Murder on Ironmonger Lane Read online

  “Only that Mrs. Ballard has an appointment with Mam’selle Marie tomorrow morning. She has applied for a position at the shop, using an alias, of course, to see what she can learn. We arranged this before tomorrow night’s raid was arranged. It may not be necessary ...”

  “No harm in her seeing what she can pick up,” Coffen said. “Something may go amiss tomorrow night. Many a sip twixt the cup and the lip, as they say.”

  “Slip, Coffen,” Prance corrected with a weary sigh. “Many a slip twixt the cup and the lip.”

  “Speak for yourself. What the rest of us do with a cup and lip is sip, not slip.”

  “Then your metaphor is pointless, and how do you account for those wine stains on your cravat?” Coffen’s valet had greatly improved Coffen’s toilette, but there was no entirely taming his way with food and drink.

  To prevent a long and foolish argument, Luten said, “I’ll arrange matters with Townsend tomorrow morning. We’ll meet here tomorrow night at ten. If any of you learn anything useful between now and then, let me know at once.” He turned to his wife, “I believe Evans has chambered some of that chambertin from the cellar. Let us drink a toast to our success.”

  The wine was served, and e’er long Prance turned the conversation to his favourite subject. To conceal his true purpose, he related how his friends had hailed Coffen outside the shop that morning. “Cleary called him the next Hogarth. I personally feel his work is closer to Cruikshank’s.” As Coffen had never heard of these famous caricaturists he ignored him and turned to Corinne.

  “Mrs. Ballard is feeling her oats, is she? What time is she going to Mam’selle’s place? I’ll have one of my lads lurking outside the shop just in case she don’t make it out. You never know.”

  “Thank you for the offer, but Luten is taking care of that,” Corinne said.

  “Ah, he would, of course.”

  “Tell me, Coffen, how does it feel to be famous?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Ask Reg.”

  Unfortunately Reg overheard them and said, “Ask Reg what?”

  “How it feels to be famous,” Coffen said.

  “Wretched. Perfectly wretched,” he said, and was off on his favourite subject. The meeting soon broke up.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  While Luten was making his arrangements with Townsend, Mrs. Ballard took a hackney to Mam’selle Marie’s shop for her interview with Mam’selle. Lady Luten had informed her that Blackbeard was not a Frenchman at all, and asked her to take particular notice of Mam’selle’s accent. It was not unusual for an English milliner or modiste to invent a French name for herself and her shop to give it cachet.

  While Mrs. Ballard was not fluent in French herself, she had heard enough real Frenchmen speak in Luten’s salon to recognize a genuine accent when she heard one, and she heard one coming from Mam’selle. No Englishwoman could roll her r’s like that. Everything about the woman fairly shouted Frenchie. She had the dark hair and eyes and sharp nose of the Frenchwoman. Her whole manner of rapid speaking with gesturing hands was French. All but one of her employees spoke French among themselves, and she spoke French to them. The outsider sat alone, silent, watching the newcomer.

  “I do not despise the creations of Madame Soulange, whose name is, in fact, Miss Dobbin,” Mam’selle conceded with an air of conferring a favour. “She is not at all French, but naturellement she wishes to be taken for one of us. If she was satisfied with your work, it is possible I can make a milliner out of you. Trim this bonnet,” she said, handing Miss Perkins a plain straw form.

  She sat watching with arms crossed while poor Mrs. Ballard was led to the table where the embellishments were kept. Mrs. Ballard decorated her own bonnets with one or two black feathers and a satin band. Confronted with flowers and fruits, feathers and birds of all sizes, shapes and colours she hardly knew where to begin. She took a look at how the others were decorating bonnets. Then she was struck with the happy thought of doing hers up as an imitation of the one Lady Luten had purchased from Madame Soulange the day before.

  She selected a large fuchsia rose, a narrow green ribbon and a sprig of foliage. These she sewed on above the rim of the bonnet, off to one side. The actual sewing presented no problem to this accomplished needle woman. She was soon done and handed the bonnet to Mam’selle, who studied it with gleaming eyes. She bit back the little smile of pleasure the bonnet evoked, as she did not want Miss Perkins to get the notion she was thrilled.

