To Mourn a Murder Read online

  "Jergen didn't find it at all convenient to have a sulking wife and I didn't find it convenient to live with a positive ogre. But that was when I was young and foolish. Now I realize he's just like all my friends' husbands, but at least he is away a good deal of the time. Jergen works in the Foreign Office, you know."

  "Sir Reginald is interested in hearing about the missing letters," Byron said, to cut her tale short.

  "Yes, dear Byron, I am just coming to that but I wouldn't want Sir Reginald to think I'm a loose woman. Mr. Brunei was the only one I actually had an affair with, and as Jergen was carrying on scandalously with an actress at the time, I don't see why he should complain but you may be sure he will if he discovers my little romp is costing me five thousand pounds. I should like to know how much he spent on Rose Sommers that year at Brighton. She was a cheap little ingénue in a play there."

  "How damaging are Mr. Brunei's letters?" Prance asked.

  "Well, they're pretty warm," she said with a blushing simper. "He was half French, you know, and they know how to sweet talk a lady. Unlike English gentlemen. Present company always excepted," she added with a leer at Byron.

  "When did you discover they were missing?" Prance asked to deflect further diversions.

  "I didn't! That's the strange thing. I have kept them hidden at the bottom of my stocking bag forever. I didn't know they were gone until I received that horrid letter. Then, of course, I ran straight upstairs and they were gone!" She tossed up her two white hands in dismay.

  "When was the last time you saw them?"

  "It must be two years ago. After a while, you know, one stops looking at old love letters."

  "When did you actually receive them?" Prance asked.

  She furrowed her brow and after much mention of social events–"The year before young Algie went to university, and Sukey wasn't married yet, for she visited us that year and was much courted," she said rather uncertainly. "Seven years ago last spring. I daresay I might have noticed they were missing sooner, but whoever took them was so sly! He folded up some of my own stationery and shoved it into the bottom of the bag so that I just felt the paper there from time to time when I was rifling through my drawers, and Semple the same. Semple is my dresser. She's been with me forever and would never steal them. I exonerate her completely. Her papa is a curate," she added as a clincher.

  "Your house hasn't been robbed, I take it?" Byron asked.

  "Only of the letters."

  "Then it must have been someone of your own household who took them. What other servants would have access to your room?"

  "Oh any of them, I expect, if he was bent on mischief. I mean one doesn't set a guard on one's bedchamber all day long. There are weekends in the country when the servants are here alone, to say nothing of a month in the Lake District this past summer. So lovely, but I didn't care for what they call the fells, and the rain was very wet. God only knows what the servants get up to when we're away. I know Jergen always takes the keys to the wine cellar with him when we go away."

  "May we see the note you received?" Prance asked.

  "I burned it! Because of Jergen, you know. I was afraid he might see it, but I can tell you exactly what it said. It demanded that I take five thousand pounds in cash to the corner of Oxford and Duke Streets tomorrow at midnight. Such an awkward hour! A hackney cab would be waiting. I was to get in, give the money to him and he would give me back my letters. That's all. Oh, and he signed it with a little sketch of a honey bee. So Odd!"

  "A bee? Does that have any special significance to you, Adele?" Byron asked.

  "Only that a bee makes honey," she said with a shake of her head.

  "And in this case, stings," Prance added. "So you are to meet this bee tomorrow at midnight. That doesn't leave us much time. Do you have the money?"

  "Yes, I received the note two days ago. I sold my Consols, the only money I have in my own name. I don't know what Jergen would say if he found out I lost it."

  Byron looked a question at Prance and said, "We could be waiting at the corner of Oxford and Duke, armed. Go after the coach and nab the fellow."

  "After I get my letters back," Lady Jergen said.

  "Yes, of course. In fact, there's no need for you to go at all, Adele. There won't be two hackneys waiting at the corner at midnight. We'll take care of it for you."

  Prance frowned and said, "It seems so ridiculously simple. Surely any thief worth his salt would have foreseen that possibility."

