Murder Is Come Again Read online

  “Mrs. Beazely a barmaid?” Weir asked. “Tee hee. Does the Prince live in a hut? No, never in the world. She considers tea strong drink.”

  “No, but I mean you mentioned she did for Mr. Bolger.”

  “That’s true. Been giving him a hand for years. A fine old lady, even if she is a Methodist and only dances on one leg. She went on cleaning for Mrs. Harrop for a decade after she couldn’t afford to pay and was too crippled to work. A real Christian.”

  “Would she have had a key to the house?”

  “That she would not,” Weir said firmly. “There was never but the one key made. Bolger changed the locks when he bought the place a quarter of a century ago. It was because of the nature of his business, you see. He didn’t want anyone getting in without his knowing.”

  “You seem very well informed as to Bolger’s business,” Luten said.

  “I was as close to being a friend as Cyrus had the last decade or so, us both being old bachelors. I handled his legal work for as long as he was here. Nothing serious, you know. His will, and a few charges for assault laid due to his hot temper. I arranged the purchase of the house for him. Over the years we shared a pint from time to time. A man needs someone to chat to. I miss him. Old Cyrus knew what was what. Not too nice as to probity, but we in the legal profession are used to that.” He gave another little tee hee. “We’d be out of business without it.”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Weir,” Luten said. “There’s just one more question. How did Mrs. Beazely get into the house to find Bolger’s body after his death if he kept the door locked? She had no key.”

  “Oho! You are awake on all suits! It happened thus, your lordship. When he didn’t answer to her knock, she became alarmed and came to me. She didn’t think he was out of town as he’d asked her to bring along some bread and milk for him that morning. I’d been with him the night before and he hadn’t said anything about leaving, so I went over to have a look. We pounded on the door, then got hold of a ladder and had a peek in the window and saw him spread out on the floor. I had to have a glazier come and break a window to get in. I had it replaced on the spot, of course. You’ll have seen the charge on that list I sent you, Mr. Pattle. The house was never in jeopardy.”

  “And you had the key, until Mr. Pattle came to claim his house?” Luten said.

  “I did. I knew where he kept it, in his workroom. It was never out of my hands, milord. I was in and out a few times in the way of business. Had the rug removed, as I said, and allowed Mrs. Beazely in to wash the dishes and tidy things up. I didn’t get the notion anyone had been in.”

  “Did you, perhaps, ever get the idea he might have been murdered?” Luten asked.

  Weir nodded, frowning. “I didn’t want to upset Mr. Pattle, but I admit the thought occurred, due to the nature of his business. I had Brown, the constable, in to look around. But with the door locked and the windows closed and with the tools there on the floor where he’d stumbled with the ladder, we decided it was an accident. I don’t know if I mentioned the ladder was on top of him, with a bit of blood on the corner. It stands to reason no one would use a ladder as a weapon.”

  “No, but if it was nearby he might have smeared blood on it and laid it on top of his corpse,” Black pointed out.

  “Well now, I daresay it’s not impossible. It didn’t occur to Mr. Brown or myself. Murder is not in my usual line of work.”

  Before leaving, Black had one more question. “I noticed a keg of brandy in the cellar. Did Bolger get his brandy from Scraggs?”

  “Certainly, we all do. This is his territory. Scraggs has a monopoly on retailing here in Brighton you might say.”

  “He’s the head man in the ring then?”

  “Devil a bit of it. Here’s the way of it. He’s a wonderful man with a cutter. All the smuggling crews were after him, but — let us call him Mr. X -- promised him the retailing in Brighton, and got him. Scraggs had learned the new rigging of cutters to let her sail in and out whatever the wind, weak or strong. Sails like a fish, they say.”

  Black, ever suspicious, said, “Bolger didn’t get that keg to the cellar by himself.”

  “No, it took two men. Scraggs would knock on the door and would help Bolger take it below. I happened to be there one night when Scraggs came.”

  “Was it Scraggs who was to sell the necklace in France?”

  “If it was to be sold in France, I imagine it would be him or the Gentleman we’re calling Mr. X,” Weir replied.

