by Joan Smith
“Oui. C’est ça.”
The comtesse breathed out her sorry tale, stopping often to regain her breath, slipping into her native French at times, then rousing herself to try to say it in English. “Il y a quinze années, j’ai fait sa connaissance à Brighton.”
Fifteen years ago in Brighton, Yarrow had come to her humble little cottage to charge her with selling his wife a forged painting done by Boisvert. The comtesse, in her innocence, had not known Lord Yarrow was an art expert—but she knew he was a powerful man. He had terrorized her with threats of prison. She had used the only weapon she had, her beauty. She had become his mistress. Yarrow knew of the art collection her husband had secreted in France and had offered to smuggle the art to England for her during his official visits to France for the government. He arranged the sales—and kept the money, giving her barely what she required to live on. Even her jewels were only paste.
He told her he was investing the money for her to buy a house. He also arranged to have her daughter raised by Mrs. Yonge, in Colchester. When she realized he had no intention of buying the house or letting her have her money, she had turned again to forgery.
“Mon bon ami, Alphons Boisvert—”
“Who killed him, Yvonne?”
“Yarrow’s henchman—Daugherty. Yarrow had my house watched. His man followed Maurice—my butler and friend— to Boisvert’s and saw the Watteau. Yarrow feared I would make enough money to be free of him, so he had Boisvert murdered. It was all I wanted, to take Sylvie and run and hide from him. But he got her before me.”
“That’s why you returned to London?”
“Of course. Find her, milady!”
“We’ll find her, Yvonne.”
Yvonne tried to squeeze her fingers, but her strength was ebbing quickly. “Oui, je me fie à vous, madame,” she whispered.
Tears filled Corinne’s eyes. “I trust you,” Yvonne had said. “We’ll find her,” she repeated, and placed her hand tenderly on Yvonne’s brow. It already felt cold.
“Tell Luten—the papers. Use them. Catch that devil Yarrow.” Madame’s eyelids flickered one last time over her dark and stormy eyes. With her last breath, she whispered, “Sylvie.”
When Luten returned, he found Corinne, with tears running down her cheeks, cradling the dead comtesse in her arms.
“My God!” he cried, staring at the lurid scene before him. “What happened?’
“Yarrow had a man hiding in the carriage. He stabbed her. Did you—”
“He got away. Is she—”
“She’s gone. What should we do? Take her home?”
Luten laid the body gently on the cushioned seat and led Corinne from the carriage to the shadows beyond. He held her a moment tightly against his chest, making soothing sounds until the trembling stopped.
“Yarrow has Sylvie, Luten,” she said. “I promised her I’d find Sylvie, get her away from that devil. He has kept Yvonne a virtual prisoner for fifteen years.”
He let her anger boil, to keep the hysterics at bay. While he listened to her tale, he began to hatch a plan to catch Yarrow. There was little time; he had to trust people he didn’t know; a hundred things could go wrong—but he had to do something. When a carriage rattled by, he realized they were attracting attention and told the groom to drive on to the comtesse’s house. He and Corinne rode inside with her body, while his own driver drove around the block, to be back soon if needed.
Coffen’s carriage had gone astray and come by a different route. It was just approaching the comtesse’s house from Piccadilly as Yvonne’s rig arrived. Luten and Corinne got out and told him what had happened.
“The blighter will get off scot-free if we don’t do something.” Coffen scowled. “He’s sitting in his club with a dozen witnesses to say he was nowhere near the comtesse when she was done in.”
“Then we’ll have to break his alibi for a start. If we could get him to come here—”
“He knows she’s dead. You couldn’t drag him here tonight with a dozen wild horses.”
“I wonder what he’d do if he thought she had escaped. Say I, or Prance, drove her home? If she threatened him by note, he’d come running.”
“Send for Townsend, have him land in on them. Or would the driver go along with it? I expect he’s Yarrow’s man.”
“He’s French,” Corinne said. “I think he’s Lachange’s friend. The French seem to stick together.”
Luten said, “I’ll have a word with him.”
Before he spoke to the groom, the butler came out, wearing an anxious expression on his dissipated countenance. “Is something the matter, melord?” he asked.
