Murder on Ironmonger Lane Read online

  MURDER ON IRONMONGER LANE

  Joan Smith

  Chapter One

  Sir Reginald Prance, Bart., was nearly bursting with pride as he stood in his new dark green superfine jacket gazing around his atelier, greeting and acknowledging greetings from the very cream of London society, Lady Melbourne, Lord Alvanley, Princess Esterhazy along with assorted Lords, Ladies, Sirs and Dames jostled elbows as they toured the room, examining his paintings.

  It had been a bold stroke to situate his atelier on Ironmonger Lane, quite removed from the fashionable district, but they had come. Not the meanest amongst them could imagine the low rent had anything to do with his choice of location. Already wealthy, his purse was now bulging from the unexpected success of his novels, the first of which, a gothic inspired by a visit to his friend Byron at Newstead Abbey, had been dramatized and was now under rehearsal at Drury Lane. He had chosen Ironmonger Lane from sheer bravado. The role of a leader of fashion was to lead. One did not lead by following the herd. He chose to lead his followers to Ironmonger Lane. C’est tout.

  Sir Reginald took an active role in the arts—painting, literature, music, drama, and had recently added the arrow of classical antiquities to his quiver. He had been elected a fellow of the Society of Antiquaries of London. It was the oldest (founded and granted a charter nearly a hundred years ago in the reign of George II) and in his opinion the best of such societies.

  New ones were popping up every year. His next goal was to become its president. He had succeeded in many realms of endeavour but, strangely, had never been the president of anything. Old Scotty Binwell was finally retiring from the post, and high time too. At ninety years, the wrinkled little gnome was an antique himself.

  Nor were accomplishments in arts and antiquity the total of Sir Reginald’s accomplishments. He was also a charter member of the Berkeley Brigade, a small group of aristocrats who all lived on Berkeley Square and were the darlings of the ton. They were also becoming famous as fighters of crime.

  The other members were all here at his opening party. The Marquess of Luten, their official leader, had his own claim to fame as a member of the Whig shadow cabinet, fighting the reactionary Tories in parliament. Mouldy and Company, they called them. Luten was accompanied by his wife, Corinne, a raven-haired beauty from Ireland. The other charter member was Coffen Pattle, a titleless but wealthy cousin of Corinne’s.

  One never knew quite what to make of Coffen. His looks did not recommend him. Shortish, stoutish, rumpled, with a head of disheveled, mud-coloured hair. Despite his unprepossessing looks and way of making fritters of the King’s English, he had a sharp brain and the way of a bulldog where crime was concerned.

  He had recently acquired a fellow named Black, Corinne’s butler when she was married to the late Lord deCoventry. Black had remained with her until her marriage to Luten, at which time Coffen inherited him. He was now Coffen’s major domo, fast pushing his way into becoming his master’s constant companion. He had even inveigled his way into the Berkeley Brigade. To give the devil his due, his former—if it was former—association with the underworld was of considerable help with their crime fighting, even if he did still look like a crook.

  Gazing across the room, Prance’s darting eyes stopped a moment to admire the Lutens as they eased their way through the throng to his side. Corinne with her ivory skin, raven curls, emerald eyes and lively smile was a pleasing counterpart to the dignified austerity of Luten. Tall, his dark hair growing in a widow’s peak, his gray eyes and thin lips lent an air of gravitas to one of his years.

  “An excellent show, Prance,” Luten said. “I especially admire the series of characters from Shakespeare.” This was blatant flattery. Prance, who knew something about art, knew his work was far from top quality, even if most of his guests couldn’t tell a Caravaggio from a caricature. He had dashed off the Shakespearean portraits in his spare time to keep his hand in. He needed something to hang on the walls, however, and chose what was at hand.

  “Not too bad for an amateur,” he replied without a blush, “though I doubt the Royal Academy will invite me to contribute to their new exhibition.” If he became president of the Society, however, it might be a different story. The Royal Academy, like any organization putting on a show, appreciated the drawing power of a name.

