by Joan Smith
“Well, a start at least,” Luten said.
“That’s a pretty tall order, after all this time,” Black said.
“We must find out more about Burnes’s activities. He might have mentioned the meeting to someone. It’s hard to believe he was in the vicinity of the toy shop by chance the night he was murdered.”
“Coincidence,” Coffen said, shaking his head in dissatisfaction. He had the greatest mistrust of coincidence. “I’ll wager he was lured there, most likely by Leclerc trying to strike some sort of deal with him. What we’ve got to do is find out who Burnes might have told, if he told anyone besides the Museum. We don’t suspect them, eh Luten?”
“I think not.”
“Right, me and Black will get to work on it.”
“I was about to suggest it, Mr. Pattle,” Black said. “We know where Burnes was living. That’ll be a start.”
“Townsend can help us,” Luten added. “He can drum up men to put on the job. Someone might have seen something the night Burnes was killed.”
“I daresay the dog lady could tell us plenty,” Corinne said.
“Yes, milady, but she won’t tell any more than Leclerc will,” Black pointed out. “She’s in on it. Close as inkle-weavers, the pair of them.”
“I daresay you’re right,” Corinne agreed. But she might reveal something if she didn’t know why she was being quizzed.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Prance asked, hoping no one would have a suggestion.
After a moment, Luten said, “You might want to have a word with Binwell. Let him know you had no idea you would be on the cover of that magazine, and that you are highly displeased. You wouldn’t want him to get the notion you arranged it yourself.”
“You are clever, Luten. I shall do that at once.” As soon as he made a quick tour of the shop windows.
“Let him know it’s Berkeley Brigade business,” Coffen suggested.
“I doubt that would help,” Prance said, not quite sneering.
“That’s where you’re wrong. He loves us. What we do, I mean. Action. Said so himself.”
“Indeed?” Prance said, wondering what Coffen had misunderstood. As if a scholar like Sir Scott took an interest in any crime that did not involve archaeology.
Chapter Twenty-three
As soon as the group disbursed, Corinne went in search of Mrs. Ballard and found her in the back garden, knitting a baby bonnet for the future Lord Luten. She would wait until after the birth before adding the blue ribbons, just in case.
“Have there been new developments, milady?” Mrs. Ballard asked eagerly, and Corinne related what had been discussed during the meeting.
“Oh I do wish I could help,” her companion said, hoping to hear her mistress had an idea, for she did not often seek her companion out just to chat. How delightful it was to be needed, or at least wanted. She had not been raised for a life of ease. She felt guilty taking so much from milady, and contributing so little.
“Mam’selle Marie doesn’t seem to go anywhere but to her shop and the toy shop, and she doesn’t actually go into the front of the shop either place,” Lady Luten said with a sigh. “I just don’t know where we can get at her.”
“I always trim my own bonnets,” Mrs. Ballard said. When her mistress raised her eyebrows in interest, she continued. “I could go to the shop and ask if they need any help. Mam’selle goes there from time to time. I daresay the women working in the shop know a good deal about her.” She was rewarded with a flash of approval from milady’s emerald eyes.
“It would help, but I doubt they would hire you without references.” Then she paused, gave one of her slightly wicked grins and said, “I usually buy my bonnets from Madame Soulange. She is considered the top milliner in London. I wonder now if we said you had worked for her ... Oh, but I could not ask you to lie, of course.”
“Oh no, milady,” Mrs. Ballard said regretfully. Within the blink of an eye she continued. “We would have to have a note from Madame Soulange saying how good I was. And of course giving an excuse for my leaving her shop. I could just give the note to whomever is in the shop and tell her who it is from, and it will be, so it is not a lie. I could ask that the reply be sent to Baker Street without actually saying I live there.” She looked hopefully to her mistress to see if she approved of this ruse.
“You’re a caution, Mrs. Ballard! I shall have to purchase an extremely expensive bonnet from Madame,” Corinne said with an approving chuckle. “Perhaps she would write that you had to leave for family reasons a few months ago, and as she has hired a replacement she cannot take you back at the moment.”
