To Mourn a Murder Read online

  "You mean the jackanapes has been holding other ladies besides yourself to ransom?" Prance demanded. The simple little case was growing before his very eyes. At this rate, he would have to call in Luten, who would read him a stiff lecture for the delay.

  "Only Mimi, to the best of my knowledge," she assured him. "I daresay it's possible there are others. It's not the sort of thing one cares to talk about in the usual way."

  "Who is Mimi, and how did she come to tell you about it?" Byron asked.

  "She is Lady Callwood, Byron. So pretty. You must know her, she goes everywhere. She called on me yesterday afternoon. I shouldn't mention it, but the fact is she wanted to borrow a little something to pay her modiste. A lovely new gown she has had made up, but then she always dresses so well. I had to confess I was a little short myself. And when she looked at me in that way–you know, as if I just didn't want to help her, then I'm afraid I began to cry, and she started crying too, and before you know it I had told her about my predicament.

  "And that's when she told me about Queen Mab. She had been stung by the Bee as well, but it seems he only got three thousand from her, which was fortunate as it was every penny she had in her own name."

  "Interesting," Prance said. "It seems the Bee knew in both cases what sum his victims could pay."

  "I never thought of that!" she said, gazing at him as if he were a genius. "But–surely that means it is someone who knows us. A close friend. One doesn't tell just anyone how much money she has."

  "One hesitates to use the word friend in this case, but an intimate acquaintance, certainly."

  "I call that shabby behaviour," she tsk'd.

  "I call it extortion," Byron said, his jaw firming in anger, like a Greek deity. "Tell us about last night, Adele. Anything you can remember about the hackney cab, the driver, and especially the man you gave the money to."

  "There's not much to tell," she said, setting the restless Snow Flake down. "It was just an ordinary hackney. Black, with a team of bays, I think it was. The driver never turned around. He wore one of those old hats that drivers always do wear, all dilapidated because of rain and so on."

  "And the man you gave the money to?"

  "He had Snow Flake in a dirty old bag!" was her reply to that. "I had to give her a bath when I got her home, and she didn't like it I can tell you. And hungry! The poor dear was starved. Of course the first thing I did was burn the letters from Mr. Brunei in the grate. I made sure they were all there, especially the one–the one I was particularly worried about. Poor Snow Flake. I shouldn't be surprised if he beat her. She seemed so very nervous."

  "What about the man in the hackney, Adele?" Byron asked, rather gently, for he approved of her concern for Snow Flake.

  "Oh I can't tell you anything about him." Byron and Prance exchanged a frustrated glance. "It was dark, you know, and he wore a mask and gloves and never said a word. He seemed rather small, somehow. He just reached out and took the money and gave me the letters and the bag with Snow Flake in it. I snatched the bag and my letters and ran home as fast as my poor legs could carry me, as soon as I peeked in the bag and made sure it was Snow Flake."

  "What kind of bag was it?" Prance asked. "Could we see it?"

  "I burned it with the letters. It was just a dirty old bag. There was nothing written on it."

  They pestered her with questions for some time but couldn't get another detail about the man other than that he was smallish. She couldn't even say for sure it wasn't a woman, although whoever it was wore a man's curled beaver hat and seemed mannish somehow.

  "How long had Snow Flake been missing?" Prance asked.

  "I hadn't seen her since the night before," she replied. "I said goodbye to her when Jergen and I left the house that evening. Hiram, my butler, always puts her out before she goes to bed. He usually lets her in but sometimes she goes to the back door, and when he couldn't find her, he assumed Cook had let her in. She does sometimes, but she hadn't that night. That must be when she was stolen.

  "I did wonder when she didn't come into my dressing room the next morning, for she likes to watch me make my toilette. Cook had complained about a mouse in the larder, however, and I thought that must be what Snow Flake was doing. She usually sits on the bed while I dress and if she doesn't like what I put on, she meows. She hates red, won't let me wear a very nice scarlet suit I had made up," she said with the proud air of a parent announcing her child could read and write while still in the cradle. The cat, bored with the conversation, walked stiff-legged from the room.