  “Yes, I think I might be able to use you, as I am particularly busy at this time. Of course it will be on a trial basis only.” She mentioned a salary that would not keep body and soul together. Miss Perkins humbly accepted and expressed her satisfaction. “When can you begin?” Mam’selle asked.

  Fearing that the footman Luten had waiting outside might take fright and come in to rescue her if she remained too long, she said, “This afternoon, if that is convenient, Mam’selle. I have a few personal details to take care of first.”

  “Very well. You may go now.” She wafted her hand towards the door, as if batting away a fly, then turned to release a volley of French at her trimmers.

  Miss Perkins was picked up a few blocks away by one of Luten’s footman, accompanied to a hackney and Mrs. Ballard was driven home to relate her success to Lady Luten.

  “How did it go?” Corinne asked.

  “She hired me! I copied your new bonnet from Madame Soulange and she loved it. She is certainly French,” she said, more than once, and went on to give details of Mam’selle’s manner. “Most of the women there are French as well, but there is one Englishwoman. I think she will be glad to have someone she can talk to, as the others jabber away together and ignore her. I daresay she can tell us something.”

  “See what you can find out about Monsieur Leclerc in particular. He is the one we are really interested in.”

  “Could I risk saying she has been seen about with a fellow who wears a beard, and hint to find out who he is? Of course I shall not say I saw them together, for I have not, but you told me some of the others have.”

  “Yes, you can truthfully say a friend mentioned it to you, without, of course, identifying me as the friend.”

  Mrs. Ballard flushed with pleasure to hear herself called a friend, in that matter-of-fact way. And she had said ‘truthfully’ too, so milady must really consider her a friend. “I daresay they do not know Miss Clare?” Mrs. Ballard said archly, using Lady Luten’s maiden name.

  “Yes, you can call me that, but only if they ask. Don’t volunteer anything.”

  “You may count on my discretion, milady.”

  “I am well aware of it, and appreciate it, Mrs. Ballard,” she said, squeezing her companion’s fingers. Mrs. Ballard could make no reply due to the lump in her throat.

  Miss Perkins was back at the shop at one o’clock sharp, determined to learn something significant. Mam’selle was not there but her assistants, including the Englishwoman, were. The outcast’s name was Mrs. Hope. Before long she was Aggie, and as eager to talk as Miss Perkins was to listen. She was a widow with a son, Samuel, who worked for a harness maker.

  Years of eking out a living had etched lines in her forehead and frosted her auburn hair, but her blue eyes were still bright and she had all her teeth. Mrs. Ballard listened dutifully, and at the first opportunity led to more interesting matters. A little hint that Mam’selle had been seen with a fellow wearing a black beard was all it took to open the tap.

  “That’s her fellow, or one of them. I happen to know he ain’t the only one as I saw her one afternoon in a rig with a fellow who was the spitting image of Lord Byron, that poet fellow. We saw Byron in the flesh once. Handsome, oh my! No wonder the ladies are all throwing their hankies at him. He was just getting out of his carriage in front of the shop and one of the customers recognized him through the window.

  “Before you could say knife every lady in the place had rushed out and was gaping at him, and us in the back as well when we heard what was causing the ruckus. He s
urely is a handsome lad, but I had to feel sorry for him, despite his sins. He hopped back in his rig and told his coachmen to spring ‘em. Mind you Mam’selle’s not married to her Monsieur, though she should be, if you know what I’m saying.

  “I forgot some bread and apples I had picked up for Samuel’s dinner one night and had to come back after I was halfway home. I won’t sully your ears with what I heard going on in her office, Miss Perkins. Sounds that any married woman would recognize as certain doings. They’re French, of course,” she added, in accents of disapproval tinged with reluctant understanding.

  “They actually live together, you mean?”

  “I don’t believe they do, or she’d have a closer line on him and wouldn’t have to be wondering whether Monsieur was to call for her when she’s ready to leave, or if she’d have to hire a hackney. In fact I once accidentally on purpose, as they say, saw the lease of her house—a whole house mind, and it’s in her name, though I warrant he writes the cheques.

