Murder on Charing Cross Road Read online

  “Did they come from France?” Black asked. “In the usual way the Frenchies unload their cargo on the coast and our English smugglers take it from there. What are they doing in London?”

  “They seem to be higher up fellows. They’ve been getting complaints of selling watered brandy, which they claim they don’t. They’ve come to find out who’s been watering the stuff between the time they unload and it reaches the customers. They have their eye on two gangs. They’re stopping their loads as they come into town and testing so as to find out which gang’s responsible. It seems our own smugglers set up the visit. Either they find out who’s doing the watering or their price goes down.”

  “Odd they’re at this particular flat, the haunt of spies,” Black said. “They’ll be heading back to France when the job’s done. How do we know they won’t be taking messages from Martin?”

  “We don’t, which is why I plan to keep a sharp eye on them in case they get a message. Martin’s sharp as a bodkin. It wouldn’t surprise me much if he has a hand in the smuggling as well and hired this place for his spies and smugglers to use when and as necessary. A pied-a-terre for them, you might say. He’s getting his news to France somehow, and French smugglers seem the likeliest way.”

  “Did they happen to mention the anglais?" Coffen said. “That’s what Alphonse calls Martin.”

  “Lord, it’s every second word comes out of their mouths. It’s the maudit anglais this and the maudit anglais that. That don’t help us much.”

  “We’ll tell Luten, and you let him know pronto if this lot seem to be up to anything other than delivering brandy.”

  “I will. I’ve a couple of men hiding nearby. They won’t take a step without me knowing it.”

  “We’ll leave you to it then,” Coffen said, and he and Black left. They agreed it was much too late to go to bed, so Coffen went home with Black, who offered to make him breakfast.

  * * * *

  At home, Corinne used her feminine wiles in an effort to learn what Luten was up to. Like Coffen, she knew it was something dangerous, or why wouldn’t he tell her? They both lay awake for hours, tossing and turning until she finally suggested he might be more comfortable in his own bed, and was furious when he agreed.

  He was working on a plan to lure Martin out of hiding. Martin was getting his information from someone at the Horse Guards. He, Luten, would make a report to them tomorrow about the arrest of Alphonse and company. He would carry with him an important-looking folder. He would then take a stroll along the riverbank alone, carrying the folder. Bolton had been followed and killed in an effort to obtain the letter he had been carrying. Martin must be on thorns to know what Alphonse and his cohorts had told after their arrest last night, and would assume the details were in his report to the Horse Guards. If this plan worked, he would be attacked. And he would be ready.

  But would Martin make the attack in person, or send one of his minions? Alphonse, Henri and Guy seemed to be the men he usually used. With them hors de combat, Luten felt fairly sure Martin would be doing the job himself. He’d be watching, and handle the attack in person. And if that didn’t work, Luten's would have to try to convince York and his bibulous partners at the Horse Guards to arrange for some false plans to be left unguarded and watch like hawks to see who picked them up, and what he did with them. And how long would all that take? The Horse Guards, like the mills of the gods, ground slowly. Unfortunately, they did not grind so small.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The group assembled in Luten’s study at nine the next morning were all tired and frustrated, and looked it. Corinne was angry as a hornet besides. She knew perfectly well by the way Luten kept shuffling papers on his desk to avoid looking at her that he was hiding something from her.

  The pale faces and bleary eyes of Black and Coffen suggested they’d spent the night drinking. Even Prance’s toilette lacked its usual lustre. The folds in his cravat were not as crisp as usual and — was it possible — Villier had failed to brush off his jacket? That looked amazingly like lint on his shoulders. Evans’ arrival with coffee was more than welcome.

  “Has anyone a suggestion as to what we might do today?” Luten asked, when they had been served and Evans took his reluctant departure.

  “Me and Black went around to the place Henri and Guy were living after we left here last night,” Coffen said, and reported the meeting with Townsend. “I plan to go back today and get into the room, see if I can find any clues.”

