by Joan Smith
“He’s probably in hiding, afraid to show his face in public. You all just assume he’s guilty because he was in the library once — just once! And he never asked me a single thing about how the goods were safeguarded when we were alone together. I don’t think he had any interest in them at all, other than just admiring them as works of art.”
She expatiated a little longer on Vance’s innocence, and after a decent interval they left.
“She obviously really thinks he’s innocent,” Corinne said. “But there was the matter of the T’ang horse. I suppose any of them could have moved it. It probably has nothing to do with the robbery.”
Coffen took out his clue and stared at it. “If she’s telling the truth, this don’t belong to Vance, and that’s what I went to find out.” He studied it a little longer, then said, “Unless she was lying to protect him. She caught on pretty quick that we felt it pointed the finger at him, and came up with that business about Chloe trying to worm her way into Mrs. Ballard’s good books.”
“Chloe was making up to Mrs. Ballard though. Wouldn’t Miss Lipman have claimed to have seen the boot bauble on Sean Everett if she was trying to make him and Chloe look guilty?”
“Not if she knows Everett didn’t wear such things and Prance had noticed. It’s the sort of thing he would notice. Funny she didn’t ask if you’d recovered the goods. Do you figure she already knew? That’d be suspicious.”
“Yes, it is odd,” Corinne said. “You’d think she’d be worried, or at least curious. I was wondering whether to tell her, but as she didn’t ask, I didn’t bother. I don’t know whether this visit has helped or only muddied the waters further. I wonder if Black is back yet. Black is a marvel for finding out things.”
“We’ll go home and see. I’m feeling peckish. Didn’t have any breakfast this morning.”
Corinne just smiled. It seemed like old times, out investigating with Coffen, and him hinting for food. “Cook made gingerbread this morning. Pity she doesn’t add raisins, as you like. I shall tell her to next time.”
“I like it either way, but it’s even better with raisins, like your Mrs. Partridge in Brighton makes. We’d ought to all run down to Brighton for a little rest after we solve this case. Just the right time of year for it.”
“Luten mentioned the Lake District, but that’s a long drive, and he won’t be able to get away for very long. We’d spend half the holiday in the carriage. Brighton would be nice this time of year. I’ll suggest it.”
* * *
Chapter 27
Prance found his interest in writing the script for Shadows was fading, now that Vance was not to play the role. Without his rehearsals to occupy his morning, he was amusing himself by continuing a series of paintings of his servants dressed as characters from Shakespeare’s plays. Villier was usually his model for this particular series of paintings, not just because he was easily available and he enjoyed his company, but because he had an amazingly mobile face. With the proper makeup, he could impersonate anyone from King Lear to Romeo, or in a wig, even Juliet.
On this morning he had Villier dressed as Hamlet, wearing a black cape tucked around him to give an indefinite shape as he wasn’t quite sure what a Dane actually wore at that period in history. Lacking a studio, he had the carpet of his drawing room covered in oilskin papers and had set up his easel by the window there. He claimed it was because he needed the light, but both he and Villier knew that what he wanted was a view of the neighbours’ comings and goings.
“I’m roasted to a turn in this woolen cape with the sun shining in on me, Sir Reginald,” Villier complained.
“Take it off, then. I’m only doing the head this morning.”
“Now you tell me!” He tossed the cape aside with a sound that was half scorn, half relief. “There’s Lady Luten’s carriage just arriving,” he said, peering out the window when he heard the rumble of carriage wheels. “Pattle is with her.”
Prance set his brush down. “That’s enough painting for today. The head is done — the hardest part. You see to cleaning up this mess, Villier. We’ll resume tomorrow.”
Villier rushed to the easel, tilted his head this way and that as he examined the likeness of himself scowling at him from the canvas. “Must I look so ill-humoured and worried? Mama will think I’m costive, and send me that horrid cod liver oil medicine.”
“You forget, you are Hamlet, pondering matters of grave moral import. The frown gives the air of gravitas I was after. You would hardly be smiling at the contemplation of murdering your mama’s husband.”
