Murder on Ironmonger Lane

by Joan Smith

  “I’ll see what Luten has to say when we meet this evening,” he replied, and Coffen left.

  But Coffen’s little barb stung. Perhaps he wasn’t doing as much as he could, considering that he was really the one most concerned in the whole affair. He was interrupted by Villier, who came out and handed him a slightly soiled letter. “This must have been left at the door,” Prance said, noticing it was not franked. Nor was there a noble seal indicating the sender.

  “I found this on the doorstep at your atelier when I picked up your mail. I believe someone was trying to push it under the door, but it didn’t make it, and somehow got left outside. It is probably just another struggling artist wanting your patronage, but with all that is going on, I thought you ought to see it.”

  Prance opened it, noticed the stationery was marked “Ibbetson’s Hotel” and lost interest. Ibbetson’s was the filthy hotel where he had gone for a drink with some of the selection committee members who had chosen it because it was cheap. But he opened the note and read, then exclaimed, “It’s from Ruffin! And the date is the day before yesterday, Villier.”

  “No! What does he say?” Villier asked, all ears.

  “He wants to see me! He begs for an immediate reply. Oh dear, I wish I had got this the day he sent it.”

  Villier, sensing a reprimand, pokered up and said, “I did not know that picking up papers outside the shop was part of my duties.”

  “Nor is it, naturellement. This just happens to be vitally important. You recall I told you that Ruffin might be Blackbeard.”

  Villier decided to forgive. “So you’ll answer his letter?” he asked with his usual eager interest.

  “It sounds urgent. I shall go to meet him at once.” And he wouldn’t ask Coffen to accompany him either. That would show him who was taking an interest in the case. Still, it would be foolish to go alone. “Send for Pelkey, and I shall want a footman with me.”

  Villier placed his hands together as if about to pray and said, “Let me go with you, please! I would so love to have a hand in one of your famous cases.”

  Well, why not? Ruffin hadn’t looked like a dangerous fellow, and he couldn’t do much in the lobby of a busy hotel. “Very well. Now send for Pelkey.”

  They were soon driving off to the hotel, where they were told Mr. Ruffin had checked out yesterday. No, he had left no message for Sir Reginald. Prance turned to leave, half relieved to tell the truth, but stopped. He should ask more questions.

  “Could you describe Mr. Ruffin? I haven’t actually met him, you see, but he was most anxious to meet me.” He was described as just an ordinary fellow, in his forties, dark hair, tallish, a decent jacket but not what you’d call stylish.

  “Did Mr. Ruffin have many callers? A man with a black beard, a stout, gray-haired gentleman, or a lady in a black bonnet trimmed with cherries?”

  “I didn’t notice if he did. As you can see, the lobby is full of stout fellows with gray hair. We don’t get many ladies. I’d have noticed a lady or a man in a black beard. You don’t see many of them about nowadays. Mind you I couldn’t swear to it. As you can see we’re very busy. A draper’s convention.”

  “How long was he here?”

  “A week.”

  “Had he been here before?”

  “I’ve only been here a month myself. If he was here before, I wouldn’t know. I’d have to go through old registration books. I couldn’t tell you much about him. He was quiet, paid his bill. He was out all day and most evenings. Just an ordinary guest, taking a little holiday in London. I remember he asked once about the theatres, restaurants, and so on.”

  “Did he give a home address?”

  The clerk sighed impatiently, glanced at the registry and said, “Birmingham.” Then he turned away to greet an arriving guest and Prance left.

  Chapter Twenty

  Corinne had already apprised Luten of the day’s events when the group met in the rose salon that evening. He congratulated Coffen and Black and asked Prance if he had recovered from that knock on the head.

  Prance took this for a hint that he had not been doing any investigating and said, “I’m fully recovered, Luten. Kind of you to ask. Actually I have something I ought to mention. I had a note from Ruffin today.” Heads turned in his direction, eyes wide open.