  The case had been sadly lacking in the kind of clues he liked. Tangible clues like notes or a button torn from a jacket or even horse droppings, to show a horse had recently been someplace it shouldn’t. Other than the clue poor Bolton had left with his blood, there was nothing of that sort. You’d think one of the Frenchies would have dropped something other than his black touque during that fracas at Long Acre.

  “Won’t Townsend have searched it already?” Luten asked.

  “Could be, but he hadn’t been in, and what he said was that he was leaving men to follow the Frenchies when they leave. No harm to run along and have a look, eh?”

  “Yes, we’ll try anything and everything,” Luten agreed. Then he turned to Prance. “Reg?”

  “I’m willing to do anything you say, Luten. I confess my mind is curiously empty of inspiration. The whole case is so nebulous. We have a name and a description of Martin, but no face, no body. He seems to be everywhere and nowhere. He always knows what we’re doing, yet we’ve failed to catch so much as a glimpse of him. Most frustrating.”

  “So you have nothing to suggest? If you think of anything, go ahead and do it, but leave word with Evans so we’ll know where to get in touch with you if it should be necessary.”

  Corinne jerked to attention. “Why might you need him? What are your plans for the morning, Luten?”

  “I have to go to the House for an important meeting.” This at least was true, even if it wasn’t the sort of meeting his listeners imagined. To clinch it he said, “There is still a war going on.”

  She had to be satisfied with that. The war did seem to be reaching one of its critical stages again. It seemed Boney was trying to round up another army in Paris. Perhaps that was why Luten was so worried lately. “Is there anything you want me to do?” she asked.

  He wanted to say, “Yes, keep out of trouble!” but knew this was worse than useless. “Perhaps you could accompany Prance in whatever he decides to do.” He had a pretty good idea Prance would go on the strut on Bond Street again to see if he was being followed. No harm would come to her in broad daylight on Bond Street. Luten not only loved his wife but also admired her spirit. It was no small part of what attracted him to her, but it was also a constant source of anxiety.

  Black racked his brain for some way to distinguish himself, but in the end said, “I might as well tag along with Mr. Pattle.”

  Luten, Coffen and Black soon left. Under Black’s urgings, Coffen had taken the decision to use his own carriage with Fitz on the driver’s seat. “I’ll give him directions even an idiot could follow,” Black said. “What’s the point of having the expense of a carriage if you never use it, Mr. Pattle? You’ve got to train your servants. You’re entirely too soft with them.”

  “You’re right and I know it, Black, but when I try to make things better, they seem to get worse. Fitz just drives faster in the wrong direction.”

  * * * *

  Luten drove directly to Whitehall. The Duke of York, Commander in Chief of the British forces, met daily with his team at the Horse Guards to discuss the progress of the war. Victory against Bonaparte was now within their grasp and the mood was optimistic. The Russian Cossacks had already driven the French out of Berlin, last month the King of Prussia had formally joined the fray against Napoleon, adding a hundred thousand men to Prussia’s standing army and Austria was being drawn into the net. True, Napoleon was still in Paris busy raising troops but victory was in sight.

  The meeting did not formally begin until York himself entered
the room, but his staff arrived early to plot and gossip and in some cases doze.

  Luten knew Eric Martin was someone who had access to York’s secrets. Hopley was sure York’s men themselves were not the culprits, that it was probably a secretary or aide of one of the group. Luten timed his visit before York’s arrival, when various secretaries and aides darted in and out, ears no doubt on the stretch to hear what was said. He stopped and spoke to Harley, using the pretext of asking whether he had heard from Townsend that three French spies had been arrested the night before. Harley, of course, knew nothing about it and demanded details.

  Luten placed his folder on the desk. “Just a few notes on another matter I’m working on for Grey, but I must remember to take it with me.” Then he gave a verbal account of the arrest of Alphonse, Henri and Guy.

  “This is excellent news, Luten. I shall tell York the minute he arrives.”

  Luten glanced at his watch and said, “I must dash. I’m late,” and left, leaving his folder behind.

