To Mourn a Murder

by Joan Smith

  As he took a closer look at Mrs. Webber, the word "churchy" came to mind due to the prissy way she held her lips. This was fast followed by "dowdy," neither one of which he associated with showing off, except for an occasional preacher. No lady with the slightest interest in causing a stir would be caught dead in that drab, dove grey gown she had on. Despite both the lips and the grey gown, he decided she was really quite pretty, you just wouldn't notice it to look at her. Nice glossy brown hair that you couldn't appreciate under that plain round bonnet without either a flower or a feather to dress it up. And a good pair of brown eyes to go with it.

  She put a hand on either cheek and said in a strangled voice that took him right back to his first impression, "I'm so ashamed of myself. I feel such a Jezebel! I should never have done it." She turned a tearful gaze on Lord Byron and said in a voice trembling like an Italian tenor, "But if you have ever loved, Lord Byron, you will understand my feelings."

  Coffen watched Prance bridle up when she left him out of that speech. And with some reason. After all, it was the Berkeley Brigade that was to pull her chestnuts from the fire. But that was the way with the ladies. No other man existed when Byron was in the room. He was like a flame. They couldn't take their eyes off him.

  "I not only understand, Madam, I approve," Byron replied, as he led her back to the sofa. "But then I've lived in other moral climes than England, climes where love is recognized as a virtue, and such things as enforced chastity are not taken for granted."

  Coffen expected that Mrs. Webber's churchy lips would pinch at this unchristian view, but she just smiled that simple smile all the ladies wore when Byron was spouting his immoralities. He could be telling her he had a cloven hoof under that built-up shoe of his and she'd go right on smiling like a moonling.

  The gentlemen were seated, tea was poured and they settled in to discuss the matter. With shy looks and much lip biting and hand wringing, Mrs. Webber told her story, which left Coffen free to indulge in two pieces of dandy gingerbread.

  "After my first husband died," she began, "many years ago when I was just two and twenty, I felt my life was over. For twelve months I neither went out nor saw company. I scarcely bothered to eat. In fact I became so frail that my aunt, with whom I was living, called a doctor." A faraway look came into her eyes. "That was how I met Andrew Hale," she said. "He was a new young doctor in Brighton at that time. He was a natural healer. He didn't pamper or cosset me. He ordered me to eat. It was just what I needed—a firm hand.

  "And he made me go out for drives and walks. He–he accompanied me to make sure I went,” she said shyly. "That is how it began, all innocently. He had his way to make in the world and I had no dowry to speak of. Mr. Webber had a summer cottage at Brighton. He saw me at a small private party and fell in love with me. I'm sure I don't know what he saw in me! But he began to call and before I returned to London, he offered for me."

  Tears pooled in her fine eyes and her voice sank to a whisper. "It was the hardest decision I ever had to make. The bit of money my first husband left me was nearly gone. The aunt I was living with couldn't afford to keep me. I had no skills to earn my living. Andrew wanted to marry me, but he was living in two rooms under the eaves in a little cottage. It was impossible! I had to accept Mr. Webber's offer, which I did, for Andrew's sake as well as my own. But the night before I left Brighton for London to be married I—”

  Her head fell to her chest and she took a deep breath before lifting her head and looking her listeners–really Lord Byron–in the eye before continuing. "I spent that night with Andrew in a small inn just outside Brighton," she said in a choked whisper. "And I lied about it! I told my aunt I was leaving for London a day earlier than I really was. I felt I deserved that one night of happiness if I had to live the rest of my life with a man I didn't love, and without Andrew. Andrew was gone when I awoke in the morning. He had left a letter–such a lovely letter–on the pillow for me, along with one red rose. I never saw him again. I heard later from my aunt that he had returned to Scotland. All I had left of him was my poor faded rose and those letters." A silent tear trickled unheeded down her cheek as she gazed off into the distance, remembering.

  Prance, who was easily moved, daubed at his moist eyes. Lady Jergen was sniffling into a handkerchief and Byron looked entirely sympathetic. Coffen felt an urge to clap but suppressed it.

