by Joan Smith
“We ain’t talking about a bunch of foreigners that kill for the sport of it, Prance,” Coffen said. “Killing Mary was a real murder.”
Before Prance could argue his point, Black set down his knife and fork and said, “My own feeling, for what it’s worth, is that most of our suppositions and suspicions are right. What we haven’t given much thought to is Mad Jack. He’s the only one knows for sure that Bolger ever had the necklace — if he ever did have it, that’s to say. Would Flora and Henry know Bolger was his fence?”
“I believe they might know it,” Luten said. “Weir spoke of the deals being done at the fish market as if it were an open secret. I think the actual residents of Brighton, as opposed to the summer visitors and tourists, would know.”
“Ask Partridge,” Coffen suggested.
“I will,” Luten said. As if on cue, Partridge came in to see if it was time to clear the plates and Luten asked him. “Oh aye,” Partridge said, “We all know about Alfie Snow. He’s the man to go to at the market if you’re after something other than fish. He’ll give you the best price. He don’t just deal in stolen goods either. My own brother uses him as a pawn broker when he has to lay his watch on the shelf.”
“Thank you, Partridge,” Luten said, handing him his empty plate. “We must have a word with Alfie Snow. It would be interesting if the Czarina’s necklace has already passed through his hands.”
Partridge uttered a discreet “Ahem.” Luten looked at him in surprise. “It hasn’t,” Partridge said. “The necklace — Alfie never got hold of it. The reason I know, Mrs. Snow happened to be regretting to the wife that she was counting on the sale of it for a new spring outfit, but Alfie never got it. Since Mad Jack don’t deal with Alfie direct, he might have arranged the sale without it passing through Bolger’s hands, seeing as it was so special. Mad Jack would have connections abroad, as you might say.”
“Thank you, Partridge,” Luten said, biting back a grin. Such an unwarranted intrusion ought, of course, to be discouraged, but manners were more lax here in his holiday home. And he was interested to hear what Partridge had to say.
“The fact that Alfie didn’t get them doesn’t mean Mad Jack didn’t pass them along to Bolger,” Corinne said. “I think it more likely Bolger did have them, and fell off that ladder before he could take them to the market.”
“We’re working in the dark, fashioning up misshapen bricks without straw,” Luten scowled. “We don’t even know for sure what Flora and Henry are after.”
He was loudly talked down by the others, especially Prance, who insisted that the Czarina’s necklace featured in the case, though he didn’t give his real reason. Otherwise what did the case consist of? Coffen’s crooked uncle, a murdered trollop, a smuggling brother, a shop girl and a scoundrel called Henry Cripps.
“We know they’re after something,” Black pointed out, “or why did she jump like a startled hare and all but ask me if we’d found it?”
Coffen said. “Well what I know for sure is that the bounders have killed Mary and invaded my house, and I can’t think of a single thing I can do about it. I just keep waiting for the other foot to drop.”
“Shoe,” Prance said automatically.
Coffen gave him a sharp look. “Eh? Shoo who?”
“No, Coffen. Not shoe who. Other shoe to drop.”
“That’s what I said. I’m just waiting, and I can’t think of a thing to do.”
Corinne said rather sharply, “You aren’t going to do anything, Coffen. Someone is trying to kill you.”
“I could devise a disguise for you,” Prance offered. He was active in amateur dramatics and had a large store of costumes.
“Your outfits are all in London,” Coffen said.
Finding this chatter futile, Black reverted to real business. “If, as Partridge suggested, the necklace has already been sold in France, Scraggs would know. I could go back to the tavern and have a word with Catchpole. Find out if Scraggs is back yet and beat it out of him. It’d be helpful to know, one way or t’other.”
“Do it by all means, Black,” Luten said. “Every little fact helps. For the meanwhile we’ll work with our suspicions. Keep a sharp eye on Flora and the house and catch her if she tries to get in. We must check up on her beau, Henry Cripps, as well. We don’t know much about him.”
“It’s a pity Townsend isn’t here,” Corinne said, naming the most famous officer of the Bow Street Runners, who often gave them a hand when they were working in London. She turned to her husband. “Is there any point talking to Brown? Weir called him in at the time of Bolger’s death.”
