To Mourn a Murder

by Joan Smith

  "No, she was stabbed or shot," Coffen said. "There was a hole in her gown with dried blood around it when I found her."

  Corinne winced. She was glad she had never met Mam'selle. It lessened the horror of it, not having to put a face on the victim.

  "But what clue led you to suspect Danby?" Luten asked.

  "Nothing. That wasn't how I found out about him. It was at the George. It wasn't Jergen that stopped there and cut the page out of the register, Reg. They know him at the George. It was a younger man. From the description I'd say it was Danby, driving someone's crested rig."

  "Lady Callwood's!" Corinne supplied.

  She had to explain this and Coffen reciprocated with all the details of his trip. When he had finished, the sandwiches arrived and he began to eat. Between bites he asked, "Did you say Danby said he was at Gentleman Jackson's in the mornings for the past week, and at Manton's in the afternoons, Corrie?"

  "That's what he said."

  "Then he couldn't have been in Brighton killing Mam'selle."

  "He might have gone in the evening and been home by morning," Luten pointed out.

  "No, from what I learned, Mam'selle was killed in the morning around eleven. She opened her shop that morning, had two customers, and wasn't seen again. From the looks of her, I'd say eleven was about the time she was killed. If the body had been on the floor from the night before the first customer would have run hollering out of the shop, for it wasn't a pretty sight. If Danby was at Manton's, he's out of it. If he's lying, how can we find out? Your chum Byron boxes with Jackson, Reg. There's a boney fido excuse for you to go trotting after him.

  Prance's ears drew back like an angry mare. "I need no excuse to call on my friend. I shall do it tout de suite. We have to discuss plans for our trip abroad in any case. We're going to Italy, you know, for apoco vacanze. "

  "Talk English. That Italian's all Greek to me," Coffen grumbled.

  "Your English is all Greek to me!"

  Coffen reached for another sandwich. "Tarsome fellow." He turned to Corinne. "Did you pick up any other clues from Mrs. Webber, other than that she's jealous as a green cow of Lady Callwood?"

  "She admitted knowing of that theft Lady Callwood committed some years ago, only she mentioned a diamond necklace, not a brooch."

  Coffen screwed up his eyes. "She might have said necklace on purpose to let on she doesn't know it was a brooch. That would make it look as if she didn't write the letter."

  "Yes, I see," Corinne said, nodding. "Oh and when she asked me how the case was going and I said Luten was working on fresh clues, she asked if he was in town, which might suggest she was aware of more interesting doings in Brighton. She looked a little surprised when I said he was in London."

  "Surely you're not thinking Mrs. Webber was the lady with the thief last night!" Prance exclaimed. "I would as soon believe it of Hannah More."

  "She made quite a point of saying she wasn't there, which begins to look suspicious. Mrs. Ballard took her in aversion, and she's not usually harsh," Corinne said. "Mrs. Webber got the Bible mixed up with a Psalm. She made rather a point of villifying Lady Callwood, though she didn't make up about her being on the strut with Danby. I saw them myself, and their manner was flirtatious."

  "Interesting that both Danby and Lady Callwood turned up at Lady Jergen's when we were there, Corinne," Luten said. "Is it possible they're using Jergen's house as a rendezvous?"

  "I doubt it. Lady Jergen is eager to see him settle down with a wife. Of his own, I mean."

  "Lady Jergen would have some sympathy for ladies like herself who have been shoved into marriages of convenience, though," Prance said.

  Coffen listened with one ear while frowning into the grate. "There's one thing we haven't thought of," he said. The Berkeley Brigade had learned to listen when Coffen spoke. He wasn't a swift thinker, a leaper to brilliant conclusions, but he gnawed at his various clues like a bulldog on a bone, and with perseverance and plain old horse sense, he often found the answer.

  "It might have been Danby's lady friend, whoever she is, who killed Mam'selle. Two ladies went into the shop that morning. One was a local lightskirt. The tobacconist who saw them didn't know the other. And he didn't see the second customer come out. Mam'selle was a small woman. Caught by surprise, she might have been overcome and stabbed or shot by a woman. That'd leave Danby free to establish his alibi by going to Jackson's Parlour and Manton's gallery.

