To Mourn a Murder

by Joan Smith

  "So where do we go from here?" Corinne asked.

  "I don't know about the rest of you," Coffen said, "but I'm going to Brighton and find out what's really going on. If there was a crested rig at the George, everyone in the tap room would have been ogling it. One of them's got to have a good description of who was in it. If Mam'selle Grolier was at the Pantheon tonight, she must have left her shop early. The local folks will know that as well. Your Mam'selle Grolier has a little explaining to do, Prance."

  "I don't consider her my property, actually. You're welcome to try your charms on her," Prance said with a dismissing smirk.

  "Charm bedamned. I'm going to try money. I'll ask around town and see if she had a beau from London. If she has, I'll get his description and find out if he was seen in Brighton the day the crested carriage was at the George. They notice stuff like that in a small town. There's all kinds of things to do. What will the rest of you do while I'm gone?"

  Luten gritted his teeth and said, "Wait to hear who the Bee's next victim is."

  "You ought to visit Mrs. Webber, Corrie," Coffen suggested.

  She frowned. "Why?"

  "Because she came from a place not far from Shepton, where Lady Callwood snitched that brooch and could have heard about it, or read it in the local journal."

  "How do you know where she's from?"

  "Prance told me where Callwood got herself in trouble. Cousin Elvira Pattle lives near there and always knows all the news. I had a bit of time on my hands when I was tied up with this bum knee. I wrote to Cousin Elvira and gave her the names of all the people involved—didn't tell her about the Bee, of course. I got an answer today. Webber comes from a place just outside of Shepton. What I'm thinking is Mrs. Webber might have read about the case and let it slip to the Bee. It'd be interesting to know who she told, for you may be sure Lady Callwood didn't tell anyone.

  "Mrs. Webber pops up both times the case veers away from London or Brighton. P'raps you could quiz her and find out if anyone else involved in the case was in Bath when her letters were stolen at that inn. What I wonder is, what was the Bee doing in Bath?"

  "Robbing the hotel," Prance said rather facetiously. "Three or four rooms were broken into and robbed, you recall."

  "If he was just smashing and grabbing at random, how'd he know the letters belonged to Mrs. Webber? They would have been addressed to Mrs. Whoever she was at the time they were written, before she married Webber. And if he knew who she was, why did he wait so long to approach her?"

  They all listened closely. "Well, why did he wait seven years to approach all the others?" Byron asked. "All the various crimes and misdemeanors took place about seven years ago. Why go after the victims now? Are we looking for someone who has recently gotten himself into dun territory?" He turned to Prance. "That lets out Jergen. He must be high in the stirrups if he's adding acres to Elmgrove. Danby, of course, is rich as Croesus. Or so we believe."

  "It could be some fellow we don't know," Coffen said. "Probably this Harrelson lad. Whoever he is, he's something to do with the Jergens. That's where all the trails meet. I'll ask around the actresses in Brighton and see who Mam'selle Grolier is running around with. Does anyone want to come with me?"

  Met with a resounding silence, he picked up another sandwich before going to bed. "I'll be gone when you come down in the morning, Corinne. Goodnight all." He shambled off, nibbling on the sandwich and leaving a trail of crumbs behind him.

  "Should someone go with him?" Byron asked, looking to Luten. "I'm more or less free."

  Luten shook his head. "He'll do fine on his own. Pattle has a remarkable nose for clues, and a way with suspects."

  "I suggest you bar your door when he returns," Prance said to Corinne, "or you'll have a tenant for live. There's no reason for him to be staying with you."

  "Why is he?" Byron asked. "Doesn't he live right next door?"

  "He doesn't like his servants," Corinne said, and blushed at the foolishness of it.

  "He's too soft-hearted to turn them off," Luten added.

  "He's afraid of them," Prance said. Byron looked confused as the others all laughed.

