Murder Is Come Again Page 6

  When they heard the front door close, Luten said, “I’ve had a word with Evans. I assume this visit had to do with Mrs. Filmore. How did he know so soon that you knew her, Coffen?”

  “Her brother reported her missing, said she was out with me last night and didn’t come home. He said she didn’t want to go with me and was afraid of me. I’ve no idea what he was talking about.”

  “She practically shanghaied him,” Black snorted. He and Corinne gave more details of Brown’s visit. Prance came in for his share of foul looks for his part in the debacle.

  When Luten had been fully informed, he said, “That settles it. We can’t let her body be found in your house, Coffen. Things were just as you and Black left them. No sign of the bonnet or reticule. I searched thoroughly. We’ll have to move the body before this brother leads Brown to Nile Street.” Far from expressing surprise at this outlandish idea, the others nodded their approval.

  “Where can we put her?” Corinne asked.

  “I wish I knew where Scraggs lives and I’d put her at his door,” Luten scowled.

  Black said, “She’s not the sort of woman a brother would set the constable looking for if she didn’t turn up after one night. The landlady said she was often away overnight.”

  “Do we know where Scraggs lives?” Luten asked.

  “No. We ought to have asked Brown,” Black said. “He caught us off guard.”

  “We’ll have to find Scraggs and scare the truth out of him. We’ll wait till dark to move her. We’ll need all available men. Are you on, Prance?”

  “I had planned — but of course I’m on.” Why had Luten picked on him as the one who might not be eager to help? Not that he was at all eager. This was a disgracefully low case for the Berkeley Brigade. At least they weren’t going until after dark. No one would see them. “What time shall we meet, and where?”

  “Here, after dark,” Luten said, “and I hope to God Scraggs hasn’t led the police to Nile Street before then. And Black, do you think –”

  No one had to tell Black what needed doing. “That gives me time for a word with Catchpole,” he said. “He might know where Scraggs is to be found. And if he don’t, I’ll run along and have a word with Mother Empey, her that runs the rooming house where Mary stayed.”

  “That would be helpful, Black,” Luten said. “Come right back and let us know. We’ll go after Scraggs and hold on to him till we’ve moved Mary, if you can find out where he lives.”

  Black, on nettles to help Mr. Pattle, rushed off immediately. The crowd had not yet gathered at the tavern when he arrived. A few lethargic drunks sat around, nodding over their pints. Catchpole greeted his friend warmly. “Mr. Smith,” he said, pouring a drink without being asked and sliding it across the counter. “No one’s been asking after you yet.”

  “Glad to hear it. I have a question for you, Catchpole.” To secure an answer he added a generous pourboire to the price of his ale. “Scraggs. Where would I find Willie Scraggs?”

  “If he was in town, you’d find him in room three above, but his crew’s gone out an hour ago.”

  “Gone where? What’s his line of work then?”

  Catchpole looked around to see no one was listening and said, “He’s one of the Gentlemen. Is that your line of business as well, Mr. Smith?”

  “No, it’s a different matter entirely. Any idea when he’ll be back?”

  “Not for a day or so. His crew goes all the way. To France,” he added, when Black looked confused. “Not all the trade comes to us, Mr. Smith. Some of the Gentlemen cross the water to pick it up.”

  “I see. Thank you, Catchpole. I’ll speak to him when he gets back.” Black hurried back to Marine Parade to relay the news. “At least he won’t be running to the constable before we have time to move Mary,” he said.

  “And we know where to find him when he returns,” Luten added, with a scowl that boded ill for Willie Scraggs. “Good work, Black.”

  Chapter Ten

  “So where do we take Mary’s body?” Coffen asked, looking around for a suggestion. “We can’t leave her at the tavern. We’d never get the body up to her brother’s room. I don’t want to put her there, or in that wretched hovel where she lived either.”

  Corinne always had a soft spot for unfortunate women. Luten’s mercy extended to all the poor and disenfranchised, but Corinne felt a particular sympathy for the women. She remembered those desperate, despairing days when she had learned she had to marry deCoventry or the family would lose their home. She had thought of running away, and what would have become of her if she had? Mary certainly seemed to have been unscrupulous, but perhaps she had tried to live a better life. There were so few opportunities for women to better themselves and so many pitfalls in their way. Who was she to judge? If she was pretty besides, men would always be pestering her, trying to take advantage of her.

