Murder's Sad Tale

by Joan Smith

  “I’d seen a pair of sots weaving along ahead of me and was leading them out of the park.”

  “You didn’t catch even a glimpse of the horse?”

  “I seen the rear end and the tail flying. The way it was galloping along, it had to be a good bit of horseflesh, not a jade. And it was dark. Not a white horse, I mean.”

  Coffen gave him a tip and wasted no time getting back into his carriage and out of the Park. He had taken the precaution of hiring a hackney as he knew the Park was no salubrious place to be after dark, and there was no counting on Fritz to get him out of there in a hurry. As it was too late to go to the theatre and too early to go home, he decided to drive around the neighborhood where Russell and Miss Fenwick lived, just to see what was afoot. Russell’s flat was in darkness. No one was coming or going at the building. He’d already been through Russell’s rooms. He continued on toward Miss Fenwick’s building, trying to think of an excuse to call on her.

  A man was lurking in the shadows across the street from Miss Fenwick’s building, staring at a set of windows on the first floor. And Miss Fenwick lived on the first floor. Yes, those were her windows. P’raps he should warn her. By the living jingo, not only an excuse but a reason. He continued watching. Could the fellow be Cooper?

  When he had passed the building, Coffen pulled the drawstring and remained in the hackney, watching. After a few minutes, Cooper — well probably it was Cooper — went into the building. He wasn’t wasting any time courting the widow, or whatever you called the fiancée of a dead man. Prance would know the word for it. And the fellow wasn’t having much luck either. He was back out within two minutes, with his tail between his legs. She’d given him the heave-ho, and no doubt about it. A man didn’t hang his head and shuffle for no reason. He decided to follow Cooper.

  Cooper was walking, which made following him in a cab difficult. Coffen paid off the driver and followed Cooper on foot. He headed for a tavern, as Coffen hoped he would. Where else would a fellow go to drown his sorrows? Coffen followed him into a cozy den, warmed by a blazing hearth and lively without being raucous. The decor consisted of the usual deal tables, fading sporting prints on the wall and dusty pewter plates on the sideboard. The clientele appeared to be clerks, to judge by their ill-cut bluejackets and the fairly subdued voices and the lack of brawling. They weren’t common laborers, and they weren’t the ton, just men that worked with pen and paper.

  Coffen ordered an ale and stood, looking around the room for his quarry. He found him sitting alone at a small table in the corner. There were a few empty tables, but the place was full enough that Coffen felt he could ask Cooper if he minded sharing his table.

  Cooper just shrugged his indifference and Coffen sat down. Cooper was the picture of misery. He was a small fellow, not good looking, though not downright ugly either. Dark hair, dark eyes a little closer together than the ideal. In fact they gave him a sneaky air. A nice enough nose and lean cheeks. Coffen had the knack of talking to ordinary people. He couldn’t find much to say to ladies or princes or nabobs, but with the common man, he had no trouble.

  “Bit of a chilly night out there,” he said.

  “I didn’t notice,” Cooper said.

  “Windy. I nearly lost my hat. Just dropped in here to warm my toes. You live nearby?”

  “Not far away,” Cooper said vaguely, and added nothing to get the ball rolling. Coffen began to suspect the man might be in his cups. Either that or he was pretending to be so he wouldn’t have to talk.

  “You seem a little down,” Coffen ventured, and gave a small smile, encouraging the man to share his misery.

  “You would be too if— Oh never mind.” He batted his hand, as if swatting away a fly. “It’s a personal matter.”

  “Sounds like woman trouble to me. They can be the very devil,” he said with a commiserating tsk.

  “It’s men that are the devils,” Cooper said, with the first sign of emotion. He took a long drink and fell silent again. Then he set down his glass. “Sorry if I’m not much company tonight. I just have a — a personal problem to think about.”

  “Might help to talk about it,” Coffen offered, but in no pressing way.

  “Won’t help me get her back.”

  “Ah, you’ve lost your lady friend.”

  “The love of my life,” Cooper said, and waved his glass to signal the waiter he wanted another glass of ale. Good! Get a few more glasses down his gullet and he’d spill his story. “I’m in love with a lady — a real lady. And she was falling in love with me, until he came along with his demmed gallantry and his carriage and his stories. I tried to tell her he was no good.”

