by Joan Smith
Mrs. Ballard shook her head and tsk’d. “One doesn’t like to be unchristian, but I own I was never fond of Mr. Russell. He seemed a very common sort. Loud, you know, bragging, and a little coarse in his humor. I can’t understand what the ladies saw in him. Of course he was rather handsome, if you like that type.”
Corinne knew her companion was on thorns to escape. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask Mrs. Ballard, Coffen?” she said.
“That’s all I can think of. Thanks, Mrs. Ballard.”
She wasn’t tardy to nip off. Luten also took his leave, leaving Coffen free to hint for breakfast. Black had already been busy on his behalf and brought in an egg sandwich and fresh coffee. Coffen thanked him profusely.
As Coffen took his leave later, Black said, “About the limping fellow you’re looking for, Mr. Pattle. I might be able to help you there.”
Naturally Black had had his ear to the door during their conversation. No one knew exactly where the late Lord deCoventry had found Black, but there was a general idea that his background was shady. And the Berkeley Brigade knew from past cases he was sharp as a needle, though not so straight.
“You know him?” Coffen asked eagerly.
“I know half a dozen scoundrels that fit the description. There’s Leo the Gimp, and Hop-along Eddy, and — But you aren’t interested in hearing all that. I’ll make enquiries amongst my friends and see what I can do for you.”
“You’re solid gold, Black! And there’ll be gold in it too, if you come up with the man.”
Black smiled modestly and held the door for his second favorite member of the Berkeley Brigade. Lady deCoventry ruled supreme in his heart, but for a gent, you couldn’t beat Mr. Pattle, no matter that he looked like he’d hopped out of the rag-bag. He was worth ten of the mincing jackanapes across the way, with his airs and graces and fancy jackets.
Chapter Fifteen
Luten was soon in the thick of politics at the House, urging the Whigs to take full advantage of the difficulties Prinney’s wife and daughter were causing him. While it was impossible to admire or even like the ladies in question, the Prince was treating them abominably. This marriage between Princess Charlotte and the Prince of Orange, commonly known as “Young Frog” for example, was unconscionable. Luten was particularly sympathetic to the Princess at this time, with his own marriage to Corinne drawing near. Only think if someone was forcing her to marry Young Frog! The people were on the ladies’ side, and that was useful to the Whigs.
His day was full of meetings, but at lunch hour he met with Collins at Bellamy’s, the tuck shop at the House, to see what he could discover about Miss Fenwick. She was the only person they were aware of who knew Russell at all intimately. There must be something she could tell them. She might give them a line on his limping friend, for instance.
Mr. Collins, a junior M.P., was flattered to be sought out by one of the pillars of the Whig party. There was no saying what Luten could do for him if he played his cards right. So when Luten asked him if he knew anything about this house Miss Fenwick was interested in buying, he didn’t say no, which would have been the simple and true answer.
“Not offhand, but I daresay I could find out,” he said. “I am not a close friend of Miss Fenwick, although I knew her father.”
“I believe the lady would be flattered to receive a condolence call from the M.P. of her former riding. Just to pay his respects, you know. And perhaps to inquire if there’s any way in which he might be of assistance to her at this trying time.”
“An excellent idea, milord! I should have thought of it myself. I shall call this very afternoon.” At home in Manchester Mr. Collins was too far below the Fenwicks to call on them, but this wasn’t the time to mention that. Things were different now — the sharp-tongued old Fenwick was dead, while he had become an M.P. He would casually mention Lord Luten’s name in their conversation.
“Thank you, Collins,” Luten said, and gave him the lady’s address. “Let me know immediately what you learn, whatever the hour. I look forward to hearing from you. You know where I live?”
“Oh certainly,” Collins said, delighted at an excuse to call on Luten at his mansion.
“My understanding is that Mr. Russell had made enquiries regarding a certain house on Grosvenor Square that he and the lady were interested in buying. You might see what Miss Fenwick has to say about the financing of the purchase. She’s no fool where money is concerned. It’s more than likely it was a ruse on Russell’s part to get hold of her money. I am especially curious to discover if Russell was involved in any other business transactions, and if he had a partner. The partner I have in mind was a small, dark-complexioned man with a limp.”
