by Joan Smith
“Any luck?” Corinne asked.
“Yes and no. No real clues.” Coffen loved what he called a “real clue”, meaning a button or glove or bullet he could actually hold in his hand and conjure as to how it got where he found it, and who could be responsible.
“What did you find?” Luten asked.
“I found out where it happened. Went over the place with a fine root comb but couldn’t find anything except scuff marks. But I had a chat with a link-boy that saw the whole thing.”
“I’d call that a real clue!” Luten exclaimed, ignoring Coffen’s mangling of the King’s English, as he always did. “Who was it?”
“Little scamp of a fellow calls himself Mickey. Green Park is his turf, or the top quarter of it is. He tells me that’s the best part, there along Piccadilly and Queen’s Walk. Somebody called Jerry has the rest of the top and two other fellows have the bottom. They have the whole city divided up into sections, you know, like the members of parliament. Only the lads just have the park, not the whole country. It’s more than their life is worth to invade each other’s turf.”
“You’re talking about the link-boys,” Corinne said.
“That’s what I said. Fellow called Mickey, works the top of the Park. And he saw the murder. Or heard it at least. By the time he got there Russell was already dead as a doornail. The fellow who killed him was rifling his pockets. He had a gun, so of course Mickey didn’t try to stop him. In fact, he was careful to keep out of the fellow’s sight, in case he should take a bullet himself.”
Luten sat still as a statue, listening and thinking. “Did the murderer take something from Russell’s pockets?”
“He did. And that’s an odd thing, Luten. He didn’t take his money or watch. Mickey found his purse with a couple of bob in it. He said what the man with the gun did was just take a piece of paper, a letter perhaps. So Mickey got the blunt and watch. I tried to buy the watch off him, but he’d already sold it. He deals with some stall from Stop Hole Abbey. I’d no idea the link-boys were so well organized. It hardly seems worth their while to bother toting the tow and pitch torch around, lighting peoples’ way in the dark, when they make more robbing murder victims.”
“Did you get a description of the murderer?”
“Not much of a one. Mickey’s no Johnny Raw. Naturally he dowsed his torch when he was spying on Russell, and with the trees and all, it was pretty dark. What happened is, he saw Russell loitering and looking about, nervous-like, waiting for whoever he was going to meet.”
Luten reined in his eagerness. Best to let Coffen tell the story in his own way. He wouldn’t have missed much.
Corinne didn’t have as tight a rein on her impatience. “But who was it, Coffen? Who shot him?”
“A man,” he said. “Dressed all in black, a small fellow with a dark hat pulled down over his eyes.”
“Did he drive a carriage, ride a horse, or what?” she persisted.
“Mickey says he came on foot, but then they didn’t meet on an actual path but in some bushes, so if he came in a carriage he’d have to leave it behind. He heard a horse gallop off soon after the murderer left. He figures he came mounted. He didn’t go to see the horse since he wanted to get at Russell’s pockets before someone beat him to it. He figured the gunshot might bring a crowd, even though it was late at night.”
“So all he saw is a man dressed in black,” Luten said. “I don’t suppose he noticed which way the horse went.”
“A small man. The mount went on into the park. And from there it could have gone anywhere, though I shouldn’t think it would have gone on to Buckingham Palace.”
Black appeared with the tea tray and Coffen rewarded himself for his efforts. “Anything going on here?” he asked, and was told what they had learned from Byron.
“Reg has managed to drag Byron into it, has he?” he said grimly. “He’ll be chirping merry now.” He looked around the tray, then called out to Black. “You forgot the mustard for the ham, Black.”
Almost before the words left his mouth Black glided in with the mustard. Black, the famous eavesdropper, had removed the mustard from the tray on purpose to have an excuse for lingering outside the door, which he had carefully left ajar. Should he be seen, he would have entered the room and placed the mustard on the table.
“Thankee, Black,” Coffen said. “A good man, Black,” he added wistfully, as Black left. It was a mystery to him where these paragons of servants came from. Luten’s and Prance's the same. Houses always clean, clothes pressed, boots shining like mirrors, food never burned or underdone. His own staff were lazy, incompetent, dishonest and surly. His house was run entirely for their benefit. From time to time he replaced the more flagrant abusers, but always seemed to end up with someone no better and possibly worse.
“So, what do we do now?” he said, wiping a smear of mustard from his cravat. “Wait for Reg and Byron to bring the picture of Russell?”
“Unless there’s something you have to do at home?” Luten said hopefully. He would have appreciated a few moments alone with his fiancée.
“Not a thing. I’ll just wait here by the fire, nice and cozy,” he said, and with a sigh of contentment, he picked up his glass.
Corinne gave her fiancé an apologetic smile. “He’s earned it,” she said quietly. Luten just nodded his head in reluctant agreement and held out his own glass for a refill.
Chapter Six
The Berkeley Brigade met at Luten’s house that evening after dinner to discuss the case and make plans. Prance had induced Byron to dine with him and brought him along.
