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  SHADOW OF MURDER

  Joan Smith

  About the Author

  Publishing Information

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  Chapter 1

  Sir Reginald looked around his bijou gold and white salon, redone in the Adam style in the last century, its walls ornamented with medallions, swags, palmettes and even a small gilt patera just squeezed in over the doorway. The room, alas, was not large enough to include a single column. Neither the ceiling nor chimney piece was adequately embellished, yet the room had somewhat the Adam air of elegant sophistication. His moving eye stopped a moment to admire the felicitous placement of the Fragonard above the bergere chair, the muted rose of the lady’s gown darkened just a hint in the chair.

  His eye moved on to the rainbow effect on the wall as the sun shone through his collection of Murano vases and the dozen other pretty effects he had, contrived in a small space. Small — that was the problem. It was too small for proper rehearsals. But right next door in the mansion of his neighbours and best friends was a seldom-used gold salon of magnificent proportions. He disliked asking a favour of Lord Luten, who was inclined to be just a touch toplofty.

  It was to Lady Luten, Corinne, not so stiff-rumped as her husband, that he put his request. She would enjoy to have a few actors about the place, and really they so seldom used that gold salon it seemed a dreadful waste of space. It would be an honour for them in a way. It was not every day that the author or the fastest-selling book in town was asked by the directors of Drury Lane to allow his novel to be dramatized for presentation on the stage, as he had been.

  The rumours had reached Sir Reginald’s ears some weeks before and he was already hard at work writing the script for his gothic novel, Shadows on the Wall, himself. Unaware of his broad though amateur experience in such matters, Drury Lane had not thought it a good idea when he mentioned it. He felt no one else could do justice to the nuances inherent in the plot, and he could not allow some hack to turn his Lady Lorraine into a simpering Bath miss, and his story into a maudlin melodrama.

  He had written up a few of the more exciting scenes in dramatic form and planned to hire a few actors for the major roles, rehearse them, and instead of presenting the script to Drury Lane, to show them a live dramatization. His secret hope was that he would be asked not only to write the play, but direct the Drury Lane presentation as well. What a feather in his cap! He obviously could not hire well-known actors for his rehearsals — the cost would be prohibitive — but he would find good aspiring actors and work out any little logistical problems before presentation.

  When his other neighbour, Coffen Pattle, dropped in on him that lovely morning in May, Sir Reginald put his plan to him. Coffen, Sir Reginald Prance, Bart., and the Lutens, the four founding members of the Berkeley Brigade, all lived on Berkeley Square and were as close as inkleweavers. A day seldom passed that they did not meet. Lord Luten was an outstanding member of the Whig shadow cabinet who fought valiantly for the lights of the disenfranchised.

  This elite group was first known as avid Whigs and leaders of the ton in social matters. For the past few years their fame had spread to include solving murders. Sir Reginald added the luster of success in the arts to the group. He wrote good novels and bad poetry, acted in and directed amateur theatricals, was an art critic and fashion plate. Coffen had no particular claim to fame, but was well liked by everyone.

  Coffen wrinkled his brow to see Reg was letting his hair grow too long, had taken to wearing funny-looking loose cravats and flowered waistcoats. Looked like a dashed bohemian, which was the look he was after, of course, now that Drury Lane wanted his gothic novel. He was always dressing up for some role.

  Coffen’s appearance was a stark contrast to Reg’s in both natural and sartorial matters. Reg was tall, elegant and thin as a herring bone with a lean face and a nose like a greyhound. Coffen was a short, stout, rumpled man with sharp blue eyes and tousled, mud-coloured hair. He was wearing his usual plain blue jacket and a waistcoat decorated with droppings from food and drink.

  “Thing to do, ask Corinne,” was Coffen’s advice, when Reg explained his problem. “Worst she can do is say no. If she does, give some handsome donation to that auction she’s getting up for the charity ball.”

  “I had planned to donate a rather fine gold watch fob once belonging to Napoleon.”

