by Joan Smith
Mrs. Webber leapt on this atom of saving grace. "Better than he loved me. I didn't drop him when I discovered he had no money. I was happy to include him in my plan. He was useful, at first."
Prance noted that the plan was hers. She got Danby to perform the unpleasant jobs. Very likely he had rifled his aunt's drawers and stolen her letters, but it was Mrs. Webber's twisted mind behind that had thought up the Bee business, the Hummer-Winkler ruse, the various tricks to outwit them. It was Danby, the bruising rider, who had snatched Mrs. Huston's diamonds and led Coffen that merry chase. She was the one who knew how much money her lady friends could lay their hands on without much difficulty.
Mrs. Webber talked on as if she couldn't stop. "But when he began urging me to let him hold the money, I knew what he was up to. He planned to take it and run, leaving me behind. He couldn't have done any of it without me. I had to tell him every move to make, every word to write in those notes. And he wasn't faithful either. That thief from Shepton now swanning it about town as a great lady was beginning to catch him in her toils."
Byron risked another glance to see what Lady deCoventry was up to. Unfortunately Mrs. Webber noticed and turned to look over her shoulder.
It was now or never. Corinne lifted the branch and swung it with all her might against the side of her head. It gave a resounding whack. The dry old branch broke. Mrs. Webber wasn't knocked unconscious, but she fell to the ground, dropping her gun. Byron leapt on Mrs. Weber and Joey bolted, racked with sobs. Corinne retrieved the gun and handed it to Prance, then went to comfort Joey.
"Tie her up," Prance said. He sacrificed his écharpe to the job. They tied her arms behind her back and with an escort on either side, led her out of the park with her head down, finally silent as she realized what fate lay ahead of her.
To distract Joey, Corinne said, "You and I will go and find the hackney. You'll come with me, won't you? I'm afraid to go alone in the dark."
Still sniffling and wiping the tears from his eyes, he said "Tuppence a block. I'll get me light." He began looking around for his staff and lamp.
He fiddled with the tinderbox and got the lamp going.
"How did the lady convince you to come with her to such a desolate spot?" Corinne asked as they hurried towards the bridge.
"She was a customer. She paid me a crown to deliver a bottle of brandy to Stephens's and not tell no one. I figured she was a married lady with a fellow on the side. She met me again this afternoon and said she'd give me another crown if I come with her tonight. She was to meet someone, she said and was afeared to go alone. Her fellow, I figured. She never give me the money tonight either," he added on a note of scorn.
"There'll be a reward for her capture," Corinne assured him.
"Did she really kill somebody?"
"Yes, she did."
"Gorblimey! She'd of kilt me too, quick as blinking. Wait'll I tell Alf. That's me pal. How much's the reward, mum?"
"Quite a few crowns," she said, smiling. No doubt Luten and the others would add something to the few pounds she planned to contribute to his reward. Where was Luten? If he had gone home, he would be worried to find her gone—and not pleased either.
"There's a hackney," Joey cried and went pelting after the waiting carriage.
When the others arrived, they all piled in. Joey, still carrying his pole, sat on the box with the driver. It was arranged that Corinne would be delivered home first as Berkeley Square was closer, then the gentlemen would escort Mrs. Webber to Bow Street. A silent pall settled over the carriage as each occupant reviewed the evening with varying emotions. If Mrs. Webber was afraid for the future, she didn't show it. No tears, no apologies, just a stony-faced, mutinous silence.
"What about me?" Joey asked when they reached Berkeley Square.
"You come and wait inside. Cook will give you something to eat while I arrange your reward." He hopped down happily. Once inside, she saw his face was filthy. His struggles in the park had added to the grime already there. Tears had formed runnels in the dirt, giving his face the odd effect of some primitive, painted warrior.
"Black, will you please take care of Master Joey?" she said. "A bath, I think, before he's fed, and have his clothes brushed. He's a very brave boy. Treat him well."
Joey grinned boldly. "I was nearly kilt," he announced proudly.
"You must tell me all about it," Black urged. He was on thorns to discover what his beloved and the rest of them had been up to since they went pelting out of Luten's door over an hour ago.
