Murder Is Come Again Read online

  “I can’t afford to lose more than a monkey.”

  “Try Charley’s place, out the Dyke Road. Just beyond the cemetery, on the left. A half-timbered place, leans to the left. He keeps a red light in the front window.”

  “Will I be let in?”

  “Tell him Catchpole sent you, Mr... ?”

  “Smith,” Black said. Catchpole smiled and nodded, recognizing the proper answer.

  “If you’re alone in town and after a bit of the other, there’s Nel’s place.” Over three or four pints, Black learned that the Dyke Road was where you went for a good time, or to meet the class of people he was interested in. Black was enjoying himself and finding the man such a gold mine of information that he needn’t go farther to learn what he wanted to know. Catchpole seemed happy to have someone he could have a reasonable conversation with. Black held up his end by informing Catchpole where to find similar amenities in London, should he ever find himself there. Their talk was interrupted from time to time for Catchpole to break up a fight and in a few cases eject unruly customers.

  “Who’s the embalmed old gent in the corner?” Black asked. It lingered in his mind that Weir might have diddled Mr. Pattle in the matter of renting out the house on Nile Street.

  “That’s Mr. Weir, my best customer,” Catchpole replied. “An out-of-work lawyer that lives abovestairs. Not much harm in him, or much good.”

  The evening sped by, as it does when you’re having a pleasant time, and when Black drew out his old turnip watch, he was surprised to see it was after midnight. “I’d best be toddling along,” he said. No sooner were the words uttered than the front door flew open. A sudden hush fell over the room. In his astonishment he thought his speech had caused the hush, until he saw a masked figure dressed all in black flashing across the tavern, making for a door. When he threw the door open, Black saw it led to the kitchen.

  Catchpole, like the others, was riveted to the spot in silence, his whole posture alert. The front door burst open again and a man in a blue jacket barged in. “Where is he?” he demanded. “Don’t say he’s not here! I saw him come in.” He pulled the nearest customer up by the coat collar and demanded, “Where did he go? Which way?”

  “Who?” the victim asked, his face the picture of innocence.

  “Mad Jack, that’s who!” The man shrugged. The newcomer looked all around. “Any of you — where did he go?” He was answered by blank stares. “Catchpole — you stay here. Lock the door and don’t let anyone out. I’m searching the place.”

  “Certainly, constable,” Catchpole replied with mock meekness, “though I can’t imagine you’ll find him, for I’ll swear an affeydavey he never come in here.” He went and locked the front door while the Revenueman hastened to the kitchen. After a few scuffling sounds he was heard running upstairs to search the few bedrooms. Then he returned, read them all a stiff lecture about the dire consequences of aiding and abetting criminals. His departure was marred by having to struggle with the locked door as he left. Once he was gone, bedlam broke out louder than before.

  “The next pint is on the house, boys,” Catchpole called, to reward them for their temporary blindness. Those who could still walk surged to the bar.

  “What was that all about?” Black asked, when the bedlam had settled down.

  “That was Mr. Ellis, the second most incompetent constable in England.”

  “No, but the masked fellow in black.”

  “Oh that’s a great mystery, Mr. Smith. We have a ghost highwayman hereabouts, called Mad Jack. He can disappear at will.”

  “Out the back door?”

  “That’s part of the mystery. There is no back door. It fell off years ago and the opening was bricked up.”

  “Does this disappearing act usually occur here, at your tavern?”

  “Right under our noses, according to the constable! Comes in and vanishes into thin air.”

  Black gave an appreciative chuckle. “That’s quite a stunt. How does he work it?”

  Catchpole just smiled. “That’s the mystery of it. We don’t know. No one knows. He just vanishes — if he’s ever here at all, that is. As I said, I’ve never seen him.”

  “Why do they call him mad?”

  “It seems he has a fearful temper. A stranger here one night told the Revenueman he’d seen him, and was beat up some awful when he left. Most of what we know about him we get from his victims. One of them, it seems, was carrying a pair of swords and challenged Mad Jack to a duel. Guess who won? Even the victim admitted he was a wonder, fought like a man possessed. You don’t want to cross a fellow like that. If you should ever happen to see him, I mean. Myself, I never have.” He picked up a dirty rag and swiped it across the dirty counter.