“I don’t expect it will help,” Luten said, “but I’ll do it. I’ll try Mrs. Beazely again this evening as well.”
“Is there anything I could be doing?” Prance asked. When no one came up with a suggestion, he said, “Then why don’t I take Corrie to visit the gardens this afternoon, Luten? What a flat time she is having, and this was supposed to be a holiday.”
“Yes, I would like to see the gardens,” she said. “The roses should be at their peak. But what about Coffen? Does he have to stay inside on a fine day like this?”
Luten looked at his wife and noticed she did look rather pale. She hadn’t been quite herself lately. This was supposed to be a holiday, and thus far they’d done no more than take a few country drives.
“We shall visit a costumer and find a disguise for Coffen!” Prance said, happy to give a helpful air to the outing. He always had some sense the others felt he wasn’t quite doing his share.
“How do you feel about a beard, Coffen?” Corinne asked.
“A dashed crumb catcher? A nuisance.”
“No worse than having the crumbs on your jacket,” Prance said. “We’ll get you a pair of crutches as well. No one but a cur would attack a man on crutches.”
“They’d make a dandy weapon,” Coffen allowed.
“Not as good as a pistol,” Black said. “If you do go out, make sure you have a pistol in your pocket.”
They continued their discussion till lunch was over, at which time Prance said, “Well then, we are all set for the afternoon. We shall see what else besides the beard and crutches we can find for you, Coffen. A different hat at least. You certainly require a new hat, as your curled beaver has that hole in the brim. We’ll get a black hat, and perhaps a black suit to make you out a clergyman. Not even a cur would attack a lame clergyman.”
The group dispersed on their various errands and outings. Black learned from Catchpole that Scraggs wasn’t back from France yet. Luten learned nothing from Brown that he hadn’t already heard from Weir, but was treated to a generous offer to help in any way he could. Corinne and Prance admired the roses and visited a tearoom before going to the costume shop, where they selected a red beard and various theatrical creams for darkening the skin colour. When Corinne pointed out that a man with dark skin wasn’t likely to have a red beard, they changed the red beard for black, and bought a black wig to go with it. The shop didn’t have any crutches or a hat that Prance felt suitable. Corinne became bored with his quibbling and began looking at the masquerade costumes. She and Luten must have a ball in the autumn little season, as they hadn’t done so in the spring, and she was thinking of making it a masquerade ball.
Two of Prance’s friends came into the shop looking for costumes and Prance asked them what play they were putting on.
“A musical comedy featuring Nell Gwynn and Charles II,” Boo Carruthers said. “You must join us. We haven’t cast Lord Buckhurst yet. You’d be perfect!”
“Who is playing pretty, witty Nell?” Prance asked.
“Lady Anne Gore,” said Boo’s friend, Tony.
“Oh, really?” Prance lifted an eyebrow to show his inability to muster any enthusiasm for Lady Anne, who was neither pretty nor witty, but had been an ape leader for years.
“I know,” Boo said, “but she’s letting us stage it at her papa’s house. A lovely big ballroom that will hold close to two hundred. Tony is playing Charles
Hart.”
“And who is doing the Duchess of Portsmouth?”
“Cissy St. Clair. I know, with that charming gamin way of hers she should be Nell, but we were at our wits’ end for a place to stage the play. We’re rehearsing chez moi, but my drawing room wouldn’t hold a hundred.”
Cissy St. Clair was not sufficient lure to attract Prance, whose one great love had been an exotic French beauty, the Comtesse Chamaude, who had been murdered. “I’m afraid I shan’t be able to get away. The BB is working on a rather important case at the moment,” he said, with a great air of mystery. His friends recognized BB to refer to the Berkeley Brigade and were every bit as impressed as he meant them to be.
“No! Tell us all about it.”
Prance tapped his finger against his nose. “Afraid I can’t, but I shall just mention it involves a duchess, an empress and an incomparable diamond parure.”
“The Czarina’s necklace!” Boo squealed. “Did you hear that, Tony? Do tell us more, Reg.”