* * *
Chapter 33
Corinne had time to repair the ravages to her toilette before the gentlemen returned. Black had time to hear the whole harrowing story from Joey and chide his mistress gently for not having sought his assistance. Mrs. Ballard had time to invent a headache and Cook had time to prepare sandwiches for Mr. Pattle, who was always ready for fork work.
The four gentlemen returned together, having met up at Bow Street where Luten and Coffen had gone to seek help in finding Joey when he wasn't in his usual place of business.
Luten turned a glittering eye on his beloved. "I understand you are the heroine of the evening, my dear," he said in tone that held no trace of congratulation.
"With assistance from Lord Byron and Prance," she replied, unrepentant. Encouraged by Byron's grin, she added, "In future it will be best if you include me from the outset. I don't intend to become an ornament in your saloon, milord. I am a founding member of the Berkeley Brigade."
"You shouldn't ought to have done it, Corrie," Coffen said. "Going off into dangerous parks chasing murderers, but at least you did it good."
"Did it well," Prance automatically corrected.
Coffen smiled at Prance. "You noticed I didn't say 'done it good', like you told me not to."
Prance tossed up his hands in frustration. "You're incorrigible."
"Why thankee, Prance. It's not every day I weasel a compliment out of you."
"Too true," Prance sighed, defeated.
Luten turned to the expert on handling ladies. "What shall we do with this wayward fiancée of mine, Byron?" he asked.
"Concede gracefully," was his advice. He cast a fond, fleeting glance at Corinne and added, "It has been my experience that ladies generally do exactly as they please. Your fiancée, Luten, though a pineapple of perfection in other respects, is like all women in doing exactly as she wishes."
"Yes, we are perfect gentlemen in that respect," she said sweetly.
Luten just shook his head. "Next time you come with me, madam."
"Yes, that is what I have just been recommending."
Black arrived with a heavily laden tray. Joey, as clean as it was possible to make him in his shabby clothes, followed bearing a teapot. The gentlemen rose and began limping towards the tea table. Joey looked from one to the other in confusion.
"Gorblimey, are yez all cripples?" he asked.
"No, just most of us," Coffen told him.
Not to be outdone, Joey announced, "I was nearly kilt. I'm gonna get a reward."
"I promised Joey a reward," Corinne said, and sent Black off for her reticule. The gentlemen dug into their purses for a contribution. Golden coins tinkled into his outstretched hands. He looked at them as if they were the miracle of the loaves and the fishes.
"Crikey, I never seen so much blunt. I'm rich!" he said in a voice light with disbelief. "I'm goin' straight home to show Ma. She won't believe it."
"We should give him a lift home," Corinne said. "It's chilly out there."
"Nah, it ain't far, and I've got me light," Joey said.
Prance picked up his écharpe which he had recovered at Bow Street and wrapped it around Joey's shoulders. He had lost his taste for it since it had been used to bind a murderess.
"Coo," Joey said, pressing it against his chin. "This is something like. Can I keep it for good?"
"For better or for worse," Prance told him. The écharpe had not caught on, unfortunately. He was toying with the idea of a fur
fichu to wear under the greatcoat when the snow came.
Joey was eager to be home to tell the tale of his highly rewarding night. He stowed the coins in his pocket, snapped up a sandwich and darted out without saying goodbye.
The others settled in to discuss the case. Corinne listened with interest as she had not heard all the details of Mrs. Webber's confession. It seemed she had met Mr. Danby at Lady Jergen's. Believing him to be rich, she had manoeuvred him into an attachment. Initially the secrecy of their romance was due to old Mrs. Webber's disapproval of her daughter-in-law seeing a gentleman. They couldn't marry as neither of them had money. Danby had not originally intended to pass himself off as a nabob, but had slightly misled his aunt as to how well he had done in India. The doting aunt exaggerated his success to her friends, and he did nothing to disillusion them when he discovered that it added to his popularity.