  “Watch fob? You can’t fob her off with a fob, Reg. Daresay that’s why they call it a fob. You’ve got to give something good. Put a watch on it.”

  “I have a Russian icon I once thought I couldn’t live without. A glance at my decor will tell you it doesn’t suit. I could bear to part with it.”

  “What’s an icon? One of them pictures so good you think the fly on the fruit is real?”

  “No, that’s trompe l’oeil — French for fool the eye, though the paintings are not usually French but Dutch. An icon, from the Greek eikon, meaning image, is usually of some religious personage.” Coffen suppressed a yawn at this barrage of detail. “Well, what do you suggest?” Reg asked.

  “Like I said, buy the watch to go with the fob.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Reg said. There was a deal of common sense lurking beneath Coffen’s rough exterior and wretched mangling of the King’s English. “I’ll go and talk to her now.”

  “I’ll toddle along with you. Might as well get my ticket for the charity ball. P’raps she’ll be able to find someone to go with me. Seems you ought to take a lady along to a do like that.”

  “Certainly you must. I’m taking Lady Mary Winters.”

  Coffen shook his head in sympathy. “You won’t have to spend the whole night with her, Reg. I’ll spell you for the country dance.”

  “Her papa happens to be a duke.”

  “Lady Mary happens to be an antidote, but if you’ve already asked her it’s too late to get out of it now. Let us go.”

  Luten’s butler, Evans, showed them into the rose salon, the charming small parlour where they usually met. Lady Luten soon joined them. This Irish beauty with jetty black curls, a flawless ivory complexion and flashing green eyes greeted her old friends with an unusual air of distraction. She carried with her a notebook and had a pencil stuck behind her ear.

  “Deep into the throes of arranging the Great Orphans’ Ball, I see,” Reg said. Corinne was on the committee of the prestigious Friends of the Orphans whose annual ball was one of the highlights of the Season.

  “It’s a wicked amount of work, Reg,” she said. “Emily has put me in complete charge of handling the auction. We’ve never had one before. Since Lord Clare’s untimely demise before he could hold his auction ball, his mama asked us to take over the auction. He had already acquired several handsome donations. We didn’t really want to do it, but she offered to donate a diamond necklace that she says is worth five thousand pounds, so we couldn’t refuse. The contributions are being stored here for safety’s sake.”

  “Not in the gold salon, I hope?” Reg said, frowning.

  “Oh no, it’s too fancy. They’re being kept in the library.”

  Reg breathed a sigh of relief. “Good!” When she looked a question at him, he rushed on to make his request.

  “Oh dear, I doubt Luten would permit that,” she said.

  “I would be happy to give some fine donation —”

  She shook her head. “A bunch of actors running through the house, spilling drinks on those priceless carpets.”

  “No, no. You misunderstand me. Not full rehearsals, just two or three of the major performers to run through a couple of scenes. I shall be there at all times to see they don’t misbehave.”

  “You could roll up the carpets,” said Coffen, who liked the idea of actresses so close by.

  “If it’s just two or three, coul
dn’t you rehearse them at your own house?” she asked.

  “You know how small my drawing room is, and that magnificent space of yours is so seldom used. I want to get the effect of the full stage. For the stage exits and entrances, you know. I can’t have Lorraine popping out from behind the sofa.”

  “But with all those valuables for the auction stored in the library —”

  “They won’t know that.”

  “Well, I can’t agree without asking Luten. We’ll ask him before he leaves for the House,” she said. Lord Luten spent considerable time at work, fighting Mouldy and Company, as he called the reactionary Tories.

  Evans took Luten the message and he soon joined them. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders. His exquisitely barbered hair, black as a raven’s wing, grew in a dramatic widow’s peak. His finely drawn eyebrows and long lashes were almost feminine, in contrast to his cool, gray eyes, strong nose and square jaw.

  He was in a good mood that morning. He had heard from his steward at his estate in Nottingham that his blood mare, Lady Luck, had produced a fine foal. Mother and daughter were doing well. It seemed a good omen for the child he and Corinne hoped for themselves.