Luten’s house boasted a magnificent gold salon that could comfortably hold a hundred. More intimate gatherings met in the less intimidating rose parlor, where gilt and brocade and the brisk winter breezes were at a minimum. It boasted a quiet elegance and was Corinne’s favorite room. A crackling fire took the chill from the air and a glass of excellent port warmed the blood.
“Any luck with Miss Fenwick, Reg?” Luten asked Prance, when they were seated around the grate.
“She proved entirely susceptible to Byron’s persuasions. We have the miniature on loan,” Prance said, pinching back a smirk and handing it to Luten. The portrait was no work of art, but the man’s features were clear enough. His black hair was worn short in the military style. The face might be called handsome but lacked any distinction. It boasted a swarthy complexion, dark eyes, a strong nose and a weak mouth.
“Looks like the hero in a Covent Garden farce. Or the villain, for that matter,” he said. “The grieving inamorata indicated she would fade away to a shadow if parted from it for more than a day. And that, considering her girth, would take some doing. We now know what he looks like. C’est tout.”
The miniature was passed around. No one recognized him.
“What did you think of Miss Fenwick?” Corinne asked, pitching her question between Prance and Byron.
“About what one would expect from Manchester,” Prance sniffed. “I daresay she passes for a swell there.”
“A lachrymose lady,” Byron said. “True sorrow is not so moist, or so voluble.”
Coffen ignored these incomprehensible words as he took the miniature from Corinne and examined it. “Bit of a rough diamond,” was his opinion.
“Diamond?” Prance said, lifting his eyebrows. “Strass glass is more like it. An effort is being made to look noble, but with that weak chin, it fails entirely.”
“Well, glass chin or no,” Coffen said, “this is his face, but it don’t do us much good if we can’t take it about, show it to people.” He handed the miniature back to Prance.
Prance gave a coy smile. “Perhaps I can do something about that.”
“You mean Byron can sweet talk her?” Coffen interpreted.
“That was not my meaning, Coffen. It took all Byron’s considerable powers of persuasion to pry the thing out of her fingers for twenty-four hours.”
“If he couldn’t do it, I don’t see how you think you can.”
“Thank you for your confidence, but that was not my meaning either.”
“It’s what you said,” Coffen retorted.
“Not exactly. If you would just listen instead of carping! You forget I dabble in painting. I shall make a copy.”
“Excellent idea, Reg!” Luten said.
Coffen looked surprised. “By jingo you’ve come up with a good idea for once, Reg. Make a couple while you’re at it. I’d like to have one myself.”
“It will take hours to make one!”
“Then you’ll have to miss the play. Luten’s invited us all to join him and Corinne in his box at Drury Lane to see a play. Something by Van somebody or other.”
“VanBrugh’s Relapse, I believe,” Prance supplied.
Coffen, aware of a stiffening in the host, gave a questioning glance to Luten and said, “Er, you meant Byron as well, Luten?”
“Certainly,” Luten said, forcing a smile. “The box holds six.” The Whigs expected Luten to befriend Byron, to urge him to take a larger part in politics. This would at least look as if he were doing something. He had overcome his initial aversion to the poet during the Christmas visit to Newstead, but since their return to London, Byron had spent more time with his former friends. He seemed to have lost all interest in politics, but not necessarily in Corinne. He spoke of going abroad one night, and of marrying and settling down the next. Luten had concluded he was too young for politics, even if, as Grey kept reminding him, Pitt had been Prime Minister when he was only twenty-four.
“I’m afraid Byron and I can’t make it tonight. A previous engagement,” Prance said, hoping to elicit questions. No one humored him, however, not even Coffen.
“Ah, excellent,” Luten said. “You’re going to enquire amongst your friends to see if anyone knew Russell.”
“Yes,” Prance said vaguely. He’d do it tomorrow for sure. Prance, a deep dyed lover of drama, would normally have been eager to join the theatre party, but he had received an invitation from Byron to attend a rout at Melbourne House. Byron was a close friend of Lady Melbourne and ran quite tame there. His friends were always welcome.
Coffen also begged off. He, too, was a theatre-lover, his special area of interest being the Green Room, where he could flirt with the lesser actresses. But when he had a murder in hand he couldn’t waste his time on frivolity. He had his own plans. “Looks like it’ll just be you and Corrie, Luten.”
“I’ll invite Mrs. Ballard,” Corinne said.
“And you and I, Byron,” Prance said, “had best go home and change into evening clothes. Farouche of us to have dined in our bluejackets. Lady Melbourne will expect better of us.” Even the dropping of this ten ton name elicited no excitement, but a resigned glare from Luten. So much for Reg’s help with this case. At least he was getting Byron out of their hair for the night.
The guests left, Corinne sent a message to invite Mrs. Ballard to the theatre and Luten and Corinne finally had a few moments alone. “It’s just as well we planned a small wedding,” she said. “Between Prance’s gothic novel and this murder he won’t have time to arrange anything too outrageous.”
“To say nothing of his trotting after Byron. Well, thank God for small mercies,” Luten said. “You said you didn’t really want a large do.”
