by Joan Smith
“So kind of you to come,” she sniffled. “I was informed by a friend from the whist club that Mrs. Ballard would speak to you. Please do have a seat. So very upsetting about poor dear James. Who would do such a horrid thing? And me without a decent black gown to my name.”
They sat down and Miss Fenwick rang for wine. She sniffled and tucked the handkerchief up her sleeve, revealing a plump, pretty face with blue eyes the same shade as the drapes, sofa and chairs. No trace of tears was to be seen in the eyes.
Coffen’s opinion of their hostess rose higher when he saw the plate of macaroons that accompanied the wine. His breakfast had consisted of a piece of charred bread and a cup of tepid tea with no milk. When the refreshments had been served, she took a deep breath and said, “What can I tell you to help find the villain who murdered my dear James?”
“Begin by telling us what you know about him,” Corinne suggested in a businesslike tone, to forestall another bout with the handkerchief.
Miss Fenwick was made of sterner stuff than that. “He was the finest gentleman I ever knew,” she said categorically. “And anything you hear from others is merely jealousy. He was not a fortune hunter. He had money of his own.”
“Who called him that?” Coffen asked, reaching for the macaroon plate. “Cooper, was it?”
“Oh, you know about Mr. Cooper. Well, one doesn’t like to speak ill of friends, but I fear he was not happy when I began to see James, though I never felt that way about Mr. Cooper I promise you, and never led him to believe it. He quite insisted on accompanying me home after our card games. We were just friends, no more.”
Coffen wasted no time on the niceties of conversation. “Do you think he was sore enough to kill Mr. Russell?” he asked.
“As to that, I really wouldn’t care to say,” she replied, in a tone that said the words she was too nice to utter.
Coffen nodded, interested but by no means ready to narrow the field of suspects to one at this early stage. “Where was Mr. Russell from, and how did he come to join the group?”
“He met Miss Crosby, another of our players, at an exhibition at Somerset House. James was interested in art, drama, music — all the finer things.” She adopted a coy smile and said, “I’m afraid he thought me quite uninformed in those areas, growing up as I did in Manchester. ‘My little savage’ he used to call me. Just funning.”
“Where did he grow up himself?” Corinne asked.
“His papa was vicar at Keswick,” she said. “But James left home at an early age.”
“What age?” Coffen asked.
“Oh, around twenty, I believe. An uncle who had made his fortune in India died and left him more than a competence. He didn’t call it a fortune. He moved around for a few years, tried different areas to decide where to buy his estate. Then he settled in London, because of the culture, you know.”
“Didn’t work at all?” Coffen asked.
Miss Fenwick gave him a chiding look. “Mr. Russell was a gentleman,” she said.
“Did you meet any of his friends?” Corinne asked.
“Well — at the whist parties. Other than that, no. We used to go for walks — Bond Street to see the shops. James would insist on buying me some trinket. They are all I have left of him now. And we drove out together, into the country when the weather permitted, but mostly through the good parts of town, picking out our future home. James had a fondness for Grosvenor Square. He rather fancied a certain house there. We often used to stop and look at it.”
“Which one?” asked Coffen, who liked to get all the details.
“It was on a corner. Not a large house, for that area. A handsome brick house with an iron fence in front, a black door with a big brass knocker.”
Other than the size, this could be a description of a dozen houses in the area. “Anything unusual about the house?” he persisted.
“I didn’t notice anything,” she said uncertainly. “It was rather difficult to tell from the carriage. But what can that possibly matter? It was the neighborhood we liked, and the fact that that one house wasn’t as large as most. We couldn’t afford a huge mansion, and all the servants that would require. James had spoken to an estate agent and found out that little house was being rented out, and thought the owner might sell it. James was going to sell some securities to buy it in cash, though his stocks weren’t doing too well just then. I wanted to pay for half, and let him wait until his investments had gone back up.”