  “A stunning success, Reggie,” Corinne added, with more warmth but no more sincerity than her husband. She knew little about art but a good deal about Prance. It was the social success that had him chirping merry. “A positive coup. I feared the location would put folks off. I never dreamed so many would come. Only you could pull it off.”

  “The location appears to be no deterrent. In fact I have this very day received an offer to sublet the place for double what I pay. Of course I shan’t do it. Such a squeeze, and at the height of the Season too. I shall close up early to let them go on to Lady Sefton’s ball,” he said, laughing. “Shall I see you and Luten there?”

  “I think not. When do you want me to come for my next sitting? You know we are planning to leave London soon for the summer. Luten is looking about for a suitably quiet seaside place to beg, borrow or rent.”

  Prance had cajoled her into sitting for her portrait. Luten agreed, not because he wanted a portrait of his wife by Prance, but because it would keep her from running about town when Napoleon’s antics kept him busy at the House. He had just recently learned that the desired miracle was underway. Corinne was enceinte, and being a headstrong hoyden, it was entirely possible she would over-exert herself if left to her own devices.

  He need not have feared. While they both wanted the child very much, she had a special reason and meant to take every precaution. During the four years she had been married to Luten’s cousin, Lord deCoventry, she had failed to give him the hoped-for heir, or even a daughter. She had feared she was at fault, and was now eager to prove the failure was due to her elderly husband. She had been only seventeen when her papa sold her to deCoventry for five thousand pounds. He had been three times her age, but had proved a kind, generous husband despite her fears.

  “Come tomorrow. I require another sitting before you leave, mostly for the face. I can hire someone to sit in your gown while I finish the painting off.”

  It was his obliging valet, Villier, he had in mind as a replacement model. He had posed for several of the Shakespearean characters, both male and female, on display. As a special treat, Villier had been allowed to attend the opening. He was supposed to be serving wine, but there he was across the room, empty-handed, simpering at the painting of himself in a black wig, posing as Miranda, from The Tempest.

  Who were those two fellows beside him? He had certainly never met the older, stouter fellow nor the young one with him, neither of whom would ever be mistaken for a gentleman in those poorly-cut jackets. How the devil had they got in?

  A good half of those in the throng had not actually received invitations, but the other uninvited guests were definitely worthies, and well known to him. One could hardly turn Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Minister, from the door. Very likely Corinne had mentioned it to his wife, Margaret. Castlereagh, like Corinne, was Irish. He liked all the pretty ladies, and had a special fondness for his countrywoman, even if she was a Whig.

  Corinne left to speak to the Castlereaghs and Prance was distracted by Lord Palmerston’s mistress, the charming Lady Cowper. She smiled and cooed at him and said she hardly knew which she preferred, Prance’s paintings or Pattle’s caricatures. This earned her a cool smile, really a baring of the teeth, and a curt, “Chacune à son gout.” Would she even notice that chacun had become the feminine chacune, in her honour?

  The only tiny flaw in the evening was that Coffen’s work was such a brilliant su
ccess. Despite the fact that it had not been hung, but sat in a pile on a table, people flocked to it. Coffen had spent a few afternoons with Prance as he painted Corinne, and to amuse himself he drew sketches of the callers. Certainly they were excellent caricatures—who would have thought him capable of such devastating sketches? He had the knack of catching the principal characteristic of the victim and emphasizing it by an exaggeration—a narrowing of the eye, a tilt of the lips, a sly, lascivious leer.

  It was the sketch of himself that Prance particularly deplored. He stood with one hand raised, as he often did, with a sneering smile on his face as he examined a picture—presumably the Mona Lisa, to judge by the outline. Well, it was the only picture Coffen knew. It was true Prance had told Coffen it was the most over-rated portrait of all time, so perhaps it was only right that he should be sneering a teeny bit. Prance insisted the sketch looked nothing like him, but everyone who mentioned it said Coffen had caught him “to the life,” and laughed.

  He glanced around and saw—wouldn’t you know it—that Coffen and Black were talking to the two unwanted guests. Some cronies of Black, no doubt. Fortunately there were no spoons for them to pocket. He misjudged Coffen’s butler in his assumption. Black knew a ne’er-do-well to see him—none better—and had accosted the men to discover how such riffraff had got into the do. Their jackets alone were enough to tell him they were no friends of Sir Reginald, never mind that they didn’t seem acquainted with anyone else present.