  After listening to all Reg’s promises and considering his request for a long enough time that Reg felt all was lost, he said, “This is a bad time for it, with all those auction goods in the house.”

  “But they’re in the library, my people will never know they’re there,” Reg said. “I’ll see they don’t leave the gold salon.”

  “Keep the library door locked,” Coffen volunteered.

  “It is kept locked,” Luten said. “I know it means a lot to you, Reg. I daresay there’s no harm in it if we roll up the carpets, put away any valuable bibelots, you undertake to repair any damage that’s done and don’t let them near the library.”

  Reg jumped up. “Clap hands on a bargain! Oh thank you, Luten! I shall watch them like the proverbial hawk. Argus will be nothing to me. I’ll have a thousand eyes on them. We’ll keep the door closed and you’ll never know we’re there.”

  Luten accepted Reg’s outpourings then turned to his wife. “Has Miss Lipman arrived yet?” he asked.

  “She’s coming this morning,” she replied.

  “Who’s that then?” Coffen asked. As he was Corinne’s cousin he ran quite tame at her house and stood on no ceremony.

  “Emily, Lady Cowper, has volunteered Miss Lipman’s services to help me with preparations for the auction.”

  “Who is she, though?” he asked.

  “She’s some protégé of Lady Melbourne, Lady Cowper’s mama, you know. She helps out in matters such as this.”

  “Is she young — pretty?”

  “I don’t know much about her, Coffen, but Lady Melbourne said she is a good worker and reliable. She’ll be staying here till after the ball.”

  “The reason I ask,” Coffen said, blushing, “I thought she might do for me. For the ball, I mean. I’m casting about for someone to go with me. Be sure to save me two tickets.”

  “Of course, but I expect Miss Lipman will be working that night, helping me handle the sales of the auction, you know. We’ll have to keep records of who bought what, and how much they paid, and how they paid. We want to make sure we don’t get stuck with any bad checks. And some of the larger items will have to be delivered or picked up. That sort of thing.”

  “That’d be dandy,” Coffen said. “I wouldn’t have to have her around all evening. I could relax and enjoy myself.”

  “Best wait and see what she’s like,” Reg advised.

  Luten left and the others rose to take their leave. As soon as they rose, Evans appeared at the doorway. “Miss Lipman has arrived, madam,” he said.

  “Oh good, show her right in,” Corinne said.

  The gentlemen, both bachelors, stayed to get a look at her. The first thing they both noticed was that she was no antidote. Quite pretty, in fact. Shortish, which suited Coffen, and not a bad figure at all. Not quite so well-marbled as he liked, but not skin and bones either. Reddish hair with more wave than curl to it, full pink cheeks, a flashing snuff-colored eye, teeth in good repair.

  He was no expert in ladies’ toilettes, but he could see nothing amiss in the green walking suit she wore. The bonnet was awful. Between the feathers and buds, he couldn’t make up his mind whether it was supposed to be a bunch of birds or a flower garden, but she wouldn’t be wearing that to a ball.

  He made a leg without quite falling over when Corinne introduced them. Although an eligible bachelor, he was never at ease with ladies. Modistes, milliners, maids and especially actresses adored him, but in the presence of ladies he fell apart. “Pleased,” was all the speech he could get out, but she smiled nicely. He could see right away it was Reg she took more of a shine to. That was all right, Reg already had a lady lined up for the ball, a bluestocking who would just suit him. At least she’d be able to figure out what the deuce he was talking about, even if she was ugly as sin.

  “We have a deal of work to do,” Corinne said. The gentlemen took the hint and left.

  “She’ll do,” Coffen said. “I’d best ask her before someone beats me to her.”

  “The ball’s not for a week. You’ll see her again before then. I’d wait and find out what she’s like first.”

  “I could get Corrie to sound her out, see if she’s interested.”

  “That might be a good idea. She could be engaged for all we know.”

  “She wasn’t wearing a ring.”

  “Well, she could have a steady fellow.”

  “Right, I’ll have Corrie sniff out if she’s available. So what are you up to today, Reg?”

