To Mourn a Murder

by Joan Smith

  "We were stung by the Bee," Luten replied curtly, and headed to the chair nearest the fire. The heat would ease the pain in his ankle. He hooked his cane around a footstool and drew it forward.

  "But what happened, Luten? If he didn't come, then at least Mrs. Webber still has her money. He'll write to her again."

  "Oh no, he got the money. He was waiting half a block from her house. Knocked her on the head as she hurried down the street, grabbed the money and ran off. After she recovered, she sent a footman to let Byron and the others know."

  Corinne gasped. "Was she badly hurt? Is she all right?"

  "She had recovered enough to have a hurried, whispered word with us at the front door, so the mother-in-law wouldn't know."

  "What a wretched way to live, the poor lady."

  "She was even afraid to call the doctor, though she had a wicked bump on the back of her head."

  "And after all that, he still has her letters."

  "No, that's the strangest part. The letters were in her hand when she came to, including the crucial one in which her lover was, apparently, indiscreet enough to put in writing things that cast doubt on her son's paternity. She didn't actually show us the letters. In fact, she planned to read them one last time and throw them into the fire. You could see it cost her to do it. She was very distraught."

  "At least she got them back. That's something."

  "Yes, I've been thinking about that. I don't like the implication."

  "What do you mean?" she asked in confusion. "Surely that suggests he doesn't intend to try to get more money from her."

  "She doesn't have any more, and I wager he knows it. What it suggests is that if his victims pay up, he won't harass them again. It's a sort of insurance to future victims. Pay up, and it's all over. Why would he be at pains to give that impression if he didn't plan to strike again?"

  "Then we haven't heard the last of him."

  "I hope not."

  "Luten!"

  "How the deuce are we to catch him if he stops now? Mrs. Webber couldn't give much of a description of him. A small man, she thought. I daresay it could even have been a woman in trousers. She didn't hear him–or her–speak. Lady Callwood, on the other hand, did. She says it was a man right enough, and although she couldn't judge his height in the carriage, she said he was a broad-shouldered man. It sounds as if there's more than one person involved."

  "Lady Jergen mentioned that the man in the carriage was smallish. It could have been a boy, or a woman," Corinne suggested. "Lady Callwood didn't mention a French accent?"

  "No. He'd be careful to hide it. The man said only a few words to her."

  After a moment, she asked, "Where are Coffen and the others?"

  "They should be along in a moment." He gave a frustrated look and said, "Prance wanted to go home first to see that his cat is all right."

  "Why, is there something the matter with Petruchio?"

  His expression softened in reluctant amusement. "He was feeling poorly after eating a cushion. Serves him right. Prance, I mean. He treats the animal like a little prince."

  As he spoke, the sound of the front door opening and men's voices echoed from the hallway. With Black on the job, it was not necessary for anyone to use the knocker. The gentlemen wore sheepish smiles as they came in. Luten's smile faded when he saw Byron had come along, but he was too proud to let any further trace of his annoyance show. After they were in, Coffen was the first to speak.

  He said, "Much ado about nothing, as the saying goes."

  Prance, his temper short from his wasted night, said, "That's not a saying. It's the title of a play."

  "It's a saying now. I’m saying it, ain't I?" Coffen looked around for the wine decanter and poured himself a glass.

  Black, hovering at the doorway, came forward to serve the others. "The sandwiches are on the way," he said aside to Coffen.

  Coffen nodded and smiled. "Good man."

  Luten, whose ankle was throbbing from the night's activities, felt a pang of remorse when he noticed that Byron's limp was more pronounced than usual. It must be hell to be saddled for life with that handicap. He said in a joking way, to remove the sting, "Sit here by the fire with me, Byron. The heat will do us two cripples good. We'll share the footstool."

  "I only plan to stay a moment," Byron said, and remained standing as he didn't want his orthopedic shoe on such prominent display.

  Prance lifted his coattails and perched on the arm of a chair. "I daresay Luten has told you of our disastrous failure?" he said to Corinne. He noticed her black dress and the walking shoes peeping out beneath the hem. He lifted an eyebrow and added in a low voice, "If it was necessary to tell you, c'est a dire?"