“You haven’t had a new bonnet this season, as you are not going about much,” Mrs. Ballard said leadingly.
“Very true. And with summer coming on I shall require a straw bonnet. I shall ask Evans to call the carriage.”
Within the hour Lady Luten left Madame Soulange’s shop with a delightful new summer bonnet and a note addressed “To whom it may concern,” praising the work of Miss Gertrude Perkins, which was Mrs. Ballard’s maiden name. This half fib was acceptable as it was really just a little error in chronology.
After all, she was still exactly the same person as when she was Miss Perkins, only older. Mrs. Ballard was let down a block from Mam’selle’s shop and walked the rest of the way. Mam’selle was not in the shop that day, but Miss Perkins left off the note. She was interested to see business was brisk at the height of the Season. Mam’selle might very well require another trimmer.
Luten paid another call on Lord Rochford, who had been busy contacting fellow collectors and heard a rumour that Sir Gerard Phipps was the fellow who collected Roman mosaics. Apparently he dealt with a Frenchman out of a shop on Tottenham Court Road. A fellow with a black beard. Phipps was impressed with the Frenchman’s knowledge of Roman relics.
Luten had no trouble identifying the shop. “Could you find out if the seller is a Monsieur Leclerc?” Luten asked. “And if Phipps has recently made a purchase, or is planning to make one in the near future?”
“He mentioned having got a lead on something rather special for the floor of his conservatory.”
“It would be a great help if you would speak to him very soon and let me know when he is to take delivery. It is an urgent matter, Rochford.”
“The Frenchman doesn’t deliver. It seems the purchaser has to go and pick up the items. Phipps is usually at his club. A bachelor, you know, with time and money on his hands. I’ll run along now, as you’re in a rush. And when am I to get my tour of Ironmonger Lane?”
“I’ll drop around there now, if you like, and tell the guards you are to be admitted. There will be someone from the Museum there to show you about.”
* * *
Prance made his call on Scotty Binwell. His spirits fell when he saw Mr. Besner was with him, smirking. “Ha, Sir Reginald!” Besner crowed, brandishing the latest copy of the Satirist. “I thought it would be a statue of Minerva or Venus in the background, not Mona Lisa.”
“At least she is an old Roman,” Prance said with a weak smile. Besner’s smirk widened to a grin.
“We were just discussing your fame, Sir Reginald,” Besner sneered. “Or do I mean infamy? Hardly the image we want for the Society. Making a laughing stock of us.”
Prance picked up the cudgel and responded. “I don’t see that it reflects badly on the Society,” he said, peering to see Scotty’s reaction. He looked undecided which way to jump. Besner had certainly been filling his ears with tales of how this trivialized the important work of the Society. Since the deed was done, and really Prance would not have undone it if he could, he must make the best of it.
“After all, we are not a bunch of recluses. Surely we want to attract bright, active young men into the Society, the sort of fellows with the connections to get things done. Prod the government to enact legislation to protect our Roman heritage. Fellows like Castlereagh and Luten and Elgin with the government’s ear.” These gentlemen had all been at Cor
inne’s party.
“Preferably without making us look like clowns,” Besner shot back. Scotty said nothing. His head turned from one to the other as they spoke. The combatants both felt he could be talked around.
Prance rose to the challenge. If talking could do it, he’d take on the whole Society. “If you call being on the cover of a national magazine being a clown, then you are denigrating not only the subject of last month’s cover, the Prince Regent, but his brothers as well. All the royal dukes have been the subject of these caricatures.”
“Exactly my point,” Besner snapped back. “It is pretty generally accepted that our Prince Regent is a joke, a complete disaster, to say nothing of the Duke of Clarence, and his dozen or so by-blows with Mrs. Jordan. The Prince is fortunate if he can be seen in public without being jeered and laughed at. What was it Leigh Hunt called him in The Examiner? ‘A libertine over head and ears in debt and disgrace,’ ‘the companion of gamblers and demireps’ along with other well-merited insults.”