  * * *

  Chapter 25

  Coffen had no need for thermoses, hot bricks or eye-masks to enjoy his trip to Brighton. Knowing the inefficacy of his own coachman, he arranged for Corinne's to drive his rig for him. With delivery to his desired destination secured, he drew a fur rug around him, settled his wrenched knee comfortably, closed his eyes and conjured with such clues as he had accumulated thus far.

  He knew perfectly well that Jergen had not stolen the money from Prance's pocket because he had seen Jergen with his mask down standing a good three yards away during the fireworks. That needn't mean Jergen wasn't behind it, however. He might have got that nephew of his, Danby, to do the actual pilfering. Danby was the right size for the fellow standing at Prance's left side.

  Danby had the reputation of a nabob, but he certainly didn't spend any big money. It could have been Danby driving Jergen's crested carriage at the George and slicing that page out of the register. And the woman at the Pantheon could have been Mam'selle Grolier. He'd find out where she was from as well. He hadn't known about her yet when he wrote to Cousin Elvira. If she was from around Shepton, she could have known about Callwood stealing the brooch.

  Mrs. Webber might know as well, but it was hard to believe that sanctimonious lady was involved in stealing. Nearly as hard as it was to believe she'd been doing things she shouldn't with her doctor just a day or two before marrying somebody else. It still left the theft of her letters at Bath to explain. That one intrusion of Bath, so far away, into the case stuck in his craw like a fishbone, demanding attention.

  Any way you sliced it, there was no getting away from the fact that all the victims had something to do with the Jergens. By noon he was at East Grinstead, a pleasant little town with a High Street lined with quaint timber houses. He stopped for a bite and a glass of wine. Then another glass to wash down the apple tart, and one for the road. A shame to leave a partly full bottle behind so he finished it.

  Back in the carriage, he stared out at the passing scenery of farm houses tucked behind hedgerows. All the trees looked alike to him, a leafless tangle of branches against the gray sky. The fields were all the same colour that didn't know whether it was yellow or brown, with a few black fir trees standing guard. Really hardly worth looking at. His eyelids fluttered down, and when he awoke, the carriage was at the door of Luten's house and his left foot was sound asleep from the angle he had to hold it at to ease the pain in his knee.

  He hobbled in to say his how-do-you-do to the Partridges and let them know he would be staying the night. Luten hadn't had time to notify them but Coffen had long been a favourite of this countrified couple and was greeted almost like a son. He took his tea in the kitchen with Mrs. Partridge and used the time to quiz her about Mam'selle Grolier.

  After hearing about the high price of her bonnets and the tiger rug and the tea served to special customers he said, "You wouldn't happen to know if she closed up her shop early yesterday?"

  "Now fancy you asking that! I was down to the fish market at ten, and it was open then, but Mrs. Frumm dropped in for a chat last evening and she said Mam'selle was closed by half after ten and never reopened. Funny you should ask?" Her tone made it a bid for explanation.

  "Didn't Prance tell you we're working on a case?"

  "Not in so many words, but I did wonder what brought him here off season. So Mam'selle's involved in something fishy, is she?" Mrs. Partridge said with infinite satisfaction. A woman pays the price for being too stylish in a small town.

  "She just might. I'll let you know. Does she have any special fellow that calls on her?"

  "Quite a few London gents."

  "No, but I mean one special one, a beau."

  "Not that I've heard of. They never stay longer than an hour or so. I'd like to know why she closes the shop curtains when they're in there," the innocent soul said. She lo
oked all around the kitchen for spies and added, "I have a notion she's selling contraband goods. Brandy, or maybe silk."

  "That could be it," Coffen nodded, as he was uncomfortable discussing more intimate matters with women. "I'll just toddle on down and have a word with her."

  "I'll make up some gingerbread for dinner."

  "That'd be dandy, Mrs. Partridge. You make the best gingerbread in the country. With raisins, mind!"

  "Fancy you remembering," she smiled.

  "How could I forget?" he said simply, further cementing her devotion.