  The gentlemen abandoned the attempt to hold rational discourse with the lady and spoke to each other. "Do you still think it was someone from inside the house who took the letters?" Byron asked.

  "It was someone acquainted with the circumstances of both families. And their routines. He knew the cat would be let out. The neighbours would know that sort of thing," Prance said. But when he asked for the names of the neighbours, he could not believe that either an eminent Cabinet Minister, an elderly duke and duchess living in retirement or Lord Feldon, who owned an abbey, had sunk to stealing cats.

  Neither could they believe that servants were capable of such an ambitious project. "And in any case they wouldn't know with such accuracy the exact sum that two different ladies could pay," Byron pointed out.

  "Let us pay a visit to Lady Callwood," Prance said, when their hostess offered them coffee.

  "Yes, do," Lady Jergen said, "but don't tell her I told you about her, for I promised I wouldn't tell a soul."

  There seemed no point trying to show her the impossibility of honouring this request. "Does your nephew, Mr. Danby, know about your trouble?" Prance asked, as they rose to leave.

  "No, I would have borrowed the money from him if he had been in town, for we became good chums when he was staying with us."

  Prance's ears perked up at this. "When was this, Lady Jergen?"

  "Oh some little time ago." She again went into a recital of who had been married to whom and what social events had occurred before saying, "It must be two years ago, when he returned from India. He stayed here for a few weeks while he was looking about for a house, but in the end he hired rooms at Stephens's Hotel in Bond Street instead and said he will let his wife choose the house that suits her. When he marries, I mean. Not that he shows any sign of settling down. A bit of a womanizer, I fear. But as I was saying, I couldn't have borrowed the money from him for he was away in Surrey. And I wouldn't like to tell him about the letters in any case, for he is actually Jergen's nephew, not mine, and one never knows. He might have told Jergen. He only stayed a moment yesterday. He had left long before Lady Callwood arrived, so he wasn't privy to our weeping session."

  They got Lady Callwood's address on Duke Street and left. "Let us hope Lady Callwood is more informative than Lady Jergen," Prance said.

  "She could hardly be less so. And in any case, she's a demmed sight prettier. A regular dasher is Lady Callwood."

  The gentlemen exchanged an anticipatory smile as they went out to the carriage.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Although a known dasher, Lady Callwood was not in the habit of receiving gentlemen callers at such a farouche hour, especially when one of them wore a violet kerchief with yellow dots. But when the butler saw the magical name Lord Byron on the other person's card, his face thawed and he ushered them into the best drawing room, ordered coffee and sent a maid dashing upstairs to hasten her ladyship's toilette.

  Some quarter of an hour passed before the lady arrived. This left plenty of time for the callers to admire the splendours of an Adam's drawing room of exquisite proportions, two classical fireplaces in white marble, a medallioned ceiling and pelmetted windows, the whole of it transmogrified to near vulgarity by a superfluity of mismatching ornaments, gilt trim and furniture upholstered in patterned scarlet.

  "Strange," Byron drawled. "This reminds me of Ali Pasha's palace, yet it hasn't a single detail in common with it, other than a suffocating surfeit of
silk and gold and knick-knacks."

  While they waited for their hostess to arrive, Byron amused Prance with stories of Ali Pasha, one of the great and powerful rulers of the Ottoman empire and an alleged cannibal. He spoke of his visit at Tepaleen, Ali Pasha's country palace, and the lavish entertainment shown him while Prance listened as one in a trance.

  He was almost disappointed when he heard the soft tread of footsteps heralding Lady Callwood's entrance. Her appearance, however, did much to overcome his annoyance. She was a diamond of the first water. Prance judged her age to be at the latter end of the twenties. Time had removed any hint of innocence but had not yet made any small inroad on her beauty. She was a pocket Venus, and like Adam's room, perfectly proportioned.

  A halo of blond hair and a pair of lustrous blue eyes with lashes like fans brought to mind an angel. Not by Botticelli, but by Filippo Lippi who, by tradition, had used his mistresses as models. Or was that for the Virgin Mary? In any case, it was the whisper of wickedness in her full lips and saucy smile that gave rise to the thought.