  Luten practically barked out the question, “What did he want?” Prance handed him the letter, which Luten read swiftly. “As you will see, he wanted to see me, urgently. Unfortunately the letter is dated the day before yesterday but got mislaid at my atelier. Villier brought it to me today, just after you left, Corrie. Naturally I darted post haste off to the Ibbetson, where he was staying, but he had left town. I pursued enquiries vigorously but learned very little, I fear.

  “He was there for a week. If he is Blackbeard, he wasn’t wearing his disguise at the hotel. The clerk couldn’t recall his having any visitors at all. He assures me he would have noticed if a man in a black beard had called on him. Ruffin behaved like an ordinary tourist, interested in theatres, restaurants, and so on. He gave his address as Birmingham, for what it’s worth.”

  “Far enough away to make checking up time-consuming,” Luten said, frowning at the letter. “The timing is interesting. He checked in just before your party at the atelier. You have no idea what the urgent business he mentions might have been?”

  “I would assume it has to do with the excavation at my atelier,” Prance said. “What else could it be?”

  “It is dated after the publicity about the find, so he couldn’t be asking you to sell him the lease. Or even to take a tour, as the journals mentioned the site was not open to the public.”

  “Trying to strike some kind of a deal with you,” Black said. “I wager he was after that lady’s head in your cellar. When you didn’t answer, he went ahead and stole it.”

  “Does anyone know anyone in Birmingham?” Luten asked, looking around at his helpers. “It would be interesting to find out if Ruffin actually lives there. An honest man doesn’t try to conceal his origins.”

  “His staying at an hotel suggests he doesn’t live in London at least,” Corinne said.

  “Or doesn’t want us to know where he lives in London,” Luten replied. “A week’s lodging at the Ibbetson wouldn’t cost much.”

  No one, not even Black, seemed to know anyone in Birmingham. Luten said he would ask the MP for the area to make enquiries about Ruffin, then proceeded to other business.

  Prance knew by the elegant gown and diamond necklace Corinne was wearing that she had convinced Luten to take her to Middleton’s party. She looked so lovely she could convince any man with blood in his veins to do anything. She positively glowed.

  As Luten had nothing very interesting to report he asked Prance what Binwell had to say about last night’s depredations. “He was appalled, Luten. Simply appalled. He urged us to make every effort to discover who is responsible and get the mosaics back before they are sold and lost to posterity forever.”

  “I have been asking discreetly about the House as to who might be interested,” Luten said. “It seems Lord Rochford is a well-known collector, but the feeling is that he wouldn’t be buying stolen items. He has an agent in Italy who procures pieces for him. He specializes in ancient jewelry but also collects statuary. Most collectors seem to want statuary for their gardens. The other fellow is Sir Geoffrey Harrison. He’s new to collecting. I couldn’t find out much about him. Rochford might know him. I called on him but he wasn’t home. I’ll call again tomorrow if he’s not at Middleton’s do tonight.”

  The group disbanded to go their separate ways. At the party, Corinne mingled with the ladies, expressed an interest in Mam’selle Marie’s shop and learned from the hostess that she had heard it was owned by a Frenchman, Monsieur Leclerc, whose wife ran it but did not actually work there.

  “Oh, have you met her?” Corinne asked in a conversational way.

  “Not to say actually met her, but I’ve seen her enter the shop from time to time. The way she ord
ers the staff about leaves no doubt that she manages the place. French, but a fairly decent woman, I thought.”

  “Not that dark-haired lady with the white poodle I saw coming out of the shop the other day?” Corinne asked.

  “That’s her. I’ve never seen her without it. She treats it like a child.”

  “I wonder what Monsieur Leclerc thinks of that,” Corinne said lightly, to see what she could learn about him. “Most husbands want a son and heir.”

  “And rumour has it you are about to oblige dear Luten in that respect. So happy for you, my dear.”

  “How did you know? We haven’t told anyone yet.”

  “My dear, you have that special glow, and I noticed Luten watching you even more closely than usual. Sure signs.”

  “It’s true. We’re hoping for a son,” Corinne said.

  “Every husband wants a son first. Perhaps it is the man’s own fault if he has only a dog to inherit,” Lady Middleton said. “I wouldn’t care to make love to man with a beard like his.”