The comtesse’s groom ran up to him and began talking in French. The two men spoke rapidly, with many gesticulations in the French manner. Luten, listening, heard the driver say that that devil Yarrow would try to lay the blame in his dish, but they both knew who had done this heinous thing. Satisfied that both men were faithful to their late mistress, he began to formulate the details of his plan.
The butler came forward. “Let us take her ladyship into the house,” he said. “It is not comme il faut to leave her body in the carriage.”
“A word, before we touch anything,” Luten said. “We agree that whoever plunged the dagger, it was Yarrow who is responsible?” Vociferous agreement, in both French and English, volleyed forth. “Then let us see if we cannot arrange some rough justice. Coffen, that watch I left at Melbourne’s. Could you fetch it?”
Coffen drew it from his pocket. “This one? I decided to pick it up. Planned to throw it in the Serpentine. Mean to say, bound to be discovered in a day or two, there where you left it.”
“Excellent. We’ll send word to Bow Street to alert Townsend. But first, a note to Yarrow at White’s. For that we shall require the comtesse’s stationery.”
“And her purple ink,” Coffen added. “A nice touch. Bound to fool him. Try if you can find a sample of Cham—Yvonne’s handwriting.”
The butler, listening, began to grasp the rudiments of the plan. “I’ll take you to her study. She has notebooks.”
Luten interrupted his planning only long enough to suggest to Corinne that she have his driver take her home. She did not condescend to argue, but only said, “I shall stay, Luten, but Coffen should have his rig removed before it’s recognized.”
“If you insist on staying, then perhaps you could forge a note for me. A lady would do a better hand. The butler will take us to Yvonne’s office. I’ll tell you what to write.” He asked Coffen to remove his rig.
They went inside; she studied some samples of the comtesse’s handwriting and practiced imitating it. Her hand moved stiffly at first, but Yvonne’s writing was not so different from her own feminine style, and she soon felt the forgery would fool Yarrow.
Luten lit the pages on which she had been practicing and threw them into the grate to remove the evidence. He dictated while she sat at Yvonne’s desk. “Dear Yarrow: No, forget the ‘Dear.’ It is not a billet-doux. Write, ‘Yarrow: Your plan failed. I have certain papers re Mr. Inwood and the Gresham Company that I shall discuss exchanging for Sylvie. I will meet you in Hyde Park in the carriage, on Rotten Row, just at the east end of the Serpentine. If you aren’t there before one o’clock, I shall give the papers to Lord Luten.’ Sign it Lady Chamaude. That should bring him.”
“Hyde Park?”
“He wouldn’t risk killing her here, with servants about.”
“But would she risk meeting him there alone at night?”
“She would if she had the papers hidden elsewhere. He’d not kill her until he got his hands on them. I’ll ask her butler to deliver the note to White’s.”
“You mean to have Townsend catch Yarrow with the body?”
“I do.”
“How can you account for calling Townsend to Hyde Park? An anonymous note?”
“I believe Lady Chamaude should write to him on her crested stationery saying she is meeting a gentleman at Hyde Park and expressing some concern for her
safety. She’ll ask him to have a man there. Townsend will be there in person if I know anything. He’s taking an interest in Boisvert’s death.” He dictated another note and Corinne wrote.
She was just sealing it when Coffen poked his head in at the door, then sauntered in. “My rig’s around the corner in the shadows. Was just thinking, Luten. What about the weapon? I didn’t see any knife in the carriage. The assassin must have taken it with him. Will this do?”
He pulled a small dagger from his pocket. It had a bone handle and a blade eight inches long. “I could put a bit of her blood on it.”
Corinne made a gagging sound. Luten said, “Fine. It doesn’t have your initials on it, does it?”
“No, it’s a common sort of knife. You see them everywhere. I keep it in the side pocket of my rig, since I never seem to have a pistol handy when I’m held up.”
“Good. And put the watch in Yvonne’s fingers, as if she had torn it from his waistcoat. I believe we’re all set. What time is it?”
Coffen glanced at Yarrow’s watch. “Half past twelve.”
“Then we’d best get a move on.”