  "It hardly seems the sort of job to send a lady on," Luten objected.

  "I'm not saying that is why she went," Coffen replied. "It might have been a fishing expedition to find out if Mam'selle knew it was Danby that cleared out Goodman's shop and found the letter. Which she didn't know, according to Prance. But there's a chance she met Danby or saw him about with Jergen when she was Jergen's bit of muslin. She might have seen him in Brighton the day he sliced the page out of the register at the George. Prance had been there quizzing her, she might have twigged to it that Danby was Jergen's secretary and seen her chance to make gain by threatening to tell us."

  "No grass growing under Mam'selle's feet," Prance said.

  "No, over her head before long is more like it," Coffen said. "Whoever the lady was, she picked up a weapon and stabbed Mam'selle,"

  Prance kneaded his chin, then said, "I wonder, though, are we not overlooking the obvious, that Mam'selle was killed by one of her other clients? Any man in a decent jacket who walked through her door was welcome."

  "You said she asked to know who sent you," Coffen reminded him.

  "True, but I had the feeling that was just to keep up an appearance of respectability, if one can speak of respectability and one of Mam'selle's profession in the same breath."

  "Coincidence," Coffen said in a condemnatory voice. They all knew he viewed coincidence in such cases with extreme distrust.

  "I agree," Luten said. "It's too much coincidence that she should be murdered at this particular time, shortly after your call, Prance. I daresay she could have recognized Danby, even if she didn't know his name. The Bee couldn't risk that we'd bring her to London to have a look at our suspects."

  Prance rose. "I shall hie me off to Byron at once, to seek his company to Jackson's and Manton's and inquire about Danby's alleged visits."

  Coffen, who had been frowning into the grate, muttered, "I think myself it was the second woman caller that did Mam'selle in. The crested rig Danby was driving the day he was at the George points to Lady Callwood. She'd have the gumption to do it, too. If Danby's made a point of being in town, we'll know he was setting himself up an alibi, which he wouldn't bother to do unless he knew it might be necessary to have Mam'selle killed."

  "This is all hypothesis based on the assumption that the Bee knew Prance had been talking to Mam'selle," Luten said. "How could he know that? We didn't mention it to any of the victims."

  After a silence, Corinne said, “He knew Brighton was at the centre of it all. Perhaps he met Mam'selle when he was there to take care of the register at the George and feared Jergen had told her he emptied out Goodman's shop. Then his female accomplice went down to feel her out. That alerted Mam'selle that something shady was going on, and she tried her hand at making some profit from it."

  "Possible," Luten allowed, "but it still doesn't explain why Danby would want to get rid of that particular page in the register. Its importance rests on the fact that Mrs. Webber was there with her lover shortly before her wedding. Once the page was removed, it lost its significance. It could have come from anywhere, or been especially forged up. There must have been something else on that page that he wanted to keep secret."

  "Like what?" Coffen asked.

  "I don't know. I suppose the obvious thing is that some other name was there as well. His own, perhaps. If Danby was there at the time, it would explain how he knew Mrs. Webber was there."

  "I believe you're on to something there, Luten," Coffen said, "though it still don't explain how the deuce he got hold of her letters that were stolen in Bath
. I mean to say, if he just found them somehow, we're running right back into coincidence. He's not the one who stole them, for he was in India at the time. This whole business of Bath throws a spanner into the works. Run along now, Prance, before Byron steps out for the evening."

  "Yes, master," Prance said, sketching a burlesque bow. "Shall I accompany you home while I'm about it?"

  "I am home," Coffen said, and picking up another sandwich, he leaned back to enjoy it.

  Prance smiled at Corinne. "Congratulations, my dear. I hadn't heard you had adopted your cousin."

  "Coffen will remain here for one more might, to make sure his knee is better," Luten said. Coffen began rubbing his knee and wincing, as if it were a long way from healing. "He will be leaving tomorrow," Luten said firmly.

  Coffen sniffed. "Daresay I'll be able to hobble home by then.”