Coffen’s heart gave a leap of interest at this highly suspicious story. He said, “So you don’t know who his friends were, other than the card parties? You never met any of them at these art and music places?”
She smiled a sad, doting smile. “I’m afraid we were completely wrapped up in each other. He said he didn’t want to share me,” she added with a simper.
“What about his family?” Corinne asked.
“His parents are dead. He had no brothers or sisters, no relatives.”
“Not even a cousin?” Coffen asked. “What I’m getting at is, who will inherit his money?”
“Well, as he had no family, I don’t really know. We were going to make our wills in each other’s favor when we married, but — I really have no idea. We didn’t usually discuss such practical things.”
“Would you happen to know who his man of business was?”
“James handled his own affairs. He was very good at business.”
“What did he do when he wasn’t with you? What were his particular interests?” Corinne asked.
She frowned with the pain of her memories. “Oh, business things,” she said vaguely. “Visited his clubs, perhaps. Gentlemen do that.”
“What clubs would that be?” Coffen asked.
“Oh dear, I’m such a goose I never asked him.”
Neither White’s, Brooke’s, Boodle’s or Wattier’s elicited any sign of recognition. The callers exchanged a frustrated glance.
“Who is your own heir at present?” Coffen asked.
“The Church of England, since I have no close relatives I admire. My one aunt, Mrs. Birrell, refused to come to London with me, though I offered to pay everything.”
“Why did you decide to leave Manchester?” Corinne asked.
“Manchester, though it is a good, plain sort of place, is a cultural oasis,” she announced. “My soul craved the finer things in life. And of course once Papa died and I became my own mistress, there was nothing to keep me there.”
“Well, what did you think?” Corinne asked, as they drove home.
“A looker. For her age, I mean.”
Corinne rolled her eyes in exasperation but didn’t point out the woman was nearly old enough to be his mother, and fat as a flawn besides. She was also enjoying her role of grieving fiancée, even without the proper mourning clothes. Still, that didn’t mean she was completely insincere in her grief. It wouldn’t be easy finding a husband at her age.
“Why did you ask about her heir?” Corinne said.
“I thought p’raps her heir might have done in Russell to keep the blunt in the family, but I daresay we can absolve the C of E. Who might be able to tell us something about Russell is Prance,” he continued. “Mean to say — art, music, drama — right up his alley.”
“We’ll ask him if he knew Russell. It’s odd Miss Fenwick knows so little about him. Just that he came from Keswick and inherited money from an uncle. He must have been about her age — what did he do all those years since he left Keswick? Interesting that they were both freeing up cash for the house. Money is a strong motive for murder. And they were going to change their wills too.”
“Hadn’t done it yet,” he pointed out. “That certainly wants looking into though. Stands to reason he left his blunt to someone. Thing to do, search his house. It’s on Baker Street. See if we can find out about his business dealings, have a look for his will. I shouldn’t think he would have changed his will to leave it to Miss Fenwick till they were married. If his heir got wind of the romance, he might of feared losing
his inheritance — if he had an heir, I mean. A special friend, it would be, since he had no family. I’ll drop around again, p’raps tomorrow, after we’ve thought of what else we should have asked her. There’s time to look over his flat before lunch.”
“Let us get it over with. I don’t want to have to go out this afternoon.”
Coffen pulled the drawstring and hollered the new destination up to the coachman.
Chapter Three
They hadn’t far to go. The route was so direct even Fitz, Coffen’s incapable coachman, could have managed it. North Audley Street ran in a straight line, changing its name to Baker as it crossed Oxford Street. They continued north nearly to Marylebone Road. Baker Street was a broad thoroughfare lined with newish houses, mostly built at the turn of the last century. Mrs. Siddons, among other celebrities, lived there.
“Seems Russell was well to grass all right,” Coffen said, as the carriage pulled up in front of a dignified brick building larger than its neighbors.
“This is a block of flats, Coffen,” she said. “It’s not likely he owned the whole building. He probably rented a flat here.”