  "If you don't mind my asking, Mrs. Webber," he said, "how did it come you and Doctor Hale was writing each other letters when you both lived in Brighton and met often?"

  "They were mostly just notes, arranging visits, you know, to meet at such and such a place, but expressed somewhat warmly. It was only his last letter that gives my sin away. I should have burned it, of course, but how could I?" Coffen recognized a rhetorical question and didn't interrupt her. "It was my dearest possession."

  He nodded. "I can see you'd want to keep it. How long ago did you lose it?"

  "Oh, it was a few years," she said vaguely. "Two, three—I can't be sure. Time has little meaning to me now."

  "How did it happen?"

  "I was traveling with my mama-in-law. My room was broken into when we were at Bath. We were on our way to visit friends in the Cotswolds. We actually remained in Bath a week with Webber's sister. We wouldn't have been at the inn if our carriage hadn't broken down outside of Bath. That was late at night, so we had to put up at an inn until morning."

  "What inn?" Coffen asked.

  "The Hart. It's considered quite a decent place, I believe, but three rooms were broken into that night while we slept. Imagine! We might have been—" She came to a discreet halt, but her downcast eyes revealed the fate worse than death she was too modest to utter. "He took my jewelry box with the letters hidden under the lining in the bottom. The police never caught the fellow. I had only a set of pearls with me and didn't mind losing them. It was the loss of my dear letters that I have regretted ever since. I know them by heart, but I have nothing to touch." She drew a soft sigh and said wistfully, "Touching them was a comfort, somehow. It seemed to bring Andrew closer."

  "And now, it seems," Prance said, "the fellow who took your jewelry box has found another means of robbing you."

  "It would almost be worth the five thousand pounds to get my letters back," she said in a small, sad voice.

  "About that five thousand pounds," Coffen said, "where did it come from, if you don't mind my asking? You mentioned neither you nor Hale had any money."

  "I managed to save a little from the allowance Mr. Webber gave me. I invested–oh not in Consols!–in a shipbuilding company a friend recommended. It proved to be an excellent investment. Webber was not ungenerous when he was alive," she said, her voice hardening. "It was only after he died that I learned my fate. He left me nothing! It seemed the money was all his mama's. He only managed it for her. Her fortune is to go to my son, little Harold, when he reaches his maturity and in the interval is under her control. I have to go to her for every sou I spend."

  That explained the dowdy clothes to Coffen's satisfaction.

  "That's intolerable," Prance cried.

  "Indeed it is, and if she ever suspected for one instant that her son was not little Harold's papa, she would cut us both off without a cent."

  "Do you think he is Andrew Hale's son?" Byron asked. "Can you tell from his appearance?"

  She shook her head. "I think Webber is his papa. Both gentlemen were of middle size with dark hair and eyes. Andrew had a sweeter look about him which is lacking in little Harold, though I love him dearly! He has the Webber mouth. I'm morally certain Webber is his papa, but frankly I don't really care. I love him either way and would hate to see him lose his patrimony. It's not for myself that I worry. I hope you don't think me so selfish. I did wrong and am willing to pay the price, but to see my son cheated for my sins! It is almost more than a mother can bear."

  At the end of this speech she broke down into hard sobbing. Lady Jergen patted her shoulder and the gentlemen looked uncomfortable. When Mrs. Webber h
ad her emotions under control she apologized. "I don't know what you must think of me," she said, again directing her words to Byron, who assured her that he admired both her courage and generosity of spirit.

  His own mama had lacked any maternal instincts. Her notion of mothering was to attack him with poker and tongs, or throw a jug at him and send him off to boarding school.

  "About your warning from the Bee," Byron said, "do you happen to have the letter with you?"

  She drew it from her reticule and handed it to him. Lady Jergen gave him her second letter to compare. Both letters were on the same sort of anonymous white note paper, both written in the same rounded handwriting, both signed with a sketch of a bee.

