by Joan Smith
His valet had come up with a stunning new arrangement of the cravat. They were still deciding on a name. Prance rather fancied the Vortex in honor of the way the linen formed diminishing circles. Absolute sleight of hand, the way Villier had achieved it. His valet held fast to the notion of naming it the Villier, after himself, and had taken to pouting, which meant he would soon be in the boughs and performing minor acts of sabotage on his master’s wardrobe if his wish were not granted. As Villier pointed out, all his other articles of clothing were named after their creators. His jacket was named after the premier tailor of London, Weston, his hat was a Baxter and his boots were Hobys.
Prance sighed and smoothed the Weston over his narrow chest. He decided to throw caution to the wind and ran across the street with only a scarf--a rich mulberry merino to contrast with Weston’s blue superfine--wound around his neck, the two ends flapping jauntily over his shoulders like woolen wings. Unfortunately none of his neighbors were out to admire him but Black, Corinne’s butler, knew some compliment was expected of him and gently chided the caller for his daring, wearing only that lovely scarf in the dead of winter.
“You’ll catch your death, out without a coat in this weather, Sir Reginald,” Black scolded. “You young bucks — I wonder you survive at all.”
Prance was not fooled by the sympathetic smile on the old phony’s face, but as a seasoned theatre-goer, he appreciated the effort. Black, a felon of some sort before he was reclaimed by Corinne’s late husband, had become an integral part of her household, even weaseling his way into their various murder cases when he could. And he had certainly been a great help at Newstead Abbey.
As far as Black was concerned, his major duties were listening at keyholes and monitoring the comings and goings of the Berkeley Brigade, to keep her ladyship informed. It was no secret to Prance that the butler was foolishly in love with his mistress, but as Black knew enough to keep his passion on a short leash, he was tolerated.
“They’re in the salon,” Black said, letting Sir Reginald show himself in.
Prance stood a moment at the doorway, admiring the lovely little drawing room he had contrived for Corinne, before surveying the little group gathered around the leaping flames of the grate. Corinne and Luten made a stunning couple, both dark-haired and handsome. Corinne’s ivory skin and black hair led the unimaginative to compare her to a cameo. The comparison didn’t begin to do her justice. It was those green eyes and the lively Irish charm that were the making of her. And of course the tall, elegant figure did marvelous things to a gown, though she usually marred the effect by too much ornamentation. A severe style would show her off to better advantage.
Most of all he admired her voice, that he often compared to a cello played in a velvet tunnel, once Brummell had come up with the felicitous phrase.
She glanced up and smiled. “Come in, Reg. We have a new case and you are just the man to help us.”
He had been hoping someone would notice the Vortex and even more had been looking forward to talking about his novel, but when she appealed to him in this manner, he was putty in her hands.
Coffen snorted. “He won’t care for it. No princes or kings. Not even a lord or lady.”
Prance ignored this truth, that made him appear a climber, which he certainly was not. He just happened to prefer a civilized lack and gentlemen murderers. He wafted into the room. “Tell me all,” he said, and lifting his coattails, he perched on the arm of her chair.
Luten outlined the case, with frequent interruptions and additions from Coffen. In truth, Prance found the whole thing amazingly dull. An aging spinster from Manchester and a gazetted fortune hunter from God alone knew where. There seemed very little possibility of drawing his friend and idol, Lord Byron, into it either. As it was Mrs. Ballard who had sought their help, however, they obviously meant to have a go.
“Pray, how did you imagine I could be of help in this?” he asked, biting his tongue on the words “tawdry affair” that leapt to mind.
“You wasn’t listening,” Coffen said. “Art, music, plays — that’s your line of goods. You ever hear of this Russell fellow? James Russell.”
“The name rings no bells, sorry.”
“You could ask your chums,” Coffen pointed out.
“I shall mention it, certainly. What did he do for a living? Was he connected with a theater or museum or gallery? That might help.”
Coffen said, “He didn’t work. Miss Fenwick was put out when we asked. Said he was a gentleman.”
