by Joan Smith
The carriage was crowded with five occupants. Black offered to sit up with the driver but Corinne said, “With that wounded wrist? I should say not.”
Prance sighed and hugged his aching ribs. Coffen said, “I’ll do it.”
“Nonsense,” Corinne decreed. “You’ve been sneezing your head off and it’s freezing cold out there. We’ll all crowd in.” She sat wedged between Luten and Black, to the enjoyment of all three.
During the drive home, Corinne was informed of their night’s activities, and they heard her story. “Your second sight’s been the salvation of us,” Coffen said, much impressed. He had always been the firmest believer in her power. “It’s a miracle is what it is.”
“I shall never doubt it again,” Prance said. “I tremble to think how long we would have been there if you hadn’t come.”
Luten was too ashamed of his failure and too relieved to be alive to deliver the lecture he wanted to on her outrageous behaviour. That would have to wait for a more suitable and private moment.
It was well after midnight when they returned to Berkeley Square. They all went to Luten’s house where Evans, aware of Coffen’s chronic hunger, had sandwiches and coffee waiting.
Coffen drew a chair up to the grate, drew a deep sigh and said, “It’s good to be home, safe and sound.” Then he reached for a ham sandwich and pickle.
“We’re not home yet,” Prance said, sipping at a cup of black coffee. He rarely ate, especially meat. Especially ham. “I shouldn’t be in the least surprised if they’re waiting for us outside our doors to have another go at us. And with our own weapons.” He shivered at the very thought. Baron Wolfried must note that it wasn’t only the soldiers who were suffering in this war.
Corinne didn’t mean to let Luten out of her sight ever again. She asked Evans to bring hot water, basilicum powder and a plaster to the drawing room to dress Black’s wound. She and Black went to a side table as the sight of blood was hardly appetizing.
Black enjoyed the unique glory of her actually touching his hand, gently bathing it, sprinkling on the basilicum powder and asking if it hurt very much, then pressing the plaster in place. He assured her it was only a scratch. She didn’t say a word about his dereliction in not being there to accompany her in her hour of need.
When Black’s wound had been dressed and they had all eaten and discussed the ignominy of their failure, Luten said, “We’ll meet here tomorrow at ten to discuss what to do about this fiasco. We’re in no condition to give it our best thought tonight.”
Prance pretended he was having trouble walking without his walking stick to get Coffen and Black to accompany him home. He was not attacked en route and was soon handed over to the gentle ministrations of Villier.
Corinne overcame her anger sufficiently to perform her conjugal duties for her husband.
Chapter Nineteen
There was no nonsense about hiding things from Corinne when the Brigade met in Luten’s study the next morning. Luten looked around at his group and said, “Well, what went wrong? Black’s tip was accurate. They were meeting last night, but for what purpose? Was it just for the purpose of laying us by the heels? Their being there so early looks like it. They were ready and waiting for us. I’ve been thinking it over, and it seems to me they arranged for you to overhear their planning at Long Acre, Black.”
“Aye, they knew I’d head to Bessy’s place, where the Frenchies are known to hang out,” Black admitted. “I took the precaution of dressing in rags and walking about, stopping a few places to ask for Lefty, a lad who used to live there a dozen years ago. I left the hackney a half mile from Bessy’s and walked so I’d not stand out. I daresay they spotted me the minute I got there and were waiting at Bessy’s for me to walk in.”
“I’m not blaming you, Black. Your plan was a good one and well executed, but since they did recognize you, we must assume they’ve identified you. They must have someone here on the Square watching us. They’ve seen you coming and going here with the others. They outwitted us this time, but by God they’ll not do it again.”
“At least they didn’t kill us,” Prance said. “They easily could have. They had us at their mercy.”
“They didn’t want to risk murdering a bunch of nobs,” Black said, slipping into his mother tongue. “The town would sit up and take notice if the likes of Lord Luten and you others were all done away with at once.”
