Murder's Sad Tale

by Joan Smith

  “I’ve gone over the list a dozen times. There is no one except Mr. Cooper. My own name is Gertrude,” she added, lest he cast her in the role of murderess. Then her mouth opened in a silent shriek. The whole group stared at her in expectation of some shocking revelation.

  “Speak up, woman!” Townsend demanded.

  She gulped and said in a choked voice, “My maiden name is Perkins.”

  Biting back a grin, Townsend asked, “And did you kill either of the men?”

  “No! No, certainly not. ‘Though shalt not kill.' It’s in the Bible.”

  Corinne patted her arm. “He’s having a little joke, Mrs. Ballard. We know you had nothing to do with it.”

  Mrs. Ballard was ghost-white and clutching her throbbing heart. Coffen rushed to get her a glass of wine, and filled one up for himself while he was about it. This called Corinne to her duties as hostess and she offered them all wine.

  “I’d best keep my wits about me,” Townsend said, reluctantly declining the offer. Then he pulled out his turnip watch and glanced at it. “What we have here is a lack of evidence. I must hie me back to her grace’s ball, but I’ll think over what we have to work with here. You never know, I might find a lucky P in my dossiers. Or we might get lucky and have another murder to give us more to work with. I’ll get back to you, and you keep me informed.” Then he bowed and stalked from the room.

  “He’s not a very nice man, is he?” Mrs. Ballard said in a voice so soft only Coffen and Corinne heard.

  They all sat, sipping their wine and wracking their brains for a likely P. “It could stand for a nickname,” Luten said.

  “The lad who told us which flat was Sykes’s knew who Black meant when he asked for Limpy,” Coffen said. “I wonder now what P could be a nickname for. Like paunchy, or porky or pale.”

  Prance, who liked showing off his vocabulary, added, “Pusillanimous, paltry, picayune.” The others ignored him.

  “Or Papa,” Miss Ballard suggested, causing some interest. When she saw they took her comment seriously, she added, “What might Russell have that his Papa would want?”

  “Mickey said whoever killed Russell took a piece of paper off him,” Coffen reminded them. “He left the watch and money behind, so the paper must be important.”

  Luten sat, listening and thinking. “A deed to some property, perhaps?” he suggested.

  “You’re forgetting something,” Corinne said, as she was still angry with him. “The note was in a woman’s writing.”

  Luten, for the same reason, persisted. “We don’t know it’s a woman’s writing.”

  “No, and we don’t know the P stands for his Papa either,” Coffen reminded them. “Can’t imagine a man killing his own son.”

  “That does seem a bit Biblical,” Prance agreed. Mrs. Ballard scowled at him. “I am thinking of Abraham, Mrs. Ballard,” he said.

  “Abraham did not slay his son, Sir Reginald,” she felt obliged to point out. “The Lord came down and saved Joseph.”

  “I doubt he ever opened a Bible,” Coffen said. “I wager what the man was after was some sort of official paper — a marriage license or birth certificate. Something like that.”

  The others seemed interested in the idea of a birth certificate. “But why the hugger-mugger meeting at night in the park?” Prance asked.

  “And how would Russell have got hold of someone else’s birth certificate?” Luten asked. “I must say it sounds like the sort of thing he would be mixed up in, though.”

  “That could be it,” Corinne said. “He moved about a good bit. He might have come across a person using one name in one city and another somewhere else. Mind you I still don’t see how he got the person’s birth certificate.”

  ‘Stole it,” Coffen said. “But since he’s been moving about so much, there’s no saying who the P is that he was blackmailing.”

  “We’re trying to make bricks without straws here,” Luten scowled.

  “Why are we limiting ourselves to some sort of legal certificates?” Prance demanded. “No reason to think that was the ‘it’ in question. Considering what sort of man Russell was, it was more likely some proof he had got hold of that the victim was wanted by the law. Perhaps even an infamous criminal, an escaped murderer or rapist.”

  “My head’s swimming,” Coffen said. “I’m weak from hunger is what it is. Didn’t get around to taking any dinner tonight. Pity Black isn’t here.”

  “I’ll have Hawken bring sandwiches,” Corinne said, and pulled the bell cord.