  “It’s odd they don’t share the house as it would save a deal of money, and she’s tight as bark to a tree, despite she’s making such a good thing of this business. You wouldn’t believe what she charges for these bonnets, and us getting starving wages. About Leclerc—that his name—it’s my thinking he’s a married man, despite he often delivers her and picks her up after work but he don’t come in, or never has when the rest of us are here. I expect Mam’selle is afraid Lisette would be rolling her eyes at him if she let him in. She’s the pretty one that’s in charge of ribbons and flowers and feathers and all that.”

  “He’s French as well, I take it, her fellow?”

  “Oh yes, with a name like Leclerc. That’s never an English name. She just calls him Monsieur, so I don’t know what his Christian name is, but when Lisette’s teasing Mam’selle about him, she calls him Monsieur Leclerc.”

  “I daresay he’s somebody. Rich, I mean, since he has a carriage.”

  “She wouldn’t give the time of day to no other sort, Miss Perkins. He dresses well and all, but he don’t have a footman in livery, just a rough-looking coachman. I think his driver’s a bruiser, or was, for his nose is broken and one eye’s crooked. You know, squinty-like. I don’t approve of that sort of thing, men beating each other up, but my Samuel goes to all the matches. Men!”

  She glanced at the bonnet Miss Perkins was trimming and said, “You set a real neat stitch, Miss Perkins. I do like them little blue flowers you’re using. I wonder now what colour ribbons Lisette will want with them. Green wouldn’t go with the blue, not to my way of thinking.”

  “I was thinking a narrow blue with a narrow pink beside it. Summery colours, you know, since it’s an undyed straw bonnet.”

  “Lisette’ll have her own ideas.”

  The conversation soon switched back to Samuel, who was seeing a girl Mrs. Hope disapproved of. “No better than she should be. I wouldn’t be surprised if she manages to get herself in the way of being a mother to force his hand. Mind you I’d like to have a grandchild.” Miss Perkins listened with interest, but learned nothing else concerning Monsieur before she took her gleanings home to discuss with Lady Luten.

  “So Mrs. Hope has never actually heard him speak,” Lady Luten said. “I wonder if Mam’selle keeps him out of the shop when the others are there because her French helpers would know he isn’t French.”

  “Mrs. Hope thinks she’s afraid Lisette might get him away from her. She’s younger and prettier than Mam’selle. I’ll see what else I can learn tomorrow.”

  “You may not have to go back, depending on how matters turns out tonight.”

  Mrs. Ballard was almost sorry to hear it. She had enjoyed the excitement of being involved in a case again. She also enjoyed having a woman her own age to talk to, even if she wasn’t a lady. Work, like travel, broadened one’s horizons. How fortunate she was to have found a home with her ladyship, where she was treated with not only respect but every consideration for her comfort and security. Like a valued friend, in fact.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Mrs. Ballard’s findings were interesting, but when Corinne discussed them with Luten, they did not seem to be much help. It was a day of marking time for the Berkeley Brigade. By evening they were all on edge. They arrived at Luten’s house nearly an hour early, and he was happy to see them. They had all dressed in rough clothes in anticipation of the job awaiting them. They discussed their strategy.

  Townsend, who was to meet them there, had suggested they wait until the mosaics were put in the buyer’s carriage or wagon and all the men were in the open before attacking. That would ensure getting the evidence and be safer than attacking too early and having someone shooting at them from the safety of the shop. They would go first for the ring leader, Leclerc. He shouldn’t be hard to pick out with that black beard.

  The main thing was to get Leclerc. If Phipps got away, no harm done. They knew where to find him, and he wasn’t really doing anything illegal in any case. The others were hirelings, strong arms and backs to do the lifting and to be there in case of trouble.

  Luten confined their drinking to coffee until it was nearly time to go, when they were all allowed a few glasses of wine to relax their nerves. Corinne had the lady’s job of waiting and worrying and seeing that suitable refreshments were prepared to greet the victors on their return from battle. She passed the time from eleven to twelve with Mrs. Ballard, leafing through the latest copy of La Belle Assemblée to choose a pattern for Mrs. Ballard’s new walking suit.

