by Joan Smith
“Who put you on to the place?”
“Lord Clare. Is he here?”
“Not tonight.”
Coffen breathed a sigh of relief and muttered, “Pity.”
“A friend of his lordship, eh? Then you’re welcome, sir. Is it cards you’re after, or a bit of t’other?”
“Like to have a look about.”
“The girls are in the drawing room on the left. Every one a beauty. Young and eager to please. You’ll pass the card parlors on the way.”
“Thankee,” Coffen said and turned left.
He recognized some of the faces in the card rooms and knew a few of the men’s names. Well-known, even famous names. He dodged along quickly, not wanting to be recognized. At the end of the hall a curtain of some shimmering red material hung swaying in the breeze. He pushed it aside and peered into the room.
A miasma of perfume assailed his nostrils. The word harem that popped into his head was probably due to all the reclining women, because the place was actually rigged up like a smart saloon, with chandeliers, a good carpet and all the usual furnishings. But the chandeliers weren’t lit. The room was dimly illuminated by lamps in each corner. A fellow dressed up like a troubadour strolled about, playing a violin.
A closer look showed that in lieu of sofas, there were chaises longues on which the women reclined in seductive poses, some with a man in attendance, some alone. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, it gave him a bit of a turn to see all the ladies had white hair, until he noticed it was piled high on their heads in the French fashion from the last century. Wigs, in fact. Their gowns were also in the French style, cut immodestly low in front, with small waists and big skirts. Some of them wore patches at the side of the eye or mouth, in the style of the last century.
His eyes went from sofa to sofa, looking for Fanny. The girls all looked alike with those wigs glistening like mountains of snow on their heads. To make it even harder, they were batting fans in front of their faces. One of the hussies lifted her index finger and beckoned him forward. Maybe it was Fanny. He went closer, peering into the shadows.
“Sally! Sally Linden, what the deuce are you doing in a place like this?” he demanded.
“G’day, Coffen,” she said with a coquettish smile. “A girl’s got to eat, hasn’t she? My play closed. There was nothing else opening up. I ran out of money. I’m just here till I get another role.”
Coffen crouched on the edge of the chaise longue. Sally had been an actress for a decade, occasionally getting a small part in some comedy, but mostly she just hung around the Green Rooms to pick up gents. She was still attractive, nice and plump, the way he liked women, with flashing brown eyes that looked strange with the white wig. She had her mole pasted under her left eye. “You been here long?” he asked.
“A month. First time I’ve seen you here. Nobody to please you at the Green Rooms tonight?”
“It ain’t that, Sally. The fact is, I’m looking for a girl called Fanny. Fanny Rowan. Have you seen her about?”
Her flirtatious manner left her. “Fanny hasn’t been here for a few nights.”
“She ain’t at the annex. Do you live in the annex?”
“What do you know about the annex?” she asked sharply.
“I know you girls stay there.”
She shrugged. “That’s all there is to know. That’s where we stay when we’re not here.”
“You’ve got to help me, Sally, for old time’s sake. Fanny’s in trouble.”
She looked around to make sure no one was attending. “What kind of trouble?”
“She’s disappeared. If you know anything, please tell me. I’ll not tell anyone where I found out.” She looked doubtful. “There’s five pounds in it for you.”
She worried her lip a moment, then said, “You promise you won’t tell!”
“You know you can trust me.” She looked at him and smiled a soft, wistful smile. “Are you– “ He looked at her small waist. “Are you enceinte, Sally?”
“Don’t be daft, Coffen. What would I be doing in a place like this if I was having a kid? Us in the annex aren’t in the family way.”
A liveried footman came forward, carrying a bottle of wine on a tray. “Something to drink, sir?” he asked.
“Just put it right there,” Coffen said, nodding to the table.
“That’ll be a guinea, sir.”
Glancing at the label, Coffen realized he could buy a hogshead of the wine for a guinea, but he paid up to be rid of the footman without a fuss. “I thought the Morgate Home was for unwed mothers,” he said, pouring two glasses of the wine and handing her one.