  She said, “No, we certainly can’t put her in either of those places.” When Luten turned to speak to her she added, “And don’t suggest bringing her here, Luten, for there are limits after all. Your career would be in tatters if she were found here.”

  Luten looked around to his team to cover his gene. “Does anyone have an idea?” he asked. “The beach, perhaps?”

  Prance said with a waft of his hand, “Why not put her in the cemetery, where a corpse belongs?”

  “You mean bury her?” Coffen asked, interested. “We’d have to get hold of a coffin. Brown might hear of it. Bound to make him suspicious.”

  After a moment while they all considered it, he said, “No, I want the police to find her, and find out who killed her. And the sooner the better, before the trail grows cold.”

  “I didn’t mean bury her, actually. Just lay her out on the ground. We could wrap her decently in a shroud and say a prayer over her. Put some flowers too, if you like. Someone’s bound to notice her within a few hours.”

  Coffen thought it over. He didn’t like it — animals could get at her, but time was short, and he couldn’t think of a better plan.

  “An excellent idea!” Corinne said. “Well, good enough,” she added as Coffen’s concern occurred to her as well.

  Luten agreed. “We have to move her very soon. It will certainly occur to Brown to search Coffen’s house before long. He wouldn’t dare to break in. He’ll try Weir for a key.”

  “He’ll not get one,” Black said with satisfaction. “We changed the locks.”

  “Good. We’ll do it after dark.”

  Prance said, “Then we’ll meet back here after sunset. I shall bring a shroud for Mary. I always travel with my own linen. I’ll donate a sheet — the finest linen, and some flowers. I’ll just dash off and see to the flowers now.”

  “That’s good of you, Reg,” Coffen said. Reg could be hard to take at times, but there was a kind streak mixed up in all his spite and showing off as well.

  “Pas du tout,” Prance said, rising to leave.

  He went to the hotel and informed Villier of the situation. Villier and Prance were as close as inkleweavers. Villier was party to all Prance’s doings. “We’ll want flowers and linen for Mary’s shroud. The bottom sheet only. I don’t want the top sheet with my family crest on it to be found wrapped around a corpse.”

  “Not that corpse, certainly,” Villier said with a sniff. “What sort of flowers does one buy for a woman of that sort? Something gaudy, I assume?”

  “I was pondering that myself,” Prance replied. “Bearing in mind that Coffen fancied himself half in love with the trollop, don’t make it too common. Something big and white would do.”

  “Showy, but not too expensive.”

  “Exactly. I never have to explain things to you.” Prance smiled.

  When Villier returned with an enormous bouquet of various white flowers and a few yellow roses he said, “Yellow roses mean goodbye. I thought them appropriate. The hag selling them let me have them for an old song if I took the lot. Wanted to get home to her cup of tea, I expect.”

  “Excellent, as usual
, Villier,” said Prance, and stuck his nose into the bouquet for a smell. “Better put them in water for the nonce,” he said, when his head emerged from the bouquet.

  * * *

  Daylight lingered late at the tail end of May. It was after nine when Prance drove to Marine Parade with the shroud and bouquet. Black and Coffen were already there dressed in rough clothes.

  “Where did you get the duds?” Prance asked, staring at their outmoded coats and boots out at the toe. “I didn’t realize we were to wear disguises.”

  “Black got them at some shop in the Lanes that sells old clothes and chipped dishes and dented pots and things,” Coffen said. “It’s in case there’s some sort of guard at the cemetery. We’ll let on we’re drunk and lure him away while you and Luten lay Mary out. What do you think, will we pass as roughians?”

  “I wouldn’t want to meet you in a back alley. I hope they’re not full of bugs.”

  “No, Black checked for that. He wouldn’t take any with bedbugs.”

  Corinne looked alarmed. “Are you sure, Black?”