  Milady had suggested a nice rich mulberry in place of navy blue, and Mrs. Ballard was sorely tempted to do it. By midnight they were both so tired that Mrs. Ballard went to bed “to think about it” and Corinne curled up on the sofa with a blanket to wait.

  * * *

  The Berkeley Brigade had gone in an unmarked carriage Luten kept for such occasions. They alit around a corner two blocks away from Tottenham Court Road and walked nonchalantly along, not in a group but two by two with a five minute interval between. They made no effort at secrecy, but just chatted like friends returning home after a night out.

  The street was quiet. No light burned in Ye Olde Toy Shoppe as they slipped down the lane. They would not have known Townsend and his men were there, had he not whistled and stepped out from behind a thorn bush. He took charge, silently pointing to the newcomers one at a time and directing them to the position he had picked out for them. They formed a semi-circle around the back door of the toy shop.

  As expected, it was a long wait. Long enough for Prance to mentally compose an ode on the shifting shadows and shivery darkness of night, with a breeze stirring the leaves to whispering secrets, and a pale gibbous moon silvering the back of the toy shop, turning the windows to shimmering opals against the ebony walls. Being dusty, they did not shimmer as brightly in reality as in his little opus, but one was allowed poetic license after all. To pass the time he searched his vocabulary for other words with a sibilant sound, to give the hissing effect of the wind. He adored onomatopoeia. He was relieved it did not rain, as he had not brought an umbrella.

  Coffen found himself close enough to one of Townsend’s men that they could exchange stories so long as they whispered. Before the midnight hour approached, they each envied the other. Coffen coveted the Runner’s easy access to crime, and the Runner envied Coffen’s entire lifestyle.

  Neither Black nor Luten thought of a thing but the job ahead of them. They watched the back of the toy shop, cocked their ears in the direction of the laneway for an echo of an approaching carriage and worried. The only excitement was a stray dog whose barking and darting from bush to bush threatened to ruin their plan, till Townsend unceremoniously kicked it and sent it running. After what seemed an endless night, Townsend quietly edged up to Luten.

  “It’s quarter past midnight,” he said. It was too dark to read a watch, but Townsend had had a special watch custom made with raised numbers on the dial and without a crystal, so that he could read the time in the dark with his
fingertips.

  “They should be here any minute now,” Luten answered.

  “Are you sure you can trust Rochford? He wouldn’t be pulling your leg, would he?”

  “No, no. I trust him.”

  Townsend slipped back behind his shrub and waited longer. Everyone was becoming impatient. Bushes were rustling, audible whispers were being exchanged. Sir Reg’s voice was louder than the others. “It must be past midnight,” he complained. “They’re not coming.”

  Townsend’s fingers told him it was half past midnight. “They’ll be here,” he whispered, and again quiet descended. At a quarter to one he felt sure they had been tricked. He discussed it with Luten, and they decided between them they would wait till one o’clock. “I’ll leave a few lads here to keep watch,” Townsend said. “One will dart to Bow Street and call me if they come, while t’other follows the carriage. With luck I can be back before the goods leave. But I don’t believe anything’s going to happen tonight.”

  “Neither do I,” Luten said, with a frustrated sigh. They went out to the street, but there was no sign or sound of an approaching carriage. “Phipps must have told Rochford the wrong night.”

  “On purpose, you think?” Townsend asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Luten said, and tossed up his hands in resignation.

  They returned behind the toy shop, Townsend whistled his men out of the bushes and gave them their orders. Prance, Coffen and Black were not tardy to come forward. Townsend told them the sad news. His men were too well disciplined to complain, but Prance said, “I could have told you that an hour ago.” Coffen and Black were disappointed, but kept their ire to themselves.

  “Any chance it’s tomorrow night?” Coffen asked hopefully.

  “More likely last night,” Prance snipped. “Let us go home. My poor legs are so cramped I can scarcely walk.” His poor legs moved him at a lively gait for the street and the carriage waiting a few blocks away, however.