  "I daresay he thought I wouldn't tell anyone," Lady Jergen said, "and a lady could hardly go after him herself. He did specify I must go alone. I could hardly ask Jergen to accompany me."

  "I don't believe you have anything to worry about, Lady Jergen," Prance said. "The whole arrangement is so crude it can only be some simple servant who arranged it. It seems no one else had access to your letters. We'll have them back to you tomorrow night, and it won't cost you a sou. Or say the next morning. You won't want us at your door after midnight."

  "Oh God bless you, Sir Reginald." She rose, threw herself into his arms and placed a kiss on his cheek. "And dear Byron," she added, repeating the performance with him. "I knew I did the right thing to take you into my confidence. I'm sure you have encountered worse treachery than this with all those nasty foreigners you've had to deal with."

  "Some treachery, along with a good deal of kindness," he replied. "In fact, the nasty foreigners behave very much like Englishmen, only friendlier."

  "Well, now that is settled, let us have some refreshment." She was just reaching for the bell pull when Byron rose.

  "Actually we must be off," he said, murmuring something about a meeting with his publisher.

  "I hope you're writing another poem, Byron," she said, leading them to the door. "I've finished Child Harold's Pilgrimage and am ready for a new one. But this time I hope you find yourself a nice English girl."

  "Ah, so do I, madam. So do I. Every man needs a good woman." His flashing eyes made a mockery of the words but Lady Jergen was not the sort to suspect sarcasm from a gentleman.

  She thanked Sir Reginald two or three times. They were about to escape when the dour butler appeared at the door.

  "Mr. Danby is waiting to see you, madam," he said. "Knowing you did not wish to be disturbed, I have asked him to wait in the visitors' parlour."

  Byron kept walking toward the front door. Sir Reginald stood his ground. Who, pray, was a Mr. Danby, calling at this particular time? Byron turned to urge him forward. Prance tossed his head, indicating that they should wait. With a sigh of annoyance, Byron turned back.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  "This is my nephew, Mr. Danby," Lady Jergen said, drawing the visitor forward and completing the introductions in the hall. "I had no idea you were back in town, Charles. The last I heard you were off to Somerset or Devonshire or one of those shires visiting friends."

  "In Surrey, actually. I just returned this morning from visiting Aunt Miranda, who is ailing. She sends her regards."

  "You don't mean Miranda is still alive! I thought she died a decade ago. She must be ancient."

  While the two exchanged a few words, Prance observed Mr. Danby. He was tall, well set up, about thirty-five years old, with conventional good looks. The most striking feature was his eyes, of a pale blue. What made them appear striking was the contrast with Danby's tanned complexion. His skin was as dark as Byron's was pale, which was odd when one remembered that Byron had been in tropical climes. Such a complexion was often seen on officers returned from the Peninsular wars in Spain and Portugal. Mr. Danby's square shoulders suggested he might have acquired his tan there.

  The group exchanged a few pleasantries, then the first callers left.

  "If you hauled me back due to any suspicion that Danby is involved in this letter business," Byron said, "you wasted our time."

  "Yes, I realized that when he said he just returned from Surrey."

  "Which may or may not be true, but Danby has no need of money. T
he man's a nabob. He got that brown face in India, not Spain. They say he's worth a million. P'raps it's India I should go to. Oh and he's lucky at cards along with it. Pity he ain't a lady and one of us could marry him. A friend of mine, Cam Hobhouse, sat down to a game with him once and lost his quarter's allowance."

  They climbed into Prance's waiting carriage for the drive back to St. James's Street. "Well, that was much ado about nothing," Byron said.

  "No need to call in the Brigade," Prance was happy to reply. He and Byron could wrap up the business, then he would casually mention it to Luten. "I daresay we ought to be skulking about the designated corner before midnight. A quarter to, do you think?"

  "That should do it. What a demmed nuisance the ladies are. If Adele were not a good friend of my best she-friend, Lady Melbourne, I would not have obliged her. Demme, she ain't even flirtable."