  As he left the room, three of the secretaries were in the hallway, talking. Luten noticed that one of them was tall, young, well built, and possibly Eric Martin. Harley came out, calling, “Luten! I say you left your notes behind. You mentioned they’re important.” The three secretaries turned and listened.

  “Thank you, Harley.” He leaned closer as if discussing secret matters but pitched his voice so that those nearby could hear. “They’re extremely important plans. It wouldn’t do for them to fall into the wrong hands.”

  Then he looked at the listening men, frowned and hurried away, hoping one of them was Martin. He didn’t look behind to see who followed him, but he heard footsteps. He went to his office, shuffled papers for a quarter of an hour, put his pistol in his pocket and left with the folder beneath his arm.

  It was not really a good day for walking. The sky was overcast and the breeze off the water was uncomfortably cool, but his plan was to stroll alone along the riverside to lure Martin into coming after him. He was distressed to see how many people took this walk on a rather unpleasant day. He felt Martin would wait until he had him alone. He walked until he was tired, then sat a while on a rock at a stretch of the river’s edge that was little occupied. He wished he had brought a journal to read.

  At length it began to rain, just a light sprinkle, but enough to clear the other walkers away. If Martin was going to attack, he’d do it now. After five minutes the rain began coming down in earnest. He had been here an hour, and no sign of Martin. He wasn’t coming. Luten returned to his office and sat, thinking.

  His plan had failed, but as he considered it, it wasn’t really very likely that Martin would be one of the men who had heard him speak to Harley.

  He’d have to come up with another plan. But where was there a loose end of the tangle to tug? He cast his mind back over the case.

  It had begun with the attack on Prance, the search of his and Coffen’s houses, Bolton’s message, his murder and the abbreviated message written in his blood. They had got their first clue from Hopley, that led to the Sheepwalk. The Frenchies had been there, but had left.

  Then there was the clue — a false one, unfortunately — from McRaney. This had led to wasting a good deal of time on Morgrave and the fiasco at the spinney. McRaney had then suggested that perhaps the man they were looking for was Martin. Ned Sparks had confirmed it and led them back to the Sheepwalk, where the Frenchies were expecting them. Either Ned Sparks had tipped them off, or more likely Martin had given Ned the information on purpose to further humiliate them.

  It seemed that Martin knew what they were going to do before they did it. Planting Prance’s purse in Morgrave’s pocket pretty well proved it. But how could he have been watching all of them all the time? Neither Coffen, Black nor Prance had seen anyone following them, nor had he seen anyone himself, and he’d kept a pretty sharp eye out. But if they weren’t being watched closely, then how did Martin always seem to know what they were doing?

  It soon occurred to him that it was McRaney who had put them on to both Morgrave and Martin. He didn’t have to watch the members of the Berkeley Brigade. He only had to watch Morgrave and he’d know what was afoot. And he had been at Arthur’s the day Prance’s purse was found in Morgrave’s pocket. He lived in the same building as Bolton, and no one had been seen calling on Bolton. Easy for him to slip down a staircase or along a hall and do the job. If it was McRaney, how was he getting the information to send to France?

  They hadn’t investigated McRaney at all! How had he overlooked such a glaring clue? McRaney didn’t have to work at the Horse Guards himself. He could have a friend passing along secrets, either wittingly or unwittingly. The thing to do was to investigate McRaney at once.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Not even Black was so optimistic as to think Fitz would get them where they were going with no wrong turns. Coffen, more familiar with his unerring sense of misdirection, was less surprised to find them heading to Hanstown.

  “I’ll have to take the reins myself, Mr. Pattle, or we’ll never get there,” Black said.

  “P’raps you’re right, Black. A good thing this little trip ain’t urgent.”

  Coffen listened with dismay to the lecture Black delivered to Fitz. He could hear Black’s bellowing through the closed door and window. He dreaded to think what revenge his servants would wreak on him for allowing it. To his astonishment, when Black drew up at the desired address, Fitz came to the door, opened it and let down the step for his master to alight. This was such a novelty that Coffen was speechless.