  "Yes," Prance said, "seeing you were able to hobble to the Pantheon and Brighton, I expect your poor shattered knee will carry you next door."

  "It was the trip to Brighton that did it. All that cold, damp sea air." Finding no sympathy, he sighed and said, "I'll go home tomorrow. Someone ought to let my servants know I'm coming."

  "So they can put out the fires and water the wine and make sure there's no food in the house, you mean?" Prance asked. "I suggest you catch them unawares. You might be surprised how comfortable they make your house when you're not there."

  Coffen glared. "Weren't you leaving?"

  "I'm gone," Prance said, and bowed to his hostess and Luten before prancing out.

  "Tarsome fellow," Coffen muttered.

  * * *

  Chapter 28

  Extortion was bad enough, indeed reprehensible, but when a man turned his hand to murder he put himself beyond the pale of civilized society. Human life was sacred, the giving and taking of it, with a few exceptions, was the prerogative of God, not man. Luten was familiar with the saying that 'Men are hanged not for stealing horses, but that horses may not be stolen.' Murder was different. Men were hung for murder and that men may not be murdered. The Bee had to be stopped and without further delay, for if past experience was any guide there was no saying he would stop at one killing.

  Assuming, then, that the murderer was Danby, how could he prove it? To begin with, what was he doing with the money? The likeliest spot for it was either his rooms at the hotel or the bank, in which case he would have some written evidence—a bank book or proof of deposit. A copy of his handwriting to compare with the Bee's notes would also be helpful. Unless he had already sold it, he would have Mrs. Huston's diamond necklace. Luten's inquiries at Stop Hole Abbey told him it had not been fenced there, and he wouldn't dare to try to sell it to a legitimate jeweler at this time. Very likely Danby had more incriminating evidence against other people that he planned to exchange for money as well. It was therefore necessary to search his rooms.

  Naturally this must be done when they were empty. Danby, a dashing bachelor, would be out most evenings. As he lived in a hotel there wouldn't be many personal servants to worry about, probably only a valet. And with a tavern belowstairs, it was unlikely the valet would stay alone in his room of an evening.

  Stephens's, the fashionable hotel on Bond Street where Danby lived, was frequented mainly by officers and men-about-town. Luten decided to drive there that evening to discover which set of rooms was Danby's. Prance's taunting hint that he wasn't carrying his fair share of the burden in this case annoyed Luten to no small degree. This, at least, he could do himself. A moment's consideration told him it might be wise to take someone with him to stand guard belowstairs in case Danby returned while he was rifling his rooms.

  Prance, the only man left with the use of both legs, was the obvious choice, but Luten was still a little annoyed with him. Coffen was fatigued after his trip to Brighton. Since Byron had been involved in the matter, he decided to ask Byron to accompany him. These thoughts and plans flashed through his mind while Corinne and Coffen chatted by the fireside. Eager to send word to Byron, Luten rose and Corinne went to join him.

  "I'm afraid I'm busy this evening,," he said. "Are you going out?"

  "No, I'll stay home and have a game of cards with Coffen and Mrs. Ballard." He gave her a rueful smile. Cards with these partners would be a game of Pope Joan or All Fours, for a penny a point. "If you're not too late, stop in when you get back."

  He lifted her hand to his lips. "I don't expect to be very late. I'll rescue you," he said, and left.

  The note was dispatched to Byron and a playful reply sent back with his footman. "I didn't know you cared! I shall be delighted to dine a deux with you, Luten. You do realize the only eatables at Stephens's are the eternal joint, boiled fish and fried sole? You must entertain me with a very high class of conversation to repay me for canceling an engagement with the Honourabale Miss G*****, whose squint and dowry are famous throughout the land. Eightish chez Stephens's. B."

  Luten was in the dining room at the hotel at eight. He was shown to a table within view of the blazing grate, but not so close as to be kippered. Three-quarters of the tables in the large, paneled room were already occupied. The talk and laughter of gentlemen taking their leisure filled the air. An aroma of roast beef mingled pleasantly with fumes of brandy and wine. Luten ordered wine and dinner for them both and had a glass of the wine. At five after eight Byron was shown in, causing a stir amongst the diners. He went directly to Luten's table, nodding and smiling at a few acquaintances who greeted him, but not stopping.