  “Does Mr. X have another name?”

  “If he does, I don’t know it, and don’t want to, and couldn’t tell you if I did. It would be more than my life’s worth to reveal it.”

  When Luten rose, the others did likewise. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Weir,” Luten said. Weir didn’t quite put out his hand, but he lifted his eyebrows and looked at him expectantly. “What do we owe you for this consultation?”

  “Whatever you think my help is worth, milord.” Luten handed him a guinea, which seemed perfectly satisfactory, and they left.

  “You come in our carriage, Coffen,” Corinne insisted, when they were outside. They all looked around to see if anyone was waiting to shoot him.

  “I’ll drive the curricle,” Black said. “Did you notice, Luten, Weir is pretty sharp for a fellow who drinks himself into a stupor every night?”

  “Yes, the drinking hasn’t fogged his brain at all. I notice he sticks to tea during the day. He’s given us plenty to think about.”

  “Including that Flora lied about her mother working for Bolger,” Corinne said. “We can forget Mrs. Beazely. She’s old, and anyone who works for a decade without pay certainly didn’t kill Mary or shoot at Coffen. That leaves us with Flora Snoad and Henry and Scraggs.”

  “I doubt Scraggs would murder his own sister, but he might very well be in on searching for the necklace,” Luten said. “He’s obviously a clever go-getter, to judge by his getting a monopoly on retailing the brandy here in Brighton.”

  “Let us get to Nile Street, before someone else decides to shoot me,” Coffen said. They hurried to the carriages and made it to Nile Street without incident.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They entered the house on Nile Street by the front door and, as if by pre-arrangement, all stood looking silently about the drawing room for inspiration. After a moment Luten said, “It’s interesting that Bolger was in this room, preparing to do some work that required a ladder and tools, when he took that fatal tumble. It’s possible he was going to get the necklace from its hiding place to work on.”

  “We aren’t sure he was going to take it apart, are we?” Prance asked.

  “Not necessarily take it apart, perhaps just tighten a clasp, or polish it up for selling.”

  “He wouldn’t need much in the way of tools for either of those jobs,” Prance pointed out. “A jeweler’s tools are so small he could put them in his pocket.”

  “Yes, I realize he wouldn’t wrench the diamonds out with a pair of pincers, but retrieving the necklace from its hiding place might require tools.”

  Black said, “That’s an idea. Weir thought he was about to tighten up the mirror over the fireplace. I wonder if there’s some hidey-hole there.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Corinne said, and they all rushed to the fireplace. The mirror above it, a small but fine one dating from the period of Queen Ann, was flanked on either side by cheap brass candlesticks. Luten reached up and jiggled the mirror.

  “It doesn’t seem to be loose,” he said. He carefully lifted the bottom edge, raised it to free it from the wire holding it in place and lifted it down. The wooden wall behind it, thick with dust and cobwebs that hadn’t been disturbed for years, was solid. There was no hiding place there. Luten returned the wire to its bracket, straightened the mirror and wiped the dust from his hands.

  “He wouldn’t have needed a ladder for that,” Corinne said. “A chair would do. It must be something else. Let us get the ladder and look behind those swags at the top o
f the window hangings, Luten.”

  They found the ladder that had caused Bolger’s death in the kitchen, pushed back against a wall. Bolger’s toolbox sat beside it. It contained the usual tools. There was no telling which ones he had tripped over. They took the ladder to each of the two drawing room windows facing the street and the two on the side wall. Luten climbed up, felt around behind the swags without finding anything but more dust and cobwebs. They all raised their eyes and looked around the decorative molding where wall met ceiling, but no hiding place suggested itself.

  Corinne said. “There’s nothing here. Let us get organized and search the whole house.”

  “We should begin with his work shop,” Luten said. They scattered to different areas.

  Within a minute Corinne’s shout called them to the kitchen. “I believe he did his work right here, at the kitchen table,” she said. “See, there’s this wooden box with tiny little tools in it and a loupe like jewelers use. I found it in the cupboard beside the table, but no sign of the diamonds.”