“They keep them in the big house.”
“So Fanny wasn’t in the family way?”
“Not her!”
“How’d she get into the home, do you know?”
“She had a friend that knew Clare.”
“She ever mention his name?”
“I think she called him Henry. I never heard his last name. She’s from the country, you know. Found it dull as ditchwater. She let on she was having a kid so her da would let her go. She told Henry the same thing, and he fixed it up with Clare.”
“Did Henry call on her?”
“No, not that I know of. He just did it as a favor for a neighbor in trouble. He wrote to her, though. They used to exchange letters through Willie Sykes. She had the notion Bruton was reading her mail.”
“Oh yes, I’ve met Willie. Did she know what kind of a place she was going to?”
“If she didn’t know, she didn’t mind much when she found out. She was merry as a grig, but she put on airs, you know. Thought she was better than the rest of us. She only came here when she felt like it at first, and Clare let her get away with it. Then just lately, something happened. Clare soured on her.”
“Any idea what happened?”
“Not really, but they had an argument in her room. I heard him mention Henry’s name, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Maybe you could ask this Henry fellow, except I don’t know his last name. I might be able to find out from one of the other girls.”
“No, I know his name, Sally. It’d be wiser if you not mention it. How do you come to be here? How’d you hear about this place?”
Sally shrugged her handsome shoulders, revealing another few inches of enticing bosom. “I was chatting to Lord Clare in the Green Room at Drury Lane one night, mentioning it was hard to pay the rent when jobs were in short supply. I thought he might slip me a few bob, like you always did, Coffen, when I hinted. He said he had a room to let, rent—free with meals thrown in, if I’d give him a couple of nights a week here.”
“Does he pay you?”
“If you can call it pay. A guinea a week, he keeps the rest. Mind you, we get room and board. But it’s not a couple of nights a week, it’s five.”
“How much do you figure he keeps?”
“If we go upstairs, it’s three guineas. And a girl usually goes upstairs two or three times a night. Ten girls. Plus the wine and the show. You figure it out.”
“Would he let you leave if you wanted to?”
“To go where? It’s good rack and manger. And a good class of gent. As long as you don’t make trouble, it’s all right.”
“About Fanny— did she make trouble?”
Sally sucked her bottom lip and looked into her glass. “I know her and Clare had words. She was too talkative for his liking. And she had visitors. He didn’t like that. We were told that Fanny got herself a rich patron, but I don’t believe it. I don’t know who it would be. You usually know when someone’s buying one of the girls’ contracts from Clare. They come often, always wanting the same girl. And the girls brag about getting out.”
Coffen’s forehead pleated in interest. “What kind of contract?”
“You have to sign a paper when you move in. He says it’s just a formality. Of course he uses it to make money, but I don’t know how much he makes on each deal. You can leave to go home or to some other job, like if I g
ot back acting, but if you go with a gent, Clare gets paid. That’s the way it works.” She leaned forward and put her arm around his neck, drawing him toward her. “Listen, Coffen, we’ve been talking for long enough. We either have to go upstairs or you’ll have to leave. Horner is staring at us.”
“So you have no idea where Fanny is?”
“She was in her room last night when we were getting ready to leave. She wasn’t there this morning. That’s all I know. They must have moved her out while we were here last night.”
“Did this ever happen to any of the girls before?”
“No, like I said, we always knew when one of us was leaving. It was like– like a wedding, you know, or a celebration.”
“Before I go, there’s another girl I’m interested in. Her name’s Beth.”
“There’s nobody here called Beth,” she said.
“Fanny mentioned she might be moving to the annex.”
“Well, she isn’t there yet.”
He stuffed a fistful of bills into her fingers. “Thanks, Sally. I’ll see what I can do for you. You know I have friends at the theaters.”
“Thanks, Coffen.”