  “Well,” Black said, laughing, “you’ve got the better of me there, Catchpole. I’ve never seen the likes of that in London.” He frowned, then said, “Is his mount a ghost as well? A highwayman don’t work on foot. What happens to his mount?”

  Catchpole just shrugged. “It must be a ghost. It vanishes as well. It’s an odd thing. It is.”

  “Does it happen often?”

  “No, not often. About once a month. You were just lucky to be here tonight.”

  “I’m half afraid to leave,” Black said. “He won’t kill me if I try to leave, will he?”

  “You didn’t tell the Constable you saw him. You should be safe. Come back, Mr. Smith. It’s been a pleasure talking to a fellow who can hold his pint.”

  “I will, and if any nosy Parker from London should come asking after me, you haven’t seen me. I’m a ghost, like Mad Jack.” With a nod and a wink, Black left, wondering about Mad Jack’s disappearing act and Catchpole’s part in it. He must be well paid to hand out free drinks to that crowd for keeping quiet.

  Black stopped for a look at Mr. Pattle’s house. It was all in darkness. He tried the door, it was still locked. Then he returned to the tavern, making a tour of the rear to see how Mad Jack had escaped. As Catchpole said, the back door was bricked in. The fellow must have gone upstairs and out a window. None of the windows were open now. Someone could have gone up and closed them, but surely not before the constable got there? Of course the tavern was ancient. They had priests’ holes and such things in some of the older buildings.

  A ramshackle stable stood behind the inn. Black walked along to it and peered in at the open door. One mount, a white one, was there. The only wheeled vehicle was a dogcart. No stable boy was in attendance. Pondering the mystery, he returned to the Royal Crescent, which did have a back door, and went upstairs. He tapped at Mr. Pattle’s door but there was no answer. Raven stuck his nose out his door and said, “He’s not back yet, Black. Why are you rigged up like a villain?”

  Black did not deign to reply. “Are my night clothes laid out?”

  “Certainly they are. Will you need my assistance?”

  “Not tonight.” He was just as glad Mr. Pattle wasn’t back yet. He wanted to think over what had happened.

  Chapter Five

  Black took breakfast with Prance and Coffen at the hotel the next morning and regaled them with the story of Mad Jack. Prance listened with keen interest to the tale of a ghost highwayman. Such a cunning rascal caught his fancy. He needed a new hero for his next novel. But a highwayman-hero? Would his public accept it? He’d have to be given a sympathetic background, and of course be a Robin Hood type highwayman, robbing from the rich to give to the poor. He would also require a lady love, his female fans expected it. The engraving business was proving such hard, messy labour that he had decided to just do the drawings and let a professional do the brute work. Perhaps Murray would handle that end of it. He published other books with illustrations.

  “I would like to go with you next time, Black, and see this wonder for myself,” he said.

  Black knew better than to take this dandy to the Brithelmston and was happy to inform him, “It may not be for another month. Mad Jack doesn’t hold up a coach every night.”

  “Pity. If you f
ind out how he works it, do let me know.”

  “Sounds like a ghost to me,” Coffen said, and lit into his gammon and eggs.

  “Ghosts are a figment of the imagination,” Prance informed him.

  “You told me I don’t have any imagination,” Coffen said.

  “It seems I was mistaken.”

  “You admit it’s a ghost then,” Coffen said, satisfied that he’d won that argument, and spoke on before Prance could quibble. He was a very persistent quibbler. “You haven’t forgotten we’re showing the house to that Mrs. Filmore today, Black?” he said.

  “Three-thirty this afternoon. I’ll be there. Will you be exercizing the grays this morning?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Let us take a spin out the Dyke Road,” Black said, thinking to locate the various dives he had heard of last night.

  Prance said, “If you plan to jeopardize the traffic on Dyke Road, then I shall see what delights the shops have on offer.”