“And living in an unkempt flat. No visible means of support, in other words,” Prance sniffed. “What does he look like?”
Strangely, this hadn’t occurred to them. Prance shook his head at such a blatant omission.
“Call Mrs. Ballard. She’ll know,” Luten suggested.
“I’ll go ask her,” Corinne said. She well knew how Mrs. Ballard disliked to have to sit with her friends. She was soon back with the description. “Tall, dark and handsome,” she reported. “No moles or scars, no special oddities of dress. In his mid-forties.”
“That could be anyone,” Prance said with a shrug. “Well, any one of hundreds, or thousands. What does the word ‘handsome’ mean to a spinster from Manchester? A picture would help.”
“It seems Miss Fenwick has one,” Corinne said. “He gave her an ivory miniature for her birthday. I daresay she won’t want to part with it. She treasures her little tokens from him, but at least we could see it.”
“Would it be possible for Mrs. Ballard to borrow it?” Prance asked. He had no interest in paying a call on the commoner himself.
“I’ll ask her,” Corinne said.
Coffen, who had continued rooting through his batch of papers, said, “Here’s something.” He arose from the little desk in the corner and brought the bit of paper to their unofficial leader, Luten, though Coffen did most of the actual investigating himself, and loved every minute of it. “A note,” he explained to the others.
“What does it say?” Corinne asked, peering over Luten’s shoulder to read it aloud. “Tonight, ten o’clock at Green Park. Bring it with you.” She looked all around to see what they made of this curt missive.
“It’s in a lady’s hand,” Luten said.
Prance reached out and took the little slip of paper. “That spidery writing does have a feminine air about it.” He sniffed the paper. “No scent.”
Coffen scowled. “What do you mean, no sense? It’s plain as day he went to meet her at Green Park and she shot him.”
“What I said was ‘no scent’,” Prance explained with weary patience. “No smell, in other words.”
“It smells pretty fishy to me,” Coffen insisted.
“It isn’t even dated,” Prance pointed out. “The appointment might have been for last month for all we know.”
“It’s not likely he’d have more than one meeting in Green Park in the dead of winter. It’s freezing there. Since it’s where he was killed, I say it’s from his murderer.”
“Oh well, if you say so! And by the way, it’s murderess, if the note’s from a woman,” Prance said.
“Don’t be tarsome, Reg. You know what I mean. What it doesn’t tell us is what ‘it’ is. What he was supposed to take to her. And I shouldn’t be surprised if it explains what Russell was living on. These papers show he was pretty deep into dun territory. Bills from everyone — including his landlord and Newman’s Stable. I was hoping to find a name on some of his IOU’s but they’re just initialed and even that’s hard to read. All for small sums. Don’t come to a monkey added together.” He examined a few of the chits, frowning and muttering various letters.
“You mean he was blackmailing someone,” Luten said. “He was selling something to whoever he met in the park that night.”
“Exactly. The way I see it, that was his invisible means of support Reg was talking about. And it must have been pretty important to lure him out to a dark, cold, lonely park in the dead of night.”
“Important to the wri
ter not to be seen as well,” Prance said. “Well, until we get the picture from Miss Fenwick, I don’t see what can be done.” He tossed up his hands, as if discarding the whole case.
Coffen just stared at such a lack of imagination. “There’s all kinds of things to be done. We have a scene of the crime to look into, and a kooey bono and the other whisters to talk to.”
“If the man had no money or estate, the only cui bono in the case is the blackmailee,” Prance pointed out, and scowled to find himself making as bad a botch of language as Coffen.
“It looks as if we can cross out the notion of an heir doing him in since he hadn’t any money, but there’s still the scene of the crime,” Coffen insisted. “I’m off. Anyone coming with me?”
“You work so well alone,” Prance said.
“In other words you want to sit by the warm fire and give a lecture on your gothic novel. I’m off then.” He waddled out the door.
Prance cast a hopeful smile on Corinne and Luten. “Only if you’re interested, Ça va sans dire.”