He detached himself and left. To escape Horner, he strolled into the card parlor and dallied there until he saw the manager talking to some gentlemen, then he slipped quietly out the door and returned to the carriage.
“Well?” Corinne demanded, when he entered. “Did you see her?”
“She wasn’t there.”
“Is that all you found out?” Prance asked.
“No point going over it all twice. I’ll tell you all about it when we get home. I have to think now, while it’s fresh in my mind.” He closed his eyes, lodged his chin in his hands and wrinkled his brow in concentration.
Prance rattled on to Corinne so she wouldn’t notice that telling phrase, “No point going over it all twice.” Coffen meant, of course, that he would have to report it all to Luten, but if Corinne realized that, she might go home in a fit of pique.
“And he calls me a tahrsome fellow,” Prance said. “When he has ceased cogitating, we must ask about Beth.”
This caught Corinne’s interest and she failed to notice Coffen’s lapse. When the carriage turned into Berkeley Square and stopped in front of Coffen’s door, she alit and went in with them, with only one quick, wistful glance at Luten’s house.
* * *
Chapter 20
Fearing that Corinne might bolt, Coffen kept a tight grip on her elbow as they entered the hall. She stopped dead in the doorway of the drawing room when she saw Luten. She knew him well enough to know his relaxed attitude was assumed. The clenched fist in his lap was a dead giveaway. His elegant figure looked entirely out of place on the shabby sofa in the shabby room.
The actual furnishings were not despicable, but careless housekeeping prevailed everywhere. Piles of newspaper and used glasses littered the occasional tables. A misshapen pair of gloves rested on the mantle of the fireplace. No sheen from turpentine and beeswax enhanced the wooden surfaces, and the carpet looked as if it had not been beaten or brushed in a month. Very likely it had not.
She saw that Raven, Coffen’s butler, had so far put himself out as to provide Luten a decanter of wine and a glass. The fire in the grate was not out but it was reduced to embers that scarcely took the chill off the room. Luten sat, oblivious to the surroundings, with his head in a gentleman’s magazine which he held toward the lamp in one hand. He glanced up, his eyes barely skimming over Corinne before settling on Coffen. That one quick peek was enough to show him her stiff, pale face. He intuited that the best way to keep her here was to ignore her. If she left, she would have to make a scene, and she would dislike that. She would ignore him.
“It took you a deuced long time. What luck, Pattle?” Luten asked, in a bland voice.
Coffen went forward, drawing Corinne with him. With Prance behind, she had no choice but to go into the room. Prance was careful to seat her away from Luten. He led her to a sofa that gave a view of him without actually being in close contact. He sat on a chair that formed a barrier between them.
“Yes, do open your budget, Coffen,” Prance said. “He hasn’t told us a thing,” he added aside to Luten. “We’ve been on nettles to hear what he learned. All we know is that Fanny is not in the annex . She’s either left of her own accord or has been spirited away.”
“What happened is, she had a fight with Clare last night,” Coffen said, and went on to reveal what he had learned from Sally.
They all listened closely. When he finished, it was Luten who spoke. “So Henry and Clare were friends,” he said. “The timing of Clare’s turning against Fanny is interesting, coming so soon after Henry’s murder.”
“Yes, “ Coffen said, “and it was Henry they were fighting about. Or at least his name came up.”
“Does it not leap to the eye that Clare was the gentleman seen calling on Henry at the Albany?” Prance suggested. “The description fits like the proverbial glove.”
“But what about the missing ring and the lock of hair?” Corinne reminded them, making sure to address her question to Prance. She had not looked within a right angle of Luten since taking her seat, nor he of her, yet each was minutely aware of the other. It took a good deal of concentration for her not to look. “Would Clare have taken them to suggest a lover’s quarrel? He’ s cagey enough for anything.”
Coffen sat, deep in thought. “Sally don’t think Henry knew what sort of vice den he was taking Fanny to. He thought she really was having a baby, and was just helping out a neighbor. My thinking is that if Henry found out what was afoot and charged Clare with it– well, that’s a motive for murder.”