“I shouldn’t have said that much. Mind you this is strictly entre nous. Don’t breathe a word, or it might result in international squabbles.”
“What an exciting life you lead, Reg,” Boo said with a sigh. “I’m jealous as a green cow. But you’ll join us for dinner. We shan’t discuss a thing but this comedy. Promise! There’s loads more to tell. I’m doing the libretto. I could use your suggestions.” They gave the time and place.
“I daresay the BB can spare me for a few hours. I shall just ask Lady Luten if her esposo needs me tonight.”
When consulted, Corinne said, “You might as well go, Reg. We have nothing planned, but don’t go telling your friends about this case.”
“Fear not. They just want my advice on the libretto for a little amateur musical they’re staging.”
“Go then, we’re on holiday after all. Just let us know where you’ll be, in case anything comes up.”
Prance informed his friends that he would attend, but might just possibly be called away due to important BB matters.
It was Coffen, spending the afternoon with Mrs. Partridge in the kitchen, who had the most fruitful afternoon. She had lived in Brighton all her life, and knew all about the various characters involved in the present case.
“Henry Cripps was born bad and didn’t improve with age,” she said, wiping the flour from her hands on to her apron. “He was always a bully, beating up the younger boys in school and snatching women’s purses before he reached his teens. A few years ago he went off to take the King’s shilling in the army to avoid gaol. He came home a year ago with his arm in a sling saying he was wounded in the Peninsula, but the rumour is he was discharged with a bad record — running away, or stealing from the army I shouldn’t wonder. Always a coward, beneath his blowing and blustering.”
“Does he work at all?”
“Not what you’d call real work. They say he’s handy with a deck of cards. He’s wise enough to only fleece tourists, so he gets away with it. No one local is fool enough to sit down for a game with him. I’ve seen him about town with a fellow called Jasper. I don’t know a lot about him. He’s not a local, but he seems to have some money. He bought a big spread north of town.”
“Henry sounds a thoroughly bad apple. How about this Flora Snoad?”
“That trollop!” she scolded, clattering a pan into the oven. “There’s a match made in hell. Another one that thinks the world owes her a living. Well, her mama served ale in a tavern.”
“Flora works, though, in that tourist shop.”
“The only reason she took the job is to meet tourists — male tourists. You can imagine for what purpose! I don’t know why she keeps on now that she’s nabbed Henry. I suppose they need the money, and it’s not hard work. Her and Mary Scraggs were a fine pair, and you’re well out of any doings with Mary, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Pattle.”
Coffen’s ears perked up at this. “Some connection between Mary and Flora, was there?”
“They’re all mixed up together. Flora was seeing Willie Scraggs at one time, and Mary was dangling after Henry before Flora got her hands on him. Mary hadn’t a chance against her. Flora’s like Henry. Cunning and mean and lazy, no real bottom to them. She’d stop at nothing. Try one of these scones just out of the oven, Mr. Pattle. I put in some raisins, especially for you.”
They shared a cup of tea and scones while Coffen told her all about their last case, in which he had posed as the Duchess of Clare’s footman to catch the thieves and murderers.
“You’d ought to dress up like Luten’s footman here, Mr. Pattle, and folks wouldn’t be shooting at you. No one looks twice at a servant in livery. Brighton’s full of them since the Prince built his castle here.”
“That’s a dandy idea, Mrs. Partridge. I wonder now if Luten has a suit that would fit me.”
“Of course he has. Lamprey was just your build. When he died a few years ago, Partridge put his outfit up in camphor in a trunk in the attic. I’ll have him bring it down and I’ll press it up for you.”
She went to the back door and called Partridge, who was out spraying the roses. Partridge darted up to the attic and was soon down with the outfit. “There,” she said, holding the jacket against Coffen to try it for size. “Looks just about right, and the dark green will help hide your — that is, it suits you. It’ll have to be aired out and pressed.”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry. Just press it. Camphor don’t stink much.”
Coffen retired to the garden with another cup of tea and some sporting magazines until the job was done. A trace of camphor was still detectable at close range. He’d borrow some of Black’s lavender water. When Corinne and Prance returned with their purchases, Coffen said, “Thankee, Prance, but I don’t need them. I’m going to become a footman”
Prance’s “Whose footman?” and Corinne’s “What an excellent idea!” came out at the same time.