Mrs. Webber feared she would lose him to one of the young heiresses and was more determined than ever to get hold of some money. Danby mentioned the letter from Lady Winchley that he had found when he was cleaning out Goodman's shop. He had kept it with a view to making gain on it. While in Brighton that summer he had met Harrelson and heard about Phoebe. The last time he saw Harrelson he was just packing up his bags at the inn to escape Mrs. Huston's visit. Danby picked up the letter and kept it. These two letters formed the basis of their plan. Mrs. Webber knew of Lady Callwood's trouble in Shepton and had heard from her friend, Lady Jergen, of the affair with Brunei.
It was important that the perpetrators remain anonymous. She was the brains, Danby did the dirty work—stole his aunt's letter, wrote the Bee letters, bought Lord Horner's carriage and later sold it to Ned Sullivan and killed Queen Mab as a threat to future victims. He and Mrs. Webber took turns, one driving the cab, the other waiting inside to exchange the letter for money, so that an exact description of the Bee would be difficult to establish. She was so thorough she even had Danby hit her on the head the night she was pretending to recover her own letters. He did it all except for murdering Mam'selle Grolier. Killing Queen Mab was as far as he could be pushed. He drew the line at murder.
It was Mam'selle's murder that finally turned him against Mrs. Webber. He told her he was through with the whole business, that he wanted his part of the money. She said she had deposited it in a bank in Scotland, but gave him the diamond necklace as a sop. Fearing he would reveal their secret, she killed him with the poisoned brandy.
She had invented her liaison with the doctor, a harmless bachelor who had tended her aunt, to make her look like one of the Bee's victims, thus diverting any suspicion from her. When the Berkeley Brigade began investigating and she realized they would soon include Brighton in their queries, she sent Danby to remove the page at the George Inn, which would prove she had never been there with the doctor. She had invented the tale of the stolen letter at Bath to divert attention from Brighton.
"Whose crested carriage did Danby use at the George?" Corinne asked.
"Lord Hume's," Coffen told her. "Hume just bought a new one and sold his old rig to a hackney driver to be turned into a cab, like many of them do. Danby rented it from the fellow who bought it before he painted over the crested panel. Had it shined up, hired a decent team and went off pretending he was a fine lord, in case we asked questions, as we did. Mind you, he didn't intend to point the finger at Jergen. He had no idea we suspected him."
"And why did they call themselves the Bee?" she inquired.
"That was one of them red herrings," Coffen told her. "Didn't mean a thing, but was just a distraction. Nothing to do with Napoleon."
"She enjoyed taunting us with those references to bees," Prance said, "sending us off to the country to a Mr. Hummer, and so on. The bees did come from his place, Winkler's that is. She and Danby stopped there one day for honey and she gathered them up. She'd have got clean away with it if she'd stopped at the first couple of stings. Greed–the downfall of many a criminal."
"Call me a romantic fool, but I prefer to see it as a case of losing all for love," Byron said. "She began this business to get money so she could marry Danby."
"How can you say such a wicked thing, Byron?" Corinne objected. "She murdered him! Is murder an act of love?"
"Of love run to madness, like Othello. Like Solomon and David and hundreds of others driven to insanity by you ladies. History is littered with examples. I grant you a tinge of madness in her makeup, as in any lover's. Don't talk to me of love and sanity in the same breath, madam. I shall attack you with a hundred quotations. Shakespeare, who understood human nature better than any other man who ever drew breath, tells us love is 'a madness most discreet'–but not so discreet in our lady's case, of course. 'To be wise, and love, exceeds man's might.' 'Love is a devil.' "
Prance was unhappy to see Byron the centre of attention, showing off to Corinne and annoying Luten in the process. He liked his friends to have a few flaws but did Byron's flaws have to be so much like his own? And he was so much better at them too. "Pay him no heed, my dear," he advised Corinne. "William also tells us 'all poets are mad.' Is that not true, Byron?"
Byron bowed. "If you say so, my poetical friend. But we're frightening Luten with this talk of love and madness on the eve of his nuptials. When is the big day, Luten?"
"Very soon," Luten replied.
