Murder on Ironmonger Lane Read online

  “That wouldn’t be Harry Greene, would it?” Black asked, choosing the name at random. “A tall drink of water, dark hair, black beard?”

  “Oh my no,” the clerk said, smiling. “Mr. Greene is clean-shaven. If you’re interested in Roman relics, we have a few fine reproductions over here. They are not genuine, of course.”

  He led them to the left, where shelves held a collection of old statuary, most of it missing a limb to give it an antique air. A glassed-in case beneath the shelves held trays of jewelry of ancient design. “As I said, these are all reproductions. Mr. Greene is very careful about not conning the customers,” the clerk said.

  “Let us have a look at the little angel there,” Black said, pointing to a cherub about a foot tall, with a broken wing.

  The clerk lifted it down and handed it to him. “Mr. Green could tell you exactly what era this was from, and who it represents and so on. I fear I lack his knowledge.”

  “It wouldn’t mean much to me,” Black confessed. He examined it, taking note that no effort had been made to pretend it was genuine. It was not carved marble but made of cement, with the lines from the mold quite noticeable along the edges. They were reproductions all right, suitable for a garden ornament, perhaps. “Pretty, but I don’t know where my nevvy would put it.”

  Coffen meanwhile examined the trays of jewelry. He spotted an exact replica of the ring he had got from Ruffin. He slid his ring off his finger and put it into his pocket. “I’ll take a look at that ring,” he said, pointing to the reproduction. The ring was handed over and examined. “How much is it?”

  “That’s one a crown, sir. Only five shillings.”

  Black never agreed on a quoted price. “Seems a bit steep,” he said.

  “The stone, I believe, is lapis lazuli, and the metal is sterling silver,” the clerk said. “I’m not allowed to bargain. Mr. Greene might let you have it for less if you care to –”

  “That’s all right. I’ll take it,” Coffen said. “Have you found something for your nephew, Black?”

  “I believe I’ll get him that new hat he’s been hinting for.”

  The transaction was completed and they left. “That little statue was a reproduction all right,” Black said. “What about the ring?”

  After they had walked beyond view of the shop windows, Coffen drew out the two rings and compared them. “A reproduction as well. The one I got from Ruffin was cruder, a bit pitted. The one I got in there is brand new. Shiny. The stone as well, all shiny and new.”

  “Still, they had to have something to make the mold for that angel, and a model for the ring as well.”

  “If Mr. Greene’s our Blackbeard he’s shy about showing his real face at the shop,” Coffen said.

  “You notice the clerk didn’t deny that he was tall and dark, though. Let us leave Fitz behind and see if we can find the house the woman went into. Capper Street is not far north of here.”

  They found it without too much trouble. It was a small but decent house, similar to its neighbours. A tall, narrow, brick house with a green, newly painted door featuring a shiny brass lion’s head door knocker.

  “Should we go to the door?” Coffen asked. “She’d never recognize us.”

  “We’d have to make some excuse. They might get suspicious. We don’t want to tip them off that we’ve found them. We haven’t seen her face either. We’d not recognize her. And we don’t know who to ask for.”

  “We could try asking for Mrs. Greene,” Coffen suggested.

  “Where would that get us? Just let them know we’re checking up on them. Even if she is Mrs. Greene, what would we say to her? I believe we’ve done all we can do here this morning, Mr. Pattle, which don’t mean we won’t be back tonight after dark. We’ve got to think it over, make plans.”

  “I could hire an urchin to loiter about and see if a fellow with a black beard shows up,” Coffen suggested. “Link-boys are glad to pick up that sort of job, and they don’t look suspicious hanging about the streets. They’ll mind your horses by day, and light your way by night.”

  “Mr. Greene don’t spend much time at the shop and he don’t wear the beard there,” Black said. “The link-boy could nip back and forth from the shop to here, so as to keep an eye on both places and not look suspicious just standing in one place. What I’m thinking is it would be interesting to see who comes and goes at both places. If we heard of a fat fellow, we’ll know it’s Thomson.”

  “I know a wide-awake link-boy I’ve used before,” Coffen said.