  She had not taken time to make a full toilette, but wore a becoming boudoir gown of blue velvet. It was little more than a plain circle of material with holes cut for the arms and head, yet on her its sinuous folds seemed the epitome of elegance. Although it made no secret of her charms, the archbishop himself could find no impropriety in its actual construction. As one could see more of a lady's charm in a muslin gown, it was hard to see just what lent that delightful air of diablerie.

  She raised her shapely, marmoreal arms in welcome. "You must forgive my deshabille," she said in a warbling, throaty voice. "When I heard the great Lord Byron and Sir Reginald had come to call, I was too impatient to wait a single minute." She offered them each in turn her hand. Prance noticed that she had included him in her welcome, though he was not so optimistic as to think that "great" included him.

  "You will join me for coffee. I've just this minute arisen from my bed. I'm only half awake until I've had my coffee." She rubbed her eyes playfully. "I am awake, am I not? I'm not dreaming that you're calling on me?" Those sinful eyes positively fondled Byron. She remembered to bat her lashes at Prance as well.

  As Byron seemed too besotted to speak, Prance said, "I fear your pleasure may diminish when you hear why we've come, milady."

  She tilted her head and gave one of her saucy smiles. "Unless you've come with manacles and an order to haul me off to the Tower for beheading, I shan't complain, sir. But of course you've come to quiz me about the Bee."

  "I must compliment you on your frankness," said Prance, who was determined to compliment her on something and didn't feel he was on close enough terms yet to venture any praise of her person. Byron murmured his agreement.

  She batted the praise away. "You might as well tell the wind not to blow as to tell Adele to keep a secret. I felt, after I left her yesterday, that you might call."

  Apparently the coffee had already been brewed, for it appeared almost at once. She daintily poured and passed, took a sip, then set down her cup and said in a businesslike manner, "Now what is it you want to know, gentlemen?"

  "Anything you can tell us about the Bee," Byron said. "Start with what you saw when you made the payment. Lady Jergen was remarkably unobservant."

  She puckered her pretty forehead in concentration a moment to show them she was really trying, then said, "The hackney was a carriage that used to belong to Lord Horner. The coach drivers buy them when the noblemen are through with them. It had been painted black but I recognized it at once. I've been in it a dozen times when the Horners had it. It had the same fittings, the lights in front a little larger than most. I could even recognize the crest on the door under the fading paint."

  "That's wonderful!" Prance cried. "But did you keep your appointment by daylight?"

  "No, at midnight, at the corner of Portman and Oxford Streets. I took a lantern with me. The man in the carriage made me put it out as soon as he saw me. I jabbered like a frightened ninny until I got a good look at the rig. He was wearing a mask. Frightening," she said with a little shudder and a peep at Byron that gave Prance the notion she had rehearsed every word. "I couldn't see much of him, but I saw the lining of the carriage was blue velvet like Horner's. Oh and there was a little round hole on the seat, perhaps from a cheroot. Horner's had one in exactly the same place."

  "Could you tell us anything about the man?" Prance urged.

  "Very little, I'm afraid. Since he was seated, I don't know his height, but he had broad shoulders. He assumed a rough voice that I'm sure wasn't his usual voice."

  "He actually spoke, then," Prance said.

  "Only to order me to put out the lamp–twice. The second time he was getting nervous and used a different voice. Not rough like the first time. A gentleman's voice, I think. Brisk, you know, authoritative. He wore black leather gloves of the sort gentlemen wear. Oh and the kid slippers were definitely Hoby's work. Callwood has a pair exactly like them. Now that, to me, rules out servants. The slippers were like new, not castoffs."

  "How on earth did you see his slippers in a dark carriage?" Prance asked.

  "He stuck his foot out the door the second time he told me to put out my lantern. I was hoping he'd get out so I could see his size, but he didn't."

  "You're a marvel of observation!" Prance complimented.

  She smiled her pleasure. "I pay attention when someone robs me."

  Byron said, "I understand he asked you for three thousand."