"The reason I ask, I was hoping you would all–Prance and Pattle as well–join me for Christmas at Newstead Abbey. And your Mrs. Ballard," he added to Corinne. "Just a small, private party. Of course I don't want to intrude on the wedding or treacle moon."
All Prance's annoyance with Byron melted faster than a snow flake on a griddle. He was thrilled to death with the invitation. "Actually, just after the new year would be a good time for the wedding," he said, shooting a glance that was half supplication, half command at Corinne. "It would give Luten time to heal up completely so that he can walk down the aisle without his cane. We wouldn't want the old quizzes saying you had caught him when he couldn't run."
"Who's running?" Luten demanded. "Not I!"
"I'd like to see the Abbey," Coffen said. "I hear there's a ghost. Never seen a live ghost."
Before Prance could point out that ghosts were by definition dead men, Byron said, "Nor have I, though I've heard human moaning on many a dark night when no living soul is about. There is said to be a phantom monk in black who haunts the monks' avenue."
Coffen's blue eyes sparkled. "Any clanking chains?"
"I can't guarantee clanking chains, but a phantom choir sings when the moon is full."
"A gothic-ey sort of place, it sounds like. Lovely!"
"It might have been designed by Mrs. Radcliffe for one of her gothic novels. All soaring arches, a gothic lake, a cloister, ancient elms and yews. To say nothing of mold and dry rot."
"Say no more! I'm on," Coffen announced with enthusiasm.
Luten could see his beloved was also on for the visit. He admitted a certain interest himself. "It sounds delightful. Corinne?"
"If you like, Luten," she replied with an effort at indifference, but her dancing eyes revealed her eagerness.
Prance's acceptance was taken for granted.
"Good," Byron said. "We'll arrange the details soon. And now I shall leave you. I had promised Miss Gorrie a set at her mama's ball. Her feathers will be ruffled at my having missed it, but if I hurry I may smooth them by taking her in to supper."
He made his bows and left. It never occurred to Coffen that he might be de trop, but Prance realized it and soon herded him out to leave the lovers some privacy.
Luten rose and sat beside his fiancée on the sofa. "Well, another case successfully solved," he said with satisfaction.
"Yes, it always leaves me sad. To tell the truth, I was a little surprised you agreed to go to Newstead, Luten."
"Method in my madness," he said.
"An opportunity to sweet talk him into the shadow cabinet, you mean."
"That wasn't my meaning. It's not far from Southcote Abbey. I thought
we might go there after and be married at my home–your future home. A small wedding and a honeymoon to Ireland to visit your folks.
“Prance hasn't time for us since he's taken up Byron. I asked him how the plans were progressing and he muttered something about a hundred shades of green. It's a traditional wedding at Southcote, or 'married in green, ashamed to be seen,' as Coffen says."
"That sounds lovely," she said and rewarded him for his eagerness in the traditional way of lovers. Black, listening from the hallway, wondered how he could include himself in the visit to Newstead.
"I'm looking forward to the visit," Coffen said, as he left with Prance.
"Byron turned out all right after all. Not such a showoff as I thought he was. In fact, I was taking a look at Childe Harold t'other day and find he's nearly as good as he thinks he is. And he ate tonight too. Two ham sandwiches, on top of which he's rushing off to take that lady to supper."
"Christmas at Newstead," Prance said on a luxurious sigh. How he would enjoy mentioning it to his friends. "Just a small, private party."
"Aye, a pity about that. I was hoping he'd ask a few of the ladies that are always hounding him. With a ghost to frighten them into a fellow's arms, there's no telling what might happen, even to me."
"There are bound to be ladies in the neighbourhood," Prance consoled him. "In any case, one has a feeling a visit to Newstead could not possibly be dull."
"True, not with ghosts to liven things up," Coffen said, and went home, while Prance strolled across the street to consult with Villier as to suitable garments for the visit.
About the Author
Joan Smith is a graduate of Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, and the Ontario College of Education. She has taught French and English in high school and English in college. When she began writing, her interest in Jane Austen and Lord Byron led to her first choice of genre, the Regency, which she especially liked for its wit and humor.