Prance gave a tsk of reproof. “You must really watch what you say, Besner, or you will join the Hunt brothers in gaol. That sort of talk borders on treason.” He turned to Scotty. “The Hunts got two years, I believe, for publishing that sort of thing. It would do our Society no good for one of its more prominent members to be gaoled for treason.”
Besner cast a wary glance at Scotty and said, “I only repeat what everyone says. Everyone knows Prince George is an overweight roué.”
“But well disposed towards the arts and sciences,” Prance countered, and rushed on to let them know he was personally acquainted with the Prince. “I always find him delightfully willing, nay eager, to promote the arts when speaking with him. In any case we loyal Englishmen realize one owes honour to the position, if not the current incumbent, of the position.”
Prance was then struck with the awful idea that Sir Scott, from Scotland, might not share this lofty philosophy as it related to the Hanoverian monarchy.
“It is not the prince we are discussing, but you, Sir Reginald,” Besner said.
“I am happy to hear it, for I do not have to answer for your implied charges against me. I am neither a libertine, nor overweight, nor head over ears in debt, nor do I consort with either gamblers or demireps. You had a sample of my friends at Lady Luten’s little soiree.”
Scotty nodded and delivered his verdict. “There is something in what Sir Reginald says, Besner. Prinny could be of great help to us if we play our cards right. Our membership is composed largely of elderly academics and young scholars. We don’t have a young membership with any influence where it counts. Fellows like Lord Luten, you know, could do us the world of good. Government grants, and so on. Well, only look how he took charge of safeguarding the relics at Ironmonger Lane. Neither you nor I could have done it.”
“Yes, fellows like Lord Luten. He has never, to my knowledge, been held up to ridicule by a jape such as this,” Besner said, again flourishing the infamous magazine.
“Well, I cannot say that I see any harm in it,” Scotty said. “Sir Reginald is a well-known society figure. His literary works and his association with the Berkeley Brigade put him in the limelight. Our Society is not what leaps to mind when one looks at this caricature, but to have a fellow like Sir Reginald touting our work to his friends can do no harm, and might do us a deal of good.”
“If you really think the likes of Coffen Pattle will do us any good!” Besner scoffed, and threw the magazine aside.
“Mr. Pattle happens to be an extremely capable fellow, and a good friend of mine,” Sir Scott said, becoming irate. Prance blinked twice and had the sense to hold his tongue.
Besner saw the caricature was working in Prance’s favour and dropped the subject. “I trust you and all your important friends are taking good care of the remains on Ironmonger Lane, Prance?”
“Certainly we are, and we are well on our way to discovering who is responsible for what has been going on there as well.”
“Indeed?” Besner exclaimed. “Who—”
“Our investigations are not made public until we have wrapped the case up,” Prance said vaguely. “I can give you a hint, however. There is a French connection.”
“Bonaparte!” Scotty exclaimed.
The conversation was peacefully diverted to a discussion of Napoleon’s depredations in Italy and Egypt. Scotty said, “At least the Frenchies are keeping excellent records of what they removed from Egypt.”
“You are speaking of the publications put out by the government Commission for Research of Artistic and Scientific Objects in Conquered Countries,” Besner said at once. Prance, not familiar with the publications, nodded wisely and remained quiet. Besner and Scotty discussed them, with Scotty ruing that the sumptuous works in twenty-four volumes would be of great interest to the Society, but were, alas, prohibitively expensive.
“Sounds like the very sort of project Prinny would be happy to arrange,” Prance said. Besner feared his enemy had clinched Sir Scott’s support and realized he must have time to think, to rework his campaign.
The gentlemen soon parted without further open rancour. As the callers left together, Besner even apologized for his rant and said he hoped Sir Reginald had not taken it amiss. “Nothing personal, I assure you. My enthusiasm got a little away from me.”
“No hard feelings,” Prance said. He was feeling generous as he had got the better of his competition.
“I didn’t realize you Berkeley Brigade chaps were handling the matter.”
