by Joan Smith
“Devil a bit of it,” Black said firmly. “A scoundrel like Limpy would have legions of enemies. Legions. There’s somebody out there had it in for him, Mr. Pattle, laughing up his sleeve, thinking he got away with it.”
“You mean it might have nothing to do with Russell’s murder?”
“I didn’t say that. We shall see what we shall see, Mr. Pattle. I’ll continue my inquiries. I felt myself Cooper hadn’t the gumption to knife anyone.”
“Me too,” Coffen said.
“Er, did I hear Cooper call you Mr. Prance?”
“You did, and did I see you stuff Limpy’s money into your pocket?”
“Wouldn’t have done Limpy no good. He couldn’t spend it. We’ll do like the monkeys — I hear no evil, you see no evil, and we neither of us speak no evil,” Black said, and gave a hearty chuckle.
Chapter Nineteen
Black could see no great glory for himself in standing by while Mr. Pattle told Lady deCoventry of their night’s work. He liked to stand alone in his triumph before her. It was still early, he might yet be able to perform some miracle to astound her before the night was over. “You go on ahead, Mr. Pattle,” he said, when Coffen managed to find a hackney. “I’ll find my own drive. There’s a few fellows I’d like a word with.”
“Suit yourself, Black. You’ll let me know if you find out anything. I’m going to just check up on Barnes' address with Mrs. Ballard and have a word with him. I think myself Cooper’s telling the truth, but that Peter Paul business makes me wonder. There’s no other P’s in the case that we know of.”
“Very true. He might’ve been expecting we’d call on him if he did the murder. The Bible and all looked suspiciously innocent, almost a stage set.”
“Just what I thought myself. As for a motive, as you said before, Limpy might have figured out Cooper did in Russell.”
“Aye, and even if he had his bite of supper with Barnes, he might’ve done the job after Barnes left. He said he’d just left ten minutes before, but say it was fifteen or twenty minutes, he could have done it. He hadn’t far to go. The blood was fresh, if you noticed.”
“I did. I noticed it in particular,” Coffen agreed, with a sharp memory of the sight. “I’ve just had a thought. You don’t happen to know Miss Fenwick’s first name? She wouldn’t be a P?”
“The old tabby, Ballard, says her name’s Annabelle. Seems Russell called her Belle.”
“No P there, then.”
“Afraid not.” Black disappeared into the fog, off on his own mysterious errand. Coffen continued on to Berkeley Square and called on Corinne. The footman, Hawken, had the honor of attending to the door during Black’s absence and admitted him. He could hear an argument going forth in the drawing room. If Black had been there, he could and would have informed Coffen what it was about. A rare gem, Black, despite his light fingers. He tried his luck with Hawken.
“A spot of trouble in there?” he said, lifting an eyebrow in hope of learning the details.
“So it seems, Sir,” Hawken said with a face like ice, and took his hat. “If you would care to wait...”
“I won’t disturb them. I’d like a word with Mrs. Ballard. Is she downstairs?”
“In the breakfast room, I believe. Shall I — “
“Never mind, I know the way.”
Like Cooper, she was bent over her Bible. As this was exactly as he expected to find her, no thought of the theatre arose. “Sorry to disturb you,” he said. “Just a simple question. Could you tell me where Reverend Barnes lives?”
“Certainly. Just last month he moved in with his recently-widowed sister in that big brick block of flats on the corner of Green Street and Dunraven.”
“Ah, not far from Cooper’s place.”
“Do you mind telling me why you want to know? Surely you don’t suspect him."
“It’s to do with alibis, Mrs. Ballard. Afraid there’s been another murder.”
Mrs. Ballard gasped and grabbed her heart. “You don’t mean it! Who was it this time?”
“Russell’s limping friend. Using the name Sykes now, it seems. Cooper said he took his meat with Barnes this evening.”
“That’s true,” she said at once. “I heard Cooper invite him. How did you find out? What happened?”