  "I feared my eagerness had brought me here at an unfashionably early hour," Byron said in surprise, "but I see you are here before me. I haven't been carrying on with your fiancée, and you can't possibly want to borrow money from me, Luten. My pockets, unlike yours, are to let. I tremble to think why I am here."

  Luten just smiled. “I’ve ordered the roast beef," he said, as Byron took his seat. "You can always take it home for your dog if you don't care for it, and order some biscuits." He poured Byron a glass of wine and raised his own glass.

  The food arrived. Byron looked at it askance and said, “It looks fairly edible. I'm feeling peckish. After a few glasses, I'll try the beef. Now don't be shy, Luten. Just tell me, are you trying to lure me into the shadow cabinet again?" Byron's maiden speech in the House, an impassioned plea in defence of the Luddites in Yorkshire, had impressed the Whigs.

  "So you are on to our scheme, eh? We were trying to keep the secret from you. But that's not why I asked you to come here this evening. No politics tonight."

  "Do I hear the buzz of a Bee? What has the Brigade been up to behind my back?" Luten told him the latest developments and his plan. "Murder!" Byron exclaimed. "That puts a different complexion on the matter. So we're going to break into Danby's rooms and see what we can find?"

  "That's it. I'm asking you to abet me in crime. Are you willing?"

  "Willing, eager and able. I have a way with doors. I am amazed the ones that are open to me, since I took to villifying myself in verse."

  "How about locked doors?"

  "Do you have a hasp knife?"

  "I have every small tool I could lay my hands on. My pockets are jingling like the tinkerman's."

  "Then we shall manage."

  "Actually I plan to do the breaking in myself. You know Danby. I thought you could knock at his door first, and if by ill luck he's there, invite him to accompany you to Alfred's. That'll get him out so I can go in. Actually I doubt he'll be there. If he were at the hotel, he'd probably be here in the dining room at dinnertime. If the valet answers, just tell him to tell Danby you called. My hope, of course, is that no one will be home."

  "Other than the possibility of consigning me to an evening of Danby's less than scintillating company, and no doubt losing a great deal of money at cards, I see nothing wrong in your plan."

  "Fair is fair. It was you who landed this job on me, my friend. Now quit stalling and eat your dinner."

  "Yes, Nanny." He ate a few bites, nibbled a carrot or two and ate his potato.
"Let us get on with it," he said, pushing his nearly full plate away. "No one could eat knowing he's about to commit a crime."

  Luten laughed. "You're not as wicked as you would like folks to believe, Byron."

  "Shhh!" Byron looked all around. "Don't tell, or my reputation will be ruined. My sales would plummet. I don't just sell bad poetry. I sell Lord Byron. Every foolish utterance is scribbled down and misquoted."

  "I expect what you actually said in that well-known quotation making the rounds is that you awoke one morning and found yourself famous."

  "I didn't say it, but I should have. And shall," he added laughing.

  It occurred to Luten that Byron was really very young, despite his travels and air of cynicism. Only twenty-four, though he seemed older. He had noticed before that being born with a physical affliction often had that effect on people. After suffering with his own busted ankle, he could well understand how a lifetime of it would change a man. Even the simplest matters became difficult. And the pain left its mark too. Life became a tragedy to those who gave in to it, a satirical comedy to those who fought it.

  Add to that Byron's unhappy home life, emotional instability on both branches of the family tree. His uncle, the fifth Lord Byron, had earned the title of "Wicked Lord" for carrying on at Newstead–womanizing, gambling, brawling. He had fought a duel and killed his neighbour, among other outrages. Byron's own father, Mad Jack, was no better. He had been only twenty-two when he ran off with a married woman, Lady Carmarthen, whose husband became the fifth Duke of Leeds. Wasn't she a baroness in her own right as well?

  Byron's own mama was Mad Jack's second wife, a bad-tempered Scottish heiress. After Mad Jack ran through her fortune, he took off for the fleshpots of France, leaving his wife to raise Byron as best she could. All things considered, Byron hadn't turned out too badly.