  Luten saw there was no hope for privacy with his fiancée and as they were making no headway with the case, he took an abrupt leave. Mrs. Ballard said to Corinne, “If you no longer need me ...” and quietly edged out of the room behind him. As soon as they were out the door Prance said to Corinne, “Did I notice a slight chill in the air? Trouble in paradise, my pet?”

  “Oh, Luten has taken a pet because he’s afraid Lady Dunn might get me involved with Byron. Countess deLieven is spreading rumours. It seems Lady Dunn invited Byron to tea. She was with him at the exhibition at Somerset House. Hardly a romantic tryst.”

  “I noticed Lady Dunn had Byron in her eye at Lady Melbourne’s rout,” Prance said. “Rather encroaching of her. I’m not exactly surprised that she wrote to him, but I am surprised Byron obliged her, though he does have trouble refusing a pretty lady anything.”

  “A looker, is she?” Coffen asked with interest.

  “If you care for that rather common type,” Prance said with a sniff, which had more to do with her making off with Byron than her manners. Then he turned to Corinne. “Is it a serious rupture between you and Luten, or merely a lovers’ spat?”

  “Only a spat so far,” she said, “but if he thinks I mean to hop to his tune, he has another think coming.”

  “Did he actually forbid you from seeing Lady Dunn?”

  “No, but he suggested rather forcefully that I should drop her.”

  “So of course you plan to continue seeing her,” he said, not a question but a statement.

  Coffen said with a scowl, “Ignore him, Corrie. Luten didn’t say that for no reason. You may be sure there’s something amiss with the lady.”

  “Well,” she said uncertainly, “I daresay she is not quite the thing, but she’s amusing company. Interesting.”

  “Let me have a word with Byron, see what he thinks of her,” Prance said. “He is somewhat less demanding than Luten. If he thinks she’s shabby, then perhaps you should drop her. I happen to know she’s a pushy creature. Once she gets a toe in the door, she’ll be harder to drop.”

  Corinne considered this a moment. It was true Lady Dunn had twice dropped in on her uninvited and been pushing for more outings together. “Very well,” she agreed, “but don’t bring Byron here. Luten is already in the boughs.”

  “I’ll try to keep him away,” he said coyly. The rogue in him urged a different course. He hadn’t engineered a good spat between the lovers for months. When the sandwiches arrived, Prance left. It was not too late to drop in at one of his clubs. There was no telling, Byron might be there.

  Coffen dug into the sandwiches. “Don’t pay him no mind. Tea or coffee would help wash this down. Any dessert?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Coffen was on thorns to hear what Black had learned the night before. Black, wearing a satisfied smile, opened the door to him when he went to Corinne’s house to cadge breakfast the next day. They both ignored the niceties of “Good morning.”

  “Any news?” Coffen asked.

  “I might have a little something. She’s not down yet. Come into my wee room, away from big ears.” Black ordered coffee from the maid who was dusting in the drawing room and they went into his cubbyhole, from which he kept an eye on the street through the window. It wasn’t much larger than a linen closet, but it was comfortably arranged with two upholstered chairs, a table, a lamp and a carpet on the floor. The table held recent journals, a pack of cards and various gentlemen’s magazines. A shawl was d
raped over one of the chairs, for those long evenings when the wind was sharp. They made themselves comfortable, Black in the chair that gave a view of the window to keep an eye peeled for Luten.

  “Let’s hear it, Black.”

  “I made a few calls on old friends last night. I had a spot of luck at Lonesome Larry’s place. Larry’s on the ken lay, helps hisself to a bit of loot when folks have their knockers wrapped up for the summer. Does a bit of napping and hooking during the winter. He didn’t know Sykes had been done in, but when he heard, he opened up his budget. They were friends, see? He knew Sykes was getting money from Russell all right, but Sykes was shy to tell him what for. But when Sykes was short, he could always get a bit of the ready from either Russell or some woman called Peggy. The three of them were close as inkleweavers.”

  “Peggy!” Coffen exclaimed. “There’s our P, our note-writer.”

  “That was my first thought. The hitch is Peggy can’t write. She might have had somebody write it for her though.”

  “Any idea who’d do the writing for her?”

  The maid arrived with the coffee. When she left, Black said, “There’s a fellow called the Pen.”

