by Joan Smith
“Why don’t we go to the mews where Coffen stables his curricle and ask if anyone was seen snooping around there?” she said to Black.
Helping Mr. Coffen was the one thing in the world that might restrain Black, and it didn’t hurt that she had said ‘we’. When Luten said, “She’s right, Black. Would you mind? You may be sure I’ll move heaven and bend earth to get him out.”
“Come right back and let us know, one way or the other,” Corinne said. Before Black had a chance to object the thing was done. Luten, with a nod of approval at his wife for her quick thinking went dashing out. Black was so upset he didn’t even think to become Lord Blackmore.
“Shall I call for your carriage, milady?” he said. “It might be faster to walk. It’s not far.”
“Let us take the carriage. If we find out who was there, we might want to go after him.”
“Happen you’re right.” He sent for the carriage, then accepted a cup of coffee and sat down to wait and worry while her ladyship got her bonnet.
Luten had to use his considerable influence, Deveril’s ingenuity and a large sum in bail to get the accused out, but within the hour he had Coffen released in his custody. It helped that Mr. Brown had a strong suspicion that Mr. Pattle was no more the murderer than he was himself. Why would he kill Mary Scraggs? He was a perfectly respectable gentleman, and there wasn’t much Mary Scraggs wouldn’t do for a well inlaid gent like Pattle. Who he wanted to blame for the murder and every other crime in town was Mad Jack. He couldn’t see how he was involved, but if the Berkeley Brigade could turn up some evidence against him and remove this nemesis from his town, he would be exceedingly grateful.
The groom in charge of the mews at the Royal Crescent swore that no one had been next or night Mr. Pattle’s rattler and prads. “For it’s the finest rig and team here. I’ve taken a special interest in it and keep a sharp eye on it. It must have happened somewhere else. Had he left it parked anywhere?”
Black cast his mind back, but he could think of no time or place so likely to have access to the rig as a more or less public stable at night. “Who’s here at night?” he asked the head ostler. “You can’t work twenty-four hours a day.”
“A youngster called Timmy White, but he’d have told me if anyone was prowling about.”
“Do you keep the door locked at night?”
“Closed but not locked. This is a hotel. Folks arrive and leave at all hours. Timmy lets them in and out.”
But it was not likely that many would be arriving or leaving in the middle of the night. His roving eye had already espied the straw bed covered in a blanket in the corner. It was four pence to a groat that Timmy was asleep half the time. Black didn’t bother with further questions. It didn’t matter when or how the incriminating objects had been put into the rig so much as who had done it, and this groom didn’t know.
He led Lady Luten back to her carriage. “Can you think of anything else we can do?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t mind a word with Flora, at the tourist shop. Not that the brass box will tell us anything.”
“Let us go. I’d like to get a look at her.”
Black directed the groom to the tourist shop. Flora cast a bold, almost a mocking smile on them. “Back for another look at our wares, Mr. Black?” she said, before turning her eyes to examine Lady Luten.
Lady Luten began looking at the tawdry items on display, most of them cheap items featuring some aspect of Brighton on them, and the city’s name in gilt. She lifted a jug bearing a likeness of the Prince Regent and even considered buying it for Luten as a joke. A small vase of yellow roses on the desk, fading but still with their petals, caught her eye. There had been yellow roses in that bouquet Prance brought for Mary’s laying out.
When she turned her attention back to Flora, she was saying, “How’s your friend Mr. Pattle today, Mr. Black?”
“Fine. I’ll be meeting with him shortly at his house. Why do you ask?”
She gave another of her bold smiles. “I thought he might be reconsidering my offer to work for him.”
Black gave her a steely, menacing stare. “He hasn’t forgotten your keen interest in his house,” he said. Then he turned to Corinne. “Shall we go, Lady Luten?”
Corinne turned a bland eye to Flora. “Your flowers need water,” she said. “They’re wilting.”
Flora just glanced at the vase and gave a tsk of annoyance. “So they are, and I bought them only this morning from old Meg, at the corner stall.”
