Murder on Charing Cross Road Read online

  “I’ll send the rig around after dark. Corinne is going to call on Samantha again this morning. She arranged it yesterday.”

  “I’ll try to find out what Morgrave is doing this afternoon,” she said. “It might save a deal of watching the flat. “I’ll also ask Samantha their evening plans. That won’t sound suspicious.”

  Luten said, “I’ll nose around at the House and see if I can pick up any rumours about Morgrave, find out who his friends are. If he’s in dun territory, someone must know it.”

  They parted, after arranging to meet up again that evening. Corinne paid her call on Samantha. She found the couple at home, working in the salon. Samantha had just finished addressing the invitation cards and was working on some embroidery. John sat at a desk in the corner. He stood up and greeted her when she was shown in but returned to whatever work he was doing at the desk. Obviously she had to see what he was so busy at. She cast furtive glances towards the desk from time to time but could see no sign of the little red code book.

  Samantha offered tea, and while she was busy with the tray, Corinne went over to John’s desk. “Did you enjoy Harley’s party last night?” she asked.

  “A good enough time, but it wasn’t really our set,” he said. “An older crowd — you know. I was surprised to see you and Luten there.”

  “Oh — politics,” she said. “We have to attend many dull do’s.” She took a peep to see what he was working at. It was a map, and he was making marks on it. “Are you planning a trip?” she asked, smiling.

  “Indeed no. This is a map of Spain — hardly a tourist destination at this time. I’m following Wellington’s campaign. I take an interest in the Peninsular war. I’d like to be there myself, but the family are against it. They want more than one son safe at home. An heir and a spare, as they say.”

  “Ah, here is Samantha,” Corinne said and returned to the sofa, eager to leave and tell Luten what she had learned. John joined them to have a cup of tea.

  “A little splash of brandy in yours, John?” Samantha asked, lifting the brandy decanter. He nodded and she poured in a tot of brandy. “John doesn’t really care for tea. He says a little brandy gives it body. Perhaps you’d like a drop, Corinne?”

  “Why not?” she replied. “It’s a popular drink in Ireland. Irish tea we call it. Some folks use whisky instead.”

  When the ladies began discussing the ball, John returned to his maps. Corinne casually asked what the Morgraves planned to do that evening.

  “John’s brother, Lord Sifton, has invited us to dinner. Just a family affair. Those do’s break up early. We might go to the theatre after. John’s father, Lord Norval, has a box he seldom uses.”

  “Drury Lane or Covent Garden?” Corinne asked. “I haven’t seen the new play at either theatre.”

  “Covent Garden. We were at Drury Lane last week.”

  Corinne took careful note of all this, which should make the spying a little easier. She discovered that Samantha was calling on a newly married friend, Lady Herbert, that afternoon but could think of no polite way of asking what John was doing. When she returned to Berkeley Square, she felt her trip had not been wasted.

  She still had her duties at home. She was busy becoming accustomed to living in Luten’s mansion. She had spent a good deal of time there over the last seven years and felt it would be an easy transition. But her former visits had been limited to the main rooms downstairs — the drawing rooms and dining room. She was slowly familiarizing herself with the rest of the large mansion. As a bachelor, Luten had not paid that attention to the upkeep of the little-used rooms that he should have. She was planning major repairs to the upstairs in particular. Reggie was a big help in choosing paint colours and curtain material and art works.

  It was exciting and luxurious to have unlimited funds for the job. She had been accustomed to managing on the interest on her own twenty-five thousand pounds from deCoventry for so long that it seemed almost wrong to be so rich now.

  It was seven years since deCoventry’s death and it took some time to re-acquaint herself with the running of such a grand establishment with a large staff of servants. She had ample help from Evans and the housekeeper, but they were both so eager to ingratiate her that they seemed to be pestering her with questions all day long. Menus and flower arrangements, laundry and other housekeeping details had to be sorted out. And on top of it all the grand Orphans’ Ball, her major contribution to charity works, was fast approaching.