  Corinne was in no doubt as to his meaning. She should have changed her gown. "Yes, he told me. Pity," she said, and rushed on to mention that at least Mrs. Webber had her letters back.

  They discussed the evening's failure over sandwiches and coffee. After a few moments had passed, Byron slid quietly on to a chair.

  "Then you think we'll have another go at the Bee?" Byron asked, when Luten explained his theory. "We must try to get ahead of him the next time, figure out what he'll do, and be ready for him. It's unforgivable that we didn't foresee this simple stunt he pulled tonight. But how did he know we'd be there? That Mrs. Webber had consulted us, I mean?"

  "Staring us in the face," Coffen said. "The leak came from Lady Jergen's house. That's where we discussed it. Either a servant or one of the ladies themselves is in on it. It all centres around her house. That's what the victims have in common."

  "But Lady Callwood was the first victim," Byron pointed out, "and she was victimized before speaking to Lady Jergen."

  Prance looked all around, then said, "Or said she was. How do we know it's true? Her description of the attacker doesn't match Mrs. Webber's or Lady Jergen's, and we know Mrs. Webber was robbed. She has the bump on her head to prove it."

  "Lady Callwood wasn't there when we talked about intercepting the Bee tonight though," Byron mentioned.

  "She's sharp as a bodkin," Prance scoffed. "When one stops to think of it, our plan was so obvious a child could have foreseen it. She knew we planned to help Lady Jergen, and—"

  "But she didn't know Mrs. Webber had received a demand," Byron said.

  Luten listened, then said, "If she's the Bee or in league with him, she didn't have to be told. She obviously knew Mrs. Webber would be paying up tonight."

  Byron looked abashed, as did Prance. "You're right, of course," Byron said. "I hadn't thought of that."

  "Next time we don't tell any of them a thing," Coffen said.

  Luten had noticed Byron's quick defence of Lady Callwood. She was quite a beauty, married to an older man, and known to be a flirt. It was the talk of London that Byron couldn't resist a pretty woman. He almost boasted that his pockets were to let. Was it possible she and Byron were working together? If that were so, he doubted that France would benefit from it. More likely the two of them were planning to run off to the east together. Byron said quite openly he'd leave tomorrow if he weren't in hawk to his banker.

  But if Byron was the B–he noticed the interesting letter of his title–would he have asked the Berkeley Brigade to help him? He must have known that to ask Prance would lead to the involvement of the whole group. Was he thumbing his nose at them by that bold stunt?

  "I doubt there will be a next time, despite what you say, Luten," Prance said. "The Bee has gotten clean away with thirteen thousand pounds. Why risk his neck for more? It's our first failure."

  "What do you mean, failure!" Coffen bellowed. "We ain't giving up yet. We've only started. What we've got to do is look over our clues."

  "What clues would that be?" Prance asked with a withering stare. "The bump on Mrs. Webber's head?"

  "Lord Horner's carriage for one," Coffen shot back.

  "We don't know who bought it."

  "We know who didn't, and that whoever did went to a load of trouble to hide the fact. That carr
iage has got to be some place. What we've got to do is get busy and find it, and find out who's using it."

  "Which of the million or so persons in London do we begin with?" Prance asked.

  "We don't begin with persons. We begin with mews and stables. He's got to keep it some place. And if that don't work, we still have Brighton, where it all started."

  "Yes, several years ago," Prance reminded him. "One would have to be an archaeologist to dig up any clues there."

  "Then call me a narkologist, for I'm going. There's the servants to quiz as well, and the ladies' man or men of business. If they all use the same one - well, that'd be quite a coincidence. Who would know better how much money they have?"

  "I happen to know Lady Jergen's man of business is Mr. Appleby," Byron said. "He's Lady Melbourne's as well. They were discussing him the other evening."

  "You wouldn't know if he's Webber's or Callwood's?" Coffen asked.

  "No, but I expect I can find out from Lady Melbourne."