  A beard! Corinne could hardly contain her excitement. “Oh, you know him?”

  “I’ve seen her in a carriage with a fellow with a great black beard. I assume it’s her man. I may be mistaken, of course. Mind you, the shop is called Mam’selle Marie’s, so perhaps they aren’t married. One doesn’t really know tradespeople.”

  Corinne was having such luck she decided to push it further. “I wonder if Leclerc is the fellow who runs that little toy shop on Tottenham Court Road. I’ve seen a fellow with a black beard there.”

  “I don’t know that shop. What on earth were you doing on Tottenham Court Road?”

  “I just happened to stop there the other day with Mrs. Ballard.”

  Lady Middleton had lost interest in the Leclercs and began asking questions about the goings-on at Prance’s atelier. After answering a few questions Corinne went on to quiz other friends, but learned nothing further about the Leclercs. At least she had a name.

  * * *

  Lord Rochford, a distinguished gray-haired gentleman, was there and approached Luten. “I hear you were looking for me this afternoon, Luten. With you it is always politics. Whose ear do you want me to bend, and for what purpose?”

  “It’s not politics this time, Rochford.”

  “Ah then it must be about Prance’s running for president of the Society. I am not on the selection committee. Indeed I seldom go to the meetings nowadays, but I know Binwell quite well and still have some influence there, I believe. I came to the society’s aid when it was having difficulty paying the rent. It would be a shame for it to have to fold for the lack of funds. I shall do what I can for Prance.”

  “He will appreciate it, but it’s not that either. It is about what is going on at Ironmonger Lane. I expect you’re aware of that?”

  “Not much more than what I read in the papers. I am appalled at such vandalism. A great deal could be learned from these ancient finds but they must be left in situ for the experts to study their secrets. If there’s anything I can do to help I am at your service.”

  “I shall bear it in mind, thank you, but I’m just after information at the moment. You may not have heard the mosaic floor under Prance’s atelier was dug up and removed as it only happened last night. The press haven’t got hold of it yet.”

  “No! But how could that happen? I heard the place was guarded.”

  “It was, two armed men in front, two in back. The vandals gained access through a window of Prance’s atelier. My feeling is that to undertake a risky business like that the perpetrators had a specific buyer with deep pockets who didn’t care where the goods came from, or how they were obtained. Do you know someone who collects mosaics?”

  “Not offhand. That’s a pretty specific field. But I do happen to know someone who is rumored to supply authentic but ill-got items.”

  “That would be a great help!”

  “I don’t actually know the fellow’s name. I hear he’s French, and runs a backdoor operation out of some shop on Tottenham Court Road.”

  “I know the place, or am at least aware of it. That’s very helpful, Rochford. How does word of this sort of thing get about?”

  “Like any fanatics, we collectors know each other, we meet to show off our collections and so on. Some mention of this shop has come up more than once lately. Lord Harry Hanlon showed me a lovely little statue of a cherub he got there. You may be sure I rang a peel over him. I daresay we ought to report it to someone. Consider it reported—to you. You seem to be running the show at Ironmonger Lane. Mind you, I don’t know that it came from there, but the timing is certainly suspicious.”

  “I shouldn’t be a bit surprised. It would be a great help if you could find out who runs the operation, and also who collects mosaic work.”

  “I’ll see what I can learn and let you know. This seems an opportune time to ask if there is any chance of getting a look at the cellars in Ironmonger Lane.”

  “I’m sure it can be arranged for an expert like yourself to have a look. We don’t have to worry that you’ll be filling your pockets.”

  “Cross my heart!” Rochford said, laughing, and left.

  Luten looked about the room for his wife and was pleased to see her hurrying toward him, wearing a big smile. “I’ve found out something, Luten,” she said.

  “So have I. Are you willing to leave now?”

  “I don’t think I’ve missed anyone I wanted to talk to. I’ll just tell Prance we’re leaving. He might have learned something.”

  He had indeed learned something, but it had little to do with the job the Berkeley Brigade was handling. In fact it thrilled him to the core, though he felt modesty obliged him to pretend he was angry.