“With Townsend’s help,” Prance said. “We frequently work with him.”
“Is there anything I could do to help discover who these French villains are?”
“I believe we can manage, but thank you for the offer. I’ll bear it in mind.”
“They wouldn’t happen to operate out of the Olde Toy Shoppe?” Besner asked with a rather coy grin.
“Why do you say that, Besner?” Prance asked, to learn if he had had any success.
“Rumours,” Besner said, waving his hand vaguely. “Perhaps you are not familiar with the place. It’s a little shop that sells reproductions of Roman relics, among other tawdry items. We—actually Scotty, fears that authentic pieces are used as models of the relics as the designs are credible. Perhaps the originals are even being sold under the table, as it were. He asked me to look into it, but he is tilting at windmills. The designs are not that good, likely based on illustrations. I have discovered no French connection with the place. You mentioned a French connection ...”
Prance ignored the hint for information. “Who owns the shop? Did you happen to discover that?” he asked.
“The clerk told me it was a Mr. Greene, but I couldn’t get an address out of him. Greene doesn’t seem to take an active interest. I might be able to find out, if you think it important?”
“No, not at all,” Prance said at once. He didn’t want to reveal the shop’s importance to outsiders. His carriage was waiting in the street. Seeing no carriage waiting for Besner, she said, “Can I drop you somewhere, Besner?”
“No, I live close by, thank you.”
“Bond Street, Pelkey,” Prance called to his groom, and proceeded for another look at the shop windows, well pleased with his morning, and marveling that Coffen had ingratiated himself with Scotty after only one meeting. “A good friend,” Scotty had called him. Prance could not think of two people with less in common, unless it should be Scotty and Black.
Chapter Twenty-four
At five o’clock that afternoon Mrs. Ballard received a note from her friend on Baker Street. Enclosed was a note from Mam’selle Marie asking if Miss Perkins could come in for an interview in the morning to discuss a position. Mam’selle would be at the shop from ten till twelve. Mrs. Ballard hastened off to tell her mistress, who was as excited as her companion.
“Yes, you must certainly go. Write at once and tell her. We cannot send the reply by a footman in livery, however.”
“Certainly not! Perhaps the backhouse boy?”
Mrs. Ballard suggested.
“The very thing. Ask Evans to send Joey up.”
Joey, the youngster in charge of bringing up coal from the cellar, emptying ashes and such menial chores, did not wear livery. While Miss Perkins wrote a reply to her message, Joey was given his instructions and told to “clean himself up.” He was happy to get out of the house for an hour on a fine spring day. It was unlikely that anyone at the shop would question him, but if asked, he was to say he came from Baker Street. Mrs. Ballard pretended not to hear this. Joey had no objection to telling a little fib.
* * *
Black and Coffen began looking into the past of Mr. Burnes by returning to his flat for a closer examination of what was left behind. Unfortunately they learned from the janitor that the flat was now occupied by an elderly widow. There was nothing to see there in any case. The janitor told them Mr. Burnes’s effects had been picked up by a friend the day after he was killed. As there was nothing of value in the rooms and the landlord was eager to find a new tenant, few questions had been asked.
A friend! This was an unexpected stroke of luck. “What was his name?” Coffen asked.
After a frowning pause, the janitor said, “He didn’t say, nor I didn’t ask either.”
“What did the fellow look like?” Coffen began twirling a coin between his fingers as an enticement to memory.
“Oh he was a gent. A youngish man, good looking, barring the black beard.”
Coffen and Black exchanged a speaking glance. “Was he a Frenchman?” Coffen asked.
The janitor seemed surprised, even offended, at the question. “A Frenchie here? Not likely! He didn’t have no accent anyhow. No, he was a gentleman. He even had a carriage and give me a shilling for helping him bring down Burnes’s bit of things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Clothes mostly.”
“Books, statues?” Coffen urged.
“No, nothing like that. I helped him pack. Plus it was my job to see he didn’t take away the furnishings. We let the place furnished.”