  “Very sure, milady. I know a bedbug to see it. I checked their hiding places, seams and hems is where they lurk. I wouldn’t bring that affliction down on you.”

  Prance stared. “You are a veritable encyclopedia, Black,” he said. “Dare one ask where you come by such knowledge?”

  “He wasn’t born with a silver knife in his tongue like you,” Coffen said sharply.

  “You mean, perhaps, silver spoon in his mouth.”

  “Not even silver-plated,” Black said, with a fine air of nonchalance, which he found the best way of dealing with Sir Reginald.

  The uncomfortable moment passed and they talked until darkness had settled in, then Luten said, “Let us get Mary moved before Brown gets into the house. Is your carriage out front, Reg?”

  “No, but Pelkey is standing by outside. I asked him to come back.”

  “We’d best take your rig, then. My crest might be recognized, and Coffen’s curricle is obviously not big enough. It would take Fitz an age to get here with his carriage. You must let Pelkey know this is strictly confidential.”

  “My servants are completely trustworthy,” Prance assured him. He sent Pelkey off for his carriage. Prance had bought an expensive but anonymous black carriage during his spy phase. He disliked the thought of using it as a hearse, but he wasn’t entirely happy with the anonymous nature of the rig in any case and had been thinking of changing it for something more dashing. Something that would befit a highwayman when he was not mounted on his Arab gelding, robbing the rich and wooing an as yet unnamed heroine in distress.

  Corinne usually insisted on taking part in such excursions as this. To Luten’s surprise she said that as space in the carriage was limited, she didn’t mind passing up this one. She had seen enough corpses. The ghastly images haunted her for days afterwards.

  The removal of Mary’s corpse went smoothly. As her body was still as they had left it that afternoon, they assumed Brown had not found it. They removed the bloodied pillowcase and sheet and bundled them up to remove for burning. They wrapped her in the linen sheet and carried her, Black holding her legs, Coffen her head, through the darkness to the waiting carriage. Raucous voices were already issuing from the Brithelmston Tavern, but no one came out. The body was placed on one banquette with Coffen holding the head, the other three gentlemen crowded together on the other side, Prance holding the flowers.

  They met a few carriages and mounted riders on the drive out the busy Dyke Road. When they turned in at the cemetery the crescent moon, the weeping yews etched in black against the silver sky, the tombstones, pale in the moonlight, and the wind soughing through the trees lent an eerie air of menace to the place. No guard was to be seen.

  Coffen was allowed to choose her resting-place. He thought she would like to be near the road, as she liked the scene of action, but common sense told him they might be spotted from the road and he chose a flat tombstone farther in. After Prance arranged the flowers artfully on her breast, Coffen reminded them they were to perform a burial service.

  This sort of thing was a job for Prance, who always enjoyed performing and was seldom at a loss for words. He hadn’t brought the Book of Common Prayer with him on this holiday but ad libbed a creditable substitution of the service. Then Coffen plucked off one white lily and they hastened back to the carriage.

  They returned to Marine Parade where Luten asked Mrs. Partridge to dispose of the soiled linen from Nile Street. When Luten left the kitchen, she said to Partridge, “I’ll try to bleach the blood out. If it stains, I’ll use the material for rags. You can never have too many rags. Where do you figure these came from, Partridge?”

  “I don’t figure they’ve been slaughtering a cow or pig.”

  “It’ll be Brigade business,” she said, satisfied with this vague conclusion.

  Abovestairs, the Berkeley Brigade discussed plans for finding Mary’s killer. As was the custom, Evans had served food and drink. Coffen, Corinne noticed, was not enjoying his usual hearty appetite, but kept fondling a wilted lily, until she passed him the gingerbread, at which time he set the flower aside and took up his fork. She was ravenously hungry herself, and ate heartily. The sea air was giving her a strong appetite.

  “Till we can get hold of Scraggs, we’ll work on Flora and her beau,” Luten said. “You mentioned having a word with Weir, Black, to see if you can get a line on what sort of treasure Bolger might have concealed in the house.”

  “I’ll ask if Flora’s mother ever worked for him as well,” Black said.