  “Blinded by his charms,” Coffen nodded.

  “Oh aye, he could be charming enough to the ladies. They were all after him. A regular heart-breaker.”

  Coffen’s ears perked up at this. Had he just discovered another possible murder suspect? “Any heart in particular?” he asked.

  “You might say that Miss Barker — but it wouldn’t do to carry tales. What chance had a mere bookkeeper against him? My family has no grand estate, I’ve never been to Paris or even Ascot. I don’t rub shoulders with lords and ladies. To hear him talk you’d think he was royalty himself. But the fact is, he was shamming it, Mr. — “

  Caught off-guard as he was filing away that “Miss Barker” for future consideration, Coffen decided it might be wise to give a false name. He rapidly searched about for a name and came up with Reg’s. “Prance is the name,” he said, and stuck out his hand.

  Cooper gave his hand a wrench. “Pleased to meet you. Name’s Cooper.”

  “A bookkeeper, you mentioned?” Coffen said. “That’s your line of work?”

  “Yes, I work for a living. A mere mortal, unlike that lying, cheating scoundrel — Ah well, he’s dead now.” He shook his head in angry frustration.

  “Really? You don’t say. Got what was coming to him, eh? What happened?”

  “Shot to death, as he deserved.”

  “Murdered! That’s a caution. Who did it?”

  Cooper let go of his ale long enough to toss up his hands. “I don’t know, Mr. Prance, and I don’t care. He’s dead, and she still won’t have me.”

  “Word to the wise, Mr. Cooper, you mustn’t rush your fences. Give her time to settle down, get over him. Er, about who did him in, he had a host of enemies I fancy, a cur like that.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, Mr. Prance. I wouldn’t be surprised at all.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t take a shot at him yourself.”

  Cooper’s shoulders sagged. “If I was a better man, I would have called him out. He lied to her, Mr. Prance. He wasn’t a rich man, as he led us to believe. Oh he had some way of getting money, but it wasn’t a regular income that came on quarter day, like a gentleman. Cards, I’d say, by his collection of IOU’s. He knew nothing about business or investments. I tried to tell her no safe investment paid ten percent, but she wouldn’t listen to me. Thank goodness she did speak to her own man of business and he advised her against Russell’s trumped-up investment plan. Something to do with shipping. But Russell didn’t give up. He explained that away and came up with some other havey-cavey business to get his hands on her money.”

  Coffen nodded, thinking of that house on Grosvenor Square Miss Fenwick had mentioned. He took note as well that it must have been Cooper who called at Russell’s flat posing as his brother, or how did he know about those IOU’s?

  “I tried to catch him at it, but he was too sly for me,” Cooper continued. “I’m too timid. I should have charged him to his face, but that would have meant a duel. Shooting and duels — that’s no work for a bookkeeper. He’d have killed me. And she wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “Any idea where he was getting this money, Mr. Cooper?”

  Mr. Cooper’s close-set eyes glinted with malice. “Cherchez la femme, Mr. Prance,” he said. “I’d wager that was his line of business, diddling women out of their money.” He lifted his glass and f
ound it empty.

  “Have another,” Coffen suggested. “My treat.”

  “Best not or I’ll be no good at work tomorrow. Nice chatting to you, Mr. Prance.” He stood up, took his modest greatcoat with only one cape from the back of his chair and put it on, picked his curled beaver up off the floor and walked away on steady legs, not a bit bosky.

  Coffen waited a moment and followed him out. Cooper was half a block away, just turning a corner. Coffen followed him at a discreet distance, having trouble to keep up with him. He soon realized Cooper was heading in the direction of Russell’s flat. P’raps they were neighbors. Cooper turned the corner again and by the time Coffen got there, Cooper had disappeared, probably into one of the small houses on the street. He wasted a few minutes walking up and down, trying to decide which house — they all had lamps lit — but decided it didn’t really matter.