“Yes, they were just showing us who’s in charge. Morgrave must have enjoyed riding off on Smoker,” Luten said through gritted teeth. “I’ll get him back. Smoker, I mean.”
“Might be a clue,” Coffen said. “I mean to say, pretty hard to hide a horse. Especially a prime bit of blood like Smoker. Morgrave wouldn’t dare ride him, not in public. He’s easily recognized with them four white socks and that blaze shaped like a crooked star on his nose.”
“I’d know him a mile away, and he’d know me,” Luten said. “Morgrave isn’t stupid enough to ride him in public or stable him at whatever mews he’s using. He just took him to spite me. What he’ll likely do is sell him, and he won’t waste much time to do it either. I wager he’s up for sale by now. He’d obviously have one of his gang handle the sale, and do it away from London.”
“What he’d do is dye two or three of the white stockings and alter the blaze so he’d not be recognized,” Black said. “That’s one of their tricks.”
All eyes turned to the authority on crooked dealings. “Would you know where they might try to sell a stolen horse they’d disguised?” Luten asked.
“I know a couple of stables in town that wouldn’t blink at doing it, but for a prime bit of blood like Smoker they’d likely take the mount out of town a ways. There’s a few places out past St. John’s Wood that bear looking into. I can do that if you like.”
“You’re the best man to handle it,” Luten said, “but in case any of Morgrave’s gang are there — No, they’re too crafty to be within five miles of that horse. And even if they do know I’m looking for Smoker, we haven’t lost anything. If you find him, find out as much as you can about who sold him. Just tell me how much cash you need. If you find Smoker, buy him on the spot. I’ll give you cash for the transaction. If you succeed, take him to the stable I use. You’re sure you’d recognize him with the markings dyed?”
“I’d spot it in two seconds. The colour never matches perfect,” Black said with an air of authority. “The off colour is a dead giveaway that a nag’s stolen. The dye roughens the hair up a bit as well, unless they give it a gloss with oil. You can feel the difference with your hands. The dyed bits will be either rough or oily. As a precaution I’ll take along a little vial of bleach and swab down where they’ve hidden his markings.”
Coffen listened enrapt to this arcane knowledge.
“How much do you figure they’d ask for him?” Luten said. “I paid five hundred.”
“A half and ten percent is the going price,” Black replied at once. “If he’s worth five, that’d be three hundred. They’ll want cash on the barrel head.”
“How do you know these things, Black?” Prance asked. “I’ve never even seen you ride.”
Black’s answer was a tap of the finger on the side of his nose. When Prance opened his lips to ask more questions, he added, “You don’t have to be a Captain Sharp to recognize a shaved card, Sir Reginald.”
They discussed other plans that centered around watching Morgrave, but came up with nothing likely to settle the matter in the near future.
“Why don’t you have a word with Hopley?” Corinne suggested. “He might have learned something that could help us. He’s the man who is looking after all the French spies.”
“I plan to,” Luten said. “He’s a demon for privacy, but this is an urgent matter and if he knows anything, he must tell me.”
They parted, far from satisfied with the way the case was going. Prance had a busy morning arranging for new weapons. Coffen went back to the spinney to search for clues in daylight, in case they missed something
in the dark. And Corinne had a fitting for a new gown for the Orphans’ Ball, which was fast approaching.
Luten called on Hopley before he went to the House. “Ah, Luten,” Hopley said with his usual smile. “I trust you weren’t seen coming in? Any word on Bolton’s murderer?”
“I know who killed him, or ordered his assassination, and he is an even more dangerous man than we thought as he is tampering with coded messages. I’m talking about the Honourable John Morgrave. I have proof he’s the man.” He discussed his proof in detail, the letters mor written by the dying man, McRaney’s testimony that Morgrave was known to Bolton, the discovery of the code book in his bedroom and the clincher of finding Prance’s purse in his pocket. He also told about Morgrave studying maps of Spain and his interest in the war. He omitted the detail of the brandy as Sir Edgar had a decanter of it sitting on his desk. He described last night’s fiasco in detail, finishing with the loss of Smoker, and his plan to recover him.