  “Another P!”

  “Coincidence,” Black said with an air of certainty. “He does a deal of small time paper hanging. Forged checks to you. He can write any hand you like. Just show him a sample and he could write King George of England good enough to fool old Queen Charlotte herself. As a favour he’ll do the writing for them that can’t do it themselves. I couldn’t track him down last night but he’s not in gaol at the moment. I have a lead to follow. With luck I’ll find out where he lives by tonight.”

  “You’re a wonder, Black. I don’t how you do it.”

  Black preened under this stroking. “It ain’t just what you know, Mr. Pattle. It’s who you know.”

  “I bless the day I met you.”

  “We’ll not tell her about this yet, till we get it wrapped up right and tight. Agreed?” Black intended to do the telling himself and didn’t want anyone stealing his thunder.

  “Just as you say.”

  “What have I missed here at home? I heard a mutter about Luten cutting up stiff. The poet fellow been around while I wasn’t here, has he?”

  “Devil a bit of it. It’s about a lady this time.”

  “You never mean himself's been cutting up!” Black cried, red with indignation at such treatment of his beloved. Yet he was not completely unhappy. He was allowed to cosset her with blankets and possets and kind words when she was in the dumps.

  “Not at all. She’s the one has a new lady friend.”

  Black pokered up and declared, “Now that I will not believe, Mr. Pattle, even though it’s yourself that says so.”

  “Keep your hair on, Black. It’s nothing like that. Just a friend to gad about with, visit the shops and gossip.”

  “And his lordship objects to that when he’s away twenty hours a day!”

  “It seems the friend, this Lady Dunn, was running around with Byron, so naturally Luten don’t want her seeing the lady.”

  “Ah, jealous as green cows, the pair of them,” Black said with a parental tsk at their folly. “It’ll blow over, if Sir Reginald don’t stick his fork in.”

  “I’ll keep a tight rein on him.”

  “And I’ll follow up with Pen. We’re getting there, Mr. Pattle. We’re getting there.”

  “Good lad. I believe I hear her coming downstairs now. I’ll join her for breakfast. I wouldn’t want her to have to eat alone. I daresay Mrs. Ballard has taken her meal hours ago and is at her prayers.”

  Black accompanied him to the breakfast parlor, where he greeted her ladyship and asked if there was anything he could do for her. She politely declined and joined Coffen at the sideboard. He was good to his word and didn’t mention Black’s work. “No word from Luten?” he asked, as he sat down with his plate loaded.

  Corinne took only coffee and a slice of toast. “No new orders," she said, her face stiff with annoyance.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll wait to hear what Prance has to say. He was going to ask Byron about Lady Dunn.”

  “You can’t put too much faith in Prance’s word. He enjoys stirring up mischief.”

  “I know, but if he tells me he thinks Lady Dunn is not the thing, then I shan’t see her again.

  She was surprised that Coffen left immediately after taking breakfast. He didn’t tell her where he was going and she was too distracted to ask. Only Black saw him nip smartly across the street and into Prance’s house. Prance was in his office working on his novel. To disturb him at this task was well known to be forbidden. Coffen barged past Soames and went in anyway. “Matter of life and death,” he said over his shoulder to the butler.

  “Now see here, Prance,” he said, “I don’t want you stirring up mischief next door. You’ve got to tell her Lady Dunn’s no good. She’s like a tea kettle about to boil over, just waiting to hear what Byron has to say about Lady Dunn.”

  “Of course,” Prance said, hardly listening. “Tell me what you think of this, Coffen. 'His body froze in place as he stood, listening in horror. Moonlight glistened off the poignard he held aloft, poised to strike. What was that low rumble? Was it thunder? But no, it was closer at hand. It seemed to come not from the above, but echo from the very depths of the forest, a primitive, otherworldly sound, like the savage roar of the jungle uttering a warning. He stood immobile, listening, breath suspended in terror. The roaring grew louder. Peering through the darkness, he saw two glowing emeralds, that seemed to be staring right at him. For one fatal instant his mind reeled back in time, he was a cave man with an inbred fear of the dark and the unknown. Wicked, unearthly fears not felt since mankind discovered fire took possession of him.' "

  Prance looked up and said, “What do you think?”