Coffen took the watch out to the comtesse’s carriage. He tried to forget she was dead as he wrapped her cold fingers around it and pressed the knife against her bloodied chest. He then placed it in her lap, as if it had fallen, or been pulled out.
Luten gave the butler the note to deliver to Yarrow. The butler suggested the footman take the other note to Bow Street to indicate that it was from the comtesse. It was explained to Yvonne’s coachman that he had driven the comtesse home. No one had got into the carriage. She had told him to wait, gone into her house, then come out and asked him to drive her to Hyde Park.
“What do we do?” Coffen asked, when he had joined Luten and the others. “Can we be there? I’d like to see the old bustard being put into manacles.”
“We’ll be there early and find some dark spot to watch.” Luten looked at Corinne. “We’ll drop you off at home.” She just looked at him as if he were a moonling. “Oh, very well, but if you have nightmares, don’t blame me.”
“I blame myself,” she said in a wistful voice, regretting all her ill humor toward Yvonne.
If she had been more understanding, if she had helped Luten help the comtesse ... But the roots of this tragedy were deep. They went far into the past, to a frightened young French girl forced to sell a forged picture to support herself and her illegitimate child. If she had sold that picture to anyone but Lady Yarrow ... If Yarrow had not been such a lecherous, evil old wretch ... If, if, if. The past was beyond recall, but she could do one thing for Yvonne. She must rescue Sylvie and help her to some decent sort of life. That was the only atonement she could make, and she felt it was all Yvonne really wanted of her.
Chapter Twenty-six
Coffen suggested they all go to Hyde Park in his unmarked carriage, in case someone recognized Luten’s crest entering the park. Hyde Park was well enough known to Fitz that he delivered them there without mishap. He halted halfway down Serpentine Road, and they walked through patches of mist toward the spot Yvonne’s carriage was to stop. The moon was dulled to a silver glow, enough to light their path, painting grass and branches with an evanescent light. Their footsteps, though quiet, echoed loudly in their listening ears. When an owl uttered a plaintive, echoing whooo, Coffen nearly leapt out of his slippers.
“I knew there’d be an owl,” he muttered, and was hushed by Luten.
Luten held Corinne tightly against his side as they waited in the still shadows. She thought of poor Yvonne and was grateful to be alive, to be safe, to be loved. They heard the heavy clop of hooves and grinding of wheels first, then watched as the carriage carrying Yvonne’s body drove slowly along Rotten Road and drew to a stop. The coach might have been a hearse, the driver Death. The coachman looked all about but didn’t call or leave his perch. It seemed a long time they waited.
Coffen drew out his watch and announced, “One o’clock—and all ain’t well. What’s keeping Yarrow? If Bow Street gets here first, we’re sunk.”
As he spoke, they heard the dull clatter of a carriage coming at a fast pace. They exchanged a wide-eyed stare.
“Oh Lord, I hope it’s Yarrow and not Townsend!” Corinne whispered.
As it came into view, it was seen to be a crested rig, drawn by a blood team. Yarrow! They drew a collective sigh of relief. The driver drew on the reins, the horses slowed, the carriage pulled up behind Yvonne’s and stopped. His coachman alit and opened the door for him. Yarrow dismounted, peered around into the shadows, and walked at a stiff-legged gait to the waiting carriage. They watched with bated breath as he opened the door and peered inside. They couldn’t hear what he said, but at least he didn’t leave.
“If he takes to his heels before Townsend gets here, we’re out of luck,” Coffen said. “What’s keeping Townsend anyhow? Are you sure that footman you sent for him can be trusted, Luten?”
“No. I didn’t have a week to make the plan. It was done on the spur of the moment. There! He’s getting into the rig. He’s certainly seen she’s dead. He won’t stick around long.”
“He’ll make a search for the papers before he goes,” Coffen said. “If he sees his watch, he’ll take it. He must be wondering how the devil it got there.”