  “How about Mrs. Beazely?” Corinne asked. “She might know something as she worked in the house until Bolger’s death.”

  “Weir will know where I can get hold of her,” Black said.

  Luten sat, frowning, then said, “Interesting that Scraggs lives at the Brithelmston Tavern, and this Mad Jack fellow disappears there as well. It seems to be a centre for crime — and it’s within a stone’s throw of Coffen’s house. I wonder if there’s any connection between Scraggs and Mad Jack, and indirectly, Mary Scraggs and Mad Jack.”

  Black said. “Are you thinking Bolger’s treasure might be Mad Jack’s loot, or part of it?”

  “I hardly know what I’m thinking,” Luten admitted, “but it’s a coincidence.”

  “Then there’s bound to be something in it,” said Coffen, who had the greatest mistrust of coincidences when it came to crime. “If that’s the way it is, then Bolger would have known who this Mad Jack fellow is.”

  “It can’t do any harm to get a line on him,” Luten said, lifting an eyebrow in Black’s direction.

  “I’ll try,” Black said, “but the whole world seems blind and deaf and dumb when it comes to Mad Jack.”

  “Try money,” was Coffen’s advice. “I’ll provide it.”

  “He sounds a dangerous fellow,” Corinne cautioned. “Let us see what we can learn from Weir and Mrs. Beazely first.”

  This was agreed, and it was arranged that Luten would accompany Black and Coffen when they called on Weir in the morning. He wanted to meet this Weir. It had occurred to him that Weir might know a good many things. He saw more of Bolger than anyone else did, and lived at the Brithelmston. He might have an idea at least who this Mad Jack was. He might even be the connecting link between the two.

  As often happened with them, the execution of their plan was delayed due to a more frightening occurrence in the morning.

  Chapter Eleven

  Over breakfast the next morning the Lutens were discussing the plans they had made the night before when once again they were interrupted by bad news. A pale-faced Black didn’t wait to be announced but came barging into the breakfast parlour, puffing like a grampus from the fast pace he had set to bring the news.

  “What is it, Black?” Corinne asked in alarm.

  He fell on to a chair. “Mr. Pattle’s in clink,” he gasped out, reverting in his distress to the language of former days.

  “What, arrested?
” Luten demanded. “What the devil for?”

  “For murdering Mary Scraggs. Her body was found right enough. A rat catcher was taking a short cut through the cemetery at dawn and found her, just as we left her, except I believe the flowers were gone or Brown would have mentioned them. Likely the rat catcher took them and sold them.”

  “But why blame Coffen?” Corinne asked.

  Black, in his distress, couldn’t sit still. He rose and paced back and forth, wringing his hands. “An anonymous note, according to Brown. It’s the work of whoever’s after the treasure, depend on it.”

  “What was in the note? What evidence do they have?” Luten asked.

  “Whoever killed Mary prigged her bonnet and purse and planted them in Mr. Pattle’s curricle. The ten pounds were missing, not that it matters now, but it proves to my satisfaction that the tip came from whoever was at his house the night she was murdered, and murdered her.”

  “It certainly looks that way,” Corinne agreed.

  “Now we know why the reticule and bonnet were missing,” Luten said. “They took them on purpose to point the finger at Coffen. Whatever is hidden in that house must be worth a great deal, to go to so much trouble.”

  “Aye, there’s rum quids in it for someone,” Black said.

  Corinne turned a trusting eye on her husband. “Can’t you do something, Luten?”

  Luten squared his jaw, tossed aside his napkin as he rose from the table and said grimly, “The first thing to do is go down to the gaol and get him out.”

  “You’d best take a lawyer with you,” said Black, the expert in matters criminal. “They’re strict when the charge is murder. Do you know a lawyer in town?”

  “Deveril’s the man for this. I don’t know him but I know of him. I’ll pick him up on the way.”

  “Can I go with you, Luten?” Black asked. “I can’t just sit idle and do nothing while Mr. Pattle’s in gaol.”

  Corinne could see Luten’s reluctance and soon figured out the cause of it. Black, despite his best efforts, still had the air of the criminal about him. His presence wouldn’t do Coffen any good.