To Mourn a Murder Page 9

  Black, who had a broad acquaintance among the butling staff of London, was on terms with Lady Jergen's butler, Copeland. He called on Copeland that afternoon, ostensibly to ask his opinion on some wine Lady deCoventry was planning to lay down. Copeland considered himself a connoisseur of wines. No one was familiar with Mrs. Webber's staff. It seemed the elder Mrs. Webber kept her servants on such a short leash they seldom got out of the house.

  Neither Meg nor Black could discover any close link between the servants of the victims' houses. Copeland confirmed that Danby seemed high in the stirrups. A good tipper and a jolly sort of fellow. He couldn't tell Black anything about Danby's groom. Danby hadn't had a carriage when he was staying with the Jergens. After he left them, he had sent Lord Jergen a couple of dozen bottles of claret that pleased both the butler and his master mightily.

  Corinne had no luck either. Lady Callwood was not free to come to the tea party that afternoon. She didn't give a reason. The other two ladies came, but when the subject turned to servants, Mrs. Webber said her mother-in-law's had been with the family forever, and it was virtually impossible that they were involved in the demands for money. Lady Jergen had only good to say of her servants as well.

  It was confirmed by everyone Luten spoke to that Danby was up to his knees in gold, but just what he was doing with it was uncertain. He had discussed investing ten or twenty thousand in a shipbuilding company with Lord Eldon, but hadn't done it in the end. He was said to have an option on a huge tract of land across the Thames which he was going to develop into cottages, but again no details were known. It was all rumour and hearsay.

  When Prance called on the poet that morning, Fletcher told him that Byron was visiting Lady Melbourne. And when Prance returned in the afternoon, he was greeted by the old yellow hound, Abu. The door was ajar and the friendly hound lunged at him. Prance leapt back to save his jacket, but his trousers got a mauling. Fletcher soon appeared and called Abu off.

  Further unpleasantness awaited Prance inside. Byron had Gentleman Jackson with him. The boxing master was just removing a gaudy embroidered vest. When he invited Prance to stay and watch their practice and he'd give him a round free of charge, Prance remembered an urgent appointment.

  Byron accompanied him to the door and said, "You can tell Luten that neither Mrs. Webber nor Lady Callwood uses Appleby as her man of business. Lady Callwood's man is Anderson. Lady Melbourne tells me Mrs. Webber has a relative who handles her small affairs. No connection there, I'm afraid."

  "It was Coffen's idea. I didn't think anything would come of it."

  "I ran into Danby at my club last night," Byron continued. "A friend of mine, Cam Hobhouse, was with him. Danby invited me to sit down to cards with him. Hobhouse hinted me away. In fact no one there was eager to give Danby a game. He has the reputation of being exceedingly lucky at the table. No one mentioned the words shaved cards or Captain Sharp, however, even after he left."

  Prance, having learned from Coffen over breakfast of Luten's interest in a possible connection between Danby and Byron, went running back to Berkeley Square to inform Luten that Byron had voluntarily mentioned Danby, which he obviously wouldn't have done if it had been a secret meeting. He also told him that neither Mrs. Webber nor Lady Callwood used Appleby as her man of business.

  Luten nodded his satisfaction. "Byron is dining with the Hollands this evening. Holland is trying to exert pressure on him to speak in the House again. If you're free for dinner, Prance, do join me. The others are coming. We can have a good discussion and decide where we go from here."

  Prance chose to take offence at this. "I would have come, even if Byron weren't busy!" he sniffed. "You make it sound as if I'm chasing after him."

  "That was not my meaning at all. I rather thought it was Byron who was chasing after you."

  Flattered by this notion, Prance relented and said, "Perhaps I have let him distract me from more important duties recently. I refer, of course, to the wedding arrangements. I thought perhaps a Christmas wedding would be convenient for you, as the House won't be sitting over the holidays."

  "An excellent idea! No need to tell Corinne why we've chosen that date. She'll manage to turn it into an insult."

