Murder's Sad Tale

by Joan Smith

  “Such a charming little place,” Lady Dunn said, again looking all around. It takes time to make a friend, and at this early stage, the two ladies hadn’t really a great deal in common, other than their coming marriages. Mavis hadn’t attended the latest play or the exhibition at Somerset House. Her only comment on the prestigious Almack’s Club was that Grafton said it was it a dead bore. Once Black had brought in the tea tray, Corinne couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Lady Dunn soon found a topic. “How is the murder case coming along, Corinne?”

  “We are making some headway. Interest at the moment is centered on that friend, or at least old acquaintance of the victim, as the murderer. I told you about the limping man. We’ve discovered our victim told his fiancée a tall tale about his background. In fact, it seems he was just a common thief.”

  “What about my favourite suspect, the man with the strange story about the hat. Cooper, was it?”

  “I daresay it could have been Cooper, but we’re concentrating on the limping man at the moment. He goes by various names, Stokes and Morton being two of them. We don’t know exactly what the relationship with Russell was, but it was close and goes back a long way. We’ll find him eventually.”

  “It’s a marvel how you do it, with all the limping men in London. I wonder if the limping man is still in London,” she said, frowning. “Very likely he’d leave town after committing a murder, don’t you think?”

  “That’s possible, of course. I shall mention it to Luten. Clever of you to think of it.”

  “Glad to be of help in any way I can.” She gave a genteel shudder. “Horrid to think of a murderer walking the streets.”

  Mrs. Ballard returned from her whist party, big with news. She didn’t go into the drawing room, but gave Corinne a meaningful nod as she passed the door.

  “That’s my Mrs. Ballard,” Corinne said. “She’s a little shy of company, as I mentioned.”

  “I hope she’s not frightened of me," Mavis said, laughing. “I must be off. Lovely meeting you again. We must get together soon. I’ll get you into the driver’s seat of my tilbury yet!”

  No sooner was she gone than Mrs. Ballard came bustling in.

  “You’ve discovered something!” Corinne cried.

  “I believe I have,” she said, sitting on the edge of a chair. “Mr. Cooper knows the limping man. Not really knows him but he’s spoken to him, and seen him about. You’ll never guess where! He lives in that same block of flats as Mr. Russell! Cooper has seen him going in there three times, and he doesn’t think he was just calling on Russell, for on one occasion Russell had just left, and the limping man stayed in there. Cooper kept a sharp eye on Russell, for he didn’t trust him an inch. I believe he hoped to discover something to Russell’s discredit, to turn Miss Fenwick off of him, but it had just the opposite effect. She turned against Cooper.”

  “That’s excellent news, Mrs. Ballard,” Corinne said. “I’ll tell Luten this evening and let him decide what to do about it. I daresay Cooper wouldn’t know if the man is still living there. If he murdered Russell, he might have left town,” she said, remembering Lady Dunn’s remark.

  “Cooper didn’t mention seeing him lately. He no longer spies on Russell’s flat, now that he’s dead. Someone at the building might know something.”

  “Yes, we’ll certainly look into it. Good work!”

  Mrs. Ballard left, smiling.

  Black, listening at the door, was crest-fallen. He had hoped to use the limping man to wedge his way into the very core of the case. If he got a move on, he might yet beat the Brigade to some important discovery. Nothing would be done until she told Luten and they had all discussed it. He would nip out as soon as they sat down to dinner. Aware of everything that happened in the house, he knew Luten was coming for dinner.

  He went into the drawing room and said, “I wonder if I might take off for an hour after dinner is served, milady. Something important has come up.”

  “Of course, Black,” she said at once. Black did not often ask for a favor. Indeed he was more likely to remain at his post on his weekly day off.

  He bowed and left, limiting himself to a stately walk until he was beyond her sight, when he scampered downstairs and gave hasty orders for the running of the house during his absence that evening. He knew from his eavesdropping exactly where Russell had lived until his death, so that presented no problem. In fact he had made more than one walk past the place to see if he could learn anything. But he’d never seen any sign of a limping man. A limp might easily be put on, of course. Give a man a limp or a beard or a hump back and folks hardly noticed anything else about him. He was said to wear a raised boot, but that could easily be a sham to cause the limp.

