Murder on Charing Cross Road Page 17

  “That’s interesting!” Luten said. “We’ll have to have a man stationed there.”

  “I planned to go there this very night. Mr. Pattle’s volunteered to go with me.”

  Prance, not usually the first to volunteer, took exception to this. He had determined to be a man of action, and the visit to the Sheepwalk was the only action available at the moment. “Why Pattle?” he asked. “I’d like to go with you, Black.”

  Black stared in astonished dismay. “You might look a bit out of place, Sir Reginald. It’s not a fancy sort of inn.”

  “I have other clothing I can wear. I’ve been amassing a complete wardrobe of disguises. I can do a credible vicar or footman.”

  “Either one would stand out like a jester at a funeral,” Black informed him with a shake of his head. “It’s a place for common folks. I passed myself off as a dealer in old books when I was there.”

  “But I know a good deal about books! And if an opportunity to overhear any conversations in French should arise, eh bien, je parle français courrament.”

  Coffen gave Black an apologetic look and said, “He’s got us dead to rights there, Black. We wouldn’t know a parlay-voo from a turnip. You give him a hand in toning down his outfit and we’ll take him along.” Black agreed with as good a grace as he could muster.

  Coffen turned to Luten and said, “Just a thought, Luten, it might be a good idea to ride, rather than take a carriage. They might take off across fields or what not where a carriage couldn’t follow. Do you ride at all, Black?”

  “Certainly I do, Mr. Pattle, but I’ve no mount.”

  “Take Smoker,” Luten said at once. “He could do with the exercise. No, on second thought, if Martin’s there he’d recognize him.”

  “He’ll recognize us, since they’ve been following us for days” Prance reminded him.

  “True, but if he arrives after you and sees Smoker in the stable, he might not enter. You should choose a dark corner for your table to avoid being recognized.”

  “And if he spots us and leaves, we’ll jump up and follow him,” Coffen said.

  “Take my Jezebel, Black,” Corinne suggested. “She’s up to your weight. Not a prime goer like Prance’s and Coffen’s mounts, but it’s not likely the Frenchmen will be riding.”

  It was arranged that they would call on Luten as soon as they returned to let him know if they had had any luck. Black and Coffen accompanied Reggie home to alter his appearance. Villier scoured the attic for the oldest jacket, boots and hat he could find, and Black advised him to exchange his elegant ebony walking stick for a sturdier blackthorn one. The mounts were sent for and they set off into the darkness.

  April’s warming sun had set and a brisk boreal wind blew in their faces, making the ride unpleasant. Prance feared and complained more than once that it wasn’t doing his ribs any good.

  The branches of black trees swaying and creaking overhead in the wind added an ominous note. The crescent moon drifted between patches of cloud, at times silvering the metaled road, at times coyly hiding her face. Three gentlemen traveling together were not likely to be set upon by footpads or highwaymen at least, nor were they.

  The Sheepwalk was a ramshackle medieval inn surrounded by tall trees of an undistinguishable sort. The ancient brickwork below changed into beams and plaster above, topped by sagging thatch.

  Prance knew by the racket emanating from the door even before it was opened that the inn was not the sort of place he would find congenial. He almost regretted his rash offer to come, until he remembered that tonight he was Baron Wolfried, dashing master spy, afraid of nothing. The place was even worse than Black had intimated. It reeked of ale, cheap tobacco, unwashed bodies and worse. The clientele was certainly composed of cutthroat highwaymen, smugglers and horse thieves. None of them, to judge by the Anglo-Saxon curses ringing in his ears, were French.

  Black looked all around, shook his head to indicate their quarry was not in the room, and headed to a table in a dark corner. A plump tavern maid came up to them at once. “Have yez ate?” she asked.

  “Just pints all around,” Black said.

  When she returned with the drinks, he said, “Is Tess in tonight?”

  “She’s working t’other end of the room. They could use more help around here. We’re run off our feet.”

  “Ah, I see her now,” Black said.