“That was sharp work, milady,” Black complimented her, when they left. “I didn’t notice the flowers. From Sir Reginald’s bouquet, are they?”
“They looked like it, not that we can prove it.”
“She never batted an eye when you twitted her. Very likely the rat catcher sold them to old Meg.”
“What a bold hussy she is. I wouldn’t trust that smug grin an inch. She knows perfectly well Pattle has been arrested. She was practically crowing when she asked after him.”
“I agree, but I don’t see what we can do about it till we find some hard evidence.”
“We’ll find it,” Corinne said. “Let us go home and see if Luten is back yet.”
They hadn’t long to wait. Luten brought Coffen straight to Marine Parade, where Black, watching from the window, rushed to the door to greet him. He was welcomed like a hero returning from the Peninsular Wars.
“Any luck at the mews?” Luten asked Corinne. She just shook her head.
“I can have my curricle back,” Coffen said, when the racket had settled down, “but I ain’t supposed to leave town or get into any trouble. I intend to go with you to quiz Weir and search my house and talk to Beazely. Let Brown try to stop me!”
“We are going to go over that cottage with a fine tooth comb as well,” Luten said. “But first we’ll have that word with Weir and see if we can discover what the hidden treasure is.”
Prance arrived before they left and had to be informed what was going on. The Lutens went with him in his carriage. As Corinne had been missing out on all the excitement she insisted on accompanying them. Black went on ahead with Coffen in the curricle. They were thus in the line of fire when someone took a shot at Coffen as he wended his way through the Lanes. He was an easy target, seated in the open curricle. Fortunately the shot missed and just lifted his hat from his head. Black hollered, “Duck!” and they both ducked. The second shot went well over their heads.
Coffen’s team reared up in distress and he had the devil of a time quieting them down. When no further shots were fired, Black leapt down and tried to give chase on foot, but the miscreant was long gone. There was little chance of finding him in that disreputable labyrinth known as the Lanes.
The employed members of the neighbourhood were out fishing. Although there was still plenty of life about — drunks, children, women sitting on doorsteps gossiping, dogs and especially cats, they did not appear to take the shots seriously. The men capable of answering just shrugged. One woman sitting on the doorstep smoking a pipe pointed one way, the slattern with her pointed the other. It was obviously futile and possibly dangerous to give chase.
Prance’s rig caught up with them. The occupants hadn’t seen the attack or heard the bullet and were curious to learn what had happened.
“Someone tried to kill Mr. Pattle, that’s what,” Black said and uttered a curse unknown even to Prance, who made a study of profanity, though he seldom used it. Coffen’s hat with a knick in the brim was produced to show how close the shot had come.
“Let us get into Prance’s rig,” Corinne said. “You’re a sitting duck in that open rig, Coffen.” They all piled in for a quick discussion. “Let us go home,” she said. “They’re not after Black. He’ll be safe driving the curricle. You don’t mind, Black?”
“I was just about to suggest it myself,” said Black. He enjoyed getting the reins of the high steppers between his fingers.
“Home?” Coffen objected. “Devil take it, I’m going to see Weir if it kills m
e.”
“It just might do that,” Prance pointed out. “I wonder how Henry assuming Henry is the assassin manqué — knew you would be passing this way. He must be following you.”
“What’s a monkey got to do with it?” Coffen asked and was ignored.
“It seemed to me he was in place, hiding and just waiting,” Black said.
“It was Henry,” Corrine said. “You told Flora you were going to meet Coffen at his house, Black, and Weir’s office is just around the corner from Nile Street. She must have told Henry.”
“When were you speaking to Flora?” Prance asked, and Corinne told him of their visit to the mews and the tourist gift shop. “She had some wilting yellow roses there in a vase.”
“They must have followed us last night,” Coffen said. “Odd they’d bother snitching wilting flowers.”