  He had one other matter to consider, whether or not to take a weapon. Knowing the limper might also be a murderer, he would take his pistol.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The days were short in late February. Between the darkness and the dense yellow fog that had settled in, it was difficult to see even across the street. Black was just trying to decide whether to call on Coffen and have company for the visit or go alone and keep all the glory for himself when he heard the sound of hooves and wheels close by. Peering through the fog, he recognized the unmarked carriage as a hackney.

  As it drew nearer a familiar voice called through the mist, “Is that you, Black?”

  “Mr. Pattle?”

  “It’s me. Are you looking for a lift? What’s afoot? Nothing wrong at home, I trust?” Pattle considered Corinne’s house his real home in London.

  “Not in the least, Mr. Pattle. I was just going to call on you,” he prevaricated. “I’ve something that might interest you.”

  “Hop in.”

  Black was not surprised to see a gentleman who possessed a fine carriage and team of his own riding in a hackney. Fitz could never find his way in broad daylight, to say nothing of a fog. Black, a man of many unsuspected accomplishments, could have driven him, but as the hackney was already here, he hopped in.

  “I’m going to call on Cooper,” Coffen said. “I’ve reason to believe he knows something about the limper. I got a bit of information on him.”

  “If it’s him you’re after, you don’t need Cooper. I can tell you where he’s at.”

  “You’re a wonder, Black. Where?”

  “Lives in the same block of flats as Russell.”

  “That’s interesting! I’d best tell the driver.” He called up the change of destination. “How did you find that out?” Coffen asked, as the carriage jerked into motion.

  “Cooper told Mrs. Ballard this afternoon. I was just going to tell you when you happened along.”

  “You’re a step ahead of me then. Miss Barker told me she’d seen Cooper and Limpy together, but she didn’t know where he lived. Limpy could be dangerous. We think he’s killed once already. P’raps we ought to pick up a gun before we go.”

  Black produced the pistol he had brought along. “Just in case,” he said. “Looks like Stokes/Morton is our man all right. Some falling out amongst the thieves. Happens all the time.”

  “It looks that way. Funny about the hat found at Cooper’s, though.”

  “It could be the limper’s hat,” Black suggested.

  “Brinks said it was Russell’s, and for some reason Stokes/Morton broke in and left it at Cooper’s place. It’s as Cooper thought, someone was trying to point the finger at him. That’s why Cooper took the hat to Russell’s place to lead us to Bedford, and that’s where we found out Limpy was Russell’s old chum. I wonder just how much Cooper knows about Russell and Limpy. The fact is, we don’t know anything about Cooper’s past. The three of them might have known each other for years. Miss Barker saw Cooper and Limpy talking after one of their card games.”

  “We’ll ask him,” Black said, fingering the gun to suggest how he would be persuaded to answer.

  Traffic was light at this hour. Those who dined out were already at dinner. Those going to balls and other enterta
inments hadn’t yet called their carriages. The lamplighters were just making their rounds, but the hackney driver had no difficulty finding the destination in the semi-darkness.

  “Wait for us,” Coffen called up to the driver as they descended. They went inside to scan the list of tenants. “I wonder what name he’s using here,” Coffen said, looking for a Stokes or Morton and finding neither.

  A young man came rushing downstairs as they stood, discussing their dilemma. Black reached out a hand and stopped him. “You wouldn’t happen to know which flat is Limpy’s?” he asked.

  “You mean Mr. Sykes? He lives in 3D but I don’t think he’s home. I haven’t heard him arrive, or any sound. I live next door.”

  “That’s all right. I have a key. We’ll wait for him.”

  “Thanks,” Coffen added as the man went out.

  “Sykes,” Black said. “An honest man don’t have that many handles.”

  “We’ll have a look about if we can get in,” Coffen said.

