Murder on Charing Cross Road

by Joan Smith

  “Pointe non plus, milord,” Henderson said in a taunting voice. “Stand aside. Let me leave with this creature. I’ll release him unharmed in fifteen minutes providing I’m not followed. Take one step after me, and I shall be obliged to kill him.”

  Luten was strongly inclined to mistrust him. But Corinne was in the next room, and if Martin managed to outwit or outshoot him, what might become of her? And poor Prance, looking like a bated animal, with that mute plea in his eyes. He wouldn’t have to give Martin fifteen minutes. He’d watch from the window and see which direction he took, then go after him. Make sure he wasn’t seen, or he’d certainly shoot Prance.

  It was the devil of a dilemma. Or he might be able to holler down to his coachman from the window. Was there a window facing the street? And in the end Martin might shoot Prance anyway, for spite.

  Henderson, sensing his uncertainty, said, “It’s a fair deal, Luten. You have ten seconds to consider it, then I shoot. I may or may not manage to kill you, but you will most certainly kill Prance if you try to shoot me.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he began backing toward the door, keeping Prance between himself and Luten’s pistol. Luten’s mind was in a whirl. Martin couldn’t lock the door behind him. The lock was broken. He’d never get downstairs backwards, while holding Prance in front of him. He’d trip, and that would be his chance to get him.

  Henderson edged past Luten and reached to open the door. Two things happened at once. Prance looked up and saw Evans with his pistol taking aim at Henderson’s outstretched arm. Henderson’s attention was all on Luten. Prance caught Evans’s eye, Evans gave a barely perceptible nod of the head. Prance ducked and lunged forward, out of the line of fire. Evans’s pistol roared, the bullet shot out and ripped into Henderson’s shoulder. He released Prance, dropped his pistol and grabbed his shoulder, cursing. Evans picked up the pistol and held one in either hand, both pointed at Henderson.

  The room was suddenly ringing with noise. Corinne shouted from the bedroom. “Luten! Luten, are you shot?” Fists pounded on the door. And as Luten hurried to open it, Coffen and Black darted into the room, looking all about in confusion.

  “What the deuce is going on?” Coffen demanded. “Who shot McRaney?”

  Evans cast a sly glance at Black and said, “I’m afraid I’m responsible, Mr. Pattle. He had us at pointe non plus. He was trying to escape, you see. I feared he meant to harm Sir Reginald.” He then returned to watch guard over the prisoner.

  “Escape?” Coffen demanded. “From Martin, you mean? Was he here?”

  “From what I can deduce, he is Martin,” Evans said.

  “The devil you say. McRaney is Martin? You mean he’s the spy?”

  “That appears to be the gist of it. He locked Lady Luten in the bedroom and had tied up poor Sir Reginald.”

  Coffen just shook his head. “And me giving him clues all along. I feel like a fool.”

  “He had us all fooled, Mr. Pattle,” Black consoled him.

  “Would somebody kindly release me,” Prance called in a weak voice. He was leaning against the wall, with his hands still tied behind him.

  Black obliged him and led him to the sofa, where he immediately fell into a swoon. Meanwhile Luten had rushed to the bedroom and released his wife. Corinne fell into his arms, babbling senselessly.

  “Are you all right, my love?” he asked, holding her so tightly her ribs ached.

  “I thought he had shot you! I heard a shot and — Luten, you really must give up this sort of work. I can’t take it.”

  “But are you all right, my love? Did he hurt you?”

  “He didn’t touch me, except to push me in here and lock the door, and I couldn’t get out the window and I couldn’t find a weapon.” Then she spotted Reggie laid out on the sofa and said, “Oh Luten! He’s not dead — is he? It’s all my fault. I made him come. Please God he’s not dead!”

  “Not unless he died of fright. He wasn’t shot, but he’s in a bad way.”

  She reluctantly withdrew from Luten’s arms and darted to Reggie’s side to tend him.

  Prance, deciding it was time to be a hero again, opened his eyes and said, “Did you enjoy the visit, my pet? Sorry I was such a poor protector.”

  “You were magnificent, Reggie,” she said, and kissed his fevered brow. That would go into the book! No, better! She would place her fevered lips on his.