  "Good lad. There's a start then. I'll nip down to Brighton tomorrow. Have a look at the registry at that George Inn where Mrs. Webber and her doctor–" He glanced uneasily at Corinne and said, "you know." Byron flickered a smile in Corinne's direction and was pleased to receive an answering smile.

  "What will that tell you?" Prance asked.

  "I'll see who else was there at the time. And if Mrs. Webber wasn't there, it'll tell me she was lying her head off. She shed a few too many tears to convince me she was really sorry."

  Byron nodded. "A wise observation, Pattle. I was quite taken in at the time, but genuine grief is not usually so moist."

  "Crocodile tears," Coffen said. "And furthermore when I tried to see them letters over her shoulder tonight, she folded them up pretty quick."

  "She just might have considered them private," Prance said with heavy sarcasm.

  "Why? She'd already told us what was in them."

  "Still, a billet doux is a private letter, and it was farouche of you to try to read it."

  "And there's another thing," he continued, unphased. "We could check up on that Hart Inn near Bath and see if there really was a robbery there three years ago when she said her letters were stolen. Funny that whoever took them waited so long to sell them back to her."

  "She said two or three years ago," Prance said. "You won't prove anything that way. There was a rash of robberies at all the inns around that time. And the letters were hidden under the jewel case lining. He might not have discovered them until recently."

  "That's odd too," Coffen continued. "A thief don't usually keep a thing like that jewelry case to incriminate him. He'd grab the pearls and dump the box, the way the cut-purses do."

  Luten, watching Byron from the corner of his eye, said, "Let us not forget Lady Callwood. The crime for which she was held to ransom was theft.'

  ''She didn't steal the brooch though," Byron said at once. "It was actually given to her by her lover."

  "So she claims," Luten replied. "She might have stolen it and convinced her lover to protect her."

  "But then why tell us about it so frankly?" Byron parried. "What I wonder is how the Bee found out about it. Who would have read the Shepton journals? None of our suspects are from that area."

  "Oh journals have a way of getting around," Prance said airily. "Someone mentions a story like that to someone, sends them a copy. It needn't be a person who actually knows Lady Callwood. Her name appears in the social columns regularly. Someone put two and two together, that's all."

  When no one either argued or agreed, he changed the subject. "We know the Bee has a brash, taunting sense of humour. That business of calling himself Hummer and giving his address at Newman's stable as an apiary. I can see Lady Callwood enjoying that sort of jape."

  Byron nodded as if in agreement. When he rose to take his leave a moment later, he said to Luten, "I'll ask Lady Melbourne to find out if Appleby works for Lady Callwood or Mrs. Webber."

  "Thank you, Byron, that would help."

  As soon as the door closed behind him, Luten said, "Which of you is going to follow him?"

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Prance leapt to his feet. "Follow him?" he cried, high on his dignity. "No, that is going too far! Byron is a gentleman. You can't seriously believe he's in league with criminals who prey on helpless ladies!"

  Coffen squinted his eyes and said, "B." When this didn't seem to enlighten his listeners he added, "Byron - it starts with B, like Napoleon."

  "Like Bonaparte, you mean," Corinne said.

  "Exactly. That's what's bothering you is it, Luten, the coincidence?"

  "No, what's bothering me is how he invariably leaps to Lady Callwood's defence. Why doesn't he want us to investigate her? And which of you is going after him?"

  "This is utterly ridiculous," Prance scoffed. "Furthermore, Luten, was it really necessary of you to mention his club foot? You must know he's extremely sensitive about it."

  “I was trying to make him comfortable. I mentioned both our sore limbs.”

  "It's hardly the same thing. Your ankle will soon be better. For poor Byron the agony both emotional and physical is a life-long affliction."

  Black ducked his head into the room. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, your lordship," he said, addressing his words to Luten. "Since your carriages are all in for the night, I sent Jackie out to blow the whistle for a hackney. It's here. I watched which way his lordship's rig turned. If you put a wiggle on, you'll be able to follow him."

  "I'll go," Coffen said, and picking up another sandwich, he hurried out.

  Prance sniffed and said, "I wish to submit a formal objection to this procedure. I do not for one moment believe Byron is guilty of anything except being so handsome and dashing that other gentlemen," and here he glared at Luten, "are jealous of him."