  He drove west towards the King's Road, where tourist hotels were proliferating in the little seaside town the Prince of Wales had brought into fashion. He had built himself a grandiose pavilion by the sea that changed and grew year by year until it reached monstrous proportions. Coffen loved it. Where the Prince led, others followed. Shops were everywhere, to cater to the visitors' needs. He had Mam'selle's address from Prance and alit at Bedford Square. A wretched raw wind blew in from the Channel, lifting his coattails and creeping up his back. He bent his head and hobbled towards the shop with the black sign in lettered gilt.

  He was disappointed to see her curtains drawn. Was she with a gent? He'd give a guinea to know who he was. It was already coming on dark but it got dark so early this time of year that the other shops weren't closing yet. He strolled up and down the block, looking in shop windows but always keeping an eye on her door. After half an hour the curtains were still drawn and he was half frozen. His patience was at an end. He stepped forward and knocked at the door. Once, twice, three times. She'd closed early yesterday. P'raps she wasn't back yet from wherever she'd gone. In Coffen’s mind, her destination was London, to attend the Pantheon. And with luck, she was still there.

  Within a minute he had decided to get into the shop and have a look about for clues. This meant slipping down the alley and finding the back door, or possibly a window low enough that he could manage it with his game leg. The door was on the latch, indicating she was in her shop. He went in and called tentatively, "Mam'selle, are you here?" No answering voice broke the ominous stillness.

  He slipped quietly into the rear of the shop into what looked like her workroom. The fading light from the side window showed him a table littered with untrimmed bonnets of all shapes and colours. Packets of ribbons, feather, silk flowers and small replicas of fruits were strewn about, along with pins, needles, thread and fine wires. Shelves along one wall held black hatboxes with the shop's name in gilt, like the sign outside. One corner was got up to serve as a kitchen. A kettle stood on the hob of a small grate. The ashes in it were cold. A cup sat on the drain board by the sink. A bottle of milk was left on the windowsill to cool. He sniffed it and screwed up his nose. Sour! He glanced at a staircase but didn't go up.

  Mam'selle obviously hadn't got back yet. This was his chance to search her desk. It would be too much to hope to find Mrs. Huston's diamonds or the money the Bee had stolen, but there might be letters. He tiptoed into the front of the shop. It was darker than the rear room due to the drawn blinds. The dim outline of bonnets standing on racks gave the effect of women lined up in a row, watching him. Eerie! What he needed was a lamp.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he could make out the stripes of the tiger rug on the floor and the sofa behind it. She'd likely have a lamp by the sofa. He headed for it and tripped over her. It was only his cane that saved him from landing on top of the corpse. His other hand brushed her hair and he gave a shuddering gasp. For thirty seconds he stood still with his heart pounding so hard he thought the passersby in the street would hear it.

  Then he took hold of himself and limped around the body to find the lamp, just where it should be on a little table by the sofa. He found the tinder box, lit the lamp with trembling fingers and carried it to view the mortal remains of Mam'selle. She lay on her back with her two arms flung out and a surprised look on her face. She looked just the way Prance had described her—the cloud of blond curls, the modest black gown, pretty. Too young to die. But she was certainly dead. Those staring eyes, the surprised look on her poor, pale face ...

  He moved the lamp along her body. The little hole in the bodice of her gown with the congealed blood around it was hard to spot against the black gown, but it was there. Either a bullet or a knife, or scissors for that matter, could have made it. He didn't care to investigate. A quick look around showed him the weapon was gone. There was nothing he could do for her now except notify the constable. But first he'd look for the desk.

  It was there in a corner behind an aspidistra plant. Her business accounts were neatly entered. Her bank book showed she made a pretty good profit at one or the other of her trades but the deposits were regular and none large enough to suggest she was sharing the Bee's gains. He found three letters from her mother in Nottingham. Not Bath, not Shepton. No letters from any gentlemen at all. And at the bottom of the drawer, a French grammar, a relic of the days when she had decided a French milliner would do better than an English one. Nothing to connect her to the Bee. Odd he hadn't left his usual taunting symbol. He assumed she'd been murdered by the Bee.