  “I was thinking our Patty is sharp as a tack, and small enough to pass for a boy,” Black suggested. Patty was already being paid, why hire someone else? Mr. Pattle had no notion of economy. “Easy to fix him up with a torch of tow and pitch. If you agree, I’ll take care of it.”

  “That’s fine, Black. Just let me know what it costs.”

  Their morning’s job done, they returned to Berkeley Square to speak to Patty, who was delighted to have an excuse to loiter about the streets, away from the Argus eyes of Black, who could always find a job for him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Lady Luten saw Coffen and Black enter Ye Olde Toy Shoppe she ordered her coachman to drive on past and park a little farther along the street. She and Mrs. Ballard descended from the carriage and feigned an interest in other shop windows until they saw them come out, at which time they strolled along and entered the shop.

  “I shall keep the clerk busy while you snoop around, Mrs. Ballard,” Lady Luten said. “You know what we are looking for—anything that might have to do with Roman relics.”

  The clerk came smiling forward to offer his services. He was surprised to see such an elegant lady in the far from elegant shop and asked if he could help her.

  Corinne soon discovered what sort of shop it was. She said she wanted a little gift for a friend, and began looking about. She stopped at a display of porcelain animals and engaged the clerk’s attention while Mrs. Ballard snooped. A little white porcelain kitten reminded her of a former pet of Reg’s, until he discovered the havoc a kitten wreaked on his clothing and furniture, at which time he had it confined to the kitchen.

  “These are rather pretty,” she said, and asked him to remove the kitten and a spaniel from the case. Mrs. Ballard soon discovered the interesting corner featuring the reproductions of Roman artifacts. She took careful note of the various items there, examined the jewelry and little cement statues.

  Corinne bought the porcelain kitten, thanked the clerk and the ladies left. As they hastened along to the waiting carriage, Mrs. Ballard said, “They purvey all manner of reproductions of Roman items, milady. There is surely some connection with the men digging up Sir Reginald’s cellar.”

  “I am positive of it, but I didn’t see any sign of Blackbeard. Let us drive on to Capper Street and see if we spot the woman.” Her groom, unlike Fitz, knew his way about London and showed no concern about finding the address. Once in the carriage, she continued, “I would make some excuse and knock on her door, but I fear she might recognize me. She took a long, hard look at Reg and me.”

  “She would not recognize me,” Mrs. Ballard said, with a sly little smile.

  “I would not like to put you in any danger, Mrs. Ballard.”

  “It is a curious fact that decent, elderly ladies like myself are never suspected of doing anything underhanded. What I require is an excuse for knocking on her door.”

  “A servant will answer. We would not know who to ask for.”

  “I believe ladies seeking alms for charity just ask for the lady of the house. Naturally I would donate any money offered to charity.”

  “Those charity ladies are seldom granted an audience,” Lady Luten replied, knowing that Evans and the butlers of her friends had this standing order. As she spoke, she kept an eye on the street.

  “There—that house with the green door must be the one Fitz mentioned,” she said. “Let us stop a little farther on and watch.”

  They waited and watched for te
n minutes then, fearing to attract attention, she ordered the coachman to drive around the block and return. The carriage was about to leave for another circuit of the block when a plain black carriage drove by and stopped at the watched house. The door of the house opened and a lady came out. She was dressed in black and wearing a bonnet trimmed with something that looked, from a distance, like a cluster of red cherries. To set the seal on her identity, she was accompanied by a white poodle on a leash.

  Corinne pulled the drawstring and her coachman came to the door. “Follow that carriage!” she said.

  “It’s going the other way, milady. I’ll have to turn the rig around. I might lose her.”

  “Do the best you can. I’ll watch the carriage and point the way.”

  The best he could do was to proceed to the corner and perform the turnabout at the widening of the road. Corinne kept a close watch on the carriage and pointed to show him which direction to take, to avoid either hollering or requiring him to dismount. They hadn’t far to go. The lady’s carriage stopped at Ye Olde Toy Shoppe. She descended and went in, taking her poodle with her.”

  “Shall I go back in and eavesdrop on her?” Mrs. Ballard asked.