  “It makes my flesh crawl,” Coffen said with a shudder.

  “Good! That is exactly the effect I was striving for.”

  “What the deuce ails him? Is he drunk?”

  “No, it’s the tiger lurking to strike.”

  “Tiger? Ah, the tiger cub grew up. Very good. I like it. But about — “

  “Any suggestions to improve it?”

  “You might explain to ordinary folks what that poynard thing is he’s holding. Some sort of a pointy club, is it?”

  “A kind of dagger.”

  “Then I’d call it a dagger. We don’t all speak Latin.”

  “French, actually.”

  “All the same difference.”

  “I see your point. You’re absolutely right. If the writing is good, one has no need for meretricious ornaments. They merely distract the com — the average reader. William is well known to use simple language in his most climactic scenes.”

  Coffen didn’t have to ask who William was. Prance was known to be on a first name basis with all the literary greats. He quoted William often enough for even Coffen to know he meant Shakespeare. He didn’t waste time wading into the quagmire of what meretricious ornaments had to do with it. Likely some sort of a jeweled dagger. “But about Byron —"

  “I shan’t read it to him,” he said with a coy smile. “I’ll wait till it’s in print, and surprise him. I’ve practically finished.”

  “Dash it, I’m talking about Lady Dunn, Reg. You’re supposed to be finding out what Byron has to say about her. And it better not be anything good, or we’ll have Corrie running around with her to spite Luten, making him mad. And you know what that means. We’ll have to get them back together.”

  “Do you know, Coffen, I had forgotten all about it. I’ve been deep in the throes of composition.”

  “It’s time you throw yourself into what you said you’d do last night.”

  “I shall dash Byron off a note this very moment. Don’t worry I plan to make mischief between the lovers. I’m too busy with Lorraine.”

  “Have you got yourself tangled up with some lady?”

  “Lady Lor
raine, my heroine — in my book,” he added, as Coffen showed no sign of recognition.

  “Ah, her. That’s all right then. I’ll leave you to it, but don’t forget to write to Byron. Or better, go and see him. There’s no time to waste.”

  * * * *

  Lord Luten was also concerned at the turn his last conversation with Corinne had taken and spent a busy morning making discreet enquiries about Grafton’s fiancée. What he heard made him more determined than ever that Corinne should drop the connection. Byron did not often frequent the House, but he dropped in that morning as he wanted a word with Lord Brougham, who was urging him to make another speech in the House. Luten invited him to his office to share a bottle.

  After a little political chat, Luten said, “I hear you’ve been seeing Lady Dunn. Take care or you’ll have Grafton calling you out.”

  “Falling down on his knees and thanking me is more like it,” Byron said. “He’d be happy enough to dump the lady, but he’ll not dump her in my lap. I refused her invitation to a quiet little luncheon, just we two, to discuss poetry, and told her I was much too busy to enjoy the other outings she had in mind.

  “That trip to Somerset House that is making the rounds was not prearranged. She wrote inviting me to tea, I invented a meeting with my man of business. Later that afternoon, as I was out walking, she drew up beside me in her tilbury and asked where I was going. When I told her Somerset House, she said she was on her way there, though she was headed in the opposite direction, and invited me to accompany her. It was cold and I was deuced tired, so I accepted. That’s what you meant by my ‘seeing her,' I assume, since it’s the only time I have seen her since that party we went to.”

  “Someone did mention Somerset House,” Luten replied. “Why do you say Grafton wants to be rid of her?”

  “Oh it’s the greatest secret in town, Luten. Everyone’s talking about it. I heard the tale at Melbourne House. It seems she applied to Grafton for a loan — a largish one, I understand. He suggested she sell her house, since they would have no need for it after the wedding. She said she had it for sale, but no takers thus far. So to surprise her, he spoke to the house agent, planning to buy it himself and rent it out. To his astonishment, he discovered she doesn’t own the house. She just rents it. He dug a little deeper and learned she’s hobbled with debts. She’s been using her engagement to him as security. He hinted at other misdemeanors but was too shy or too much of a gentleman to share them, which makes one suspect she had other gentlemen friends. I believe he’d jilt her in a minute if he didn’t fear a breach of promise suit.”