“I called on Sykes and found him dead, stabbed through the heart.” Mrs. Ballard winced but said nothing. Her own heart was beating erratically. It would be the death of her, living with a lady who dabbled in murder. “I want to check out times and see if Cooper could have done it.”
She repeated the address with no hesitation or reluctance. When she tried to ask him more questions, he stood up and said, “I’m in a bit of a rush, actually. I’d like to be back before Bow Street gets here.”
“Oh dear, Bow Street is coming?”
“Murder, you have to let them in on it. Any idea what Luten and Corinne are arguing about?”
“Are they arguing?” she asked, frowning. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea. They seemed quite happy when I left them. Something to do with Lord Byron, do you think?”
“Has he been sniffing around?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Hmph. I wonder if Prance has been up to his tricks. Thankee for the information, Mrs. Ballard,” he said, and hurried off.
Luten, wearing a worried scowl, was just stomping out of the drawing room when Coffen reached the front hall. “Any news?” he asked.
“Limpy’s been killed. What’s up with you two? Is the wedding off again?”
“No. Tell me about the latest murder. I assume it was murder?”
“Afraid so,” he said, and told Luten the sorry tale.
Luten frowned and massaged his chin and said, “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this thing.”
“I sent word to Bow Street. I expect Townsend will be around before long. You’ll be here?”
“Certainly.” Luten welcomed any help they could get, and was not sorry to have an excuse to return and make it up with his fiancée as well. “I’ll have my butler keep an eye out for him. I’ll be back.”
Coffen nodded and went into the drawing room. He was relieved to see Corinne was not crying. She wasn’t much for bawling, but when she and Luten went at it, she sometimes shed a tear. At the moment she looked more angry that sorry.
“Coffen, any news?” she asked, and he told her the same tale he’d just told Luten.
“It’s horrid,” she said. “Murder is never simple, is it? One always seems to lead to another. And you know these things often come in threes.”
“Are you having one of your feelings?” he asked. Corinne was Irish, and had some reputation of having second sight.
“No, I’m too angry. There is nothing wrong with Lady Dunn. I like her. I don’t have many female friends, and those I do have are really just the wives of Luten’s colleagues, older ladies who are only interested in politics and gossip. All we did was go shopping, and to that little party — that was his idea. He is the one who introduced us.”
“What’s he got against her?”
“I hardly know. Apparently someone at the House has been whispering that she’s not quite the thing. A shady past, you know. Debts, I believe, are at the bottom of it. Good gracious, she’s marrying Grafton. He can handle any little debts she may have. They think — feel — that she’s leading Grafton a merry dance, just marrying him for his money. It seems she has other male friends, but what is really at the bottom of it is that she was at the art exhibit at Somerset House with Byron. Countess deLieven, that nosy old Parker, saw them and of course had to talk to them to see if she could find some juicy gossip. It seems she, Lady Dunn, invited him to tea. Rather foolish of her, but everyone courts him. If it had been anyone but Byron, Luten wouldn’t have cared a groat. He’s just afraid that I’ll be meeting up with Byron. That’s what this is all about.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Have a word with Dunn. Slip her the clue to keep away from Byron.”
“He doesn’t want me to se
e her again.”
“Ah.” Coffen nodded. He decided to keep his oar out of this one. “You’ll work it out. Just don’t let Prance in on it. I have a little job to do before Bow Street gets here, but I’ll be back. So will Luten. I told him they’re coming.”
She sniffed to conceal her relief at the news. She did find Lady Dunn a little fast, actually, and pushing their friendship forward at an unseemly pace. She didn’t like the reckless way she drove her tilbury. In fact, it was downright dangerous. She didn’t like the sort of intimate apparel she bought either. It was almost what one imagined a mistress wore. And there had been that rather sly little comment about buying the gowns after they were married, so the husbands would have to pay for them. She hadn’t mentioned any of that to Luten, however. It was Byron that was bothering him. If she let him choose her friends before they were married, how would he behave after? Perhaps she would see less of Mavis, but she wouldn’t drop her just because Luten said so.