  "The ladies can find fault in anything!" Prance said, quite back in curl. He went happily home, savouring Luten's remark that Byron was running after him. As he picked stray cat hairs from the sofa, he thought he had been a little hard on Luten recently. He was really a fine fellow. Byron running after him! Now if he could only get him to say it in public!

  He lifted Petruchio from the pillow and placed him on his knee, where the cat immediately began to sharpen his claws on Prance's trousers. But it wasn't Petruchio who had caused that deep claw mark. It was Byron's filthy hound. Really, one ought not to let his dogs run free to maul his guests. He had a glass of wine while playing with Petruchio, then went abovestairs to discuss with Villier, his valet, the important matter of his evening toilette.

  Villier's sharp eyes narrowed at the mark on his buckskins. "That cat!" he tsk'd. "I've spent hours brushing hairs off your jackets."

  "You wrong Petruchio. Byron's dog is the culprit in this case. Perhaps a gentle abrasive of some sort can remove the mark."

  "I'll try an ultra fine sandpaper. Talcum will lessen the abrasion. And I'll give them a good brushing after. But do try, milord, to be a little careful in future."

  Villier was allowed to call Sir Reginald "milord" in private. They both knew a baronet had no right to the title. Prance told himself it pleased Villier to think he worked for a lord, and it certainly pleased Prance to be called one, even if only in the privacy of his dressing room.

  He marveled again that Luten had refused a dukedom, knowing full well that it would never be offered to him again, unless by some miracle he joined the army, became a general and conquered Napoleon.

  How could he refuse the offer? Such integrity. Really he was an amazing man. Though to be sure his refusal was causing Prinney and the Tories a good deal of razzing. Brougham had seen that the story was fed to the press.

  Perhaps he should take a more active interest in politics himself. Stand for M.P. But then he would have to waste hours in the House listening to boring speeches about things he didn't understand or care about, and be pestered for favours by his neighbours when he went home to Granmaison. No, he was much too busy for that sort of thing. His talents lay in the field of the arts.

  Now what should he wear this evening?

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Corinne's companion, Mrs. Ballard, accompanied the countess to dinner at Lord Luten's that evening. It was one of her least favourite duties, second in dread only to dinner at Sir Reginald's, where some outlandish dish she didn't know how to tackle or even how to pronounce was sure to be served. Sir Reginald was always on the leading edge of any new fad or fashion. The fare at Luten's would be familiar at least, and certainly well prepared. It was the conversation she dreaded.

  She never knew quite what they were talking about. Worse, their talk was often naughty, verging on the improper in Sir Reginald's case. Indeed she had a suspicion that if she did entirely understand all the bits of Latin and French and other languages he threw in, it would go beyond improper to licentious. She would make sure to sit beside Coffen Pattle. He could be counted on to keep a civil tongue in his head. There was a fair chance of being inundated with wine or gravy, but a soiled gown was a small price to pay for the comfort of a morally respectable dinner partner.

  At dinner Luten sat at the head of the table with Corinne at his right. What a handsome couple they made, like a princess and prince charming out of a fairy tale. No wonder Corinne was so anxious to get him to the altar. Prance, sitting on her other side, was the wicked genie who would keep them apart if he could.

  Mrs. Ballard sat on Luten's left side. He would insist on directing a little conversation to her, but he wouldn't badger her with difficult subjects, just inquire for her health, as he always did. She would have somet
hing to say, for once, after her recent ordeal with a tooth drawer. Just what role Coffen played in the fairy tale was unclear. A fairy godfather, perhaps, disguised as a troll.

  The array of old silver and crystal no longer intimidated her as it once had. The turbot in white sauce was tasty, the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding that followed were delicious. She was careful to chew on the left side of her mouth. She nibbled on a few bites of chicken and peas, leaving room for dessert, which turned out to be a mistake. She had been expecting something simple like a syllabub or apple tart, but when the dish arrived she was confronted with a French concoction called a gâteau de feuilletage praline, which Prance's French chef had recommended. That was enough to condemn it for her.

  When she declined, Luten, so polite, whispered to the footman and a blanc mange suddenly appeared before her.

  "I feared the gâteau might be too rich for you, Mrs. Ballard," he said. "How have you been holding up lately? Not feeling too badly, I hope?"