  "A trifle long in the tooth for my taste, and the grande affaire with Brunei took place only seven years ago. She must already have been in her thirties. She waited a long time to have her one fling. I’ll call for you around eleven, if that suits?"

  "Come earlier if you can, Prance. I'm working on a little something I'd like to have your opinion on."

  A choir of angels singing could not have uttered a more pleasing sound. Prance had much experience at amateur acting, however, and managed to say, "Ten-ish?" in a voice that concealed his euphoria.

  "Could you make it nine-ish? When I say I'm working on a little something, I mean a little twenty or so pages thus far. And very likely another twenty by tomorrow. My pen has no sense of discernment. It runs away from me, but dash it, if I don't scribble out my troubles, I should go mad. Don't you find that too?"

  Prance, who had to drive himself to his desk and once there sweated over every word, replied, "Absolutely. The scribbling is all that keeps me sane."

  After a little talk about writing, Byron said, "You'll bring a pistol tomorrow night?"

  "Yes, though I don't foresee much trouble. It has to be a thieving servant we're dealing with."

  "It certainly looks like it. Besides the simplicity of the plan, who else would have access to the letters? Except the lady's husband, of course. That would be amusing if he were the villain, eh?"

  "To say nothing of embarrassing. How Luten would love it, a Tory caught holding his own wife to ransom."

  "Stranger things have happened."

  Byron didn't invite Prance in when they reached his flat. This suited Prance as he wanted to speak to a furniture maker about having an ottoman constructed. Perhaps he could add just a little something to support the back. He rather thought he might write home to Granmaison and have his Aunt Phoebe send him a cat from his estate as well. The barn was full of them, and he didn't actively dislike cats. He would specify that it must not be a marmalade and must have both eyes. He didn't want to be accused of being a copycat–he smiled at the felicity of the words–which would reek of copying Byron.

  He wore a mysterious face that evening as he sat in Lord Luten's box at Covent Garden, watching an inferior musical burlesque. He was piqued that no one inquired about his visit to Byron but on the whole was happy enough in the anticipation of stunning them with news of his daring exploit after the matter was settled.

  "Now that's what I call a dandy night's entertainment," was Coffen's verdict when the entertainment was over.

  "That is what I call an excellent soporific," Prance said, covering his yawn with his fingers.

  "That as well," said Coffen, who knew very few polysyllables.

  "I'm home to bed."

  "Are you on for the Dauntry's party tomorrow night?" Coffen asked as they stood awaiting their carriages. Lady deCoventry had come with Luten. As Prance wanted to arrive late and make a grand entrance to show off his new jacket, Coffen had come alone.

  "I may drop in late, after midnight," he said mysteriously.

  "Then I'll tag along with Corinne and Luten." Coffen narrowed his eyes and asked, "What are you acting so mysterious about, Reg? You usually boast your head off when you're doing something with Byron."

  "Who said I was doing something with Byron?"

  "Your smug face says it. Daresay it has to do with women. Or scribbling. Well, I'm off. I've spotted my rig at the far corner." He waved and ambled off.

  It was too much to expect his coachman would actually meet him at the door. Indeed it was little short of a miracle that Fitz had got this close to the theatre. He had no notion of direction, and very little of driving. In common with the rest or Coffen's servants, he was ill-suited to his job.

  * * * *

  As Luten and Corinne drove home, he asked nonchalantly, "Did Prance happen to mention what he's up to with Byron?"

  "Not a word, and I wouldn't satisfy him to ask, but that gloating expression tells me he's up to something. Perhaps he told Coffen."

  "As long as he's not planning to draw you into his doings with Childe Byron, I don't really care," he said, reaching for her. A pulse beat in her white throat as she was drawn into his arms. Then all was silent in the coach.

  * * * *

  Prance spent the next morning studying his Italian grammar and checking to see that his pistol was in firing order. In the afternoon, he spoke to his valet, Villier, about the important matter of a costume for the night's endeavour. They were agreed on black, but had to work out the details.