  Corinne thought for a moment, then said, “She may have seen our carriage parked near her house. If the clerk mentions you were just in the shop, she might get suspicious. Still, it is very interesting. Let us go home and see what Coffen and Black have learned.”

  On Berkeley Square, Corinne stopped at her own house only long enough to learn from Evans that his lordship had not yet returned, but he had happened to see Mr. Pattle and Black return a few moments ago. As they had sent the carriage off, he believed they were still at home.

  “That’s where I’ll be if Luten returns,” she said, and returned to tell Mrs. Ballard they were calling on Pattle. “Would you prefer to stay home, Mrs. Ballard?”

  “Oh no, milady. I had best accompany you.” Looking for an excuse to continue on the case, she added, “You know how his lordship worries about you.”

  As Mrs. Ballard had been a help and her services might be required again, Lady Luten did not quibble. They descended and hastened to Pattle’s house. Coffen and Black were in the salon, discussing their morning and what else they might do to solve the case.

  “Milady!” Black jumped to his feet when she rushed in. Seeing her excitement, he added, “I hope there is not trouble at home?”

  “No, no. I came to see what you and Coffen discovered.”

  “Fitz was right, for once. That little toy shop is part of the set-up. They peddle bogus Roman junk. We are sending Patty to keep an eye on it, and the dog lady’s house as well.”

  “Very wise. We just saw her go into the toy shop.”

  Coffen emitted a sound between a growl and a groan. “So that’s where you’ve been. Luten don’t want you getting involved, Cuz.”

  Black, who had been jealous of Mrs. Ballard for years, said severely, “I am surprised that you allowed this, Mrs. Ballard,” though he knew well enough she could not have prevented it.

  Mrs. Ballard ignored him. Corinne said, “Oh he never wants me to do anything since he found out I am enceinte. You must tell him—that is, let him believe it was you who saw her. But it is interesting, is it not?”

  “A dashed good clue,” Coffen agreed, smiling.

  “Tell us what happened,” Black said, and ushered her into a comfortable chair beside him. He ignored Mrs. Ballard, who found a seat for herself.

  Coffen and Mrs. Ballard, on the other hand, were old friends. He was the only male member of the Berkeley Brigade with whom she had ever felt comfortable. “You’ll have a cup of tea, Mrs. Ballard,” he said, knowing she seldom took wine. He ignored her vague protest and passed the order along to a foul-visaged fellow called Jacob, who acted as butler since Black had little time for a butler’s lesser duties.

  Corinne told them what she and Mrs. Ballard had learned, while her companion sat, silently nodding. When the tea arrived, Corinne demanded to know what they had learned. Coffen told her, produced the ring he had bought and compared it to the one Ruffin had given him. “Exactly the same, you see, except that the one I bought today is nicer. The clerk said the metal is silver and the stone is lalapaloozie or some such thing. Ruffin’s ring is iron and agate. They’ve fancied mine up to look nicer. I hardly know which one I like better, but it’s pretty clear Ruffin’s was used to make this one, and that puts him at the middle of it, as we thought.”

  “I’m surprised he gave it to you,” she said. “Of course at the time he never imagined we would find out where it came from.”

  “I remember Thomson wasn’t happy about him giving it away,” Black said, frowning.

  They considered this a moment, then Corinne said, “I bought this,” and produced the little white kitten.

  “Ah, like the one you made up for Reg’s play, Mrs. Ballard,” Coffen said. Mrs. Ballard had contrived a kitten for a prop when Prance was rehearsing his actors in Luten’s gold salon.

  Corinne had the inspiration to give it to her as a reward for her morning’s work. “Yes, it is for you, Mrs. Ballard. A little memento of your help at that time.”

  Mrs. Ballard was deeply touched, but too overcome to do more than say, “Oh my—so unexpected. Thank you, milady. I shall treasure it. Not necessary I assure you.” Corinne was embarrassed at her outpouring, and felt guilty. She must be kinder to Mrs. Ballard.

  “Well now, when you put it all together,” Black said, “what you’ve got is that the lady with the poodle and Blackbeard are a team. Likely married, or living together. The clerk denied Mr. Greene, the owner of the shop, had a beard, but that’s no matter. Ruffin was wearing the model for the ring in the toy shop, and he’s a pal of Thomson. I’d be mighty surprised if Ruffin ain’t the man in the beard, and Thomson works for him or why would they be meeting and Ruffin paying for the drinks?”