“This Russell sounds like a scoundrel!”
“Yes, our investigations have confirmed that. He might have intended to marry the lady. That would put him in control of her fortune eventually. I doubt he’d find her easy to cozzen, however. I expect he would have preferred a hastier method of getting some cash. He was in dun territory.”
“I shall see what I can discover. I’m happy to do what I can to help.”
“Very kind of you. I shan’t forget it,” Luten said. Mr. Collins left, smiling.
* * * *
Corinne received an unexpected call from Lady Dunn that afternoon. The lady wore a high poke bonnet trimmed with feathers and a stylish blue pelisse edged in fox fur.
“What a darling little house!” she exclaimed when she was shown in. She looked around at the elegant little drawing room, her gaze resting on paintings, the fireplace and various elegant furnishings. “I was just passing and wondered if you’d be interested in doing some shopping. So many things to buy when one is getting married. I have an appointment with a little French modiste who makes ravishing lingerie with silk smuggled in from France. I daresay we mustn’t let our fiancés know that — though all the Honorable Members have their keg of brandy in the cellar. Are you free, or have I come at an inconvenient time?”
“I’m quite free at the moment,” Corinne said. “I do require all sorts of things for my trousseau.”
“Excellent! My carriage is waiting outside.”
Corinne got her pelisse and bonnet and they went out. As they were leaving, she said to Black, “Tell Mrs. Ballard I’ve gone out, if she’s looking for me. If Prance or Pattle call, I shall be back in an hour or so.”
Lady Dunn’s footman had her dashing tilbury waiting at the curb. It was painted green with sparkling silver appointments. “Are you driving yourself?” Corinne said.
“Don’t worry, I am an excellent whip, if I say so myself. Grafton teases that I’m setting up in competition with that famous fiddler, Lettie Lade.”
“How daring of you. I drive a little in the country but I haven’t tackled it in town, with so much traffic.”
“Rankin takes over when I run into difficulties,” she admitted. “He’s my factotum — footman and sometime butler. My little establishment doesn’t run to a large staff. He’s playing John Groom today as my groom is ill. Grafton wouldn’t like it if I went out unattended.”
“I have only a small staff myself,” Corinne admitted, and went on to mention Black and Mrs. Ballard.
Rankin, a handsome young fellow, assisted the ladies into the open carriage, where Lady Dunn took the ribbons and they set off at a pace a little faster than Corinne found comfortable. She had to hold on to her hat for the wind seemed determined to carry it off. It was cold, too. The wind whipping beneath her pelisse made her wish she were in her own cozy carriage.
As they wheeled down the street, Lady Dunn said in a casual way, “This Mrs. Ballard — is she anyone I would know? The name sounds familiar.”
“I shouldn’t think so. She’s my companion, a cleric’s widow. She doesn’t go about in society.”
“You’ll be happy to be rid of her. I can hardly wait to jettison my Mrs. Hansen. She has her nose in everything. I can’t receive a single caller that she isn’t there. One would think I were a deb, the
way she guards me. We widows are not used to such close scrutiny. It is Grafton’s idea that I need her. I daresay it’s Luten who has forced Ballard on you.”
“Not at all. Mrs. Ballard has been with me for years, and she is by no means a jailer. She’s a regular church mouse. I have to practically shanghai her to join me when I have company.”
“Where did you ever find this treasure?”
“She’s some connection of my late husband.”
“I expect she has her own friends to keep her busy?”
“Just her whist club. She plays cards for pennies once a week.”
“I wonder if I could get my Mrs. Hansen into something like that. She loves cards, though I know perfectly well she cheats.”
“Then she wouldn’t fit in with Mrs. Ballard’s set. They are a quiet group, the men mostly retired clerics. Though despite that, one of them managed to get himself murdered.”
Lady Dunn yanked on the reins, just avoiding collision with a curricle speeding past in the opposite direction. “You’re not talking about that Russell fellow the Brigade is investigating?” she said. “Byron told me about it.”