  Black just smiled at such innocence and set a fast pace up the staircase. It’d be a tough lock that he couldn’t pick in less than sixty seconds. “Here we are,” he said, when they reached the third floor and found 3D. He turned the knob and was surprised, almost disappointed, when the door opened.

  “Best knock,” Coffen said. “Seems he’s at home, since the door ain’t locked.” He knocked, but when there was no answer after two tries, they went in. The flat was in darkness, save for the dim twilight filtering through the windows, where the curtains had not been drawn. Only the outlines of furnishings could be made out.

  “Anybody home?” Coffen called. Receiving no reply, they felt around for a lamp and tinderbox. Black lit one lamp and handed it to Coffen. “Thankee. I’ll take the desk. You have a look in the bedroom, Black.”

  “I’ll get myself another light,” Black said, looking around for another lamp until he found one by the sofa. He lit it and asked, “What are we looking for, exactly?”

  “Clues,” Coffen replied. “Papers, anything that ties him to Russell or Cooper.”

  The small desk in the corner was singularly devoid of clues. It held only two handkerchiefs, a pair of black stockings with a hole in one toe and a packet of headache powder. Black’s quest had a different and startling outcome. “Best step in here, Mr. Pattle,” he called in a hollow voice.

  Coffen had a strong suspicion, almost knew even before he saw the lifeless form sprawled on the bed with the dark stain spreading over the front of the shirt, what he would see. He felt a wave of nausea rise up and turned his head away until he recovered, then took a closer look at the gruesome sight, made worse by the flickering lamplight. The moving shadows lent an eerie semblance of life to the pallid face on the pillow. He looked so peaceful he could have been sleeping. The blood wasn’t dry yet. The man hadn’t been dead long. If they’d come sooner...

  “Too late,” Black said. “He got here before us. Used a knife this time from the looks of this shirt. Didn’t want the sound of the shot to draw attention. Seems he knew Sykes pretty well to get that close.” He looked around the little room. “No signs of a fight. Now how the devil did he know we were on to Sykes?”

  “How did who know?” Coffen asked, but supplied his own answer. “Cooper, you mean.”

  “Looks that way. I’d like to know what Sykes could have told us about him. Of course a fellow like this,” he pointed contemptuously at the corpse, “might have any number of enemies. We’ll go and have a word with Cooper.”

  “Let’s have a better look about first,” Coffen said. A search revealed little of interest. They found close to twenty pounds in crumpled bills and coins in the pocket of the jacket hanging on the doorknob. A note was also in the same pocket. Opening it, Coffen read, “This is all I can spare. Be patient, Alfie. It will soon be over. P.” Just the initial, no name. But it was in a spidery scrawl, the same writing as the note found in Russell’s flat arranging to meet Russell in Green Park, where he was murdered.

  “P,” Coffen said, frowning. “I wonder what Cooper’s first name is. Mrs. Ballard will know.”

  “Let’s ask him ourselves,” Black said, stuffing the money into his own pocket.

  Coffen frowned but didn’t offer any verbal objection. “We’d ought to report this to Bow Street.”

  “We will, as soon as we’ve had a word with Cooper. Best catch him before he does a flit,” Black said. “Are you leaving the note for Bow Street?”

  “I’d like to check it with another note I have at home. I’ll give Townsend both of them together.”

  They returned to the carriage and directed the driver to Cooper’s flat. The lamps along these streets had been lit. Gauzy yellow lamps hung like moons in the mist. As the carriage clopped along, Coffen said, “I figured Limpy for the killer. I don’t quite see how Cooper fits into all this.”

  “Killed Russell to keep Fenwick from marrying him,” Black said with an air of authority.

  “I see that, but the limper was Russell’s friend. He was no competition where Fenwick’s concerned.”

  “He figured out Cooper killed Russell, Cooper had to get rid of him before he squealed.”

  “The note says ‘be patient, Alfie. It will soon be over.’ What will soon be over? Sounds like Alfie — Sykes I mean — and Cooper were in something together. Could Cooper have hired Limpy to spy on Russell, I wonder, or do him some sort of dirt. The note might have been written any time. There’s no date on it.”