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said, offering the older, portly man his hand. “I’m Black, and this is Mr. Pattle.”

  “My pleasure,” the man said, extending a plump, white hand. “Thomson’s the name, and this is my friends, Ruffin.”

  “Friends of Sir Reginald, are you?”

  “I’ve not had the pleasure yet, but all my friends were talking about the do, and as an art dealer, I felt I must come.” Mr. Ruffin, a tall, dark-haired fellow, smiled ingratiatingly at his elbow and said nothing.

  “An art dealer, eh?” Coffen said. That explained it to his satisfaction.

  “In a small way,” Thomson said. “I have been admiring your caricatures, Mr. Pattle. I noticed you drawing Lord Alvanley. Any chance of getting a quick sketch? The wife would appreciate it. I’d be glad to pay you.”

  “Thankee, but I don’t work for money,” Coffen said, but he was pleased with the compliment, and besides he was becoming bored. “I’ll dash off a sketch if you like. Just come over to the table where I have my sketch pad.” Within a minute he had dashed off a decent likeness of Thomson.

  “How about me?” Mr. Ruffin was emboldened to say.

  “If you like.”

  Black was impatient with the whole affair but as it was done in minutes, he held his tongue while Coffen drew. Mr. Ruffin had a habit of pulling nervously at his chin with his left hand, and Coffen drew in the gesture, including the ring on the man’s pinkie finger.

  “That’s a handsome ring you’re wearing, Mr. Ruffin,” he said. “I don’t go in for jewelry as a rule, but that’s the sort of ring I could wear. Nice and plain, no gewgaws. Silver, is it?”

  “Just steel, and the stone is an agate, I believe. Isn’t that what you said, Thomson? Here, if you won’t take money, take this.” As he spoke, he slid the ring off and handed it to Coffen.

  Thomson looked alarmed. “But that’s your good luck ring, Ruffin,” he objected.

  “I can’t say it brought me much luck at the card table last night.” He looked at the caricature and said, “I’d say we got the best of this bargain, Thomson.”

  Thomson opened his mouth to object but Black outspoke him. “I’d say you’re right,” he said in a tight voice. He put a hand on Pattle’s elbow and said, “I believe Lady Luten is leaving now, Mr. Pattle. Shall we go and see her off?” They took their leave of the pair and went to say goodbye to the Lutens.

  Chapter Two

  While Coffen took his leave of the Lutens, Black strolled over to Sir Reginald. The first words to leave Prance’s mouth were, “Who on earth are those yahoos you were talking to, Black?”

  “That’s what I was just going to tell you. They’re no friends of mine, if that’s what you’re thinking, Sir Reg. The older gent is named Thomson, says he’s an art dealer. Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Certainly not. They weren’t invited.”

  “They admitted that much. I could see they didn’t belong so I spoke to them to hear what excuse they had. The one with dark hair is called Ruffin. Just party-crashers, I daresay. No harm done. They got Mr. Pattle to sketch them. Ruffin gave him a cheap ring for his trouble.”

  Prance was amused to see that Black, of all people, was a snob. “Ring? Coffen doesn’t wear jewelry,” he said.

  “No, he liked it because it’s plain. I’d hardly call it jewelry at all. Just a dull blue stone set in steel. The sort of thing you may pick up on any street corner.”

  Prance shook his head. “No accounting for taste. Perhaps I should go and hint them away.” But when he looked around, he saw no sign of Thomson. Ruffin was admiring one of his paintings, and he decided to let him enjoy it a little longer. But where was the fat man? He had kept a pretty sharp eye on the door and hadn’t seen him leave.

  Black complimented him on the success of his show and went to join Coffen, who was still making his adieux to the Lutens. Corinne was looking at the ring and shaking her head.