  Black, bereft of any heroics, found where Henderson kept his drinks and poured them all (except Henderson) a tot of brandy. He served Evans last, and very reluctantly. “Have one yourself, Black,” Evans said, enjoying the reversal of roles.

  “I intend to,” Black said, and poured himself a generous drink.

  Evans lifted his glass and touched it against Black’s. “You missed a good show, Black. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  Black forced a smile and said, “I can hardly wait.”

  Conversation was loud and confused as they all tried to explain how they came to be there, and what had happened, and that McRaney was Martin, who was in truth Prance’s old school friend, Henderson. Prance wanted only to get home and let Villier cosset him with scoldings and sympathy and possets. It was hard to enjoy being a hero when you were in such agony.

  Coffen summed it up briefly. ‘“All’s well that ends well’, as William says.” He added aside to Black, “That’s Shakespeare. Prance calls him William. He knows all the good writers by their first names.”

  “We’d best get Henderson down to Bow Street,” Luten said. “You’ll want to come along and receive Townsend’s gratitude, Evans. That was good work. I didn’t realize you were such a marksman. You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel. You saved the day.”

  “Happy I could be of assistance, milord,” Evans said, with a sly glance at Black.

  “Yes, jolly lucky shot, Evans,” Black said with a grim smile.

  Luten then invited the group to meet at his house for dinner. “Coffen, you and Black will see Corinne and Prance home?”

  Black was not tardy to accept this pleasant assignment. He managed to get Lady Luten to himself in her carriage, where Lord Blackwell delivered her a lecture on her rash behaviour, liberally interspersed with solicitous queries as to her well-being.

  Coffen took Prance home in his rig, riddling him with questions. “Why didn’t you let us know McRaney was Henderson?” he demanded.

  “Because I didn’t know — obviously.”

  “But you were with me when we saw him at Arthur’s. Are you blind, man? Didn’t you see him?”

  “If only I had! But I was in another room. You told me you’d seen him. You might have told us his description just matches Martin’s.”

  “So does Morgrave’s, and you know how much good that did us. Well, anyhow, we’ve muddled to another success despite our failures.”

  Fitz, on his best behaviour, got them home with only one or two little wrong turns. He even opened the door for them and put down the step.

  * * * *

  At Bow Street, Luten made his report and requested that Sir Edward Hoply be advised of the arrest immediately. He’d want to question Henderson, and probably wouldn’t want him placed in an ordinary gaol.

  * * * *

  Villier was every bit as censorious in his dealings with Prance as Black with Lady Luten, and even more solicitous. He was put to bed and made to drink a posset. Doctor Knighton was called to apply a new binding to the ribs, and to prescribe laudanum.

  When he awoke some hours later, Prance decided he was well enough to attend Luten’s celebratory dinner party. He was on thorns to learn how Luten came to be there, and Coffen and Black. He was also not reluctant to hear the praise that would be heaped on himself. He had behaved as nobly as the circumstances allowed. After all, what could a man do when he was looking at the business end of a pistol?

  Evans didn’t expect to be invited to sit down with his master, nor was he. He knew it was not a butler’s place to be consorting with the nobility on equal terms if Blac
k did not. It was one thing for Black, who was never trained up to be proper butler. He had never worked for his lordship and had been a de facto member of the Berkeley Brigade for some time. Evans was more than satisfied with Luten’s gratitude, and the douceur he was given for extraordinary services rendered.

  * * * *

  Luten was relieved that it was over, they had caught the spy, and no one had been seriously injured. He quite agreed with his wife that he must not involve himself in such affairs again, and was only sorry that Ed Hopley would surely keep after him. But that was in the future. Tonight the Berkeley Brigade would celebrate another successful case.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Lady Luten ordered the chef to prepare a feast for dinner. Evans could not forbear giving some indication of the extraordinary doings of that day to the staff, and the whole house was in a triumphant mood. The guests, too, when they arrived, were wreathed in smiles. Black wore his new evening suit, much to Evans’s chagrin, and looked as fine as nine pence. “Back to buttling, I see,” was Black’s comment as he handed Evans his hat.