  It was unclear how the myth had sprung up that she suffered from some undefined malady. Actually she enjoyed excellent health, other than a little trouble with her teeth, but as the gentlemen never knew what to say to her, they had adopted the habit of inquiring for her health. One benefit was that an unspecified aliment made a good excuse for avoiding certain social occasions at which both she and the Berkeley Brigade desired her absence. The security of a permanent position for life was well worth these few harmless social dissimulations which she was careful not to call lies.

  It was not how a minor clergyman's widow had expected to end her days, but she thought she would find village life boring now. Seven years she had wallowed in the flesh pots of London. How quickly the time flew! But she still went to church every Sunday, and said her prayers every night.

  Coffen made a wretched mess of the nice linen tablecloth. Fortunately neither the spilled gravy nor wine splashed as far as her gown that evening.

  There wasn't much to object to in the conversation either. She couldn't tell Luten if anyone in London kept bees, and he didn't seem much interested that her aunt used to keep two hives. Sir Reginald bored them about his new cat, Petruchio. What a name for a cat! The others talked about bees and Brighton and someone called Danby, whom she didn't know, and apparently they didn't know him very well either, for they spoke about finding out more about him.

  When the gentlemen joined the ladies after taking their port, she would be accompanied back home across the street by a footman. At least she didn't have to accompany the countess to parties. As long as she was with Luten or Mr. Pattle, no harm would come to her. She was less sure of Sir Reginald, now that he had taken to rattling around town with that Lord Byron, who wrote naughty poems and had carried on shamefully with Lady Caroline Lamb, a married lady. At least that affair was over now. Corinne had told her Lady Caroline was recouperating in the country. It was hinted at her whist club that what she was recouperating from was Lord Byron.

  Mrs. Ballard wondered, but didn't like to ask, if that meant she was enceinte, and if Byron was suspected of being the papa. Which might be a good thing in a way, for Lady Caroline's only child was some sort of imbecile or lunatic. Such a tragedy! But then if the weakness was not in her husband but in herself, Byron's child might be a crippled lunatic, which would be a double tragedy.

  When the gentlemen joined the ladies, it turned out that Pattle was going to Brighton. At that hour of the night! Really it was amazing the way the young folks carried on these days. Fifty miles in the middle of the night was nothing to them. When she was his age, she hadn't been farther than ten miles from home. What could be so important to him that it couldn't wait till morning?

  When she got home nosy old Black wanted to know everything that had happened, as usual, and where her ladyship was going that evening. He acted like a jealous husband. Dissatisfied with her answers, he darted across the street to find out more details from Luten's butler the minute the carriage left the door. Her duty done, Mrs. Ballard was free to retire to the morning parlour and read the latest gothic novel from the Minerva Press until ten-thirty, when she would order a posset and go to bed. After reading a page of the Bible and saying her prayers, of course.

  Luten was sure he was free of Byron for one night as the poet was dining with the Hollands, who had engaged an Italian tenor to entertain the guests after dinner. He was understandably annoyed when the first face he saw at the Sinclair's party was Byron's. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of him through the admiring throng around him, but there was no mistaking that perfect profile. Worse, Byron saw him and fought his way through his fans to join the three-quarters of the Berkeley Brigade that had come to the do.

  "I thought you would be at Lady Holland's concert," Luten said, forcing a smile. Byron was no more than polite to Corinne, and her manner was equally bland.

  "God, or Zeus, or whatever benign deity rules the universe, took mercy on us sinners," Byron said. "The tenor had a sore throat and failed to show up. When Lady Holland threatened us with a game of whist, I escaped. But not before Holland threatened and flattered and cajoled me into speaking in the House again. Have there been any new developments in the mystery, Luten?"

  "Nothing on this end. Prance told us you'd been speaking to Danby at your club. Is he a regular there?"

  "Truth to tell, I'm hardly a regular myself these days. I used to dine there, but recently I've been taking dinner at Alban's Hotel when I'm not invited out. I see Lady Jergen is here. We might have a word with her. Pattle had the notion her house was the throbbing centre of all the trouble." He looked around. "Where is Pattle tonight?"