  Nothing to do but head home. Now where the deuce was he? He turned around and headed for North Audley, where he hoped to hail a hackney. After two blocks he realized he was going in the wrong direction and reversed his direction. This route took him past Russell’s building again and as he approached it, he saw someone turn in. One of the lodgers, no doubt. If he hustled he could have a word with him. He might have something to say about Russell. He increased his pace, and saw the man was not only wearing a hat but carrying another in his hand. As he drew nearer, he saw the man had not entered the walkway to the front door. He had gone down along the side of the building.

  He looked down the dark alleyway between the two buildings, but the man had disappeared. The walls of the two buildings weren’t more than four feet apart. There were no trees or bushes he could have hidden behind. A waste of time, the fellow must have been taking a short cut. He was just turning around to go back on to the street when he heard the tinkle of breaking glass. By the living jingo, the fellow was a ken smasher! And if he had his bearings, that could be Russell’s flat he was breaking into. He hurried along and saw the broken window, and a pair of legs sticking out of it as the housebreaker went in, head first.

  Housebreakers did keep an eye on death notices to learn when a house or flat might be empty and open for pilfering. No doubt that was the answer. He’d wait and nab the fellow as he came out. Funny thing, though, the man didn’t look like a ken-smasher. He wore a decent coat and curled beaver.

  Coffen went forward and by standing on his tiptoes he could see in at the broken window to Russell’s living room. The fellow had lit a lamp. He held it high, with his back to the window so he couldn’t get a look at his face. The man was looking around, as if deciding what to snitch. But he didn’t take anything — not that there was much to take. He placed the hat he’d been carrying on the sofa then looked all around, picked up a few items and set them down again.

  Then he blew out the lamp and Coffen heard him coming back toward the window. He ducked to the back of the house and watched. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The man who came out of the window feet first was Cooper! He hadn’t taken anything. He’d gone in and left a hat on Russell’s sofa. Now what the devil — Coffen couldn’t make heads or tails of it — unless Cooper was planting some evidence to try to involve someone else in the murder. He hadn’t come straight here from the tavern. He’d only had the one hat there. He must have gone home — or somewhere — to get it, so it must be important to Cooper.

  Coffen knew he wouldn’t sleep a wink that night if he didn’t get a look at that hat. The window was already broken and waiting for him. He wouldn’t even need a light. He’d just nip in, get the hat off the sofa and get out again. The only little difficulty was that he tore the knee of his trousers on broken glass and destroyed a good handkerchief sopping up the blood on his hand where he cut it getting in. But he got the hat! He couldn’t get a good look at it in the darkness, so he went out, hailed a hackney and headed home.

  Chapter Eight

  “I don’t blame Cooper for wanting to get rid of it,” Prance announced, whirling the hat around on his fingers and sneering at it, when Coffen took it over to show Corinne the next morning.

  Reg had seen Luten calling on her as he usually did before leaving for the House. He wouldn’t have intruded on them for the world, but when he saw Coffen darting over he decided their privacy was at an end and he might as well go and see what was afoot or he wouldn’t be able to give his full attention to Lorraine’s perils at St. Justin’s Abbey.

  “And you say Cooper planted this clue in Russell’s flat?” Luten asked, frowning at the absurdity of it.

  “Broke a window to do it, so it must be important,” Coffen replied, sniffing the air appreciatively. No food was in evidence, not even coffee, but the tantalizing aroma of gammon and toast lingered, to set his empty stomach roiling.

  “Obviously out to slander Russell’s reputation as a swell,” Reg sniffed. He turned the hat over and grimaced at the greasy band inside, then took a closer look. “Whoever wore this abomination used oil in his hair. P’raps it’s the style in Bedford.”

  “Why Bedford?” Coffen demanded.

  “That’s where the hat was made, or at least sold. The label says ‘The Brinks Hat Emporium, Bedford.’ Well, we knew it wasn’t a Baxter.”

  “The question is,” Luten said, “whose hat is it? Cooper would hardly plant one of his own hats in Russell’s fiat to call attention to himself. It could belong to Russell. He would have been wearing a hat the night he was killed in the park. I wonder if this is the one. And if so, how did Cooper come by it, unless he was there?”

  “Killed him, you mean?” Corinne asked.