  “I know my place,” was the curt reply. Evans suppressed the snide, “unlike some” that wanted to come out. “They’re in the rose salon.”

  “No need to announce me, Evans. I’m expected.”

  Coffen had already arrived, and Prance soon joined them, leaning heavily on his new ebony cane. He had been inspired to add a large silver knob for the purpose of striking any chance attacker, as well as the concealed blade within the shaft.

  “Prance!” Corinne said, smiling. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it. How are your ribs?”

  “Knighton has bound me up tight as a tic. So long as I don’t have to bend, I can bear the pain.” Even a hero could not quite suppress a wince as he took a seat. “I couldn’t wait to hear how it all came about, that Henderson is Martin and McRaney. I was at Cambridge with him, you see, and when he said he had just moved into Bolton’s flat and had found some papers written in French, naturally I had to see them.”

  “Corinne has told us how it came about,” Luten said.

  “Henderson was always a wild lad, but that he has turned spy against England — did Hopley have the explanation?”

  “Between what he learned from the Frenchies and Henderson, he’s worked out most of the details. Apparently he went through whatever inheritance he had and wasn’t particular about how he got more money. He was putting up at the Sheepwalk, making a living by using shaved cards, which is where he ran into the Frenchies. They soon took his measure — caught him cheating — and decided to make use of him.”

  “But how did he gain access to state secrets?’ Prance asked. “Did he know someone at the Horse Guards? Was Brampton his informant — unwitting, I assume?"

  “No, he and Brampton aren’t even on speaking terms. He didn’t even know Henderson was in town. Henderson made it his business to get to know a couple of the young fellows working at the Horse Guards as pages and such. He lured them into rigged card games. When they were deep enough in debt, he let them know they could repay their debt by feeding him information. They got hold of rough drafts of documents, listened at doors and rooted through the dustbins. They’ve been taken into custody.”

  “How did young Bolton get on to him?” Black asked.

  “Hopley thinks he saw the Frenchmen calling on Henderson, got suspicious and followed him to the Sheepwalk, probably searched his flat. At some point Henderson realized he was being watched and decided he had to kill Bolton. He gave the job to Henri and Guy, who were following him the evening he gave Prance that message for me. Bolton spotted them and passed that note along to you, Prance. They followed you to retrieve it, attacked you that same evening when you went out. When they didn’t find the message, they searched your place, then Coffen’s as they’d seen you give him the envelope. Meanwhile Henderson saw Bolton return home and realized Henri and Guy had failed, so he called on Bolton, likely pretending it was just a neighbourly call, as there was no sign of a struggle, and did the job himself.”

  “So the mor was a red herring, was it?” Coffen asked. “Just doodling in blood.”

  Prance said, “I wonder now if it wasn’t McR he wrote, trying to tip us off to McRaney, which was the name Henderson was using. The writing was unsteady. Easy enough for a c to look like an o.”

  Coffen shook his head in regret. “I think you’ve got it, Reg. And I, like a fool, handed the clue to McRaney on a platter. He used the mistake we made of thinking it was mor to lead us astray for days.”

  “Yes,” Black said, “and when we twigged to that mistake, he came up with the name Martin and used it to sell Smoker and eventually to lead us back to the Sheepwalk, where he had his men waiting for us.”

  “It’s a pity he was on the wrong side,” Coffen said, “for he’d have made a dandy spy for us. So clever it’d make your head spit.”

  “Spin,” Prance corrected.

  “What the devil for? It makes me dizzy. Anyhow, as I started to say, he’ll pay through the nostrils for his treason.”

  “Nose,” Prance said with a weary sigh.

  “Yes, he must know,” Coffen agreed. “He knew when he started he’d have to pay the piper when he was caught.”

  They were called in to dinner and enjoyed a feast of Russian soup, turbot in lobster sauce, a saddle of mutton, partridge pie and for dessert a Chantilly cake created for the occasion by Prance’s chef, André. Champagne flowed freely. Even Coffen was filled to repletion when the coffee was finally poured.

