Murder on Charing Cross Road Page 14

  “I didn’t see you and Luten at Lady Alderley’s rout party last night, Lady Luten,” Miss Addison said, with an arch, questioning smile. “Dare we hope you are increasing?”

  “I’m afraid not yet,” Corinne replied.

  “I hear Mrs. Morgrave is in the family way. She is so happy. I hope it won’t deter her from helping us again next year?”

  “Oh I’m sure it won’t. In fact, she’s been such a help I think we should invite her to join the committee next year. I have sounded her out and she is definitely interested.”

  “By all mean,” Lady Haversham said. “We need more youngsters like you and Samantha to take over. I, for one, am growing too old for all the running around.”

  The others agreed. “Then I’ll tell her this afternoon,” Corinne said. It made an excellent excuse to call on Samantha again. She felt certain Morgrave was innocent and had decided exactly how she could prove it, if indeed he was innocent.

  Black decided that since he was now a member of the Berkeley Brigade it was time for a new jacket. He did not quite dare to go to Weston, even though he would be riding in Luten’s dandy black carriage. Unfortunately, he chose Stultz, who was famous for his padded shoulders and nipped waists. Black’s shoulders were in no need of broadening, but his waist could use a little minimizing. He was seduced by the glitter of brass into ordering buttons of a diameter that would stand Prance’s hair on end.

  In the afternoon he returned to the stable of Ned Sparks, where he was highly gratified to find Smoker, now sporting only a small blaze on his forehead and two white stockings. “This is a good looking prad,” he said to Ned, running his hands down the horse’s ankles to confirm the altered texture where the henna had been applied. The henna dye was a pretty good match but not good enough to fool his practised eye. They’d ought to have finished it off with a little oil, which would have softened the hair and made the dyed spots a tad darker. With Ned watching he didn’t use the bleach, or have to.

  “This one wasn’t here yesterday, was he?”

  “That come in late this morning. I’ll have no trouble getting rid of Long Acre.”

  “Long Acre? That’s a funny name for a nag,” Black said.

  “It is. Hardly a name to be proud of either, but you can call him what you like.”

  “You wouldn’t have come by Long Acre in any questionable way, now would you, Ned? I wouldn’t want to be hauled down and have a charge laid against me while riding on Rotten Row.” He laughed to show Ned he was joking, but he knew why Smoker wore this name. It was where he had been stolen.

  “Not a chance, Mr. Harper,” Ned said, using the name Black had chosen for the transaction.

  “Where did you get him?”

  “A fellow called Martin. A young buck. He had lost at cards and needed the blunt.”

  “John Martin? I think I know him. A tall, good looking fellow, well built?”

  “I didn’t get the first name, but that sounds like him.”

  “What are you asking for him? Now don’t try to con me. I know Martin. I’ll ask him what you paid him.”

  Sparks wasn’t fooled by this old trick. “I paid three-fifty, and a bargain if I say so myself.”

  “Ho, three-fifty! A bargain for Martin. You must take me for a Johnny Raw. I doubt you paid two hundred.”

  “Three fifty’s the price. I’ll have no trouble getting it.”

  “You’ll have trouble getting it from me. What else can you show me?” he asked and strolled along to another stall to conceal any particular interest in Smoker.

  “I have a dandy filly, Lady Luck.”

  “You showed me Lady Luck yesterday. Has she suddenly recovered from that knock-kneed gait? I told you, I’m after a gelding.”

  After considerable haggling and denigrating Smoker and every other horse in the stable, Black paid three hundred pounds in cash and delivered Smoker home behind Luten’s carriage. He took him to Luten’s stable and had the groom scrub away enough of the henna to show the original markings.

  * * * *

  At ten o’clock Coffen took a hackney to call on McRaney, and was fortunate to find him at home. He had just arisen and was wearing a handsome blue robe.

  “You’re an early bird,” McRaney said. “Come on in, Pattle. I’m just making coffee. I had to let my man go. I’m looking after myself till next quarter day. I expect you’re here about Bolton. Any luck in finding the bounder who killed him?”