  “Sorry about the little mistake, sir,” he said. “It was a different route, you see. We never come this way before. Next time I’ll know.”

  Coffen just nodded, still speechless. “Stay right here, Fitz,” Black ordered. “We don’t want to walk home.”

  “You were a bit hard on him, Black,” Coffen said as they walked toward Mrs. Horsely’s rooming house.

  “That I was not, Mr. Pattle. It’s yourself that’s too soft.” Had Fitz been Black’s servant, he would have felt the toe of his boot long ago.

  Black made short work of the door into the basement room. “It looks like the landlord has cleaned it out already,” Coffen said, looking around at the stripped cots, the empty closet, the dresser drawers pulled out and also empty.

  “That, or Mr. Martin has been here cleaning up,” was Black’s reply. “Let us hope Townsend beat him to it.”

  “We’ll ask around. P’raps someone saw what happened,” Coffen said.

  “A good idea, Mr. Pattle. I hadn’t thought of that,” Black lied. He had been about to suggest the same thing, but he feared he had offended Pattle by his treatment of Fitz and was eager to make it up.

  They went up the stairs and knocked on a few doors. On the third try they had success. Miss Armoury, a retired teacher with an air of genteel poverty, spent her declining days sitting at her window, watching the world go by.

  “Yes, the fellow who hired the room last winter came here in a hackney early this morning, just after the two other men left. He only stayed half an hour and left carrying a box of things, which is entirely strange, for he never actually lived in the room himself. Cleaning up for the next tenant, I daresay. I figured he rented it out by the day or week, cheap you know, for fellows who couldn’t afford a proper hotel.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know his name?” Black asked.

  “Mr. Jones, I heard.”

  “What did he look like?” Coffen asked.

  The description matched that of Mr. Martin. Black was surprised to see a coin pass into the lady’s hand after they already had the information, not that the old malkin couldn’t use it. But that was Mr. Pattle’s way. Generous to a fault. Fitz had the carriage waiting for them. They drove home, with only one wrong turn.

  “There, you see,” Black said. “He could do it if you just leaned on him a little.”

  * * * *

  “Well, my pet, can you think of anything we could do to help the
cause?” Prance said to Corinne after the others had left.

  “I’d give a monkey to know what Luten’s up to.”

  “We know what Luten is up to. He’s at the House.”

  “I wish I could think of something, anything. We seem to have reached a dead end. It’s very aggravating.”

  Prance tossed his shoulders. “Coffen has gone to the Frenchies’ lair, Townsend is taking care of Ned Sparks. I see no point in returning to the Sheepwalk. Where else is there?”

  “I wonder if Mr. McRaney might have anything else to tell us. He’s the only one who actually knew Bolton. When the Morgrave clue proved wrong, he thought of Mr. Martin. Or perhaps the man who looks after the flats might have remembered something.”

  “Not very likely, I think,” said Prance, who wanted to go home to bed.

  “We’ve got to do something. I can’t just sit here all morning worrying.”

  “Couldn’t you do something about the Orphans’ Ball? I know! Let’s go to Gunters and see what delicacies they’re preparing for it.”

  “That’s been taken care of, Reg.”

  “You’ve entirely abandoned Mrs. Ballard lately,” was his next effort. “Why not take her to Bond Street? She’d love it. I’ll even buy her a paper of pins.” Unlike Reg, Mrs. Ballard had no lavish desires.

  “We’re going to see McRaney.” She called Evans to have her carriage sent around and went upstairs to get her mantle and to tell Mrs. Ballard where they were going. She would be annoyed if she thought she was missing out on a trip to Bond Street. Reg also told Evans, as Luten had asked him to.

  “It’s a horrid day,” Reg scolded as they went out to the carriage. “Just look at that sky. We’ll be rained on before we get home.”

  “Then it wouldn’t be very pleasant on Bond Street, would it? There’s an umbrella in the side pocket.”