  “Yes, this is his workshop, all right,” Luten said. “I see he has a lamp at hand right on the table. Well, let us resume our search.”

  “Someone ought to have a go at the cellar,” Black said.

  Prance, not eager to risk his jacket in the cellar, said, “The house is hardly old enough and certainly not fine enough to have a priest’s hole, but might it have a secret passage, something to do with the Gentlemen? That paneled fireplace wall would be perfect for it. I’ll tap the walls and see if I can find it.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Corinne, who was wearing a new sprigged muslin and didn’t want to risk it in a dusty old cellar.

  Black didn’t put much faith in the notion of a secret panel. Sounded like something from one of Sir Reginald’s books. He said, “If by any chance Bolger buried the necklace, the only place he could have done it is the cellar.”

  “I hardly think he’d bury it if he planned to sell it so soon,” Prance pointed out.

  “Could be he had a hole dug that he used on a regular basis. I’ll go below and have a look.” He picked up a lamp, lit it and headed below.

  “I’ll go with Black,” Coffen said, and took up a lamp to follow him.

  “I’ll search the kitchen, as that’s where he had his tools,” Luten said.

  Prance strolled around the drawing room with Corinne, tapping walls with a great air of concentration, just as if he knew what he was listening for. He stopped to examine inferior paintings, mentioning that Bolger occasionally dealt in art as well. He lifted the bottom of each one from the wall to make sure the hiding place wasn’t concealed behind it. He pushed and shoved the raised carvings on the mantle lest one should slide to reveal a hidden cavity.

  Finding none, he claimed the carving was certainly not the work of Grinling Gibbons and pointed out that the room was rather small for parties. It would hardly hold four squares, let alone the musicians. The chandelier, he allowed, was pretty, but badly in need of polishing. Not wanting to pass it with such a meager fault, he added, “It looks as if it’s had some of the crystals replaced by an amateur. That inner ring doesn’t hang straight.”

  Then he proceeded to denigrate a painting that was obviously a bogus Gainsborough. “Gainsborough’s models look lifeless to be sure, but even his representations do not look quite so embalmed as these sad creatures. Madame Tussaud’s wax works are more lifelike.”

  “There’s nothing here. How about the floor?” Corinne suggested, and they proceeded to pace the floor, which seemed as innocent as the walls.

  The search carried out belowstairs was more serious. The cellar had a low ceiling and no windows. The lamps provided inadequate lighting, but the search was conducted as thoroughly as these limitations permitted, to the dismay of black beetles and various insects. No mice came to frighten them, perhaps due to the plethora of cats in the neighbourhood. There was a lingering aroma of brandy, but only the one keg there and the one glass, the dregs now turned to a syrupy consistency. They rolled the keg about to make sure by the swishing sound of liquid that it did contain brandy and not diamonds.

  “I didn’t figure he’d put a necklace in there. Too hard to get it out. You’d ought to get this keg out of here before it’s stolen, Mr. Pattle.”

  “I can’t take it to the hotel.”

  “Take it to Luten’s place to take home with you. Or we could empty it into bottles for easier transporting.”

  “You can have it if you want it, Black. I prefer wine or ale. I have a keg at home for emergencies.”

  The walls, what could be seen of them, were solid, rough stonework. No stone could be jiggled loose to provide a secret hiding place behind. Some old discarded furniture and junk were ranged against the walls — chairs with only two or three legs, a couple of mouldy trunks, three wheels from a carriage, even an old stove. They moved everything but the stove from the wall, and found no opening, nor was there anything but soot in the stove. Black called Coffen to help him move the stove, but their combined strength couldn’t budge it.

  “I wonder how they ever got it down here,” Black said, wiping his brow.

  “And why,” Coffen added, with one last, suspicious look. “Let’s have a look in the trunks.”

  They opened the trunks to find the mummified remains of a mouse nest in an old suit of clothes in one, an aged greatcoat, yellowing journals and magazines in the other. Black glanced at them but could find no reason why they had been saved. The journals might be of some historical interest, but they were badly nibbled by mice. He closed the lids and examined the earthen floor, which appeared hard packed and undisturbed.