  “Not really,” Coffen said. “Morgrave doesn’t seem to be working out. What I was wondering is if I was mistaken about what he wrote. That mor, you remember.”

  “Yes, I thought about it after you left, but I can’t think of anyone else with those letters that Bolton knew. Of course we weren’t what you could call bosom bows.”

  “But what I mean is, maybe it wasn’t mor. Maybe it was nor, or mar — some other letters that look like mor, if you see what I mean. His writing was unsteady, as you can imagine.”

  “A wonder he could write at all. The man was a hero, that’s all. Well, let me think. I’ll just get the coffee and we can be comfortable.”

  McRaney disappeared and soon returned with the coffee. They sat in the drawing room. McRaney frowned and rubbed his forehead and shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help, Pattle. The only name I can think of is Martin. There was a fellow called Martin that stopped here at my place a few weeks ago asking if I happened to know where he could get hold of Bolton, so I assume they were acquainted. The reason I remember his name, I have cousins called Martin. I asked him if he was any relation to them, but he didn’t know them at all.”

  “That’s dandy, McRaney. That might be a big help. You didn’t catch his first name?”

  “It was Eric, which is funny, because one of my Martin cousins is called Eric.”

  “But it wasn’t your cousin?”

  “Oh no, my cousin Eric is an older man, a grandfather, in fact. This was a younger fellow.”

  “Tall, well-built fellow?”

  “Why yes, he was tall with a good set of shoulders on him. What they call a Corinthian. A real athletic build. Kind of a swaggerer. He didn’t look like a murdering sort. Do you think he’s your man?”

  “It’s possible. I don’t suppose he left an address where Bolton could find him?”

  “No, I asked him as he seemed so eager to find Bolton. He said he was only in town for a visit.”

  Coffen left, satisfied.

  In the afternoon Coffen and Prance went to Arthur’s club and spent an hour drinking wine and talking to various members. They were about to leave when Morgrave stepped in. They didn’t approach him immediately, but kept an eye on him. When he left one group, Prance advanced toward him.

  “Ah, good day, Morgrave,” he said.

  “Prance, nice to see you again. The good wife kicked me out. She’s having a meeting with Lady Luten and didn’t want me cluttering up the place. Truth to tell, I’ve heard enough of the big ball the ladies are planning. I see you’re recovering from that beating. Your nose is hardly purple at all.”

  “Yes, I’m on the mend, but my ribs still ache when I twist. What I really regret about that wretched business is that I lost my grandfather’s watch. Oh and my purse. I hadn’t much money in it, but it was a pretty little thing. I designed it myself and had it made up, with my family crest. Three lions passant, gold on sable.”

  “That’s a pity,” Morgrave said, with every look of sincerity. “Was there much money in it?”

  “Ten pounds.”

  “It could be worse. I daresay you can have another purse made up.”

  “I certainly shall do that.”

  “Care to share a bottle?” Morgrave asked.

  Prance had discovered what he came to discover. “Another time. I’m due for an appointment with Murray, my publisher. Nice chatting to you.”

  He gathered up Coffen and they left.

  “Did you find out?” Coffen asked.

  “I certainly did! He denied any knowledge of
my purse. At least he didn’t bat an eye when I described it. Just said I could have another one made up. Luten is right, Coffen. Morgrave’s our man.

  Like Black, Prance and Coffen, Corinne made a discovery that afternoon that pleased her.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  While Corinne was visiting Samantha Morgrave, Luten and his crew were at Berkeley Square, enjoying their success. Luten was delighted to have recovered Smoker. Black was more than pleased at his generous reward, and Prance and Coffen were pleased with their visit to Arthur’s.

  “Just like you said, Luten,” Coffen announced, “Morgrave’s the man. Lied like a rug and let on he’d never seen Prance’s purse, when I saw it sitting right in his pocket the other day.”

  “The lad that sold Smoker to Ned Sparks matches his description as well,” Black added. “He was calling himself Martin.”