Coffen left and went in search of a hackney. He found one at the corner of Mount Street and paid his call on Reverend Barnes, a portly, white-haired septuagenarian in a black suit shiny with wear, who listened to Coffen’s tale of murder with some interest.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Ballard was asking us about the man with a limp. Can’t say I ever noticed the fellow myself. Murdered, eh? Shocking. I don’t know what London is coming to.”
He confirmed that he had dined with Cooper, as his sister was dining with friends that evening. But he hadn’t taken any special note of the time he left Cooper’s flat. Neither did Coffen have any clear idea of what hour he had visited Cooper himself, so nothing was solved. Cooper could have had time to do the deed. Barnes seemed a lonely soul, eager to continue the conversation.
“I have some fear that Cooper is not as upright a Christian as one could wish,” he said, with a frown drawing his face into a map of wrinkles.
Coffen’s ears perked up at this hint. “Bit of a bad apple, is he?”
“I would hesitate to say that,” Barnes replied, “but I fear he is not a solid man on the Trinity. As to the miracle of the loaves and fishes, he is an outright unbeliever! Oh he knows his Bible, I give him that, but he harbors unorthodox views on certain matters of faith.”
“Is that so?” Coffen had little familiarity with the Bible, but felt that any man who actually read and discussed it couldn’t be very bad.
“That is not to say I believe for a minute that he had anything to do with the murder of this unfortunate limping man.” Before Barnes could go into more details, Coffen rose and took his leave, not much wiser than when he had arrived.
He had kept the hackney waiting and returned to Berkeley Square just as Prance came out of his house, dressed up for the evening. His carriage was at his front door.
“What’s afoot?” Prance demanded. “I just saw Townsend go into Corinne’s house. Has something happened?”
“Another murder.”
“Who?”
“Limpy. Come along and hear all about it.”
“I was just on my way to a concert at Lady Hurst’s house, that wonderful new Italian violinist that everyone’s talking about.”
“You hate violin players,” Coffen reminded him.
“Most of them, but everyone’s talking about Leonardo. One doesn’t like to be out of it.”
“You’ll be out of this case if you don’t come along.”
Oh dear! Out of this case first, then out of the Berkeley Brigade. Had they been talking about him behind his back, discussing his lack of interest in the case — and after he’d gone dashing off to Bedford, to say nothing of doing Russell’s portrait? Still, no denying Coffen had been running himself ragged. He must redeem himself.
“You’re right, of course. I’ll be right there.” He had a word with his coachman while Coffen darted into his own house to retrieve the first note found in Russell’s flat, then he came dashing out and joined Prance.
Chapter Twenty
Before they reached Corinne’s front door, Luten came darting across the street to join them. Arriving en masse would let her know he came on business. Townsend, the most famous of the Bow Street Runners, was said to have taken more criminals than the rest of the force put together. He was so clever and cunning the Government often hired him to accompany government shipments of large sums of money about the countryside. Society hostesses hired him for their balls to protect their guests’ jewels, and to lend their party extra cachet. He was even a favorite of the royal family.
During the day he wore a blue coat and kerseymere breeches, with a broad brimmed white hat over his flaxen wig. As his short, fat body was covered in a black jacket and pantaloons on this occasion, they assumed he had been in service at some fancy ball, where he would mingle with the great on terms of seeming equality.
Certainly he considered himself the equal of any of them. He was holding forth in the middle of the room when they entered, using his gold-nobbed stick to illustrate some point. Corinne had summoned Mrs. Ballard, who sat shrinking into a corner of the sofa, looking at him as if he planned to haul them off to Newgate.
“Ah, the Brigade!” Townsend said, laughing when they entered. “Another little murder for me, eh? I ought to give you fellows a discount. The countess has been telling me what she knows. What can you gentlemen add to the bones of her tale?” Corinne wondered what sum Luten was paying for his services. To judge from his jovial manner, it must be plenty.