  Prance’s interest soon turned to another interloper, Mr. Besner. Honestly, the nerve of some people! At this rate he must hire a guard for the door to keep out undesirables. Besner, being his strongest competition for the presidency of the Society of Antiquaries, was his enemy. Prance looked around in fear lest Besner had come with Scotty Binwell, who had been not only invited but strongly urged to attend the opening party.

  He was relieved to see Besner was not with Binwell. He immediately strolled towards Besner to deliver a few elegantly-worded insults. He was prevented by Lady Cowper, who was giving the interloper her smiling, cooing welcome. This did not necessarily mean she was acquainted with him.

  Besner was certainly not tip of the ton, but he was more or less socially acceptable in certain quarters. He was a handsome dog in the Byronic vein. Dark hair, dark eyes glowing in his pale face. He was beginning to work his way up in society by making up to the ladies. Emily, Lady Cowper, was pointing out Coffen’s caricature of Prance, and laughing. Besner glanced up and, spotting Prance, gave one of his sardonic smiles.

  “Delightful, Prance,” Besner said. “Pattle has caught you to the life.”

  “Indeed. He has quite a knack. Perhaps we should have him do a sketch of you, Besner.”

  “Would he? I should be thrilled to death!” Besner replied in a bored voice. He looked around and said, “Pity Scotty could not come, despite your urging.”

  “But we have the consolation of your presence, Besner, despite the lack of urging.”

  Besner managed to keep his annoyance in check. “Touché, Prance. I am here on Scotty’s behalf, actually. When we were dining this evening he asked me to deliver his apologies.”

  “No doubt he mistakenly assumed you had been invited.” France’s nostrils dilated in anger. So he was cozying up to Binwell! The retiring president did not have the final say on who would replace him, but as head of the selection committee he would have a strong voice in the decision. “You invited him to dinner, did you, Besner? How thoughtful of you.”

  “Actually he invited me. Hardly a gala affair, just the two of us, but one dislikes to refuse an elderly gentleman. He wanted to discuss his departure from the Society.” Lady Cowper, seeing there would be no further flirtation with Besner, departed after other prey.

  “A great loss,” Prance said. “If you will excuse me, I must see to my invited guests. So glad you could come, Besner.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it, Prance.”

  “You very nearly did. I shall be closing up in a moment. I wouldn’t want to keep Lady Sefton’s guest
s from her party. You will be attending her ball, of course?” This was an excellent facer. Besner was not invited to such topnotch do’s.

  “Unfortunately not tonight. Scotty has given me a copy of his last article for the Archaeologia and wants me to look it over before publication. He was kind enough to call me his equal in the area of soleae and calcei.”

  Prance’s knowledge of Roman relics, gained largely from Cicero, Plutarch and other ancient writers, was neither wide nor deep. He had no idea what Besner was talking about. “Pity you must miss the ball,” was all he could muster in reply.

  As the crowd thinned, Prance gently urged the lingerers out the door and proceeded on his way to Sefton’s ball, where he enjoyed his usual success. The only little thorn in his side was that he overheard Lady Cowper trumpeting Besner as the next president of the Antique Society, as the ignoramus called the renowned Society of Antiquaries.

  What did she know about ancient artifacts? Or Besner, for that matter? He may have swatted up on such trivia as soleae and calcei but he had revealed his ignorance of what Cicero and Seutonius had to say on more important matters.

  Prance had also had the pleasure of pointing out that a Roman copy of a bust Besner mistook for Greek was not Greek at all. “It is like an English adaptation of a French farce—that certain je ne sais quoi is lacking, but still very nice.”

  The next morning Prance received an early call from Villier, whose standing order was to awaken him at 8:00 o’clock with a cup of strong, black tea and a plate of dry toast fingers. This meager fare was no penance for Prance who owed his slender figure to an aversion to food. His face, in particular, might benefit from more nourishment for he had the phiz of a greyhound. But he was not much of an eater and especially despised eating dead animals. Villier resembled his master in physique, but had a fuller, more handsome face.

  “I have laced your tea with brandy, milord,” Villier announced, setting down the tray. His eyes opened wide and he lifted his fingertips to his lips as if to seal them at this daring departure from the norm. He was allowed to “accidentally” call his master “milord” when they were alone.