  "What does it say?" Coffen asked, peering to get a look.

  Byron read: Madam, does your mother-in-law know where you spent the night of July 5, 1805? I do, and I have proof. If you care to purchase these valuable items from me, come alone to the corner of Bedford Place and Great Russell Street at midnight tomorrow night with five thousand pounds. There will be a hackney waiting. Get in, and we shall exchange valuables. " He looked around at the others.

  Coffen reached out and took the letters to examine for clues. "Certainly written by the same fellow," was his unstartling conclusion. "Signed with the bee and all. This address, Mrs. Webber, is it close to where you live?"

  "Only a block away. I live on Montague Street. I'm surprised he was so considerate. I don't have a carriage, you see, and Mrs. Webber is rather mean about lending me hers." Heads shook in sympathy.

  "It's his usual modus operandi," Prance explained to Coffen.

  Coffen had, by this time, a hazy understanding of the phrase. "Anyhow, he's played right into our hands," he said. "We'll be there to meet him." He turned a harsh face to the ladies and said, "Mind you don't tell a soul! And let us know toot sweet if he pushes the meeting forward."

  "I've spoken to my man about arranging the funds," Mrs. Webber said. "Should I go to meet this Bee person?"

  "Go right along as if you intended to pay him, but we'll be there waiting to see he doesn't get your blunt," Coffen said. "We'll haul him off to Bow Street for you."

  Mrs. Webber turned her pale face, anxious with worry, to Byron. "My name won't have to come out, will it? Surely you can prevent it, Lord Byron."

  "I shall certainly try, Madam. I'm sure I can keep it out of the journals in any case. A written deposition–it might be arranged quietly, without your mother-in-law's finding out. I take it that is your chief concern?"

  "That and little Harold. I would hate for him to think ill of me."

  The details were arranged and the gentlemen rose to leave, in a flurry of gratitude and tears and reassurances.

  As he shook Mrs. Webber's hand, Coffen said, "Do you happen to remember the name of the inn where you spent the night before leaving Brighton?"

  She tilted her had to one side and smile sadly. "As if I shall ever forget! It was called the George."

  "I seem to remember there's three or four Georges in and around Brighton."

  "This one was on the main road to London, a little Tudor place, half-timbered, with a big mulberry tree shadowing the courtyard."

  "I know the place. And what was your name at that time, before you married Webber?"

  "Mrs. Harper. Why do you ask? Surely that is nothing to account, Mr. Pattle."

  "It's my modus operandi," he said, trusting Latin would be as obscure to her as it usually was to himself. Then he bowed and darted out after the others.

  Prance was shaking his head as they got into the carriage. "Poor lady," he said. "Really the Bee is getting out of control. We must stop him."

  "There's nothing so contemptible as a man preying on a helpless woman," Byron scowled. "What we ought to do is run the bounder through with cold steel. That would solve the privacy problem for Mrs. Webber. It does seem a shame that she should be dragged into court on his account. All it would take to prevent it is one well-placed blade, or bullet. I'm in practise from working out at Manton's."

  Prance patted his arm gently. "I wasn't referring to murder. That is not the way the Berkeley Brigade operates, Byron. A little bending of the law is allowed when it is a case of a life for a life, but a life for five thousand pounds! No, it will not fadge. Human life is priceless."

  "Seems to me some lives are worthless."

  "Meaning the Bee's."

  "I would call him a son-of-a-b," he growled.

  "Thing to do, Byron," Coffen said, "give him a sound thrashing before we take him to Bow Street. Draw his cork, darken his daylights. That'll get rid of your temper without getting us tossed into jail."

  "It's the hot Byron blood rising in me. I come from a violent tribe. I wouldn't be the first Byron with blood on his hands. You're right, of course, Pattle. The voice of reason."

  Prance smiled. "From Coffen Pattle, of all people."

  Byron examined Coffen with interest, then said to Prance, "There's more to your friend than meets the eye."