They alit and hastened, holding on to their hats, through the chilly morn to the doorway, where a list of residents told them Mr. James Russell lived on the ground floor at number four. If there were four flats to each story, the flats could not be large. The outer door was unlocked. They entered an undecorated but clean, paneled lobby with a tiled floor. An arrow led them down a narrow hallway to the right. No reek of humanity, cabbage or other unpleasant odor greeted them, but rather the lingering scent of beeswax and turpentine. No crying children or arguing adults broke the silence. The place was kept decently clean and polished and appeared to be a civilized if not elegant sort of establishment.
A cardboard label mounted in a brass frame on the door announced in flowing script the residence of James Russell. “We’ll have to find the housekeeper,” Coffen said, his voice echoing eerily in the empty hallway. “Bribe her to let us in.” They hardly expected the door to be unlocked, but tried it anyway. To their surprise, the knob turned. They exchanged a startled look and went in.
The door opened directly into the drawing room. Like the outer hall, it was plain but respectable with decent furnishings and a few ornaments, nothing to indicate the taste or interests of the tenant. Unlike the outer hall, it was far from neat. Newspapers littered tabletops. Soiled shirts and cravats hung over the backs of chairs and used glasses littered all surfaces, even the floor, making Coffen feel quite at home.
“It seems the wealthy Mr. Russell didn’t have a valet, or even a maid,” Corinne said, wrinkling her nose in dismay as she kicked away a journal. “He must have tidied the place up before having the whist crowd here.”
A woman with a duster in her hand came out from a doorway leading to the bedroom and cast a hostile glance at them.
“Ah, there you are. Just looking for you,” Coffen said to the gaunt, sharp-eyed woman in a dust cap and apron.
A pair of cabbage green eyes subjected them to a close scrutiny. After examining Coffen’s rumpled coat and dusty boots, she said, “The flat won’t be let till it’s been cleared out. I’m in charge, Jessie Jones. If you want to leave your name, I’ll let you know.”
“Thankee kindly,” he said, “but I’m not looking for a flat. I’m here to ask about Mr. Russell.”
She didn’t question it. “I told his brother as I’ll tell you, I don’t know nothing about who killed him.”
Coffen’s ears perked up at this. Miss Fenwick said he had no family. He phrased his question to see what he could learn. “Ah, he was here, was he? I wonder which brother that was. What did the fellow look like?”
Jessie turned a sharp eye on Corinne. She knew Russell had been murdered, and some folks were taking an interest. She was a fool to have opened her budget to that other fellow without seeing the color of his money. This fancy lady, wrapped in fur, seemed the likelier one to come up with the ready for information. “Just a man, nothing special I can tell you,” with a slyly encouraging smile.
Coffen put his hand in his pocket and said, “P’raps we could jog your memory.” Her eyes gleamed to see the coin was gold, not just silver.
She snatched it and dropped it down the front of her dress, then said, “What is it you want to know, Mister?”
“Anything you can tell us. When was the brother here? What did he look like? What did he want?”
“Came last night, didn’t he? A middling sort of man, dark hair, dressed like a gent but not out of the top drawer. He didn’t come in no carriage — or a hired hackney for that matter. Nossir, he come on shank’s mare. Asked questions, went through Russell’s papers but I didn’t let him take nothing away with him. The fellow didn’t have no affeydavey from a lawyer giving him the right. I never let him out of my sight. I’m responsible to Mr. Augustine for the place. He owns it.”
Coffen noticed the confirmation that Russell was just hiring rooms here. “What kind of questions did the man ask?” he said.
“Like whether he had much company, any women, any bill collectors, any noisy parties. Like that. A regular nosy Parker.”
“And did he? Russell, I mean, have bill collectors or women here?”