  He even crouched down and crawled beneath the stairs descending from the kitchen, into a dark cave-like space once used as a root cellar. It held two large boxes of what looked like black, misshapen stones, and he decided were petrified potatoes.

  “I’m going to set a guard on the house tonight,” Coffen said, stretching to ease the cramps in his shoulders. “If someone’s getting in here, I mean to catch him. Now where would we find a reliable man?”

  “What about Fitz?” Black suggested. “Best not to hire outsiders, especially in a city we don’t know. Fitz is having a free holiday since you usually drive the curricle.”

  “I don’t know if I’d call him reliable,” Coffen said uncertainly.

  “He follows instructions well enough, other than driving. He won’t have to go anywhere. Reading a map is his downfall.”

  “If you think so.”

  “I’ll have a word with him,” Black said in the voice that struck fear into the hearts of Coffen’s servants. “We could put on our own nightshirts and do without Raven for a night as well. Leave one of them at each door, armed.”

  “Good idea,” Coffen agreed. He usually agreed with sensible Black.

  Luten did an equally thorough job in the kitchen. He opened and delved into every cupboard and every container in them. He lifted the lid of the stove and poked around the ashes with a poker, opened the oven door and discovered Bolger’s frying pan, empty. He looked into pots, pans and a teapot. The ceiling, walls and floor were solid. The window was covered by a ragged curtain. The dusty glass offered no place of concealment, but only a view of weeds and one straggly beech tree beyond. The only item of interest he found was the directions to Mrs. Beazely’s house, scribbled on a corner of a journal. She lived just across the street and a few houses down. He made a mental note of it to visit her later.

  He returned to the drawing room to discover Prance and Corinne had continued the search abovestairs. He joined them in the fruitless search of closets, dressers, mattresses and any possible hiding place.

  When they left the house two hours later, they were tired and dusty, but no wiser than when they had entered. The five of them had searched the house from top to bottom without finding the necklace or any clue as to where it was hidden. They found no priest’s hole, no secret passage, no loose floorboards suggesting a cavity below the floor to hold stolen j
ewelry or gold.

  Before going home, Luten made a quick trip to Mrs. Beazely’s house and learned she had only two rooms there. The landlady told him she was out “doing” for a widow called Mrs. Lean. Highly curious as to why this swell should be inquiring after her tenant, she said, “Who will I tell her was asking for her?”

  “She wouldn’t recognize my name. I may be back later. When will she be home?’

  “When she gets here,” was the unsatisfactory reply. Then the woman relented and added, “She don’t go out after dark.”

  “Thank you,” Luten said, and left.

  Black stopped at the hotel to arrange for Fitz and Raven to take up their duties at Nile Street, then washed up and continued on to Marine Parade, where Corinne had invited them all for lunch and to discuss plans.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Berkeley Brigade had many matters to discuss over lunch. As the member most deeply involved, Coffen was the first to speak. “What I want to find out is who put Mary’s hat and reticule in my curricle, and who’s breaking into my house and how and why, and stop him. And whoever it is, that’s who killed Mary.”

  Prance, moving a few peas around on his plate with his fork said, “We have a fair idea as to the who, do we not? Surely we’ve decided Flora and Henry are the culprits, with Scraggs as an outside bet. As to the why, can there be any question the Czarina’s necklace is what they’re after? The unanswered question is how.”

  Luten considered it a moment, then said, “We have more suppositions and suspicions than facts. We know Flora lied and assume it was to get into the house. We haven’t a shred of proof she ever actually got in. The way Mary was killed hardly looks like a woman’s work.”

  “Must we discuss murder over lunch?” Corinne said with a tsk, then went on to add her own two cents worth. “Surely it’s obvious that Henry’s the one did the actual stabbing. Scraggs is Mary’s brother. No one would stab his own sister.”

  “Sophocles, Aeschylus et al would be amazed to hear it,” Prance said. “If you had any familiarity with the great tragedies of Greek drama you would realize murder within the family is a long-established custom.”