“Yes, that’s right. Russell was engaged to one of the ladies in the group.”
“And are you making any headway in finding the murderer?”
“Not much, I fear. We’ve learned Russell had a friend with a limp who might be the guilty party.”
“How clever of you! However did you discover that?”
“Oh, Coffen Pattle is the one who goes about digging up clues. He discovered that in Bedford.”
“What led him there?” As she drove and talked, she kept one eye on the shops, as if not quite sure where she was going.
“A hat,” Corinne said, and related the story of the hat left in Cooper’s flat.
“It seems unlikely to me that Russell’s best friend would kill him,” Lady Dunn said. “It sounds as if Cooper is your man. He certainly had a strong motive. How about opportunity? Could he have done it?”
“It happened late at night, so I daresay he could. Pattle will ferret it out.”
“I don’t believe I’ve met this Coffen Pattle. I know Sir Reginald, and of course Luten. I’d like to meet the other member of the Brigade. Your work sounds fascinating. Oh, here is the place I told you about, Madame duMont’s.”
She drew to a stop and tossed the reins to Rankin. The ladies spent a delightful hour choosing silks and patterns. Lady Dunn had a more daring taste than Corinne, who felt Lord Luten would really not like to see her in such diaphanous gowns, or black lace night wear.
“We must do this again,” Lady Dunn said, as she let Corinne down at her door later. “Next time we’ll shop for evening gowns. Just one or two. We might as well wait until we’re married, and let our husbands pay for them.”
As it was still early when they returned, Corinne decided to stop in on Prance while she was still dressed for outdoors and see if he had learned anything from Byron. Byron was sitting in Prance’s bijou drawing room when she entered. Luten wouldn’t like her being here. She mustn’t stay long or he’d be jealous.
It was rather pathetic to see Prance trying so hard to look like Byron, and failing so miserably. The black curl tumbling over Byron’s forehead looked charmingly natural. Prance’s corkscrew curl looked ludicrous. The dotted kerchief knotted casually at Byron’s throat lent him a degagé air. Prance’s yellow silk kerchief was too carefully arranged. Casual wasn’t his style.
Prance considered himself an expert in interior decor, but his drawing room had undergone a few unhappy changes since falling under Byron’s spell. The delicate Fragonard and Watteau paintings jarred with the tiger skin rug he had thrown down on his Persian carpet. His collection of small Murano vases that used to sit on a table in front of the window, their colors chosen to reflect rainbow hues when the sun shone through them, had been replaced by a brass jug with a curved handle and a long spout. A leather ottoman had replaced a small mahogany table in a corner of the room. This intrusion of the orient into his western style drawing room displeased even her taste. How did Reg, so finicky in all his belongings, stand it?
The drink he offered, too, was a new one for him. “We’re having hock and soda water. Will you join us, or shall I call for tea?” Prance said.
“Oh, nothing for me, thanks. I just dropped in for a moment.” She was aware of Byron’s scrutiny, but he didn’t try to flirt with her, except with his eyes, that never left her face, and a little smile lifting his lips.
“Was that Lady Dunn’s carriage that brought you home?” Prance asked.
“Yes, we’ve been shopping.”
“What did you buy?” he asked eagerly.
“Just some, er, clothing,” she said.
Prance lifted an eyebrow in Byron’s direction. “She means intimate apparel for the treacle moon.” Prance was aware of her discomfort, and knew the cause. It seemed an excellent opportunity to stir up a little mischief. “Do tell us what you bought. We promise not to be shocked, eh, Byron?” Byron’s smile stretched to a grin, but he didn’t answer.
“Nothing of interest to you,” she said. “I stopped to see if Byron had learned anything further about Russell.” She turned to Byron. “You were going to see if that man you played cards with could help us.”
“Grimsby, yes,” Byron said, assuming a more businesslike expression. “He said there was another man called Stokes who played with them.”
“A little dark fellow, who limped,” Prance announced, and caused the minor sensation he hoped for.