“But you said the pose, with my head resting on my cupped hand, would give that contemplative effect.”
“It didn’t work out. You looked as if your head was loose and you were holding it on by main force.”
“Is my nose that huge? Could you not paint a few millimeters off it? Between the scowl and the nose, Mama will never recognize me.”
Prance studied the picture, then Villier’s nose, then the picture again. “You’re right, Villier. The nose is too large. Where is that brush I was using for the skin tones? Ah, here it is. Just a little stroke — there! That’s better.”
“C’est moi! C’est absolument moi!” Villier cried. “Wherever did you learn to paint like that, Sir Reginald?”
“I don’t believe Rembrandt need worry, nor even Romney,” Prance said with a little laugh. “Still, it is not bad. I’m glad you’re happy with it. I believe I’ll just nip over to Luten’s and see if Coffen has learned anything. I’ll be there if any interesting caller should come looking for me.”
Villier could not pull his eyes away from the very flattering likeness of himself on the canvas. “Mmmm,” he said with a distracted air, to acknowledge that his master had spoken. As it was the master’s genius that was responsible for this trance, Prance forgave him.
Really, the Shakespearean series was turning out amazingly well. After he had finished the script for Shadows, he should rent a little atelier. It would be amusing to have his friends drop in and watch him at work. He would give his eyes to do that raving beauty, Lady Cowper. He should re-do Corinne as well. And by the way, what had happened to that little bust of her he had painted a few years ago? It was one of his successes, but it wasn’t on view in her new home.
Did he really have time to become serious about his painting? There was his novel writing, that was proving such a success. It might be interesting to do a series of illustrations for his next book. They would have to be engravings — a whole new area he had never studied. So much to do! So little time!
* * *
“Well, any news?” he asked, when he was shown into Corinne’s rose salon.
Coffen’s agenda was never so full as his friend’s, but he wasn’t one to waste time or words. “The doo-dad ain’t from Corbett’s boot,” he said. “Miss Lipman said he don’t wear them. She can’t remember whether Sean does or not.”
“Nor do I remember,” Prance said, “but he’s the very sort of gent who would wear such shoddy things. They would just match those jackets with the padded shoulders, and the scarlet striped waistcoat.”
“We were wondering if she lied to protect Corbett,” Corinne said. “It didn’t take her a minute to figure out why we were asking.”
“That might be why she took to casting spurs on Chloe Chalmers as well,” Coffen said.
“Slurs,” Prance corrected. “Casting slurs.” Or did he mean aspersions? No, Coffen would never have heard of an aspersion.
“Them as well,” said Coffen, who never paid much attention to Prance’s language lessons.
“I don’t mean to be a nit-picker, Coffen,” Prance said, “but one casts slurs on a reputation, not spurs.”
“If you want to pick nits, try this. She said Chloe was always oiling around Mrs. Ballard and making fun of her behind her back. Did you ever notice anything like that?”
“I certainly noticed she was fond of Mrs. Ballard. I never heard her making fun of the lady.”
“All a
hum, then, to make her look guilty, so as to make Corbett look innocent. Very likely he did wear chains on his boots.”
“It almost sounds as if Miss Lipman was jealous of Chloe,” Prance said, peering to see how this idea went down.
“Why? Lipman wasn’t interested in Sean, was she? It was Corbett she had her eye on.”
“I believe he means Chloe liked Corbett,” Corinne said.
Prance considered this, then said, “Of the two, I should think any girl would prefer Vance. He was cantankerous to be sure, but he was more of a man. He had a certain je ne sais quoi.” He tossed a hand in the air in the gallic manner.
“French, was he?” Coffen asked. “That might explain it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Prance said. “Could you explain your explanation?”
“Of course you understand. The Frenchies hate us. He’d be after the stolen goods to sell to get money for the war with France. By Jove, they could buy a lot of bullets with the ten thousand he got away with.”
“We have wandered into the realm of fiction here,” Prance said with a weary sigh. “Corbett was not French. He was from an orphanage in Devon.”