  She missed Black, and found to her surprise that she even missed Mrs. Ballard. For a mousy lady, Mrs. Ballard had a way of making her opinions felt, especially her disapproval of Corinne’s dealings with the Berkeley Brigade. Mrs. Ballard had made the move across the street with her, but felt so overwhelmed amidst all the new grandeur that she only left her own rooms to perform her duties as dresser and companion on occasion. She was unaccustomed to the luxury of having a sitting room all to herself. She occasionally entertained a female friend there. Now that Corinne was a safely married lady, she didn’t require a chaperone to entertain callers. She had stated firmly that unless Lady Luten was dining alone, she preferred to eat with the housekeeper. Fortunately she got along well with Evans and the housekeeper. This was something she had never mastered with that nosey Parker, Black.

  She took her duties of dresser very seriously, and was always eager to help when she could. There was no denying, however, that her insistence on mending stockings and insisting that worn-out and unfashionable gowns were “too good to throw out” was trying. There was nothing Mrs. Ballard enjoyed as much as being useful, and with a dozen bedrooms to be examined for the state of their linen, carpets and window hangings, Corinne found plenty of other jobs for her in these early days of the marriage. The room currently under discussion was the yellow suite, where Corinne wanted to replace the aging window and bed hangings.

  Prance spent the remainder of the morning with Villier devising special clothing and accoutrements for a spy. Remembering that never-to-be-forgotten night of horror when he had been assaulted and robbed at Long Acre, he realized the necessity for concealed weapons. The side pocket of his new carriage would have secret compartments for various knives, pistols and poisons. He would carry a small flask holding brandy strongly laced with laudanum. Let his assaulter find the flask, take a drink and he’d be overcome before you could say boo.

  He knew to his grief what damage could be wrought on a man’s body once he was hauled out of his rig. That would require a sword concealed in a walking stick. It would be a cruel criminal indeed who would remove a limping man’s walking stick. Let him try!

  They devised various lesser weapons as well — a quizzing glass with a small knife built into the handle for those occasions when all his other weapons failed and he was tied up. Any attacker worth his salt would tie his hands behind his back. The glass must be on a retractable lace that could be pulled out far enough to reach behind his back.

  He spent half an hour working with Villier to discover just what manouevres would result in tossing the glass around to his hands, tied behind his back. For this practise run, a string was attached to an ordinary quizzing glass. Prance, with his cracked ribs, assigned the task to Villier. He was tied up and spent an uncomfortable half hour jerking his upper body about, while the quizzing glass bobbed about, knocking objects off the table and once hitting him a sharp blow on the chin, but eventually he succeeded. Even the childish stunt of carrying pepper in his pockets was not overlooked. A snuffbox would be used to carry the pepper. The lid must open at a touch.

  When the details had been worked out, Prance sent for a jeweler from Rundell and Bridges who designed special items for him to execute the designs as quickly as possible. Then it was time to decide on sartorial matters. Villier and he both agreed that black was the obvious colour for a spy, but due to its mourning associations for daytime a navy blue was chosen.

  “So handy at night, when you are lurking about dark places to learn secrets,” said Villier, who had got
well into the spirit of what they both half considered a game. “And rather dashing during the daytime as well. A severe, no nonsense cut, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely. No excesses of padded shoulders or nipped waists, the lapels sharply pointed, not rounded like the dandies wear.”

  “And the coat tails not too long, eh?”

  “Not long enough to get in the way in a brawl, certainly. We want exquisite material and tailoring. And a severe cravat. Long and rather narrow linen would be suitable for binding up the enemy after I have overcome him.”

  “Exactly! Now as to the hat,” Villier said, frowning in concentration. “Again, not an extreme style.”

  “The slouch hat must go, certainly. Too attention-getting. The aim is to pass unnoticed, not stand out in a crowd.”

  “The crown a little lower than your old ones, then,” said Villier. “Now as to the brim — wide or narrow?”