  "He had an appointment elsewhere," Luten replied vaguely, which told Corinne that Byron was still under suspicion. She noticed that Byron was careful to pay just the proper amount of attention to her. He smiled and complimented her on putting all the other ladies in the shade, if she would forgive him an "odious caparison", and immediately turned to ask Prance if Petruchio had tamed any shrews lately.

  "Only my shrewish self," Prance replied. "He has me in complete subjugation to his every whim. My valet is ready to rise up in rebellion like the Luddites. Petruchio keeps him busy removing cat hairs. Such a lot of bother and work."

  "What, a mere cat?" Byron scoffed. "You don't know what bother and work are until you've kept a pet bear. I used to keep one when I was at Trinity College. I called him Ursa Major. But I think my favourite pet was Boatswain, a Newfoundland dog I had at Newstead. He died of rabies four years ago. I erected a tombstone for him. Some said it was a sacrilege, but he was the best friend I ever had." A sad smile came over his face at the memory.

  He spoke with such sincerity and passion that Luten found himself revising his opinion of the poet. What a lonesome young man he must have been. Whatever else he was or wasn't, he was a confirmed animal lover. He would never have killed Queen Mab. Of course that story could be a fabrication, but he couldn't believe such a thing would even have occurred to Byron. He had a quick, clever tongue, but Luten was beginning to realize that his air of world-weary cynicism and ennui was invented to hide his uncertainty, and perhaps even shyness. He hadn't been born to wealth and privilege, like most of his class. His early days, according to dame gossip, had been harsh and impoverished.

  "I'm fond of dogs myself," Luten said, "but I think they're better off in the country."

  "You're right, of course," Byron agreed at once. "It's selfish of us to keep them locked up, but damme, a man needs a dog. Where else can he find such undemanding devotion?"

  "It seems to me you find it in the ladies," Prance said with a roguish grin.

  Byron rolled his beautiful eyes ceiling-ward. "No, no. I said undemanding. It's hardly devotion either. Just a brief infatuation with this season's freak. I put myself in the same class as Beau Brummell, but not so well dressed, of course. Next season it will be a magician, or Italian tenor, or three-legged hen. And the demands on one's time and patience are by no means insignificant. Last week I had to scramble in the kitchen
window, ruining a good jacket in the process, to avoid a fellow who wanted me to 'just have a glance' at a poem he'd written. The manuscript weighed a stone. And then that idiot of a Fletcher accepted it at the door. I've ordered him to read it and give the man his advice. Well, you know how we poor scribes are put upon, Prance. You're a scribbler as well."

  "Dreadful," Prance agreed, as if he shared these delightful nuisances. Alas, his Rondeaux had enjoyed only a brief succes d'estime.

  "The worst of it is that when my next drivel comes out, the fellow will likely claim I've plagiarized his opus. But enough literary chit chat. Is there anything I can do to help in this case, Luten? As I drew you into it, I must do whatever I can to help you. Truth to tell, I enjoy any sort of intrigue."

  Luten thought a moment, then said, "Since Danby belongs to your club, you might see what you can find out about him."

  Byron said in surprise, "You really think he'd bother with this sort of petty thievery when he's worth a million?"

  "But is he?" Luten asked, lifting an eyebrow. "We know he speaks of investing fortunes here and there, but no investments are made. When his carriage breaks down, he doesn't buy a new one. He goes to Newman's to rent one, and in fact ends up in a hack."

  Prance said, "P'raps he's one of those skints who doesn't like to part with a sou. The rich are like that, sometimes."

  "It's possible," Luten said, "though he's open-handed enough with small sums, like tips for Jergen's servants. You might express dissatisfaction with your man of business, Byron, and ask Danby who manages his fortune."

  "I'll do it, of course, although old Spooney—Mr. Hanson—would have a fit if he ever found out I was defaming him, and after he's been so good to me. I must say Danby doesn't act like a skint. He's the first to offer a round of drinks. Generous with his pourboires as well."

  "I expect I was wrong," Prance said. "A skint is usually skintish in all his dealings."