When Pattle told what he knew, Townsend looked unimpressed. “What, a common little thief done in by a clerk? That’s not my sort of case, gentlemen, nor yours as a rule. I should be at the duchess’s ball this minute. Not that she jneed worry. The criminal element know she hired me, and won’t dare try anything. No doubt you know Louis Lamaar, the lover of diamonds, has been active this season. I took the precaution of bringing him in for questioning this afternoon and leaving orders he’s not to be let out before morning. But you sent for me, Luten, so I realize this is of some importance to you personally.”
“To my companion, Mrs. Ballard, actually,” Corinne explained, and indicated Mrs. Ballard. She did it with her most charming smile. It worked on Townsend, as it usually worked on gentlemen. He barely glanced at Mrs. Ballard, cringing in the corner.
“And how may I be of assistance to you, milady?” he said, sweeping a bow to Corinne.
“I wanted to give you these,” Coffen said, handing him the two notes, and informed him of what he and Black had discovered. “I found this one in Sykes’s pocket. He’s the limping man, goes by different names, Morton and Stokes for two. Looks like both victims got notes from the same person. The one we found tonight is signed P as well. The only P we know of in the case is Peter Paul Cooper.”
“This looks like a lady’s handwriting,” Townsend said, studying the notes. “Too curly cue for a man’s.”
Prance, looking over his shoulder, observed that the writing was similar to his own. “Or a gentleman with a fine hand,” he said.
“A womanish man, you mean. Aye, that could be. This Peter Paul, what sort of fellow is he?”
“Not womanish, I’d say,” Coffen admitted, “but holy. A Bible reader.”
“Don’t mean a thing,” Townsend said with a dismissive bat of the hand holding his stick, causing Mrs. Ballard to duck. “Some of the worst blackguards who’ve ever danced at the end of a rope can quote scripture at you till you’d think they were archbishops. I sometimes think the good book gives them ideas. I’ll get a sample of this Bible-reader’s writing. Send a fellow along with some sort of form for him to sign. That’ll tell us if he’s the lad.”
Mrs. Ballard’s mouth fell open at his heresies, but she was too overcome to voice an objection. Coffen was chagrined that he hadn’t thought to get a look at Cooper’s writing. He was even more surprised that Black hadn’t.
“And if Cooper’s not the guilty party?” Luten said. “He has a sort of alibi, not proven. There’s no telling when the note was written either. What else can you sug
gest?”
Townsend began pacing up and down, his head bent in thought, his stick beating a tattoo on his hip. “Scenario one: we have a no-good fortune hunter murdered, very likely by a jealous fellow after the same fortune. Someone discovered the murderer, tried holding him to ransom and paid the price for it. No, that don’t cover all the facts. This first note says ‘Tonight, ten o’clock at Green Park. Bring it with you.’ What we must figure out is what this mysterious it is. Common sense says it’s something that would keep the wealthy lady, this Fenwick, from marrying the lad.”
"Some criminal doing on Russell’s part,” Luten suggested. “He traveled under various names and moved about a good deal, which suggests crime all right.”
“So it would seem,” Townsend agreed, “but it would be uphill work proving it. These here-and-there fellows with a dozen names are the very devil to check up on. I can’t be everywhere.”
“But Cooper didn’t know of any such criminal past,” Luten continued. “He would have told Miss Fenwick if he had known, don’t you think, Mrs. Ballard?”
She took herself by the scruff of the neck and answered. “I believe he would. I know he told her, or hinted at least, that Russell was only after her for her money. That happened after Russell dropped Miss Barker, whom he mistakenly believed owned the house she lived in. I dislike to say it, but he struck me as a spiteful man.”
“So he’d have told this Fenwick if he knew something that would stop her from marrying him,” Townsend concluded. “Ergo he’s innocent.”
“Either that or we don’t have the right motive. Do you have a scenario two?” Luten said.
Townsend smacked his lips, frowned, fingered the note and said, “We’re looking for a third party. This P.” He turned his sharp eyes on Mrs. Ballard, causing her to cringe more deeply into the sofa corner. “Any of your card crones fit the bill, Madam?”