  Coffen was finding the team harder to handle than he had imagined, and after driving for less than an hour he was so fagged he had to hand the reins to Black for the return trip. Black was happy with the drive. He had located the various places Catchpole had recommended. When they returned, they found the hotel had no more letters from parties interested in purchasing Coffen’s house.

  Prance found a book store that pleased him, bought a copy of Hogarth’s engravings of The Rake’s Progress and settled in at a coffee shop to study them for ideas for his own sketches. Luten and Corinne spent a leisurely morning leaving cards at various houses and visiting the friends who were already in town.

  At three-thirty Black and Coffen were at the house on Nile Street to meet the potential buyer. Mrs. Filmore was just the sort of woman Coffen liked. Pretty, with blond curls and blue eyes, her bonnet festooned with flowers and bows, like her elaborate gown. He liked his steaks and women well-marbled, and Mrs. Filmore fulfilled that requirement as well. Coffen had no success with ladies, but was a great favourite with working women - maids, seamstresses, and especially actresses. She came mincing forward with a smile.

  “I’m Mrs. Filmore, here about buying your house,” she said. Her low décolletage made no secret of her female charms when she made a deep curtsey. Black feared her charms would escape her gown entirely.

  Coffen leapt to his feet and made a bow. “Mr. Pattle, at your service, madam,” he said, with a foolish smile on his face.

  “Mind you, I don’t have a great deal of money,” she said, batting her big blue eyes at him. “An officer’s half pay doesn’t go far when you have two kiddies to raise all by yourself.”

  “Ah, you lost your man in the war,” Coffen said with a tsk of sympathy, which did not deter him from realizing she was presently unattached.

  “Shot in the heart,” she said with a doleful sigh. Then she began sashaying about the room with Coffen at her heels, admiring the swinging of her rump and the powerful wafting of some floral perfume in her wake.

  Black stepped up beside her. “This is hardly a suitable house for kiddies,” he said. “You’ll have noticed the tavern next door.”

  She tried batting her eyes at him. “A lady in my position can’t be too particular, Mr... “

  “This is Black, my –” Coffen came to a halt, hardly knowing what to call him.

  “I’m Mr. Pattle’s factotum,” Black said, having heard the word from Prance.

  “Ah, one of them,” she said with a wise nod, and turned back to Coffen. “The price is firm, is it? I wonder now, could you take a wee mortgage? Or rent the place?”

  “Mr. Pattle’s eager to sell outright,” Black said.

  Coffen glared at him, then turned a kinder face to Mrs. Filmore. “Why don’t we go somewhere and discuss it over tea, Mrs. Filmore? I’m sure we could come to terms.”

  “Just the two of us. That sounds grand, Mr. Pattle. I could just do with a nice cuppa.” She gave a bold toss of her curls in Black’s direction and led Coffen out.

  Black was not a Bible-reader, but the phrase lamb to the slaughter flashed into his mind. “I’ll walk home then, will I?” he called to Coffen’s retreating back.

  “Suit yourself, Black,” Coffen said over his shoulder.

  Black hired a hackney to Marine Parade and called on his former employer, Lady Luten. She sat in the garden, reading under the linden tree.

  His heart lurched at the sight of her, so pretty in this little bower, with the shadow of leaves in sunlight dappling her face. He’d been in love with her for years, without ever betraying it by so much as a wayward leer. In his dreams, he was her very dearest friend and unofficial guardian, Lord Blackmore.

  “Any luck with the house?” she asked, indicating a seat beside her.

  “I fear we’re in trouble, milady,” he said. “A wretched female has walked off with Mr. Pattle.” He proceeded to empty his budget.

  “She doesn’t sound so bad, an officer’s widow with two children,” Corinne said.

  “You didn’t see her. A regular trollop. The only officer that one knows is a Bow Street Officer, or my name’s not Black. And she’ll end up getting more than the house out of him too. He’s too soft. You know how he let his servants bilk him for years, and he didn’t even like them. Besotted, milady. That’s how he looked. She’ll have easy work bleeding him.”

  “Oh dear. What should we do, Black? Would you have any acquaintances in town who might know more about her?” She was always careful not to refer to his former associates as his friends.