  “We’ll see what Cooper has to say.”

  “I was dead certain Limpy was our murderer,” Coffen said again. “Cooper didn’t strike me that way. More of a whiner than a man of action.”

  “You can push a man too far, Mr. Pattle, especially when it comes to affairs of the heart.”

  When they reached Cooper’s house, Coffen paid off the driver and directed him to inform Bow Street of the murder. "Tell them to notify Townsend. You can tell Townsend I’ll be at Lady deCoventry’s place later tonight. I’m Pattle. He’ll know what it’s about.”

  The driver stared. “You mean there was a dead body back there!”

  “Afraid so,” Coffen informed him, and gave him a generous tip. “Hop along then. No time to waste. We don’t want the scoundrel to get away.” The hackney rattled off at an alarming rate, the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves echoing through the misty night.

  Far from preparing to flee, Cooper was sitting at his ease in his shirt sleeves, having a cup of tea and reading the Bible when they entered without knocking. The door wasn’t locked.

  “It’s Mr. Prance,” he said, rising up, surprised but undismayed. Black blinked at this change of name, but like the old hand he was, he kept his mouth closed and his expression stolid. “Come in. I daresay this has to do with the questions Mrs. Ballard was asking this afternoon about Russell’s friend, the little fellow with the limp.”

  “Mind-reader then, are you?” Black said.

  Cooper detected the note of menace in his voice and remained standing, glancing uneasily from one to the other. Coffen took up a chair while Black remained at the door, scowling, with his hand in his pocket clutching his gun.

  “What has it got to do with you, Mr. Prance?” Cooper asked.

  “Never you mind that,” Black said. “Where were you earlier this evening, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Right here. Why do you ask?” He stared at Coffen’s worried face and cried, “Good God! Don’t tell me — Who? Has there been another murder? Not Miss Fenwick!” He looked ready to burst into tears.

  “Not Miss Fenwick,” Coffen said, and Cooper wilted into his chair in obvious relief. When he recovered, he asked, “But who, then? “Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “It’s Sykes.”

  “Who the deuce is Sykes?”

  “You might know him by the name of Stokes, or Morton.”

  After a frowning pause, Cooper said, “I don’t know any of those names.”

  Watching him, Coffen sensed that he was telling the truth.
“He’s Russell’s limping friend. He was murdered tonight. I believe you knew him.”

  “Murdered!” Cooper gasped. When he recovered, he said, “I only knew the man by sight. Oh I had a few words with him one evening he was loitering about, waiting for Russell, but I didn’t even know his name. I used to see him and Russell together. I followed Russell a few times — I knew he was up to no good — and saw him with the fellow you call Sykes. They were close as inkle-weavers, lived in the same block of flats. I’d say Russell killed him, if he wasn’t already dead. But it has nothing to do with me.”

  “That’s as may be,” Black said. “So you say you were here alone in your apartment all evening.”

  “I didn’t say I was alone,” Cooper shot back. “It happens I took dinner with Reverend Barnes after our card game. I invited him back here for a bite. We were having an interesting discussion about the Bible. He just left ten minutes ago.”

  “Where could we find this Barnes?” Black asked, his tone suggesting he didn’t believe a word of it.

  “He’s just moved in with his sister. I’m not sure exactly where he lives now, but it’s close by for he said he’d walk home.”

  “Mrs. Ballard will know,” Coffen informed Black. Then he said to Cooper, “I expect you’ll be hearing from Bow Street. If you didn’t kill Sykes, you’ve nothing to worry about. By the way, what’s your first name, Cooper?”

  “Peter Paul, after my father. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” Coffen said, frowning at that initial P. Then he tossed his head toward Black, indicating they should leave. They walked along through the damp fog until they caught a hackney. “There’s a bit of a poser then,” Coffen said, as they were driven along to Berkeley Square. “One suspect dead, the other as innocent as a lamb, despite being a P. Dash it, Black, there’s nobody left that could’ve done it.”