“Really! This man keeps popping up. We must find out who he is.”
“Unfortunately Grimsby was no help there,” Byron said. “He was just introduced as a friend of Russell. They arrived and left together.”
“At least we now have a name,” Prance pointed out.
“Yes, a name,” Byron said. “Much good it will do us. You mentioned Russell was Mr. Hayes in Bedford. There’s no guarantee either of them was using his own name. Fellows like that seldom use the same name two months — or two victims — in a row.”
“But at least he was calling himself Stokes in London,” Prance said. “Someone might be able to get a line on him. What Coffen calls a real clue for him to go after.”
There was a knock at the door and soon Coffen was shown in, his hair windblown and his face rosy from the cold. He scowled to see Prance had conned Corinne into meeting here with Byron. Did it on purpose to stir up mischief, tarsome fellow.
“Coffen, come in and have a glass of hock and soda water,” Prance said.
“Eh? Don’t you have any wine?”
“Hock is wine,” Prance explained.
“It ain’t red.”
“No, it’s not claret. It’s Rhine wine.”
“Why do you put soda water in it?”
Prance waved a hand toward the decanter on the table. “Help yourself to red wine, if you prefer,” he said.
“Thankee, I will. Any news?” Prance told him about Mr. Stokes.
“Excellent! You’ve got him for the limper. He’s becoming the crook of the matter.”
“He means crux,” Prance said aside to Byron.
“You don’t have to cross my eyes and dot my teeth for me. He knows what I mean. Anyhow, I found he’s the fellow who planted Russell’s hat on Cooper. All we’ve got to do is find him and beat the truth out of him. I’d best get at it. I’m off. You’re coming, Corinne?” he said, with a commanding stare.
She was happy enough to escape. “Yes, I just dropped in on Prance to see if he had any news.” Coffen finished his wine and they took their leave.
“I had no idea Byron was there,” she said, before he could chide her. “Prance must have driven him there. There’s no sign of Byron’s carriage.”
“No harm done. At least Byron’s come up with a clue. I’ll go home with you. I want a word with Black.”
Chapter Sixteen
“We’ll not be pestered with Prance while he’s got Byron there,” Coffen said w
ith satisfaction as they crossed the road to her house. “What was that animal pelt he had on his floor? That’s new, ain’t it?”
“I haven’t seen it before.”
“And that brass tea pot on the table — odd looking thing. Something to do with the hock he was trying to palm off on us, no doubt.”
“Let us hope this is only a phase he’s going through. Was there a special reason you wanted to see me, Coffen?” she asked at her door. She hoped he would leave, as she wanted to freshen up and change for the evening before Luten arrived. She and Luten were dining with the Castlereaghs. Castlereagh was the Foreign Secretary in the Tory Cabinet. Whigs and Tories mixed socially after hours and as Castlereagh was from Ireland like Corinne, he had a special affection for her. He was never immune to a pretty lady of any country. His wife Margaret was a noted hostess.
“Don’t mind me. Just go ahead and do whatever you were going to do. It’s Black I want to see.”
“Oh? What for?”
“Just to have a word.”
She assumed the word would involve food or drink and went upstairs. Black, ever vigilant, had been watching their advance and had the door open before they reached it. “Coffen wants a word with you, Black,” she said, as he gently removed her pelisse. She went upstairs, leaving them alone.
“A glass of something wet, Mr. Pattle?” Black said, taking Coffen’s coat and hat before leading him to the drawing room.
“A glass and a biscuit would be dandy, Black.”
Black passed the order on to the downstairs maid, who soon brought the requested refreshment.
“Have a seat, Black,” Coffen said. Black was often granted this perquisite, an unusual one for a butler, when he was helping with a case. His hopes soared that his assistance was required now. Beneath the butler’s jacket beat the heart of Lord Blackwell of Blackwell Hall, suitor to the hand of Lady deCoventry. Often in daydreams, and in a few rare cases in fact, he had saved her from peril.
“Was there some way I might be of help, Mr. Pattle?” Black said, as Coffen munched biscuits and cheese.