doors, Mr. Pattle. A careless squatter like that, he could burn the place down.”
With a thought of the neighbouring tavern, Prance said, “Very likely some derelict from that gin mill next door got foxed and was looking for a place to sleep it off.”
“Well, if you aren’t interested in using the place yourself, and with that gin palace next door, it might be as well to sell the house,” Luten said reluctantly.
That settled the matter and with a last look around they prepared to leave. Prance claimed an interest in visiting the local gardens. Corinne and Luten planned a drive in the country, and Coffen said he was eager to give his grays a good run. It didn’t need saying that Black would accompany him. Coffen was still learning to handle the frisky team, and Black was handy at rescuing him from difficulties. But first the admirable Black arranged to have new locks put on the doors of the house.
When they returned from their drive, they were cheered to be handed a note at the front desk asking for an appointment to look over the house advertised in the journal.
“The sooner the better. Tell them tomorrow at ten,” Coffen said.
“I’d like to have a word with an estate agent first. See what he thinks you ought to ask. Luten had no idea.” Black took another look at the note. “It says any time after three in the afternoon. It’s from a Mrs. Filmore. I’ll say three-thirty. If we get another interested party we’ll have them both come at that time. A little competition will urge them to make a deal on the spot.”
“Clever thinking, Black, but between you and me and the bedpost, I’d let it go for an old song.”
“If you came with me, Mr. Pattle, the deal could be done on the spot since you’re not fussy as to the price. Have it over with. “
“I’ll do it,” Coffen said. “That’ll give me the morning to exercize the grays while you talk to an estate agent. But first I’d like another look at the place myself. I’ll throw in the furnishings, but first I’d like to see if there’s anything worth rescuing. Family silver or what not.”
“I’ll go with you,” Black said at once.
They were surprised to see a young woman at the door, seeking entrance when they arrived. “You’d be here about buying the house,” Coffen said. While he gave her charms a thorough examination, Black noticed she was the class of person he expected, but young to be buying a house. Only in her early twenties. Obviously not out of the top drawer, though pretty enough. Reddish curls, a round face, a boldly tilted nose. Her gown was flamboyant and her straw bonnet was weighted down with an excess of flowers.
“Buying?” she said. “Oh I couldn’t buy it. I heard the new owner was here and came to see if you needed a housemaid.”
“Oh, no thankee,” Coffen said. “I’m selling the house.”
“Who to?” she asked in a sharp, almost an angry voice.
“I don’t know yet. I just put it up for sale today.”
“The reason I wanted the job,” she said, trying a smile, “I grew up here. My ma used to work for Mr. Bolger a few years ago. It’d be like coming home, you might say.”
“As I said, I’m not planning to live here.”
“But till you sell you’ll need someone to clean it up. I could work cheap, and my fellow, Henry, he could do the work outside. It would save us rent, you see. We could stay here as there’d be no one living here. We could do other part time jobs, so we could work for next to nothing.”
Coffen disliked to refuse a pretty young girl, but Black was eager to be rid of her. “What would be the point?” he said. “It would only be for a week or two. Mr. Pattle’s planning to sell right away.”
She frowned, then said reluctantly, “Mind what I said. If you need someone, you can reach me at the Seaside Tourist Shop. Just ask for Flora.”
“Yes, fine,” Coffen said, and she left.
“Persistent little thing,” Black said, unlocking the door. “I wonder how she knew you were here. Brighton’s hardly a village, where everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
“Very likely Luten’s arrival was announced in the journals. We might have got caught up in the tail wind.”
“And how did she know it needed cleaning up? She said she could clean it up.”
“She has the use of her eyes,” was Coffen’s reply.
Chapter Four
Prance invited Coffen and Black to attend a play with him and the Lutens that evening at the Theatre Royal, but Black wanted some time to himself to “get his bearings,” as he called it. He was a stranger in town, and wanted to find out where the demi-monde lived and who was who in that respect in town. A tourist town like Brighton was bound to have an active criminal element — cut-purses, pick-pockets and thieves of a higher order, as well as crooked gaming houses. He didn’t want to get cheated in any way himself, and should the Berkeley Brigade run into any little trouble, they were used to turning to him for help.
“Since this is my first trip to Brighton in decades, I plan to just stroll about and get my bearings,” Black replied. “You go along with Sir Reginald, Mr. Pattle.”
It didn’t take much urging. Coffen was a devotee of the theatre, especially the Green Room, where one could consort with the actresses. “I will then,” he said at once. “I’ll see you back here later.”
Black saw them off, and decided as good a place as any to begin his investigation was the tavern beside Mr. Pattle’s house. With this low destination in view, he changed into his rougher clothes, put his pistol in his pocket and sneaked out the back door so the hotel staff and patrons wouldn’t see him
.
The tavern was a shabby two story building of ancient vintage and no discernible architectural style. Where the original wood had perished, it had been patched up with plaster and brick. Sheets of what looked like rusty tin overlaid part of the original thatch roof. He saw, when he ducked his head to enter the low doorway, that the place was enough to frighten the Grenadiers, but it didn’t frighten him. It was like going home to see the grimy floor, covered in sodden sawdust, to smell the rancid air, to hear the curses.
In darkened corners men were shoving and punching each other about, others sat smiling the smile of the inebriated and playing cards, and a few men too tired and disinterested to look up from their pint when someone jarred their arm just sat and drank. He recognized Mr. Weir in a far corner, but Mr. Weir was communing with what looked like a bottle of brandy and was in no shape to recognize him. He wouldn’t have recognized himself in a mirror.
Black went to the stand-up bar where a sober giant of a fellow bald as a cannon ball and with a soiled apron wrapped around his bulging stomach was keeping a sharp eye on his customers. This was obviously the publican. Black ordered a pint, slid an extra shilling along the bar and said, “Where would a man get an honest game of cards in this town? I’m visiting from London. Unofficially, you might say.” This was immediately understood by the publican to mean he was wanted by the law and established them on friendly terms.
“Not a Captain Sharp? Charley wouldn’t thank me for siccing that on him.”
“I never deal a shaved card, or accept one if dealt to me.”
“What kind of stakes are you after?” the man asked.