  Coffen stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “Did you say Martin?”

  “That was the name, Mr. Pattle.”

  “Was it Eric Martin?”

  “Ned didn’t get the first name. Does the name Martin mean something to you?”

  “That’s what I was going to tell Luten next. A fellow calling himself Eric Martin was looking for Bolton a week or so before he was killed. I called on McRaney, and asked him to think about somebody other than mor that knew Bolton — because of the wiggly letters that might have been something else. That’s when he came up with the name Eric Martin same as the man that sold Smoker to Ned Sparks. The description was the same as well.”

  “That confirmed that Morgrave’s using the alias Eric Martin,” Luten said. “Obviously Bolton knew him by that name. Prance’s purse in his pocket and his not owning up to having seen it pretty well convinces me he’s our man. And to think Hopley has the scoundrel decoding messages for the war effort. God only knows what information he’s passing on to the French, and what misinformation he’s reporting as coming from their side. He’s a one-man disaster. He could lose us the war all by himself. What we have to do now is catch him red handed. Immediately.”

  “By Jove, somebody should be watching him this minute,” Coffen said.

  “Yes, and we know how effective that is!’ Luten fumed “They made short work of Molton last night. I must report this to Hopley, before he hands any more of our secrets over to him to ‘decode’ in his own fashion.”

  The study door opened and Lady Luten stepped in. The gentlemen all stirred in their chairs preparatory to rising, until she motioned them to remain seated.

  “Report what to Hopley?” she asked.

  “Morgrave,” Luten replied. “We’ve proven he’s guilty, as I suspected all along.”

  “And what, exactly is your proof based on this time?” she asked, with a smug little smile that warned her husband she meant trouble.

  “He denied any knowledge of Prance’s purse, that was found in his pocket, if you recall. And he sold Smoker to Ned Sparks. Black got Smoker back for me,” he added.

  “Good for you, Black,” she said, honouring him with a smile. “I’m happy for you, Luten, but I fear you’re mistaken about Morgrave.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked, uncertainty rising to uneasiness.

  “Because he and Samantha were at a musical soiree at the Castlereaghs the night you were all beaten and tied to trees at Long Acre. Therefore he was not the man who stole your mount — etc.”

  “I suppose his wife told you that?” he said. “That merely tells us she’s in on it as well.”

  “She did tell me, and Mrs. Carter, who was also present, confirmed it. They discussed the various numbers played, and the Morgraves drove the Applebys home after — at around midnight. So you see it was not Morgrave who stole Smoker at the spinney. Unless, of course, you mean to suggest Mrs. Carter, the sister of a bishop and mother of a dean, is in on it as well.”

  The group sat a moment in stunned silence, then all began speaking at once. “But he had my purse right in his pocket!” Prance exclaimed. “He matches the description of Eric Martin to a t,” Black said. Coffen added, “And Eric Martin was asking after Bolton just a week or so before he was killed.”

  “Who is this Eric Martin?” she asked, and after their jumbled explanations were cleared up, she said, “In other words he’s someone who bears a physical resemblance to Morgrave, like thousands of other men. Well, at least we have a description of the man we’re looking for. And quite probably his name, as the letters Bolton wrote before dying were obviously mar, not mor.”

  “What about Prance’s purse in his pocket?”

  “That must be looked into, certainly,” she said.

  “She’s right, dammit,” Luten said. “Hopley was certain it wasn’t Morgrave.”

  “Well, that’s one good thing,” she said. “At least Morgrave isn’t up to any mischief with the decoding. He could do a good deal of harm if he were a traitor, which of course he is not.”

  “Yes, thank God for that,” Luten said.

  “So what do we do next, now that we know Morgrave is innocent?” she asked.

  Luten drew a deep sigh. “Start over at the beginning — again,” he said grimly.

  “I wonder who did put your purse in his pocket, Prance,” Coffen said. He hated to give up on such a sterling clue. Then he looked to Luten. “That’s what we’ve got to be looking into. Does anyone know any Eric Martins? Prance?” Prance shook his head.