  “Not too wide with the shorter crown. About two inches, I think.” When these important decisions had been made, Villier and Pelkey, the groom, were sent out to find a new carriage. Again, good design and simplicity were to be the criteria. “Black, of course,” Prance decreed. “But with lovely silver appointments and well upholstered in some rich colour — mulberry, perhaps. A little touch of class will not go amiss. I don’t want it to be mistaken for a hackney after all. Bring it around and I’ll hobble out to see if it will do.”

  * * * *

  Coffen spent the remainder of his morning looking for clues. He drove past Bolton’s flat half a dozen times, then drove past Morgraves. When he found no clues there, he called on Black as it was time for lunch. Black, whose new position had gone quite to his head, served him in the dining room on the good china. They dined on roast chicken and what Black called asparagrass, all washed down with a decent wine.

  “I feel I ought to return the favour, Black,” Coffen said, “but it’ll have to be a tavern. You wouldn’t care for the meals at my place.”

  “You ought to sort that bunch out, Mr. Pattle. You really ought.”

  “You’re right. One of these days I’ll do it. It’s grand to sit down to a proper meal like this.”

  “My pleasure to entertain you, Mr. Pattle.”

  His new exalted condition did not prevent him from pocketing the hefty pourboire Pattle left under the edge of the plate, nor cause any offence. They parted on their usual friendly terms.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Black used his involvement in the case to pay a call on Lady Luten after his lunch with Coffen. Like any polite guest, he was shown into the rose salon with all the respect due an archbishop. Evans hoped to hear what was afoot before Black left. Over the years these two butlers, as different as salt and sugar in most ways, had become friends due to proximity and a shared interest in the welfare of the young couple. Black, ever alert, had begun to suspect, however, that beneath Evans’s smile lurked a dark green envy of Black’s rising favour with Luten.

  When Black learned from Lady Luten that Morgrave’s wife’s plans for the afternoon left her husband free, he immediately declared that he would watch the flat. “His lordship mentioned sending for his plain black rig for me this evening, if you recall.”

  “I’ll send for it this minute,” she replied. “There’s no telling Morgrave will spend the afternoon at that club, playing cards. He might go anywhere.”

  “You don’t feel I’m overstepping myself then, milady?”

  “Not in the least, Black. It’s what Luten would want. They plan to dine with Lord Sifton and attend the theatre this evening, so this might be our best chance to learn what he’s up to.”

  “I’ll just nip home and make a few preparations. And may I make so bold as to say, madam, we miss you at the old house.” The “we” was himself and an elderly housekeeper who thoroughly enjoyed her new ease and comfort.

  Lady Luten reached out and squeezed his fingers. “I miss you too, Black. We shall find some good placement for you when my little house is rented.”

  It was at such moments as these that he was repaid for his extraordinary efforts on her behalf. There was a hint of Lord Blackwell in his manner when he replied, “I hope I shan’t have to move too far away, milady.”

  “Brigade business, I take it,” Evans said as Black left. He was not as accomplished an eavesdropper as Black, but he was coming along.

  “Just so, Evans. This is dangerous business.”

  “Can I be of any assistance, Black?”

  “Sorry, it’s confidential. Members only, you might say.”

  Evans forced a grim-lipped smile and nodded his acceptance of this rebuff.

  As the nature of the case was of national importance, Luten returned early to Berkeley Square to keep abreast of what the Brigade was doing. When his wife told him what she had discovered that morning, he was very glad he had come home.

  “Studying a map of Spain, you say?” Luten said in alarm. “That indicates a suspiciously strong interest in the doings in the Peninsula.”

  “And he was drinking brandy. You know where he got that!”

  Luten had the grace to blush. “The same place I and half the town got it, of course, from the smugglers. Still, it is likely the smugglers who deliver the messages to and from France. And you sent Black to keep an eye on Morgrave this afternoon. That was good thinking.”

  “It was his own idea. We really must do something for Black when we rent my house, Luten. He’s been so faithful to me all these years.”