  “And Thomson came snooping around Reg’s studio after the fire,” Coffen added. “Ruffin likely sent him. Thomson lives in the same rooming house as Burnes as well. I should think Ruffin has a fancier flat, or house.”

  “There’s more,” Black said impatiently. “Townsend said Burnes’s body was dumped in an alley off Capper Street. That’s not far from the toy shop – or the woman’s house, come to that.”

  “You must tell Luten and Prance all this,” Corinne said. “And Coffen—there is no need to mention that Mrs. Ballard and I saw the woman with the dog go into the toy shop. You know how he worries.”

  Coffen and Black exchanged a look. “We easily could have seen her,” said Black, who was putty in her hands. Mrs. Ballard fondled the white kitten and tried not to listen.

  “I’ll let you know when Luten comes home,” Corinne said, and gathering up Mrs. Ballard, they took their leave.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As prime mover in the government’s involvement in the excavations going forth on Ironmonger Lane, Luten was put in charge of an ad hoc committee to handle the matter. He immediately contacted Townsend to arrange for guarding the site. Within hours two armed guards were patrolling in front of the three houses involved and two at the back with orders indicating who was to be admitted.

  Townsend also edged his way into the official party arranged to tour the site. A contingent from the Society of Antiquarians was led by Sir Scott Binwell and Sir Reginald Prance. Mr. Besner, unfortunately, was one of the select group chosen by Scotty to attend. Luten and a group of important politicians were also present, as was Mr. Horner, an expert on Roman artifacts from the British Museum.

  The locks were broken open. The efficient Townsend had locksmiths standing by to arrange for new, more secure locks to be installed. Prance arranged through Luten for keys to be limited to Townsend, Luten and himself. Besner’s hint that Binwell ought to have a key was swept aside “for security reasons”. Prance graciously offered to arrange for Binwell to visit any time he wished. Besner was not slow to offer to accompany him. Binwell, gasping from the struggle over rough gro
und, displayed no interest in returning.

  “I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you, Besner,” Prance parried. “I shall be happy to accompany Sir Scott any time he wishes to come.”

  “But you are so busy, Prance,” Besner said.

  “Like you, Besner, never too busy to oblige Sir Scott,” Prance insisted.

  The group scrambled from one cellar to the other, exclaiming, examining, extolling the wonder of what they were looking at. The younger, spryer men climbed down the ladder of the larger excavation, holding aloft their lamps to examine ancient bits of busted statuary, a leather sandal, crockery shards, to ponder the purpose of rusted implements, to gaze at the mosaic floor and debate whether certain leaves and branches were of olive trees, lemon trees—or were they perhaps grape vines? All agreed that whatever remains they were looking at—most thought it had been the private mansion of a wealthy Roman—it was a major find that must be protected from pillaging. This did not prevent a few of them from adding small bits and pieces to their collections of old Roman coins.

  The press was there, not allowed inside but waiting outside to interview the group when they came out. Prance hotly denied Besner’s sly hint that he had notified them. Was it his fault if he had mentioned to Sandy Rawlins, whose brother Boo worked at the London Times, that he might have to leave his atelier, and given the merest hint as to the reason? He had particularly asked Sandy not to mention the afternoon tour to anyone. Since the reporters were there, however, it was surely best to give them facts, rather than let them make wild surmises.

  The only slight cloud on such a sunny day was that Besner stuck like a barnacle to Scotty Binwell. Of course the old man did require assistance over the rough terrain at the back of the houses and through the hedges. In fact he required two assistants, one on either side to prop him up.

  Prance was too busy to offer an arm, but hinted to one of his supporters to take the other side. Scotty did not tackle the ladder into the hole where the artifacts were heaped, but Besner was up and down the ladder like a jack-in-the-box, selecting choice pieces to bring up for his observation. As the light was poor and Sir Scott’s eyesight even poorer, the best he could do was to say the piece Besner was holding “looked like a bowl”.