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it. Now if we were in London I’d know someone who knew her, but Brighton’s not my miloo.” Since joining the Berkeley Brigade Black had been studying French to smarten himself up.

  “Bring him over to see me when he gets back. I’ll think of some excuse to see him. We’ll try to talk sense into him.”

  “Aye, best to nip this in the bud.”

  When Mr. Coffen had still not returned at nine o’clock that evening, Black went to call on the Lutens. They were enjoying a quiet evening at home, alone together. Luten’s political work left them little time for this luxury in London. Corinne had informed Luten what was afoot, however, and he greeted Black eagerly.

  “Where is he?” Corinne asked. “Where’s Coffen?”

  Black tossed up his hands. “I wish I knew! He never came back to the hotel.”

  Corinne’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh dear! What do you think has happened to him? She couldn’t have got married to him this quickly, could she?”

  “No, but she could have got him into some mess where he feels he has to marry her.”

  “She’s not exactly a deb,” Luten scoffed. “I don’t think her family will try to strong arm him into marrying her if they spent a night together at some inn.”

  “There’s other ways,” Black said, with a shake of his head. “Get him foxed, get him compromised, get some charlatan to write up a marriage certificate.”

  “Or Gretna Green!” Corinne exclaimed. “The idiot has taken her to Gretna Green, and in that curricle of his, there’s no hope of catching them.”

  “We couldn’t stop him if we did overtake him,” Luten said. “He’s of age, and not insane. Well, not legally.”

  “What should we do?” Black asked.

  “Go back to the hotel and wait,” Luten said. “There’s nothing else we can do. Let us know when he gets back.”

  “Yes,” Corinne added, “Whatever the hour, let us know.” She drew a deep sigh. “Oh dear, I was so looking forward to a nice peaceful holiday.”

  Luten patted her arm. “You know Pattle and his actresses. It’s just a fling. Meanwhile, Black, would you happen to know anyone ...”

  “Not offhand, not in Brighton, but I met a fellow last night who knows what’s what around here. I’ll see what I can find out about her. Not that Mr. Pattle will listen. Lord, just when things were going so well. I got that lot at his house all sorted out. You wouldn’t believe the way they were carrying on, Luten. More f
ood out the back door than ever graced the table. Robbing him blind.”

  “He can be so clever at clues and solving crimes,” Corinne said, “but when some woman smiles at him, his mind turns to jelly.”

  * * *

  Before retiring that night, Black was able to write her a note allaying her fears to some small extent. Coffen came back to the hotel around midnight, not married and not compromised. He had taken Mrs. Filmore for a drive along the coast, stopped for tea, returned to Brighton for a late dinner, gone for a walk along the beach, gone back to Nile Street to allow Mrs. Filmore, whom he now called Mary, to have another look at the house. They were to meet the next day for luncheon.

  He hadn’t signed the house over to her, but had agreed to rent it at a ridiculously low price. He had also learned that she claimed to come from London where her two children were left with their nurse. In Brighton she was putting up at the perfectly respectable Albemarle Hotel. A doctor had recommended sea air for her youngest, Tommy, which was why she wanted to remove to Brighton. Black, of course, didn’t believe a word of it. Coffen, on the other hand, wouldn’t hear a word against her.

  Chapter Six

  Lady Luten received a note from Black the next morning informing her that Coffen was planning to have the cottage overhauled for Mrs. Filmore, no doubt at some ridiculous cost, and would she please call on him to talk some sense into him. Corinne immediately showed the note to her husband and asked, “What the devil are we to do, Luten? If Black says she’s up to no good, you may be sure he knows what he’s talking about. He knows about people like her.”

  “The first step is to meet her ourselves, don’t you think? We’ll see what sort of person we have to deal with. Cash might be the best way to be rid of her.”

  “Buy her off, you mean?”

  “That must depend on her price, of course. I’d be willing to pay a few hundred to have a nice peaceful holiday as we planned.”

  “I’m going to call on him before he gets away from the hotel. I’ll ask him to bring her to tea this afternoon. I shan’t invite anyone else except Coffen and Black. Prance would only poke fun at her and annoy Coffen.”