  It was understood the gentlemen did not remain behind to take port when Lady Luten was the only lady at dinner. And as it was also understood Mrs. Ballard preferred to eat with the housekeeper when such parties took place, they all removed to the rose saloon for more discussion and congratulations and wine.

  The evening was far advanced when Prance hoisted himself to his feet with a wince and announced that he must leave them as he was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. Coffen disliked to leave the fireside, the wine and the company to return to his awful house, but when Black also rose to leave, he went with him. He gave Black some indication of his feelings as they crossed the road, each to his lonely home.

  “Will you step in for a nightcap, Mr. Pattle,” Black said.

  “I don’t mind if I do, Black.”

  Black had the run of her ladyship’s cellar and broached a bottle of decent port. “Did I tell you I’m officially a member of the Berkeley Brigade, Mr. Pattle?” he said. “His lordship himself said so. It’s ironical in a way. Now that her ladyship will be renting this house, I won’t be around much longer. Not close by, I mean, for unlike the rest of you, I must work for a living.”

  “It’s a shame, Black, it is. A man like you out of a job, when I have a house full of ne’er-do-wells robbing me blind and never doing a tap of work without I bribe them.”

  “You’re too soft on them, Mr. Pattle. I keep telling you so. It’s your butler that sets the tone, you see. Who is your butler anyhow? I hear you complain of your groom, Fitz, and your valet — Raven isn’t it, that sends you out in wrinkled jackets and dusty boots?”

  Coffen scratched his head and after a moment’s consideration said, “I don’t believe I have a butler, Black. Thorold tends to the door. He’s the first footman. And he keeps an eye on the silver when he has time.”

  “Time off from pocketing what you leave lying about, and drinking your wine and enjoying hisself,” Black scoffed. “You’d ought to hire yourself a good butler, Mr. Pattle.”

  “I never seem to have much luck with new servants,” Coffen admitted. Had his brain not been addled with wine he would have understood Black’s hints much sooner. “By the living jingo, Black, I’ve just had a dandy idea! An idea with bells on it. Why don’t you come to work for me?”

  Black breathed a sigh of relief. “If that’s an offer, I wouldn’t say no, Mr. Pattle.”

  “It is. Then clap hands on a bargain.” They reached across the table and shook hands. It
was not the moment to speak of anything so mundane as money. Mr. Pattle was a generous man, and Black knew how to live the good life without holding his master to ransom for cash.

  “How soon can you start?” Coffen asked.

  “I’ll have to speak to her ladyship. I don’t see that there need be any delay. Until she finds a tenant, I can keep an eye on her place here well enough from your place next door.”

  “Then I’ll look for you tomorrow, Black. Not too early, eh? Around noon.”

  He walked home on unsteady feet. He was so emboldened by the thought of Black’s joining him that he gave Raven a stiff rebuke for not having his night shirt out when he went upstairs. Raven had heard from Fitz that Mr. Black had been exerting pressure on Pattle to smarten up, and was frightened.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. “It slipped my mind.”

  “Well don’t let it happen again,” Coffen said, and fell on to his bed without removing his jacket. He was soon snoring. Raven looked about for some way to redeem himself and drew the coverlet up around his master.

  * * * *

  Across the street, Luten and Corinne also went up to their bed. “I’ve had an offer to rent my house from those friends of Samantha,” she said, sitting down at her vanity table to let down her hair after undressing. “I don’t know what to do about it. They have their own butler. I was hoping whoever I let it to would hire Black.”

  “He’s too useful a man to lose,” Luten said, drawing his fingers through her raven tresses. “We’ll find something for him here. He and Evans seem to get along.”

  “But anything less than butler would be a comedown for him.”

  “We’ll work something out. I’ll tell you who could use a good butler is your cousin.”

  “They do get along very well. I’ll suggest it to Coffen tomorrow.”

  “And he’ll be handy for —" He stopped short.

  She reached up and seized his fingers. “What I said about your not doing this work any longer, Luten ...” She caught the reflection of his frown in the mirror. How handsome he was! And what a good man. He felt almost guilty at all the perquisites of his privileged life. Fighting the Tories in the House and fighting crime were his way of paying back. His frown deepened. “I didn’t really mean it, you know,” she said reluctantly. “I was just so worried —"