“But Corbett and Chloe,” Corinne said. “Now that is a combination we haven’t considered. Might they have been working together?”
Their discussion was interrupted by Luten’s arrival. Corinne immediately asked the usual question, “Anything new?”
As it seemed the Berkeley Brigade was now in session, Corinne called for coffee and they all made themselves comfortable.
“Townsend tells me Dan had a daughter who used to work with him,” Luten said. “A brave, cunning girl. He has the notion she may go after Lady Clare’s diamond necklace.”
“Thank goodness I told her to take the necklace to Elgin Hall herself,” Corinne said. “We should warn her.”
“Townsend is doing that. He’ll put himself in charge of delivering the necklace safely — as well as the lot you’re responsible for, Corinne.”
“What age would this daughter be?” she asked.
“About eighteen. It seems she’s been working with Dan since she was I mere tot.”
“What is her name?”
“He called her Missy. That’s probably a pet name.”
“Could this daughter be Chloe Everett? She’s the right age.”
“She was described as a brassy chit with black hair. Chloe’s hair is black but I wouldn’t call her a brassy chit.”
Prance said, “She’s no Mrs. Siddons, but she’s not a bad actress, which could explain the demure behaviour. I wonder, though, if she wouldn’t have worn a blond wig. No, perhaps not. One can always tell.”
“It’s possible she is Dan’s daughter,” Luten said.
“She was eager to get into Mrs. Ballard’s rooms, where she had a good view of the back garden and the library door,” Corinne reminded them.
Luten listened, then said, “Townsend doesn’t think Dan would go after the auction goods. That’s the Maccles’ line. If she was after the auction goods, she was likely working with the Maccles.”
“So how do we go about proving it?” Coffen asked, looking around.
“Or disproving it,” Luten added. “This is all conjecture.”
“Not if we prove it,” Coffen insisted.
They were discussing ways and means but had come up with nothing better than searching her rooms again when Black arrived. “Any news?” he asked, and was filled in on what they had been discussing.
“Did you learn anything at the chapel?” Luten asked.
“Nothing about the Maccles, but I was surprised to learn Dan was a member in good standing.” There was a general outcry of astonishment at this. When they settled down, Black continued.
“I had a chat with the fellow who looks after the church — the cleaning and that sort of thing. His keys went missing for a spell. Someone might have got hold of them and had a copy made to get inside the night Mrs. Ballard went to meet them. Now the interesting thing, to my mind, is that Dan was said to have taken up with an older woman with either a bunch of young lovers, or a bunch of sons.”
“Mother Maccles,” Luten said.
“That would be my guess,” Black agreed. “There was a bunch of older women there tidying up the chapel at the time the keys went missing. I was wondering if Mother Maccles was one of them. She don’t belong to the chapel but Diamond Dan did. He might of got her in somehow. I don’t figure they’d ask many questions if a member in good standing, which Dan was, said he knew a woman who’d lend them a hand.”
“Might the thief have been Dan’s daughter, wearing a gray wig?” Luten asked.
“I daresay it’s possible. The daughter is a member of the community. She’s in the chapel register, but she’s been living in London. Elizabeth Marjorie Dumbrille, age eighteen.”
“Missy!” Coffen said.
“Missing, you say?” Black exclaimed. “What have you learned about her?”
“Not missing, Missy. That’s what Dan called her, and she was in it with him since she was a tyke, according to what Townsend told Luten, barring some time for her education in a girls’ school.”
Black considered this a moment, then said, “I’ve been wondering if the chit is Chloe Chalmers. There’s no one else we know of that fits the description.”
“That’s just what we were wondering,” Coffen said.
“Townsend feels pretty sure the daughter will go after Lady Clare’s diamond necklace,” Luten said, and sighed. “They’ve had such easy pickings so far she won’t feel we’re much of a threat.”
“It’s too bad we’re making such a secret of when and how the necklace is being delivered,” Corinne said. “Only ourselves and Lady Clare know.”
“And Townsend,” Luten said.