  He watched a pert redhead in a mobcap as she ran from table to table, carrying trays and warding off lecherous advances on her person with a practised swipe of her hand. After a few tries, he caught her eye and beckoned her forward.

  “Why if it ain’t Mr. Black,” she said. “Couldn’t keep away from us, eh, Blackie? Sold many Bibles lately?” Her leering eye and mocking tone implied the Bibles were not the usual sort.

  “Business is flourishing, Tess. I see the same goes for this place.”

  “Lord, yes. And not a decent tipper in the place. Say, that reminds me, them Frenchies you was asking about, them that you thought might want one of your special Bibles, they’ve been back.”

  “Are they here tonight?”

  “Not yet, but they come here the last two nights, just about this time. You want I should tell them you’re here, or did you get your brandy elsewheres?”

  He gave her a sly wink, slid a silver coin along the table and said, “No need to tell them. I’d like to surprise them.”

  The sharp look she gave Black suggested she was unhappy with the size of the tip, but she snapped the coin up fast enough and slid it into the pocket of her apron.

  “Shame on you, Black,” Prance rallied. “I fancy I don’t have to ask what sort of Bibles you planned to show to the Frenchies.”

  “I needed some excuse to be asking about them,” he replied blandly.

  “I thought brandy was the excuse.”

  “Wanting brandy ain’t a job. Here I’m a dealer in special Bibles and like my tipple when I’m at home.”

  Coffen listened, frowning. “Is it hard to get hold of a French Bible in England?”

  “Not particularly,” Prance said. “One can procure one from any purveyor of pornography, eh Black?”

  “Pornography?” Coffen cried. “Don’t that mean dirty pictures? Black, I hope you ain’t making a mockery of the Bible!”

  “His Bibles are not Bibles,” Prance explained.

  “You might have called them something else then. Nursery rhymes or some such.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Pattle. It was thoughtless of me.”

  “Sullying the good name of the holiest book in the world,” Coffen grumbled. “It’s the most unheard of thing I ever heard of. I’m ashamed of you. What would Lady Luten say?”

  “You mustn’t tell her!” Black cried.

  “I wouldn’t sully her ears with such filth.”

  Prance nudged Black’s elbow. “Tess is squinting at you. Is that your French customers?”

  Tess tossed her head toward the door, and Black nodded back to signal he’d seen them. It was the three Frenchies she’d described to him earlier, to judge by their appearance. The fat, older one would be the leader, Alphonse, the other two would be Henri and Guy.

  “I don’t see Eric Martin there. What do we do?” Prance asked. “They haven’t seen us.”

  “If we could get close to them, we might overhear something interesting,” Coffen said.

  “Not much chance of that. There’s no empty table nearby,” Black pointed out. “If we just wait unseen, they might be joined by Martin.”

  “Right, we’ll watch and wait a while,” Coffen said.

  The three men sat on the far side of the room and ordered ale from Tess. Their frequent glances towards the door suggested they were indeed waiting for someone. They never glanced within a right angle of the dark corner where the three were watching them. After a while, Alphonse raised his hand, ordered another round of drinks, then arose and left.

  “Is he leaving? Should we follow him?” Prance asked.

  “He’s ordered another r
ound. I fancy he’s just paying a visit to the necessary,” Black replied. As Alphonse soon returned, they assumed Black was right, as usual.

  The Frenchmen drank their second round, then all got up and left together. They went out the front door, indicating they were leaving the inn. “We’d best follow them,” Black said, leaping up. “I’ll watch and see which way they go. You bring our mounts around, Pattle.” The niceties of Mr. Pattle were forgotten in his excitement.

  Prance stood a moment undecided, then went after Coffen to help with the mounts. It would be hard to say which of them was the more surprised — Coffen and Prance to see their mounts were gone, or Black to see the Frenchmen riding off on them.

  He hollered after them, but his voice was drowned out by the clatter of hooves and raucous laughter from the retreating riders. He watched to see if they left the road to cut across a field, but they just charged straight ahead, until even the cloud of dust they caused had faded away.