  “Why carry the hat home if he murdered Russell? The murderer might have left it behind. Cooper kept a pretty sharp eye on Russell. If he followed him that night, saw the murderer, noticed he left his hat behind, he might have picked it up and taken it to Russell’s flat hoping to involve the man.”

  “Mickey would have noticed,” Coffen said. “He didn’t mention anyone else being there.”

  “Mickey was in a hurry. He might have missed the hat. Cooper stayed behind and picked it up later. It’s just one possibility. I’ll drop Townsend a note at the Bow Street office, ask if the corpse was accompanied by a hat when it was picked up.”

  “Let us know as soon as you can,” Coffen said. “If it wasn’t found on Russell’s head, my bet would be that Mickey filched it, but I don’t see how Cooper ended up with it, or why he’d take it back to Russell’s place.”

  Luten frowned at the hat and said, “Mickey seems a wide-awake scamp, and not too nice as regards probity. If he saw the murder, might he not have managed to follow Cooper home to try his hand at blackmail? The hat would confirm Mickey had been there, and presumably seen the whole thing. But it still doesn’t explain why Cooper took it to Russell’s flat.”

  “If that’s the way it was, the bleeder’s been lying his head off, holding out on me, and after I gave him a golden boy for his help,” Coffen said angrily. “I must say, from the way Cooper was talking, I don’t think he’d have the nerve to kill a fly.”

  “And would a mere link-boy be brave enough to confront a murderer in any case?” Corinne asked.

  “Ho, you don’t know him,” Coffen said. “He’d confront a herd of lions for a few bob.”

  “Pride,” Prance said.

  “Greed is more like it,” Coffen said.

  “A pride of lions,” Prance said, “a herd of elephants or cattle.”

  “And a swarm of bees, but there were no animals there other than the murderer’s mount, so what’s your point?” Coffen demanded.

  “Accuracy,” Prance replied. “Never mind.”

  Corinne took the hat and studied it. “I doubt this is Russell’s hat,” she said. “It’s old and not at all stylish. Russell had a reputation as a bit of a dandy. Yet if it’s not Russell’s hat but Cooper’s, then he’d hardly plant a clue pointing to himself, so it must belong to someone else.”

  Coffen considered this a moment, then said, “Luten’s already said that. What’s yo
ur point?”

  “Perhaps he’s trying to involve some other suitor for Miss Fenwick. You don’t think him capable of murder, Coffen, but would he be capable of a stunt like that?”

  “That sounds more his style,” Coffen said. “I’d say he’s mad enough about Miss Fenwick to try anything that doesn’t demand physical nerve.”

  “You might have a word with Mrs. Ballard, Corinne,” Luten suggested. “See if any other suitors had their noses out of joint. And show her the hat, see if she recognizes it.”

  “This is thirsty work,” Coffen said, casting a hopeful glance at his hostess. She took the hint and rang for Black, who soon came with coffee and a plate of scones.

  They continued discussing the case over coffee. Coffen filled them in on the details of his meeting with Cooper. Luten congratulated him, urged him to keep up the good work, then rose to leave.

  “Are we doing anything tonight?” Reg asked, rising with Luten to return to his labors.

  “Lady Dunn has invited Luten and me to a small rout party she’s having,” Corinne replied. “Luten is trying to twist Grafton’s arm to vote for some plot he’s hatching in the House, and says we must go.”

  “We’ll just drop in for an hour,” Luten said.

  Reginald decided to remain behind when Luten left. He didn’t like to ask in front of him if Byron had been invited to this little rout party, but as soon the front door closed, he said in an offhand manner, “Who else is attending this soiree?”

  “I don’t know, Reg,” she said. “Luten thinks the Melbournes will be there. She might have invited Byron.”

  “That’s what he’s trying to find out,” Coffen said. “Cheer up, Reg. There might be an invite for you in the mail.”

  “Me? I scarcely know the lady, and wasn’t particularly taken with her,” Reg said with a dismissing bat of his hand.

  “You’ve met her then?” Coffen said.

  “At that do at Melbourne’s place.” To change the subject, he said, “Coffen is waiting for you to quiz Mrs. Ballard about the hat, Corinne.”