  "And that is saying a good deal," Prance replied, eyeing Coffen's corpulent frame.

  "Why thankee," Coffen said, blushing and unoffended.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  Coffen and Prance got a glimpse of Luten's empty carriage leaving Berkeley Square as Byron delivered them home. They exchanged a silent glance that spoke volumes of their guilt. Byron deposited his passengers at Prance's door and drove off. It had been arranged that they would meet at the corner of Bedford Place and Great Russell Street at eleven-thirty the next night to catch the Bee.

  This now seemed a mere frolic compared to the greater unpleasantness of having to tell Luten what they had been up to behind his back. They both agreed it was time he was informed. Lord Luten was the unofficial leader of the Berkeley Brigade. It was tacitly understood that he selected which cases they should undertake. He did not take the most active part, but he directed them. They watched a moment as Byron's carriage disappeared around the corner. Luten wouldn't like it that Byron had got them into this affair.

  "Luten's back," Prance said.

  "I saw his rig."

  "Shall we call on him now?"

  "Might as well get it over with. You tell him," Coffen said.

  "It might come better from you."

  "Why me? You're the one started it."

  "Oh very well, if you're afraid of him."

  "I ain't afraid. I just don't like it when he stares at me with them steely eyes. Makes me feel like a dashed truant."

  "Shall we ask Corrie along with us? She'll be interested as well."

  "A good idea. He won't cut up too stiff in front of her. And he'll be pleased she didn't tag along with Byron."

  While they were still discussing their strategy, Corinne's door opened and her butler, Black, came darting out. His black hair, dark visage and black suit always reminded Coffen of an undertaker. What he lacked in looks he more than made up in ingenuity and service to his mistress. His one aim in life was to please her. To this end he scrutinized every move of her associates on Berkeley Square. No caller or carriage arrived or left without his knowing it and informing her ladyship if it might conceivably be of interest to her. He was also an ardent eavesdropper, so that he might foresee and provide what she required without her asking.

  "He's in here with her," was Black's manner of informing them that Lord Luten was with Lady deCoventry. He had, of course, been listening in on her conversation with Luten and knew as much about the Bee as she did. "You might as well come in. She's told him where you were, and all about it." This, at least, was good news as it relieved Prance of one unpleasant duty.

  "Thank you, Black," Prance said meekly, and they went in.

  Lady deCoventry had had to leave her husband's entailed mansion on Grosvenor Square at the time of his death. Knowing the nip-cheese way of his younger brother and heir, deCoventry had made financial arrangements for his widow before dying. He had left her the elegant little house in which she now resided, along with a house in the
country and twenty-five thousand pounds. Wisely invested, the interest on her capital provided her a respectable but not lavish allowance.

  With Prance's help she had contrived a pretty drawing room with fine furnishings scaled to match the room's dimensions. Prance and Coffen entered together, wearing ill-at-ease smiles that froze to rictus stiffness when Luten turned his icy gaze on them.

  "So, I hear you have gone into business for yourself, Prance," was his greeting, but uttered in a bantering tone.

  "You were so busy I didn't want to bother you," Prance said. "I thought at the beginning, you see, that it was an isolated case, but now–"

  "Corinne has filled me in on the background," he said. "Let us hear what happened today."

  Corinne's companion, Mrs. Ballard, came pattering in to say good day, and wasn't it chilly for the time of year, though the grate took the nip off, and would they care for some coffee. Corinne had been shy of the servants when she first married. To make her comfortable, her husband had imported his mousiest relative, the relict of a country vicar, to keep her company. Mrs. Ballard remained on after deCoventry's death to lend the young widow propriety. It was understood that she would likewise remain with Corinne when she was elevated to Lady Luten.

  Corinne said coffee would be lovely, and Mrs. Ballard scampered out, her duty done. It would be for Black to deliver the coffee. The new arrivals found seats.

  "Well?" Luten said, fixing Prance with a hard stare.

  "There's been another demand," Prance said. "That makes three, and there's no saying it won't become an epidemic."