  Prance and Coffen soon joined him, and heard the news they half expected. “They’ve done it again,” Black said, too shocked and dismayed to utter the curses that welled up in his throat. “Alphonse must have got hold of our nags when he left the table.”

  “I don’t see how they spotted us,” Coffen said. “You don’t suppose Tess tipped them the clue? She served them their ales.”

  “She must have done,” Black conceded, knowing in his heart she had. She’d accepted a bribe from him, why not from them? She wasn’t happy with the size of the tip either. He’d ought to have made it a guinea.

  “And after you paid her too,” Prance snipped. Black said not a word about the inadequacy of the bribe. “How do we get home?”

  “How do we tell Luten?” Coffen said.

  “How do I tell her I’ve lost her mount?” was Black’s concern.

  They had one small piece of good luck that evening. A pair of city bucks out for a night of mischief arrived roaring drunk in a hackney five minutes later. The driver was happy to pick up fares for a return to London. Hardly a word was spoken as the three were jostled about in the coach. Each was mulling over how to recount this disaster to Luten and Lady Luten. Black had the added worry of wondering if he would be expected to replace Lady Luten’s mount.

  No legal way of making a couple of hundred pounds occurred to him. He had told Luten he was now an honest man, and meant it. If worse came to worst, he figured Pattle would lend him the money but he hated to ask, unaware that borrowing was a way of life for many of the upper classes.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  As the hackney drew into Berkeley Square, the echo of a church bell chimed twelve times. “The witching hour,” Prance murmured.

  “P’raps they’ll have gone to bed,” Coffen said. He squinted out the window. “Nope, no such luck. The house is still lit up.” He called their destination up to the driver.

  When the carriage had drawn to a stop, Black said, “Might as well get it over with,” and opened the door. They alit, Prance paid off the driver and they went, silently, reluctantly up to Luten’s door, gently tapped the knocker and were admitted by Evans.

  “His lordship is awaiting your return in the rose salon.” He added in a low voice aside to Black, “Any luck?”

  “Plenty. All of it bad,” Black replied. Evans disguised his smile of satisfaction with a sympathetic frown. He used to like Black, but there were limits to his good nature. To see that counter-jumper riding about in a dandy chaise, and sitting down to dine with lords and ladies!

  Luten heard their arrival and went to the door to greet them. “Come in and tell us all about it. Corinne has had some food prepared against your return, Coffen.”

  He led them into the salon, where a cozy fire blazed in the grate and wine glasses twinkled enticingly. Four decanters of wine stood at the ready. Even before they were seated, Evans appeared with platters of cold cuts, cheeses, breads and a plate of sweets.

  “I doubt I could eat a bite,” Coffen said, and sank into a chair by the grate without even looking at the food. The others followed suit.

  “What happened?” Corinne asked in alarm. Her eyes darted to Black, who couldn’t meet her gaze. No one answered her.

  “That bad, was it?” Luten said, but in no condemning way. “I knew by your expressions something was amiss. Did the Frenchies not shown up?”

  “If only that were true!” Prance sighed. “Alas, they were there, all three of them. Not Martin though. At least we didn’t see him.”

  “But what happened?” Corinne demanded again. “I heard a carriage stop out front. Did you come home in a hackney?”

  “We did, we were lucky that way,” Coffen said.

  “What happened to your mounts? Oh dear, did one of you have an accident?” She looked in vain for signs of broken limbs. They had all walked in unaided. There were no visible wounds, or even scratches.

  “You tell them, Prance,” Coffen said. “You like a good story.”

  “This is not a good story,” Prance said. “Have you any brandy, Luten? This night calls for brandy.”

  “Wine’ll do,” Coffen said and filled his glass. The wine was passed around, Luten sent for brandy, and still no one told him what had happened.

  “At least you’re all back, alive and well,” he said, to encourage them.

  “And not tied to trees in some godforsaken wilderness," Corinne added, striving for a touch of levity.

  Black girded his loins to do what had to be done. “I’ll replace Jezebel, milady. It’s my fault entirely that I — she — I didn’t ride her home.”