“By all means,” Luten said, and immediately closed his ears to consider more important matters of parliament while Prance prosed on about Lady Lorraine and St. Justin’s Abbey. Corinne gazed at him as if fascinated, while wondering which pattern in La Belle Assemblée she should choose for her new gown.
It would be hard to say which of the group was happier when Black stuck his head into the room to say, “Byron’s rig just drew up in front of your place, Sir Reginald. Thought you might like to know.”
Luten’s ears picked up at that name fast enough. He was jealous of his fiancée’s interest in the blasted poet. And to make it worse, the Whigs had put him in charge of beguiling Byron into their shadow cabinet since his stirring speech in the House in defense of the Luddites.
“He’ll want to hear about your novel,” Luten said at once. “Don’t let us keep you, Reg.”
It would have taken the Cavalry to keep Reginald in his seat when Byron was calling on him. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds then,” he said, restraining himself to a trot as he made for the door.
Black had the scarf ready and the front door open. He shook his head and smirked to see the lad hotfoot it across the street. He’d catch his death of cold, the young idiot. Serve him right.
Chapter Five
Prance took a secret delight in stirring up trouble amongst his friends. He admitted to this streak of the rogue in his makeup and preferred his friends to have a flaw in their characters as well. Really life would be unutterably dull if everyone always behaved as he ought.
For his own part he was punctilious about undoing any little harm he had done. His roguish nature easily convinced him to take Byron to call on Corinne. He thought Luten would have left by now but found him still there talking to Mrs. Ballard, who looked as if she’d as lief be in a lions’ den. Prance had no fear of Luten’s wrath, however, as he had a legitimate excuse for bringing this trouble-making poet to call. He would have brought him in any case but Luten didn’t have to know that. He controlled his amusement at the stiff smile Luten forced on to his face and the sparkle in Corinne’s smile.
“Any new developments?” he asked the company, after he and Byron were seated. “Byron knows all about it.”
“We’ve just been discussing what we must do,” Luten said. “We’ll see what Coffen comes up with at Green Park. He’s a good worker. You never know, he might find a clue. This Russell claims to come from Keswick. You have relatives there, Prance. You could write and see what you can learn of Russell.”
“I’ll do it this very night.”
“You said you’d enquire amongst your artistic friends as well.” He turned to include the unwelcome caller in the conversation. “You never heard of this James Russell fellow, Byron? Tall, dark, handsome, in his forties is the description we have.”
“He has!” Prance said. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Really!” Luten was so pleased he actually smiled at his competition.
“I’ve only met the fellow once, don’t really know much about him,” Byron began. “I was working out with a fellow called Grimsby at Jackson’s Boxing Parlour. Grimsby’s written a long poem, apparently a modern version of Milton’s Paradise Lost. He wanted to quiz me about how he should get his work published. We went to a tavern and had a few rounds. While we were there this Russell fellow came in. Grimsby knew him. He’d played cards with the man.”
“Was it at a club?” Corinne asked. “Miss Fenwick mentioned Russell spent time at his club, but she didn’t know what club.”
“I understood it was a private game. I’ve never seen him at any of the clubs.”
“A Captain Sharp is he, this Russell?” Luten asked, to draw Byron’s attention away from Corinne.
“Nothing like that was mentioned,” Byron said, turning to Luten. “Russell was joshing Grimsby about how much money he’d won. Grimsby, I mean. Russell had one ale with us and said he had to leave. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have remembered, but it only happened last week. After he left, Grimsby mentioned Russell was tied to some lady’s apron strings. He hinted the man was after the lady’s fortune. It seems someone was quizzing him about it over that card game I mentioned. That’s really all I know about him.”
Luten nodded. “That gives us a clue as to his character.” Mrs. Ballard, who had been caught unawares by Byron’s arrival, hadn’t managed to escape. She looked as if she would like to say something but she didn’t speak. “Cooper thought the same thing,” he said aside to her. Then added to Byron, “Is Grimsby a respectable sort? What I’m trying to find out is what set Russell traveled in.”