  “Let’s all put on our thinking caps,” Luten said, but after prolonged thinking, none of them could think of any Martins who bore the slightest resemblance to the description given by Ned Sparks and McRaney.

  Luten remembered Hopley’s advice to find a loose end and tug at it to start the ball unraveling. Now that they knew Morgrave was innocent, they could ask him where he’d been between the time Prance’s purse was stolen and the time it was discovered in his pocket at Arthur’s. It wasn’t a long period of time. There might be a clue there. That meant confessing to Morgrave that they’d suspected him. He wouldn’t like that. No doubt Lord Norval would have some sharp words to say as well.

  He’d also have a word with Townsend. He might have turned up something in his investigation of Bolton’s murder.

  “So, what’s our next move?” Coffen asked.

  Corinne saw that Luten was considering his options. “It’s nearly dinner time,” she said. “Why don’t you all come back after dinner and we’ll discuss it. I’d like to ask you all to stay to dinner, but Cook won’t be expecting you.”

  “André will be in the boughs if I didn’t go home after he especially ordered me a beefsteak,” Prance said.

  Coffen stared at him as if he’d run mad. “Beefsteak! You don’t eat beefsteak.”

  “I do now,” Prance said. In his new persona as a dangerous spy he had been trying to change his lifestyle. Eating meat was the hardest part of it. Surely mankind was never meant to eat dead cow or pig.

  “That’s good. It’ll make a man of you,” Coffen said, and received a glare from Prance.

  As they left, Black, who was well aware of the inadequacy of Coffen’s servants, invited him across the street for a bite. “We can talk over plans while we sup,” Black said. “I was thinking I might have another word with Ned Sparks, see if I can find out anything more about Eric Martin. If he’s a horse thief as well as a traitor, he might be a regular customer. And I could pay another visit to the Sheepwalk in case the Frenchies have returned.”

  “Good ideas, Black. Luten will come up with some ideas as well. We’re down but we’re not out. We’ll catch the bleater yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Over dinner Luten said to his wife, “Samantha didn’t happen to mention where they are going this evening?”

  She shot him a gimlet glance. “He is innocent, Luten. There is no need to have him followed.”

  “That is not why I enquired. We have to learn where Prance’s purse was put in his pocket. I hoped we might do it by indirection as I dislike to admit we’ve been spying on him. I
thought in a social situation we might make some discreet enquiries without giving offence.”

  This might well have resulted in a charge of pride and foolishness before their marriage. Pride and foolishness would have demanded the making of counter-charges, ending in a blistering argument. Corinne was learning to curb her Irish temper and said only, “How can we discreetly ask where he’s been and who he’s met over a period of a few days? You’ll just to have tell Morgrave the truth, Luten. He works for Hopley, he’ll understand.”

  “Norval won’t,” Luten said. He could — and would — raise a huge fuss about this in parliament. Luten could almost hear him — invasion of privacy, harassing of innocent citizens. He would demand an explanation, and wouldn’t Hopley love that? “Do you know where they’ll be this evening?”

  “They had nothing planned,” she said, thinking this would be the end of it. “It would be a good time to go and speak to him.”

  “Let us invite them here,” he suggested.

  “What, on the spur of the moment? We’re not on such terms of intimacy as that. It would look very odd.”

  “She told you they were not busy. We’ll have a small get-together. A last minute thing. Over a couple of hours we can make discreet enquiries. Between Coffen, Prance and ourselves we can find out what we have to know. And Black too,” he added, wondering how his presence could be explained to the Morgraves.

  “Black?” she said, surprised but pleased. After pondering the question a moment she said. “A visitor from the country, perhaps?”

  “Perfect. An old friend of the family.”

  “I intimated I would like to know Samantha better, after I had ascertained that Morgrave was innocent. I daresay it is no harm to invite them, but we really should have some credible excuse. She was very eager to see the gown I’m having made for the ball, but to invite both of them on such a flimsy pretext...”