  It was while they were discussing the eligibility of wearing a black cravat that Lord Byron arrived, causing Prance to bolt headlong downstairs, where Byron stood at the drawing room window, studying a set of coloured crystal vases arranged to cast a rainbow on the opposite wall when the sun struck them.

  "Prance, you won't believe it," he said, limping quickly forward. Prance stared, wondering what on earth could have astonished this man, who had seen pretty well everything the earth had to offer, and not blinked an eye.

  "Tell me," he said.

  "The demmed fool lady has gone and paid the money."

  "What? But it wasn't to happen until tonight."

  "I had a note from her just half an hour ago. She said there was no need for us to do anything further as she had paid up last night and recovered her letters."

  "What can have happened to change the time? And why didn't she call us?"

  "She did send a note around to my place last evening asking me to call, but giving no idea it was urgent. I was out and didn't return until two-thirty. I planned to call this morning, then I received a second note. You didn't hear from her?

  "Not a word! Don't you think we should call on her?"

  "I bloody well intend to demand an explanation. Damme, I spent an hour practising with my pistols at Manton's shooting parlour yesterday, and destroying my ear drums into the bargain. I was looking forward to the meeting tonight. London is so demmed dull."

  Dull was hardly the word Prance would have chosen to describe this legend's life, but then Prance had never trod on foreign shores. It was the regret of his life that he had been deprived of the Grand Tour due to various wars. Yet Byron had not let mere wars deter him from travel.

  "Dull as dish water," he agreed. Dull as that metaphor. What would Byron think of him?

  "Then let us be off. I have my carriage outside. The esposo should be at the Foreign Office by now.

  Many lords and ladies sprinkled their conversation with a dash of French. Leave it to Byron to come up with a new spice.

  Prance, who usually preened before his mirror for half an hour before allowing the world to see him, put on his curled beaver, picked up his malacca walking stick with the silver knob, his York tan gloves and was off with no more than a passing glance in the mirror.

  They found a distraught Lady Jergen alone in her parlour, stroking a white cat which rested on her knee. She was not weeping but sat gazing sadly into the grate.

  "Ah, Byron," she said, but with no sign of joy. She acknowledged Prance with a wistful nod. "Do have a seat. You are wondering about those notes I sent you, Byron."

  "I was out
last evening when your first note arrived. What happened?

  "I had another note from the Bee last evening, just as Jergen and I were leaving the house. We were to dine with the Liverpools. The note said the time had been changed. Due to what he called ‘unforeseen circumstance.’ I had to give him the money last night. You may imagine Jergen's mood when I couldn't accompany him to the Prime Minister's dinner party. Fortunately I had a thundering headache by that time and hardly had to act at all. All the details of the hour and place of the meeting were the same. I had to do it, Byron. He had Snow Flake!"

  She lifted the white cat in her arms, rubbed her nose against its ears and said in baby talk, "I couldn't let him kill my precious. No, I couldn't. Mommy loves her baby."

  The cat emitted an angry meow as it reached out and scratched at her face. "Naughty kitty," she said and returned it to her lap to resume petting it.

  Prance had been admiring the dainty collar around its neck. Pink kid leather decorated with what he assumed were strass glass "jewels" but might possibly be real diamonds. The woman was mad.

  Byron, that famous animal-lover, glowered in anger. "He threatened to harm the cat?"

  "To kill her!" she said. "And he certainly would have done it for he killed Queen Mab."

  That was when we decided that she was, literally, insane. Queen Mab was a creature of fiction, variously represented as the fairies' midwife in Shakespeare and queen of the fairies in Drayton's Oberon. Byron, as usual, was a step ahead of him in finding some sense in her ramblings.

  "Whose cat was Queen Mab?" he asked.

  "Queen Mab was not a cat, Byron," she chided, shaking her curls at his stupidity. "She was Lady Callwood's sweet little French poodle, white like my Snow Flake. Only three years old. So young to die." Her ringed fingers tightened protectively around Snow Flake, who growled at her.