  “He’s a good man. I shall never forget that he saved your life on our first case. We don’t want to lose track of him. He’s been a great help to us on more than one occasion for that matter. We’ll find something suitable for him. We can’t reduce him to a footman after seven years as a butler. We can’t have two butlers, and I can’t very well turn Evans off after all these years either, nor would I like to lose him.”

  When Corinne learned that Luten had skipped lunch, she asked Evans to arrange something in the morning parlour for him. They did not use the grand dining room that seated two dozen when they were alone. They were still at the table in the cosier morning parlour when Prance and Coffen darted over. When Evans announced that they were waiting in the rose salon, Luten told him to invite them to the morning parlour and bring two more cups.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Prance said. “We were afraid you’d go dashing back to the House if we waited too long.”

  “We saw Black take off in your hunting carriage and wondered what was afoot,” Coffen added, scanning the sideboard for food, though he had enjoyed his lunch with Black. The hot dishes had been removed but a fruit compote and ginger cake were still on the sideboard.

  No spoken words were necessary. Corinne nodded to the footman and Coffen was served dessert. Prance, who resented that eating was necessary at all, declined the offer with a shake of his head. As soon as Coffen had eaten and they had all had their coffee, they retired to the privacy of Luten’s study to be brought up to date.

  “Studying a map of Spain, you say!” Coffen exclaimed. “That pretty well clinches it.”

  “Rather indiscreet of him, doing it in his drawing room, where any caller could see,” Prance said.

  “That’s easily explained though,” Luten said. “Everyone is interested in our progress in Spain. Taking a keen interest almost lends him the air of a patriot.”

  “Did you learn anything about him at the House?” Prance asked.

  “No unsavoury rumours are floating about. No debts worth speaking of, no suspicious friends. The family is influential, of course. In these cases one often hears nothing until the final catastrophe. I’ll keep an ear to the ground.”

  It was decided that Prance and Coffen would visit Arthur’s as planned that afternoon and report back after dinner, or before if they learned anything of importance. They took Coffen’s carriage as Prance’s coachman had taken his to Newman’s Stable to be sold “as is”, with the lining torn apart. Fitz could not be trusted to drive, so they borrowed Cori
nne’s groom.

  For an hour they sat in a smoke-filled room, drinking ale. As they wanted to be free to join Morgrave’s table if he came, Prance sat with a group who were chatting before the grate. Coffen picked up a journal and stationed himself in a chair with a view of the doorway where he could see the gentlemen as they entered the parlour.

  At three on the dot Morgrave stepped in. Coffen watched him scanning the room to see if he was looking for anyone in particular. This could be a good clue as to who he had come to meet. He hadn’t removed his coat, which suggested he might plan to leave right away. Morgrave didn’t seem interested in anyone in particular, however.

  When he turned around and strolled out, Coffen followed him, but he just went to the coat rack and hung up his coat. Coffen made a note of which coat was Morgrave’s, third from the right hand side. Morgrave proceeded into the card parlour but he didn’t play cards. He joined a group who were just looking out the window, drinking wine and chatting.

  Prance used his acquaintance with one of the men as an excuse to join them. Morgrave’s friends didn’t seem the least bit suspicious. A retired judge, a minor aristocrat and James Freewell, the younger fellow Prance was acquainted with. Freewell was a writer, like himself. Well, not quite like himself, a journalist actually. The first conversation dealt with Prance’s eye patch and cane, which gave him an opportunity to practice the recounting of his vicious attack at Long Acre. The gentlemen all expressed outrage at this.

  Freewell soon asked him the old familiar question, “What are you working on now, Prance? Another gothic to turn our hair gray?”

  “Something entirely different, actually,” Prance said.

  “Ah, another poem, like your Arthurian rondeau?”

  In his new success, Prance was now confident enough to laugh at that early failure. “I’ve learned the hard way I am no poet, Freewell. No, it’s not poetry, but another novel.”