  “Working on the play. The play’s the thing, Coffen.”

  “All work and no play — No, that don’t work when the work is play, or the play is work. Anyhow it makes Jack a dull boy.”

  “Or in some cases, not mentioning any names, all play and no work makes someone a dull boy.”

  “True, but we don’t mind if you’re a bit dull at present. I’ll toddle along home and see what Black’s up to.”

  “Please do,” Reg said, rolling his eyes in frustration.

  Black was Coffen’s major domo and friend. Coffen had inherited him from Lady deCoventry, who used to live across the street from Luten before her marriage to him. Her house was now standing empty while she looked for a good tenant. As Luten already had an excellent butler, Black was at liberty to join Pattle. Black had been so active in the various cases of the Berkeley Brigade that Luten had recently made him a member.

  Since joining Mr. Pattle, Black had undertaken the large job of bringing Coffen’s chaotic household to order. It was shameful what Mr. Pattle’s servants had been allowed to be up to. They had run the house for their own convenience entirely. He had harangued and threatened the various servants into performing the duties for which they were handsomely paid, even before their pilfering. He had taken over the household accounts and was in the process of teaching his groom, Fitz, to drive and read a map.

  He was so efficient that he also had time to assist the Berkeley Brigade in their cases and be available when Mr. Pattle wanted company for some outing. Mr. Pattle, he knew, was after a curricle and team of grays. He couldn’t let him make such a major purchase on his own or he’d come home with the wrong team at the wrong price. Probably that high stepping, unmanageable team of grays Alvanley was trying to unload. Looking out for Mr. Pattle’s welfare kept Black hopping, and he loved every minute of it.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  That evening Sir Reginald went to the Green Room at Drury Lane to begin the search for a likely set of actors for his rehearsals. What he required was one heroine, one hero and one villain. He asked Coffen to accompany him as Pattle was quite a favorite there.

  Coffen had already pointed out what he considered two likely candidates for heroine. As soon as Reg clapped an eye on them he knew neither of the brassy, big-bosomed girls with bouncing bottoms and wretched ac
cents would do for his lovely Lady Lorraine. Lorraine was a modest, retiring beauty, a lady who did not drop her aitches or use her fingers for a napkin or leer so knowingly at all the men.

  Word of what he was about soon spread through the room, for Prance was not one who could keep his mouth shut. He was soon under siege by dozens of hopeful out-of-work actors of both sexes, and while he rather enjoyed it, he could see no one here suited his purpose.

  He was about to leave for Covent Garden when his idea of a proper Lady Lorraine walked through the door. A delicate creature with raven hair like Lorraine, a sweet, innocent face and a shy manner. She reminded him of a former pet of his, a sweet little white kitten he called Petruchio, who unfortunately shed on his jacket and clawed at his furniture and had to be condemned to the kitchen. The lovely newcomer didn’t approach him but hung back from the crowd, just smiling shyly at him. She followed a few steps behind as he and Coffen escaped from the Green Room.

  When Reg stopped and looked back at her, she stopped uncertainly, then stepped forward. “I’m sorry to pester you, Sir Reginald,” she said in a well-modulated voice. She held out a well-thumbed copy of Shadows on the Wall and continued, “I was hoping you would sign this for me. I enjoyed it so much. I had my copy with me and rushed straight to the Green Room when I heard you were here, though I don’t like to go to the Green Room.”

  Reg always enjoyed giving his autograph. He carried a patent pen with him for the purpose. “A pleasure, my dear,” he said, drawing out the pen. “To whom shall I address it?”

  “My name’s Chloe,” she said, “Chloe Chalmers. I work here.”

  “I don’t recall seeing you on the stage. I can’t believe I would have forgotten you. What is the nature of your work here?” he asked, flourishing the pen and dashing off a dedication “To charming Miss Chalmers.” He handed her the book, she looked at it and gave him a soft smile.

  “I’m just a seamstress,” she said. “They call me when they need repairs on costumes. My hope, of course, is to be an actress.”