Hopley just sat nodding with a small smile twitching his lips. “Very impressive, Luten. I see you have been active. Unfortunately you have been chasing a false scent. Morgrave does his decoding for me. I trust him implicitly. I would say, in fact, that he is one of my best men. His work has been of great help in the past. He takes a particular interest in the war as he has a brother and two cousins fighting with Wellington. No, Morgrave is not your man. It seems to me the only reason you latched on to him is that Bolton had written what looked like mor just before dying and this McRaney mentioned that Bolton was slightly acquainted with a chap called Morgrave. Perhaps the mor was just a random pattern made by the twitching of his fingers as he was dying, or perhaps in his death throes he formed the letters badly and meant mar or nar or anything.”
“It’s the only clue we had!” Luten said, stymied entirely by what Hopley had told him. “And Prance’s purse was in his pocket.”
“Yes, that’s the most interesting thing you’ve said thus far. It suggests, does it not, that someone is aware you suspect Morgrave and has been at pains to see you don’t look elsewhere? I trust you haven’t made it obvious?”
“I’ve had him watched around the clock. Lady Luten has called on his wife a few times. I accompanied her the first time.”
“Ah, then they know you took their bait. But tell me, your man who was watching Morgrave last night, what has he to say? Did he see Morgrave go out last night? Did he follow him?”
Luten just stared in consternation. “I haven’t spoken to him yet. Since we knew where Morgrave was going — That is, we thought we knew ..."
“I suggest you speak to him when you return.”
“But why did they suspect me in the first place? Why were they following me? It was ostensibly the Berkeley Brigade that was investigating Bolton’s death, nothing to do with spying.”
“They must have been watching Bolton’s flat the morning you went there and discovered his body. They recognized you and either weren’t fooled by your claiming to be connected to Bolton, or they may have assumed you’d discover the real reason he was killed. Naturally Bolton’s murderer would have some connection to the Frenchies. What you — we ought to have done was lead some false investigative trail suggesting you were working on some other angle — an ordinary robbery, for instance. You didn’t do anything like that, I take it?”
“No, I was busy looking for the truth.”
“Right. And while you’ve been watching Morgrave, they’ve been watching you and soon figured out that you suspect him. In fact, providing enough clues to make certain you do suspect him. They’re a wily crew, Luten. Don’t underestimate them.”
Luten tossed up his hands in frustration. “I hardly know where to go from here. Morgrave was the only clue we had.”
“You know where you learned about that meeting last night. That might be a place to start. It’s clear as a pikestaff you were set up. One of your fellows is looking into the sale of your mount. That might lead somewhere. You know your friend’s purse was put in Morgrave’s pocket by someone who had access to his coat. It’s like a big ball of snarled wool, Luten. We find one little loose end, give it a tug and it begins to unravel. Next time, you might feel free to call on me before you go — er, before you undertake extensive investigations. It’s true I asked you not to come unless you felt it necessary, but you have expended a good deal of fruitless effort and wasted time that might better have been better spent than following a false scent.” He gave another of his mocking little smiles. “At least I can set your mind free from the worry that Morgrave is misleading us with coded messages.”
Luten left, his head reeling. The Frenchies were even more clever than he had imagined. His ruse of the Berkeley Brigade looking into Bolton’s death hadn’t fooled them for a minute. He should have been laying false clues to indicate he believed Bolton’s death was just an isolated crime.
But how was he supposed to do that? How would that investigation have differed from the one he had conducted? Hopley had inadvertently told him how they had got on to Black and recognized him at Long Acre. He had been at Bolton’s place with Coffen that morning, poking about for clues.
He was mortally ashamed that he had not spoken to the footman he had watching Morgrave’s place last night. In all the excitement it had completely slipped his mind. He’d do it the minute he got home. There was nothing for it but to follow Sir Edgar’s advice.