“Luten’s,” Pattle said, answering Prance.
“What about all these things I bought for you? I paid good money for them,” Prance objected.
“You can take them back, or keep them for your next play,” Coffen said. “I’ll pay you for them. How much?” The bill was settled, Prance kept the stage items and went back to the hotel, pondering what play could make use of the beard and wig and face paints.
Black and Luten met up in town and returned to Marine Parade together. Coffen greeted them at the door dressed as a footman. From the corner of his eye Luten noticed the familiar dark green livery and said, “Where’s Evans?”
“It’s me!” Coffen said, laughing. “Mrs. Partridge was right. No one looks at a servant.”
“Good lord, Coffen!” Luten said, blinking.
He and Black approved of the plan for Coffen to dress as a liveried servant. The two were invited to remain for dinner and the Lutens enjoyed the novel experience of dining with what looked like one of their servants.”
“We should have invited Prance to join us,” Luten said. “His nose will be out of joint.”
“No, he met some London friends at the costume shop and planned to dine with them as we aren’t busy,” Corinne said. “I have the address, if you think we need him?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Luten said.
Pattle told them what he had learned from Mrs. Partridge about the tangled relationship between Mary, Flora, Willie and Henry. “Plenty of ill will to go around,” he finished, “but I don’t see that it helps us much.”
After dinner Black returned to their hotel, accompanied by Coffen in the livery. Luten sat with his wife until twilight, when he went to make another call on Mrs. Beazely. She agreed with Mrs. Partridge’s assessment of Henry Cripps and Flora. She too had seen Henry about with a new fellow, a handsome rogue, who had come to town a few years ago with his pockets to let and had soon bought some big property by the water outside of town. A handy spot for a bit of smuggling. “It wouldn’t surprise me much if he was one of the Gentlemen,” she said with a wise nod.
&nb
sp; “A friend of Willie Scraggs, then?” Luten suggested, wondering if the Gentlemen were involved in their present case.
“I’ve never seen them together,” she said.
He thanked her and went home to muse over what they had learned that day.
Chapter Fifteen
Black and Coffen made a detour to Nile Street to see that Fitz and Raven were performing their duties. Raven heard the curricle coming, which gave him time to hide the ale he’d got at the tavern and run back to his proper post at the rear of the house. Black unlocked the front door and he and Pattle went inside for a look around. Finding everything in order, Coffen said, “What now, Black? It’s too early to go back to the hotel. Where can we go with me dressed like this, letting on I’m your footman?”
Black liked very well the idea of appearing in public accompanied by a liveried servant, but he knew that a gentleman did not go out for an evening’s entertainment with his footman. You certainly couldn’t visit a low dive with a footman in tow, nor a really fancy place either. “Some small tavern out of town catering to tourists and travelers seems the likeliest spot,” he suggested. “The thing to do, I’ll go into a tavern and after a few minutes you come in as if you have a message for me. That way it won’t look so odd. Once we’re seated in a dark corner, who’s to notice what you’re wearing?”
“There’s an idea. Let us drive along and see if we can find a place. Go west, towards Shoreham. I seem to recall there’s an outdoor garden at one of the inns there. The fussier types won’t be sitting outdoors. You’d best drive as you’re my employer tonight.”
“It might look better that way,” Black agreed, happy that he hadn’t had to suggest it himself. They stopped at the Shoreham Inn, a small, inelegant establishment five miles from town, and Black took a table in the garden. On a fine night with the breeze not unpleasantly chilly he was fortunate to find the last free table. Many of the tables were occupied by groups of young men and their sweethearts, out for a night’s wooing. Black’s discerning eye pegged half the men as country gentlemen, half as dandies aspiring to be taken as gents. None of the women dressed or behaved like ladies. After a few moments, Coffen came in and handed him a piece of paper. Black opened it as if it were a note, motioned him to sit down and when the waiter came, he ordered ale. “Make it two. You might as well join me, Higgins,” he said in a kindly way to Coffen.