“Grimsby was a Harrow boy, like myself. He’s from a decent family. His grandfather made his fortune in trade, bought himself an estate in Kent and a knighthood. The Grimsby we’re talking about is pretty well to grass, or his father is. Set up a carriage and a team of bays I wouldn’t mind having myself. Grimsby plans to run for parliament — as a Tory, actually. Sorry, Luten. I tried to talk him out of it, but the family’s been true blue for eons. His father sent him to town to meet the right people, learn the ropes. Like any greenhead, Grimsby is running a bit wild and meeting all sorts.”
“Perhaps you could speak to him, see if he knows any more about Russell,” Luten suggested.
“I didn’t get the idea they were friends at all. It was Russell who accosted us. He had to remind Grimsby where they’d met. I’ve no idea where Grimsby lives, but I often see him at Jackson’s. I’m going there this afternoon. I’ll ask Jackson if he knows where I could find him.”
“If you do find him, ask if he happens to know where Russell is from.”
“He’s from Keswick, isn’t he?” Corinne reminded him.
“So he said, but as everything else he told Miss Fenwick is a lie, there’s no reason to believe it. Reg will find out about that.”
“Have you spoken to Miss Fenwick about getting that ivory miniature of Russell?” Prance asked Mrs. Ballard.
“I’ve sent her a note. She replied that she’s unwilling to part with it,” Mrs. Ballard said uncertainly. “She offered to let you see it, however.”
“Getting a hold of it would be better,” Luten said.
“That sounds like a job for you, Byron,” Corinne suggested with a smile that set Luten’s hackles rising. “You have a way with the ladies.” And to judge by the disdainful way Miss Fenwick had looked at Coffen, she’d be bowled over by a visit from Byron.
Mrs. Ballard so far forgot herself as to say, “Oh my yes! I’m sure she would be thrilled to meet Lord Byron.” Then she blushed and immediately invented an errand that got her out of the room.
Byron gave a sheepish grin. “What do you say, Reg? Shall we try our poor charms on Miss Fenwick?”
Going anywhere with Byron was always a treat for Prance. “I doubt you’ll need me," he said, which was no indication he meant to stay behind. He was already rising to be on their way.
After they had left, Corinne said, “Why is it w
e want that likeness of Russell, Luten? Is it just for Prance to show around to his arty friends?”
“That, certainly, and if we end up having to search the countryside, someone could take it around to see if anyone recognizes him. If it turns out there is a James Russell from Keswick, we could show it around there as well, see if their James Russell matches the picture. Russell might be crafty enough to have taken the name of some real person of unsullied reputation.”
“He left at a young age, though.”
“Again, so he said. Personally I doubt he ever set foot in the place. A man who lives by his wits, blackmailing people and chasing fortunes, doesn’t usually want to be traced. In fact, wherever he comes from, I’d be surprised if he isn’t wanted by the law.”
Corinne sighed. “It seems Miss Fenwick is well rid of him. Someone did her a favor when he shot Russell.” She blinked, then frowned and said, “Luten, you don’t think she found about him and shot him herself!”
“Her infatuation appears to be firmly in place.”
“Yes, but I felt her grief was assumed, or exaggerated at least. She wouldn’t have been worrying about not having a new black gown if she really loved him. For that matter her own papa was recently deceased, so she must have something black she could have put on. She would act heartbroken if she had murdered him, wouldn’t she?”
After a frowning pause, he said, “I daresay she would. Do we know anyone in Manchester who could check out her bona fides!”
“I don’t. The others might. I’ll look into it.”
“Mrs. Ballard or some of her friends might know.”
“I’ll ask her. This case is becoming more complicated than we thought.”
“They usually do,” he said with a sigh.
A racket in the hall told them Coffen had returned. The shuffling of feet indicated a little sparring match with Black. No other caller would do that, and manage to knock over the umbrella stand while at it. He entered, rosy-cheeked and pushing his hair out of his eyes while he glanced around to see if the tea tray was in evidence. Finding none, he poured himself a glass of wine and sat down near the grate.