  In an effort to calm the troubled waters, Corinne said, "This is ridiculous. If he's innocent, Prance, what harm is there to follow him?"

  "He is innocent! He's the one who brought us into this. I dislike to have my friends treated in this manner. Don’t tell meyou think he's guilty too?"

  "Of course not." She gave a quick, apologetic glance at Luten. "But what is the harm in proving it?"

  Luten said no more, but he noticed that Byron had already stirred up dissension in the ranks. Luten was annoyed with Prance for questioning his decision, and with Corinne at so quickly proclaiming she believed the poet innocent. If he didn't quash the rebellion in the beginning, he'd end up losing his Brigade—and possibly his fiancée.

  "Your objection has been noted, Prance. I stand by my decision." He waited for an answer. When Prance didn't storm out but only pouted, he turned to Corinne. "It's late, my dear. We'll let you get to bed now."

  "I'm just leaving," Prance said. He bowed to Corinne and headed for the door.

  Luten turned a questioning gaze on his fiancée. His eyes toured from her black curls down over her plain black bombazine gown to her walking shoes. "Have I told you how charming you look in black, Countess?" he asked, but there was no flattery in his accent. Luten only called her Countess when he was annoyed with her. His knowing eyes held knowledge and–was that a twinkle of amusement? It was all right, then. He knew she had followed them, and didn't mind.

  He took his leave of her and hurried after Prance, who had already crossed the street. Knowing he wouldn't sleep, Luten read the news in the journal until he heard the sounds of a carriage in the street, then he went to the door and called Coffen inside. "Did he go straight home?" he asked.

  "No, but he didn't call on Lady Callwood either. He went to his club–Alfred's. I waited half an hour, then came home. I think, myself, he's all right, Luten."

  "Very likely, but better safe than sorry."

  "There was one curious thing. Danby was at the club as well. He left shortly after Byron arrived. His excuse for being at Newman's stable t'other day was that he was hiring a rig. He'd had an accident with his. But he was still using a hack
ney cab tonight. Of course he may not have found anything to suit him at Newman's. A bit of a coincidence the way he keeps turning up.”

  “He's too rich to bother with such petty pilfering as this."

  "So he says. You could look into it, eh? Mean to say, ask around at the House if anyone knows what he's doing with his blunt. He wouldn't leave it in Consols at small interest. Fellows with that kind of money usually do things with it. Business things."

  Luten listened with interest, "How long after Byron arrived did Danby leave?"

  "About ten minutes. Plenty long enough for them to have had a word, if that's what you're getting at, that they'd arranged to meet there."

  "I'll make a few enquiries about Danby tomorrow. Meanwhile, Coffen, it might be best if you delay your trip to Brighton and keep an eye on Danby."

  "What about Byron?"

  Luten's nostrils flared. "I fancy Prance will be holding his hand."

  "There's a few more things we ought to be looking into as well. Find out more about all the victims' servants, that sort of thing."

  "Corinne might be of some help there. She could ask the ladies to tea and quiz them discreetly."

  "Yes, you don't want to leave her out entirely or she'll end up getting herself into mischief. Not that that old black gown she was wearing–"

  "I noticed the black gown and walking shoes. I hope she had the sense to take Black with her tonight."

  "He'd not let her go alone. A good man, Black, even if his name does start with a B."

  Luten smiled at this irrelevancy, then said, "I wonder where the man who killed Queen Mab got those dozen or so bees he sprinkled over the corpse. If Lady Callwood was telling the truth, I mean."

  "A good question. Bees don't grow on trees. A fellow might get one or two in a park, though I haven't seen any about in this season. But a dozen? Sounds like a beekeeper. I'll bear it in mind."

  The investigation went forward the next day. Coffen undertook to question the servants of all the Berkeley Brigade and found out that Luten's upstairs maid, Meg, was cousin to Lady Callwood's cook. Meg was given an afternoon off to call on her cousin. None of their coachmen knew Danby's coachman, or even what sort of rig Danby drove.