If there was anything to learn about Smoker, Black would learn it. The other immediate matter to look into was Long Acre, where Black had overheard the plans for last night’s meeting in the spinney. He felt these two little loose ends were very inadequate for unraveling the mystery. As to who had an opportunity to plant Prance’s purse in Morgrave’s pocket, how the devil was he to discover that? Morgrave wasn’t the sort who seldom left home. He was an active fellow with all sorts of friends.
A meeting of the Brigade was obviously in order. Four — no, five heads were better than one. He’d hear what the admirable Black discovered about Smoker. Black, without knowing it, had just become a regular member of the Berkeley Brigade, and not the least member either.
Chapter Twenty
“I fear the jacket you wore last night is beyond even my powers of resuscitation, Sir Reginald,” Villier informed his master that afternoon, as he applied salve to Prance’s chafed wrists. “Between mud and grime and burrs and that sleeve that is half ripped out —"
“Throw it out,” Reggie said. “I never want to see it again. It has too many hideous memories. I hate wearing a mended jacket in any case. That sleeve will never sit right. Weston must have another jacket ready by now. I trust he managed to put in those inner pockets in a way that doesn’t make the jacket bulge in front.”
“Fear not. This is the great Weston we are speaking of. The buckskin trousers have cleaned up well. After drying them, brushing off the dirt and applying a gentle emery pad to them, they’re as good as new. Pity you lost that lovely cane with the sword inside.”
“Oh that is replaceable. I shall have one made in ebony. Black is more dangerous looking, don’t you think? And we must fashion some sort of sock-like thing to hold agates. I told you about Black’s trick of putting them in his handkerchief. It was very useful. I wonder now if buckshot wouldn’t be more effective.”
“Oh never! Lead would absolutely destroy the sit of your jacket.”
“For the side pocket of my carriage, Villier. Naturally I wouldn’t carry such a cumbersome thing on my person. How about the boots? Are they salvageable?”
“No irreparable scuffs. Kelly’s boot-black and a good polishing with wool restored them good as new. We shall have to replace one of the tassels. It occurred to me that as Baron Wolfried enjoys unusual concealed weapons, we might do something with the tassels.”
Prance looked interested. “They’re too small for guns or knives.”
“Not too small to contain a poison pellet or two contained in little hollow baubles on the ends of the tassels. What do you think?”
“
There would have to be some way to open the baubles. If the metal were really thin, it could be slit open with the tip of a knife. An interesting notion, Villier. I can just see Wolfried now, captured and facing torture and death . . . But no, he’s not the type to commit suicide. Still, it has interesting potential. We’ll work on it.”
He glanced out the window. “Is that Pattle I see darting into Luten’s place? I believe I’ll join him, see if he had any luck at the spinney. How he could bear to go back there after last night. .. You’ll make a copy of that note to Murray and post it? You can sign for me. He’s most eager to hear about my new novel. He’s thrilled with my idea of a book about spies.”
“Consider it done. The book will certainly be another sensation. No way it could possibly be anything but hair-raising, with all these dangerous doings you’ve got yourself involved in,” Villier said, tsking his disapproving admiration.
Prance had to use an ordinary malacca cane to hobble next door to Luten’s place. He found Corinne and Coffen in the rose salon, Coffen enjoying toast and coffee, which was no doubt his lunch. “Any luck at Long Acre?” he asked.
Coffen handed him his snuffbox with the lid torn off. “I thought you might want to get this fixed. Looks like somebody tromped on it. Pity. It’s a pretty little thing. Next time you might put salt in it instead of pepper. I couldn’t see straight for ages.”
“Throw it out. It’s not worth repairing. I’m sorry about last night, but the idea was to temporarily incapacitate the enemy, you see.”
“I ain’t the enemy.”
“I said I’m sorry. I’ll think your suggestion over. There might be some other chemical powder I could use. Did you find anything else?”
“Just this,” he said, holding out a dilapidated black touque. “It looks French. One of the Frenchies lost it in the brawl, I expect. Morgrave wouldn’t be caught dead in it.”