Black sniffed. He was constantly amazed at the ignorance of the aristocracy at how life was lived by the other ninety-nine percent of the population. They’d likely never heard of a mudlark, or knew that the leftovers from their tables were sold out their back doors. “More likely the rat catcher broke up the bundle and was peddling the flowers to street vendors,” he said. “That’s an old racket. Flora didn’t bat an eye when you mentioned them, Lady Luten.”
“That’s true. Well, let us go and see Weir.”
Black wasn’t tardy to hop into the curricle and the two carriages were off.
Chapter Twelve
They found Weir seated behind his desk, reading the journal. He looked up, astonished to see more people in his office than had ever graced it at one time before. Quality folks, too. Surely there would be some profit in this. “Mr. Pattle,” he said, struggling to his feet as he recognized him. “Is it about selling your house you’ve come to see me?”
“No, it isn’t,” Pattle said angrily.
“Ah. And may I inquire why you and your friends are here?” His rheumy eyes slid around the group as he tried to recall if he’d ever seen any of the others before. He recognized Black and nodded at him.
Luten stepped forward, introduced himself and Lady Luten and Sir Reginald as friends of Mr. Pattle.
“Perhaps a seat for the lady,” Weir said, smiling at Corinne. Enough rickety chairs were found for them all in an adjoining room which served as kitchen and on rare occasions in the past for a meeting room. “Could I offer you a cup of tea?” he said, when they were seated in a ring around his desk. Having seen the weak brew in his cup and the kitchen it came from during the scramble for chairs, they declined. He then raised an eyebrow at Coffen in a mute request to hear his business.
The situation had become so complicated Coffen hardly knew where to begin. “Some odd things have been happening since I got Bolger’s house,” he said.
“Ah, well now. It’s not prime real estate to be sure.”
“It’s a prime death trap is what it is. The person I had planned to rent it to was killed — murdered.”
“You can’t mean Mary Scraggs!” Weir exclaimed. “I was just reading of her murder. Oh Mr. Pattle, you didn’t go and rent it to Mary Scraggs! You might as well have given it away. You’d never get a penny out of Mary Scraggs.”
“That’s beside the point,” Coffen said brusquely. “Someone’s been breaking into the place, and not five minutes ago he took a shot at me. It’s just by the grace of God I’m here to tell you about it. Someone don’t want me or anyone else in that house. Stands to reason there’s something going on, and I expect you could tell me what.”
Weir just shook his head in wonder. “Oh dear! Shot at! And you think it’s to do with the house?”
“Of course it is.”
Corinne gave Luten’s arm a nudge and he said, “As Mr. Pattle is a stranger in town, never been in the house until now, we believe the cause of his problem stems from its former occupant, Mr. Bolger. What was his line of business?”
Weir shook his head. “Oh dear, oh dear. I daresay you’re right. There’s no blinking the fact that Bolger wasn’t too nice in his business dealings.”
“And what was his business?” Luten asked again.
“Why, not to put too fine a point on it, milord, he was what’s known as a stalk.”
“He means a fence,” Black translated.
“Just so,” Weir nodded. “He dealt in stolen goods. Jewelry was his preferred line, but he’d been known to handle an occasional work of art or choice bit of silver on the side. I wonder, now, if he was found out by one of his victims.”
“That’s possible,” Luten conceded, “but as someone has been searching the house, we feel he left something of value hidden there, and someone is looking for it. Did he make much money at this fencing business?”
Weir shook his head. “It’s hard to say, but I’d have to come down on the negative side. He made a living at it, no more. He didn’t leave a large estate and he certainly didn’t live the life of a wealthy man, but then he had no interest in swagger and show. There’s good money to be made in fencing if you have the contacts.”
“Would you know anything about Bolger’s contacts? Specifically where he got his goods?”
“Only what we in the legal profession call hearsay evidence, milord. I couldn’t be sponsor for the truth of it. While he was alive, I couldn’t have told you if I did know — client privilege, but in fact I never asked the source of his wares. I didn’t want to know. For what it’s worth, it’s been hinted that he got the majority of his goods from a highwayman known hereabouts as Mad Jack, but who he sold to I couldn’t tell you.