“It ain’t likely he’ll blow the gaffe,” Black added.
“It’s still conjecture,” Luten said. “If she is Dan’s daughter, then she must have become involved with the Maccles through Dan, when he took up with Mother.”
“Or vice versa?” Corinne suggested. “She took up with one of the Maccles men when she came to London and got mixed up in their plan to steal the auctions goods, and through him Dan met Mother Maccles. That would suggest that Sean Everett is one of the Maccles.”
“And this come off his boot,” Coffen said, dangling the rosette. “If you’d have one of your rehearsals this afternoon, Reg, me and Black could go and have another root around that house where Chloe and Sean live. And you can have a look at his boots while he’s there.”
Prance considered this a moment, then said, “I’ll ask them to remove their footwear to protect the carpet, which I shall say I just had cleaned. As it’s not actually soiled, they won’t know the difference. I’ll remove my own boots as well to make it look less odd. Villier will take the boots out of the room and examine them for marks of the rosette. I am assuming Sean will have removed the other one by now. Either that or he’ll be wearing two new ones, in which case we haven’t proven a thing except that he has poor taste.”
“Anyhow it’ll give me and Black a chance to search their rooms,” Coffen said. He looked to Black for his agreement. Black nodded his head. “If we find one rosette matching this one I found in the attic, that’ll be close to proof.”
“Right, I’ll dash off notes to them right away. How long do you want at their flats?”
“Half an hour would be plenty of time.”
Luten nodded, then said, “You might quiz them to see if they know anything we don’t about Corbett as well, Reg.”
“I don’t suppose it would be possible to drop a hint as to how Lady Clare’s diamond necklace is to be delivered,” Corinne said. “No, I can see it’s impossible. If she’s guilty, she’d smell a rat.”
“Mrs. Ballard is the one to let that drop,” Luten said.
“I could tell Chloe Mrs. Ballard has been asking for her,” Prance said. “Suggest she drop in while she’s in the neighbourhood. I can detain Sean, if you’d
rather Mrs. Ballard and Chloe have an intimate cose.”
Corinne considered this and said, “Yes, that would be best. I’ll have to tell Mrs. Ballard how the diamonds are being moved, and trust her to tell Chloe in some seemingly innocent way. I’m not sure she’s up to it.”
“She’s surprised us once already,” Luten reminded her. “I believe if she were told the whole story, she’d gladly play her part. She might balk at telling a lie, but she wouldn’t have to lie. And if Chloe is who we suspect she is, she’ll be angling to find out about the diamonds anyway. I say we give it a try. If Chloe is innocent, there’s no harm done. On the other hand, if we can spur her into action and catch her, we’ll get Corinne’s ten thousand back.” He turned to his wife. “Are you willing to take the risk, Corinne?”
“It’s Lady Clare who’d be taking the risk.”
“There won’t really be much risk,” Luten said. “We’ll substitute paste diamonds in the carriage and get the real necklace to Elgin Hall by some other means.”
“If we could be sure they don’t harm Lady Clare ...”
“We’ll find a stand-in for Lady Clare as well.”
Corinne bit back a smile. “In that case, go ahead. I’ll go and coach Mrs. Ballard.”
“You get that note off to Chloe, Prance,” Coffen said, “and me and Black will dash over to Stukely Street. We’ll dart in as soon as they leave.”
* * *
Chapter 28
Corinne was positively amazed with Mrs. Ballard’s reaction to her suspicions of Chloe. She expected resistance and being made to feel she was doing something sinfully wrong, but it was no such a thing.
“I am so relieved to hear you say so, milady,” she gasped, hand held to heart. “I wanted to say something to you, but one hesitates to cast a shadow on another’s character without proof, and really I have no proof. It was the knitting, you see, that first raised a doubt. She asked me to teach her to knit, which I was very happy to do. Then I happened to hear Sean mention to Corbett that Chloe had knittted him a pair of slippers for his last birthday. He was boasting about what a good knitter she was. And really she did seem to catch on very quickly, more quickly than someone who had never held a needle.