“What’s to collect on? He didn’t own nothing but the clothes on his back. The place is let furnished, isn’t it? He had a bunch of old tabbies and churchmen here once or twice. Other than that, just the one woman caller came, and she only come the once. Not a lightskirt either, nossir. She was a boneyfied lady, even if she come in a hired hack and dressed plain as a vicar’s wife. You should’ve heard how she talked to me. Pretty sharp and bossy she was. A real lady.”
“When was this?” Corinne asked.
“A week or so ago. They had words. I was dusting the hall and couldn’t help hearing. When she come out, that’s when she told me what for, listening at keyholes, which I never.”
“Any idea what the argument was about?” Coffen asked, ignoring this claim to deafness.
“I couldn’t hear much, but money was mentioned. ‘Not a penny more’, she said, in a pretty loud voice. Mad as a wet hen.”
Coffen listened, nodding. “That’s dandy.”
Corinne, with a fleeting memory of the dry eyes behind Miss Fenwick’s handkerchief, asked, “What did the woman look like?”
“All I can tell you is she was a lady, for she wore a veil over her face like a mourner. It covered her hair as well. A good figure, I’ll give her that.” She studied Corinne with interest, then added, “About your own size, Madam.”
Not Miss Fenwick, then. She had a fulsome figure.
Coffen nodded, then asked, “Mind if we just have a bit of a root around?”
“Help yourself, Mister, but I gotta stay here to see nothing leaves the room. I’m responsible. You never know, do you? Someone may turn up demanding his belongings. Not that there’s much here, but a decent jacket in the other room and some shirts and small clothes.”
Corinne knew her job and set about distracting the woman while Coffen rooted. She invented a country nephew who had just come to town and was looking for a flat. She asked a dozen questions about price, service, the character of the other tenants, and so on. Jessie Jones assured her the flats were all let to what she called “gents, mostly older fellows. Retired officers and clerks, but if the country cousin didn’t mind peace and quiet, he’d like it all right. She would do light cleaning for a modest price.
While they talked, Coffen slipped quietly into the bedroom. In less than ten minutes he came out and gave Corinne a nod. She thanked the housekeeper and they left.
“Did you find out anything?” she asked, as they hurried through the windy street to the carriage.
“Plenty! There wasn’t much there I can tell you.”
“Then how did you discover anything?”
“By what wasn’t there,” he said with satisfaction. “For all his talk of freeing up money to buy that house on Grosvenor Square, the fellow didn’t
have a sou to his name. No bankbook, no papers about investments, no will, nothing but bills and IOU’s. Plus he didn’t even own that carriage Miss Fenwick spoke of. He hired the rig and nags from Newman’s stable. He didn’t have more than one decent jacket to his name, for that matter. Well, plus the one he was wearing makes two.”
He pulled a wad of crumpled papers from his pocket. “I brought these along to look over later. It’s the bills and IOU’s. Whoever he was, he didn’t keep any mementos around. No pictures, no little sentimental bits and pieces like a favorite book from school or a lucky penny or a playbill or a pressed flower from an actress he was sweet on.”
“I wonder who the woman — lady — visitor was,” Corinne said.
“Time for fork work. We’ll think better after lunch,” he replied, and they were driven home to Berkeley Square.
Chapter Four
Luten did not join his fiancée for lunch, but he dropped by later in the afternoon while Coffen was still there, rooting through the bits of paper he’d stuffed in his pocket at Russell’s flat. Sir Reginald had successfully got Lady Lorraine through her ordeal in the hallway at St. Justin’s Abbey and was ready for company. When he saw Luten cross the street to Corinne’s house, he decided to honor them with his presence.
Before leaving he always checked out his appearance in the ormolu mirror conveniently placed near his front door for the purpose. He found no fault in the coy brown curl he had trained to tumble over his forehead like Byron’s. The thin face often compared to a greyhound found no dissatisfaction with its owner. As to the cravat and jacket covering his slender body — it seemed a shame to cover such works of art with a greatcoat only for a trip across the street.