  Her eyes narrowed in a knowing way. "Yes, that's interesting, n'est-ce pas? The exact sum I had of my own. It was left to me by an aunt of Callwood's last year. Of course my husband is rich, but a lady likes to have a little money she doesn't have to account for." She lifted her eyebrows and said with one of her wicked smiles, "Mad money. You know."

  On the evening Caroline Lamb first met Lord Byron, she had written in her diary, and later broadcast to the world, that he was "Mad, bad and dangerous to know." Prance intended to write the same words in his journal that night regarding Lady Callwood, and perhaps add "delightful."

  "Who would know about that sum?" Byron asked.

  "Not Callwood," she said, and laughed. "Adele knew, as I knew about her five thousand. I should never have told her. Her tongue runs like a river. But we ladies like to share our secrets. God only knows whom she might have told. For myself, I don't believe I ever told anyone else."

  "Tell us about Queen Mab," Prance said. "The manner in which she was snatched, I mean."

  An unshed tear dimmed her lustrous eye. When she spoke, her voice vibrated with a tremolo worthy of an Italian tenor, yet it sounded sincere. "That was unforgivable!" she said. "I shouldn't have minded so much losing the money, but Queen Mab was like a child to me. We have no children, my husband and I. Callwood has two daughters and a son by his first wife, but they're more like siblings to me. Marguerite is actually a few years older than I."

  She gave a bold toss of her head and said, "It was a marriage of convenience, but I didn't marry only for money. I like Callwood. He needed a hostess and I needed a home." She smiled at a large diamond on her left hand. "We rub along very well."

  "No one is questioning the propriety of your marriage," Byron said gently. "What we do have to ask, and I fear it will seem intrusive, is what hold the Bee had over you? Naturally we shall keep it entre nous."

  She gave a world-weary little tsk and sighed. "I suppose I must confess. It happened in my salad days when I was young and green. Well, younger and greener. Eight years ago, to be precise. You will be surprised to hear it was not billets doux. I grew up in Somerset, in a little town called Shepton, just on the edge of the Mendip Hills."

  "I thought I recognized that delightful Somerset drawl," Byron said, gazing at her with a curious half smile. Her answering smile, accompanied by drooping eyelids, Prance could only call lascivious.

  "My papa was an officer," she continued. "When he died, Mama remarried and I was de trop. I took a position as Lady Carter's personal
companion. The Carters were the local lords. A diamond brooch disappeared–" She stopped and shook her head. "No, I might as well tell the whole truth. After fighting it as long as I could, I became her husband's mistress.

  "It was boring in the country. He was monstrously handsome and a terrible rogue. I was always partial to the breed," she said, casting one of her come hither glances at Byron. "He gave me a diamond brooch, which I didn't realize belonged to his wife as she never wore it. I should have suspected when he asked me not to wear it in the village. Lady Carter had a safe full of jewelry she never bothered to put on. So odd! When she discovered the brooch was missing she had all the servants' rooms searched, and of course it was found in mine. I hadn't hidden it.

  "She laid a charge against me. I was arrested and put in jail. Carter was away on business. When he returned a few days later he straightened the matter out and gave me a few hundred pounds to leave the neighbourhood. It suited me. I was eager to get to London. I never felt I was born to be a provincial miss. He arranged matters satisfactorily with his wife, no doubt painting me as a vixen. I came to London to act as companion to a great aunt, Mrs. Stinson. It was while I was there that I met Callwood."

  Sure that she had her listeners' complete attention, she let them wait while she took a sip of coffee before continuing. "The brooch affair was a minor scandal in Shepton but unknown in London. You may be sure one of the cats would have made a remark if they knew. A week ago, I received in the mail a copy of the article that had appeared in the Shepton journal at the time, with a note ordering me to pay three thousand pounds if I didn't want Callwood to know. I simply ignored the note. I hoped it might draw the fellow out in the open and I could bargain with him. That night, Queen Mab was stolen when I put her out before going to bed." She stopped again, not to drink but to stare a moment into the grate with a sad, lost expression in her eyes.