  “They stole her!” Corinne exclaimed, and from their shamed faces, she knew she had hit on the truth. She looked to Prance and Coffen. “They got away with all the mounts? How on earth did that happen?”

  “The fat one, Alphonse — we thought he was just going to the — just nipping away from the table for a minute,” Coffen blurted out. “That must be when they got hold of our nags.”

  “Then when they all got up and left together, we followed them,” Prance continued. “We hoped to discover their lair.”

  “‘Twas Tess that tipped them off,” Black added.

  “Who on earth is Tess?” she asked him.

  “The lass serving at the inn,” Coffen said. “She tipped Black the wink they’d come, and we sat watching them from a dark corner, like you said, Luten, only we figure she must’ve told them we were there, for when we went to get our mounts to follow them, they were gone. The mounts, I mean. The men as well. The Frenchies were just riding off on our horses.”

  “There was no hope of catching up with them on foot,” Black added. “I’m very sorry about Jezebel, milady. Naturally I’ll replace her.”

  When the story was finally pieced together, Luten sat back and said, “At least we know where we’ll find the mounts.”

  Black was the first to catch his meaning. “Ned Sparks, you mean? Aye, I wouldn’t be surprised, though it galls to buy what’s rightfully yours.”

  “I didn’t mean we’d buy the mounts,” Luten said. “Why not intercept them on their way to Ned’s stable?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re there already,” Black told him. “Stolen goods ain’t usually delivered by daylight.”

  “Then we’ll go now and rescue them,” Luten said.

  Prance, who wanted nothing so much as to go home and put himself in Villier’s hands, said, “I wonder, though, whether Ned isn’t in on the whole thing. They might foresee our plan, and be waiting for us.”

  “I hope they are! This time, we’ll be prepared,” Luten said.

  “I think myself Ned’s an honest thief,” Black said.

  Prance lifted an eyebrow in derision and said, “Surely that is an oxymoron.”

  Black had no more idea what an oxymoron was than Coffen, but he wouldn’t satisfy Prance to ask. “I doubt he’s consorting with the Frenchies, except in the way of business is what I mean,” he explained.

  “If we have reason to believe three French spies are
going to be at that stable tonight — and we do — it’s our duty to catch them,” Luten said. “We’ll take them to Bow Street. Townsend can arrest them as horse thieves, with us to lay charges and give evidence. Once they’re in custody, he’ll get more information from them. With luck, it will lead us to Martin.”

  “We’d best get to it then,” Black said, finishing off his wine and rising with a businesslike air.

  “You all have your pistols?” Luten asked, and was answered with three nods.

  “What we ought to have done is shoot the blighters,” Coffen said.

  “I, for one, would prefer not to shoot a man in the back,” Prance declared. He wondered how Wolfried would feel about that.

  Coffen picked up bread and meat and made a sandwich, “I’m ready to go. Er — how do we get there?”

  Luten called Evans to have a footman send for his carriage. “Shall I follow in another carriage to rescue you?” Corinne asked her husband.

  “There’s no point telling you not to. Follow if you must, but for God’s sake, keep out of the line of fire. And take a footman with you. Take two. Armed.”

  Coffen said, “And a knife, in case —"

  “In case I have to cut you loose. I’ll do that, Coffen.” She darted out to tell the footman to send her carriage as well, and to ask the two bravest footmen to accompany her, and bring pistols, and to get her a knife from the kitchen.

  After she ran upstairs to change into older clothes, Evans said, “One footman, Roberts. I shall accompany her ladyship.”

  “You?” Roberts asked, gaping.

  “You heard me.”

  “Yessir. Can I go too?”

  “Why not? I doubt you’ll be required to replace me on the door at this hour of the night. But I’ll bring John up from the kitchen just in case. I’ll get the knife and pistols while you dart off for the carriages.”

  While awaiting the carriages, Luten outlined the plan. “We’ll draw to a stop and leave the carriage down the road from Ned’s place and proceed quietly on foot. Corinne, you draw in behind us and wait in the carriage.”