Before Yarrow left the carriage, Mr. Townsend of Bow Street came shambling down the road in a jig drawn by one elderly nag. He took up his lantern and leapt down from his perch. The fat little figure in a flaxen wig topped by a broad-brimmed white hat was dressed quite independently of fashion in a straight-cut coat and kerseymere breeches. This famous character had taken more criminals than the rest of the Bow Street officers together. He was in great favor at court and was often to be seen guarding against crime at the better balls, making easy with the great and near great.
Yarrow stepped down from the carriage. “Your lordship!” Townsend said, doffing his hat. “Is Lady Chamaude quite well?” The lantern cast a lurid light on Yarrow’s dissipated countenance.
“What the deuce are you doing here?” Yarrow cried in a voice that betrayed his agitation.
“Her ladyship requested I dart along to keep an eye on her. I can’t imagine in the world what she is up to. Meeting some desperate fellow, I daresay. French!” he added disparagingly. “But you know that. She’s all right and tight, is she?”
“Of course she is. Run along, Townsend. This has nothing to do with you.”
“I will, your lordship, as soon as I have a word with her ladyship. All in the line of duty, sir. No word will cross my lips if I have arrived inopportunely. Just ask her to throw a blanket over her nekkidness, and I’ll say good evening to her.”
“That’s not necessary, my good fellow. Run along.”
Without further ado, Townsend shoved a protesting Yarrow aside and poked his nose into the carriage. He uttered a loud “Yoicks!” and his rump disappeared into the rig.
“By God, it worked!” Luten said. He was almost more surprised than gratified. There were so many things that could have gone wrong. If Yarrow had chosen to ignore the summons, if he had come and gone before Townsend arrived, if Yvonne’s servants proved to be in Yarrow’s confidence... But the butler and footman had delivered the notes, and as Luten peered through the shadows to see how the coachman behaved, he was fully satisfied that the driver was following instructions.
He crept closer, knowing that no one was paying attention to the periphery when such exciting doings were going forth closer at hand. He saw Townsend climb out of the carriage, brandishing the bloodied knife.
He heard the driver say, “Her ladyship, she was alive ten minutes ago when she asked me to drive her here. No one else has been in the carriage except his lordship.”
“Who are you going to believe—a demmed French servant or an English peer?” Yarrow demanded in a rhetorical spirit.
Townsend held up the hand holding the lantern. From his fingers dangled Yarrow’s watch. He studied it in the light.
&n
bsp; “I believe my eyes, milord, which showed me your watch in the victim’s fingers. May I just see your hands, milord?” He reached out and grasped Yarrow’s right hand. “Blood! I’ll have to ask you to step along to Bow Street with me to explain a few things.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! She was dead when I arrived.”
“Suicides seldom stab theyselves. Poison, now—
“I’m a bosom bow of the Duke of York!”
Townsend cocked his head almost playfully and clamped his fingers on Yarrow’s arm. “I’d not boast of that alliance! Don’t make me use force, milord. It ain’t fitting to darken a lord’s daylights.”
Yarrow, blustering and threatening awful reprisals and demanding his lawyer, was taken into custody to be driven in the ignominious gig to Bow Street. Before leaving the park, Townsend ordered the comtesse’s driver to remain at what he called “the scene of the crime” until another officer arrived, at which time both Yarrow’s carriage and the comtesse’s were to be driven to Bow Street, where both would be examined for evidence and the corpse would be examined by the coroner.
“Well, it’s done,” Coffen said with quiet satisfaction. “Now can we go home and get a bite to eat? I’m famished.”
“Yes, we can go home,” Luten said, peering through the shadows at Corinne. When he took her hand firmly in his, she felt a sudden easing of tension. Her heart expanded like a balloon. It was all right between them, and as for the rest, they would make that all right, too.
“We still have to rescue Sylvie,” she said. “I have no idea where Yarrow has taken her. He could hardly have her at his own house, with his wife. I promised Yvonne, Luten.”
“We’ll find her,” he said. “But for now I’m taking you home. No arguments, my dear.” He placed a kiss on her forehead and walked with her to the carriage.
Coffen followed behind, smiling to see them together.
When they were in the carriage, he said, “I expect we’ve bent a few laws this night.”
“It is a case of the end justifying the means,” Luten replied. “The greater crime would be to let Yarrow off scot-free.”