  She must have been working with him, or why else had she been murdered at this particular time? He didn't think she'd been the woman with him last night, though. The body didn't look as if it had only recently had the life torn out of it. At close range there was already a sickening stench.

  No, the reason Mam'selle hadn't opened her shop today was that she was already dead. Maybe been dead since yesterday morning.

  He went back to the kitchen and up the stairs to what proved to be her bedroom. It was small with minimal furnishings. Nothing exotic like the tiger rug. He made a hasty examination of the drawers that yielded no clues. He went downstairs, extinguished the lamp and went out the back door. Since he didn't want to get caught up in lengthy questioning, he wrote an unsigned note to the constable and had the coachman hire a link-boy to deliver it. Before leaving King's Road he stopped at two neighbouring shops to see what he could learn of Mam'selle's customers yesterday.

  The tobacconist next door, put into a good humour by the purchase of snuff and a blue enameled box to hold it, both at inflated summer tourist prices, displayed a keen interest in the pretty milliner. "Betsy don't have so many customers in the off months," he said with a broad wink, "though she snagged a dandy t'other day."

  "All wrapped up in a yaller scarf, was he?" Coffen asked.

  "That's him. An out and outer."

  "How about yesterday?"

  "No gents. She had a couple of females in but they'd only be buying bonnets. She closed up early, around eleven. She didn't stop in to see me. She does usually when she's taking an afternoon off, to ask me to keep an eye on things."

  "What kind of females?" he asked.

  "The first one was a bit o' muslin that's under Mr. Miller's protection. He owns a hotel. T'other was a proper lady."

  "You know this lady?"

  "No, she weren't from around here."

  "Young or old?"

  The man furrowed his brow. "Youngish, but plain dressed. Not fashionable. She'd find nothing to suit her in Betsy's shop."

  "Did she stay long?"

  "I don't time them in and out, do I? I have my own business to run. Next time I looked the curtain was drawn. Why are you so interested anyway, mister?"

  "Betsy's got herself in a bit of trouble," Coffen said, but in no condemning way.

  "Can't say I'm surprised. What sort of trouble?" the tobacconist asked, just as the door opened and he had to greet another customer.

  Coffen slipped out to avoid answering. His next stop was the George Inn on the north road. Unlike Prance, he wasn't put off by the homey smoke and ale aroma of the tap-room. He ordered an ale and took it to the grate, where a group of local fishermen were discussing the pittance they got for their catch, versus the prices the shops asked, and who did the real work, eh?

  Coffen shook his head in sympathy and said it was a rotten shame.
Within five minutes he was buying them a round of drinks and drifting into casual chat.

  "I came down from London looking for a chum of mine who was supposed to be passing this way," he said. "Seems I've missed him. Fear I'm a few days late. Tall, dark haired fellow. You might have noticed him. He was driving a crested rig."

  "Oh aye," a man called Jem said at once. "I seen him. A good looking lad. He come in but he didn't join us at all. He took his ale to Podey's desk to write a letter. I didn't catch his name."

  "That'd be me he was writing to, likely. I never got his letter. I wonder, though, if it was my friend, Lord Jergen."

  "Nay, it weren't him," Jem said firmly. "I know his lordship to see him. He used to spend his summers here a while back. I did some gardening for him and her ladyship, before I got my fishing boat. No, 'twas a younger lad than Jergen. Dark haired fellow, a gent."

  Coffen felt again that ripple up his spine. "Did you ever see the lad hereabouts before?"

  "Well now, let me think," he said, jiggling his empty glass. Coffen called for another round.

  "Say about seven years ago?" Coffen persisted.

  "I think I seen him some years ago," Jem said, but it was a doubtful speech, perhaps uttered to repay the questioner for the ale.

  None of the other men had anything to add. He had learned all he was going to and returned to Marine Parade, where he enjoyed a hearty meal of Irish stew and biscuits, finished off with gingerbread and preserved plums. He debated whether to write his news to Luten or return tomorrow and tell him in person. As he disliked writing letters nearly as much as he disliked reading poetry he decided to have an early night and head for London at first light in the morning.