  She found him expostulating to a group of friends, “It is an outrage. I cannot imagine how such a thing happened.” He saw her and said, “Ah Corrie. You haven’t heard. Shocking! I couldn’t be angrier.”

  “Why? What has happened?” she asked in alarm. “Dreadful news.”

  “Not more depredations on Ironmonger Lane!”

  “In a way. Some scurvy fellow purloined Coffen’s sketch of me. You know the one, where I am declaiming, with Mona Lisa glaring at me in the background.”

  “Oh,” she said, hardly knowing why he was so angry. “I thought you disliked it. Coffen will do you another.”

  “I don’t want the thing.”

  “Then why are you angry?”

  “Because it is on the cover of the latest issue of the Satirist, that dreadful magazine that writes about the ton. Ronnie Mellon just told me it is in half the shop windows on Bond Street.”

  “Coffen will be famous,” she said. “Not that he will care.”

  “And I shall be infamous,” he said, raising his hand to his brow to concealed the glee he could not suppress.

  It didn’t take her long to realize that Prance was thrilled to death and just putting on a show. “Oh, if it offends you, I’m sorry, Prance. But really, you know, all famous people have to put up with that sort of thing. Prinny is caricatured every week and Byron used to be as well.”

  “I daresay you are right. Still, one feels one’s privacy has been invaded.”

  “Try to bear up,” she said. “I just came to tell you Luten and I are leaving. We have made a few discoveries. Come to the house early tomorrow and we’ll have a meeting. I’ll send word for Black and Coffen as well.”

  When she returned to Luten he said, “Has Reg learned anything?”

  “Yes, he has learned he is caricatured on the cover of some satirical magazine and in the shop windows. He’s pretending to be angry, but is so thrilled he didn’t even bother asking what we had learned. I told him to call tomorrow morning.”

  “Coffen’s sketch?” Luten asked, biting back a grin.

  “Of course. Prance won’t stay long tomorrow morning. He’ll want to be dashing off to buy copies of the magazine and see himself in the shop windows.”

  “I’m surprised he’s not out looking at the windows now.
”

  “Not till he’s enjoyed being outraged in front of his friends here.”

  Luten just shook his head. “It is odd he feels this need for attention, when he is so successful with his writing.”

  “Yes, I don’t understand him at all.” She glanced to where he stood in the middle of a group expostulating about the invasion of privacy.

  Luten looked too and said, “I’m glad it’s him and not you or I on display in shop windows. We never did learn what happened to that little sketch of you.”

  “It won’t turn up in a shop window. It didn’t make me look foolish enough. We must try not to laugh tomorrow when Prance tells Coffen and Black about the shop windows.” They left, arm in arm, smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Black and Coffen were bored with their night’s investigations. The guards reported that nothing suspicious was afoot on Ironmonger Lane. Neither Thomson nor Blackbeard showed up at Denny’s, and Denny told them neither of them had been in that day.

  “We might as well go home. Time to hit the tick,” Black said, stifling a yawn.

  Coffen was loath to go home without a clue to ponder. “Let us just have one more drive past the toy shop,” he said. “Won’t take long. I believe Fitz must know the way by now.”

  Fitz got them there with no difficulty. East, west, north and south meant nothing to him. With a little help from Mr. Pattle he had recently devised his own system for negotiating familiar routes based on “right” and “left” aided by familiar landmarks such as recognized buildings and monuments.

  Mr. Pattle had provided him with a dandy little ring with a blue stone to wear on his right hand, so he always knew which way was right. “Ring—right. They sound sort of the same, you see?” Fitz saw, and though the system was not foolproof, it had some success. The direction that wasn’t right was obviously left.

  Coffen told him to drive slowly past the toy shop, and even this he remembered and did. The toy shop was in darkness. He became confused when ordered to go home, however. The carriage was headed the wrong way. He had memorized the “right,” “left” directions for the carriage headed the opposite way. He’d go to the next corner and turn the rig around, then right would be left, and left would be right.