“Surely Fanny would have told Henry,” Prance said. “He wrote to her; presumably she replied.”
“She did write. Willie Sykes was their postman,” Coffen said. “On t’other hand, if Henry thought she really was having a kid and Clare knew she wasn’t— well, Fanny and Clare had each other at pointe non plus, in a manner of speaking. Sally says Fanny didn’t seem to mind the situation. P’raps something came up and she told Henry in a fit of spite. Henry charged Clare with it, and Clare killed him.”
Prance listened to all of this, shaking his head to show his dissatisfaction. “How big a secret could Clare’s vice den have been? Everybody was there, plenty of people we all know, according to Coffen. It stands to reason Henry must have known about it.”
“But did he know Fanny had been introduced to these Parisian nights Pattle spoke of?” Luten countered. “He thought she was enceinte, and that he was taking her to that part of the establishment that is, in fact, a home for unwed mothers. Henry, one assumes from his association with Hertford and Prinney, was a man of the world. He would understand and tolerate that the world’s oldest profession had to be practised somewhere. That wouldn’t disgust him. Seeing what he considered a fairly innocent provincial neighbor introduced to such a profession, however, would be a different matter.”
“Fanny wasn’t all that innocent,” Corinne pointed out. “The fact is, she was a minx. Is it possible she really has found herself a patron, and slipped out of the annex during the night to save her new patron the price of her contract?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Luten said, taking care not to look at Corinne.
“Surely that’s something we could find out,” Prance said. “A few questions set afoot at the clubs and the House might turn up something.”
“Anyhow,” said Coffen, who never lost track of the main question, “the important thing is, we’ve tied Clare to Henry, and we know there was trouble between them. If we could find the missing ring and lock of hair in Clare’s possession, we’d have him right and tight.”
“Would he keep such incriminating evidence?” Luten asked. “If he took them to provide a false trail, surely the first thing he’d do upon leaving would be to get rid of them where they wouldn’t be found. Toss them into the Thames, probably.”
“I wonder what he’s doin
g with all the fortune he’s making,” Prance said, staring into space. “I doubt he’s breaking so many commandments and laws only to hand the money over to the Morgate Sect. Does Lord Clare have a deep, dark secret vice we haven’t discovered? Opium, gambling, illegitimate children he’s supporting.”
“That’s something else we can ask while we’re asking about Fanny,” Luten said. He leaned forward then and spoke to Corinne, adopting a civil tone, untouched by anything warmer. “You, Countess, might put the same question to your lady friends. The ladies are usually keen gossipers, especially about eligible bachelors.”
She gave him a cool look and nodded, without saying a word. She couldn’t speak. Her throat felt as if it had frozen shut. How cool he looked, how indifferent. And he called her Countess. Why had this happened now, just when he was beginning to loosen up and behave more like a man in love?
Coffen hollered for clean glasses. Raven appeared with three on a tray, two of them chipped. He was careful to give Prance the unchipped one. Coffen poured them each a glass of wine.
“Any chance of a bite at all?” he asked his butler.
“Cook has retired for the evening, sir,” was the cool answer.
Luten glowered. “Then awaken him, or prepare a sandwich for your master yourself.”
“Cheese and a little bread will be fine,” Coffen said, with an apologetic air. He looked around at his guests. “Anyone else care for a crust of bread and a nibble of cheese?” They all declined, knowing only too well his description of the fare offered was accurate.
“I don’t know why you don’t turf out that lot of layabouts you call servants and hire some decent ones,” Prance said.
“We’ve gotten used to each other’s little ways,” Coffen said. “Better the devil you know. I mind now, my cook had a headache this afternoon.”
“After making inroads on your wine cellar last night, no doubt,” Prance said, shaking his head in consternation.
“That ain’t true,” Coffen said at once. “He wasn’t here last night. He took the night off. His mama died.”