“We have our own version of Stop Hole Abbey here in Brighton. Tuesday mornings at the big fish market is where the deals occur, according to Dame Rumour. I’ve seen Mr. Bolger there from time to time when I was out picking up a bit of turbot for dinner. That was when I lived in a flat. I’ve given that up now that I’m no longer young. As Bolger died suddenly on a Monday evening, and Mad Jack had been active recently, I expect he had his latest cache hidden in the house.”
Black had been listening closely and said, “The likeliest fellow to know he had this loot is Mad Jack, since that’s who he usually bought from.”
Weir nodded. “Now that is interesting, sir. ‘Twas just the Saturday night before his death that the Duchess of Brampton was relieved of her diamonds by Mad Jack. They might have been passed on to Bolger, but he hadn’t had time to sell them. Yes, they could be in that house still.”
“Do you have a description of them?” Luten asked.
“I do indeed. The journals played it up for all it was worth, her being a duchess. A parure, it was called. A great diamond necklace worth thousands with a big pear-shaped diamond suspended in front. It was said to have belonged to some Russian empress.”
“The Czarina Catherine’s necklace!” Prance exclaimed. “You remember, Corinne, I read the article to you when it was in the London journals. It was a wedding gift from the Grand Duke Peter. It was hinted Catherine had given it to one of her many lovers. Brampton bought it for his lady in France.” Prance often told them more than they wanted to know, but in this case they listened with interest.
“Yes, it was stolen less than a month ago,” Corinne said. “You said it was typical that such a lovely thing should end up on such an ugly old lady. The Czarina’s necklace, it was called.”
“That’s it! That’s what they called it,” Weir said, nodding. “It was the talk of the town for a few days, till Prinney arrived with his entourage to give folks something else to talk about. The duchess offered a reward for the diamonds, but then it seems Lloyds agreed to pay up so her grace stopped squawking and went home to her castle, and we heard no more of it.”
“So the Czarina’s necklace is still in the house!” Prance cried in delight. Diamonds, a duchess and an empress! The case had just taken a turn much more to his liking. “No wonder you have thieves breaking in, Coffen. You must set a guard on the place at once.”
Weir frowned and said, “It might not be in its original form. Bolger used to pry out the
stones and sell them separate. Less chance of their being recognized, you see.”
Black nodded. “Then he’d sell the gold mounts separately. There’s a market for that as well.”
Weir gave one of his tee hee’s. “Just so, Mr. Black. You are up to all the rigs.”
Luten said, “but as he’d had the necklace for so short a time, would he have disassembled it before his death?”
“As to that, I couldn’t really say. It wouldn’t take long to do it.”
“I wonder if he did disassemble it. A necklace of historical interest like that would be more valuable in one piece.”
“He would occasionally have some particularly valuable piece that the police were looking for sent to France to sell,” Weir said. “The necklace was valuable all right. Bolger paid over five hundred for it and figured he could sell it for five times that, which means it’s worth ten times five hundred. Over five thousand, I make it. Whether that includes historical interest, I wouldn’t know,” Weir said.
“I don’t care if it’s in a hundred pieces, I’m going to find it myself,” Coffen declared, and arose to leave. Then he remembered he wanted to catch Mary’s murderer and sat down again. “We wanted to find out about a girl called Flora, works at a tourist gift shop. Has a fellow called Henry something.”
“That’s Flora Snoad. She’s taken up with that young blowhard, Henry Cripps. I’d like to know where he gets his blunt, for he’s never done an honest day’s work in his life. Not much to choose between the pair of them. He was used to run errands for the Gentlemen, but he’s left off that and has some new racket,” he sniffed.
“Did Flora’s mother ever do for Mr. Bolger?” Coffen asked. “It would be some time ago.”
“Ida Snoad never did char work, to my knowledge. She was used to be the barmaid in the White Hart a quarter of a century ago. A pretty little thing she was, till the drink took hold of her. She went to meet her maker a year or so ago.”
So Flora was a liar, Coffen noted. “How about Mrs. Beazely?”