Prance was famous for his elaborate parties. The wedding had been planned to take place at Corinne’s home in Ireland, but it had proved difficult for Luten to get away. It seemed if they were ever going to get married, it must be in London.
After deep discussion, Prance and Villier decided on a dark green jacket, the cravat known as the Villier at home and to be called the Vortex abroad, adorned with an emerald to match the jacket. The arrangement of the cravat left no time for a preliminary sketch of James Russell. He would have to work late into the night.
But it was all worthwhile. Lady Melbourne’s little soiree — more than a coterie less than a crowd — included only the tip of the ton. The Vortex was a hit. Melbourne said frankly he “had never seen the likes," Prance mistook this for a compliment, and was even more flattered when Lord Almquist said it “looked like something Prinney would wear, now that he had got out from under Brummell’s wing.”
But it was, of course, the ladies in whom Prance was more interested. Mostly matrons, he was sorry to see, square-hipped, full-bosomed pillars of society well known to him. Lady Melbourne’s daughter Emily, Countess Cowper, was always stunning but she followed her mama’s advice of always being faithful — to her lover, Lord Palmerston. Now who was that lady she was talking to?
He put the question to Byron. “That’s Lady Dunn — a widow. A lovely creature, isn’t she? And with deep pockets too. Her late husband was Sir Henry Dunn. Made a fortune during the war supplying the army with inferior uniforms at superior prices. Don’t be fooled by the leer of invitation in her smile. She’s engaged to Lord Grafton. He and Lady Melbourne are training her up to be a good political wife.”
As he spoke, Lady Dunn advanced toward them, her arms out in welcome. Her gold gown and diamonds were a trifle too grand for a small party and her dark hair arranged in too large a stack of curls for true elegance. He immediately pegged her as a provincial determined not to be outdone by the real ton.
Prance’s discerning eye also recognized a performance when he saw one. The lady was certainly performing – and doing it extremely well. That smile might have passed for genuine if she could have controlled her flashing dark eyes. They kept scooting little glances around the room to see if the world saw her being welcomed by the great Byron. Still, she was a lovely creature. Her complexion owed nothing to the rouge pot, her teeth were all present and in reasonable repair and her figure was admirable.
He was inclined to forgive her any little faults when she made such a fuss over him. “Sir Reginald Prance! If I’m not mistaken, you are a charter member of the famous Berkeley Brigade, who helped Byron solve that murder at Newstead at Christmas.”
“The very same,” he replied, accepting the hand she held out to him.
“And are you investigating any horrid murders at the moment?”
“Nothing at all interesting, I’m afraid.”
“Only a very mundane murder,” Byron added.
She batted his wrist with her fan. “That’s the Corsair coming out in you, Byron. No one but you would describe murder as mundane. Tell me all the details, I insist. Ghoulish of me, I know, but I admit to a fondness for Mrs. Radcliffe and her horrid gothic goings on.”
“Then it’s Prance you want to talk to,” he said. “Prance here is writing a gothic novel.”
Prance disliked having his work compared to Mrs. Radcliffe’s. He had caught Lady Melbourne’s eye and wanted to further his acquaintance with this social giant, since Byron called her his best friend. “It is still in the gestation period, Byron. Do amuse Lady Dunn with our insignificant little murder,” he said, looking after their hostess to see if it was possible to approach her. But he made a mental note to return to Lady Dunn later and tell her all about Lady Lorraine and St. Justin’s Abbey.
“I doubt my skills are up to the task of making the murder of a gazetted fortune hunter living in rented rooms at all interesting,” Byron said.
This beginning in no way dimmed the lady’s interest, when it was Byron telling the tale. Indeed it seemed to have quite the opposite effect. “Do tell me more,” she gushed.
“The victim’s name is James Russell,” he began, planning to make a sort of parody of it, along the line of Pope’s Rape of the Lock. Byron was an admirer of Pope.
Lady Dunn blinked and said, “But how do you know his name already?”
“Why shouldn’t we know his name?” he asked in confusion.
Lady Melbourne was sidetracked and Prance had to wait to talk to her. He turned his attention back to Lady Dunn. She uttered a nervous laugh.
“You said he was just some nobody. I thought you meant a vagrant or some such thing. I misunderstood. Do continue. Tell me all about it.”
“The man wa
s chasing a fortune in the form of a lady of a certain age — and size. He was shot, probably by another fortune hunter who resented having the lady snatched away from him. That is the dull story. Its solving hardly requires the work of the Brigade,” Prance said.
She nodded. “Serves him right! Let us hope the fortune in the form of a large lady has learned a lesson and chooses more wisely next time. I take it she isn’t anyone you or I would know?”
“I sincerely doubt it. She’s from Manchester,” Prance said.
“Manchester, where they have all those textile mills,” she nodded. “I have heard Grafton speak of them. You would know all about that, Byron. Grafton was singing the praises of your speech in the House — about the Luddites, I mean. Though the frame smashers come from Nottingham, of course.”
Byron was soon drawn away by Lady Cowper, and Lady Dunn called her fiancé over to meet Prance. The conversation soon turned to politics. Across the room, Byron caught his eye, tossed his head toward the door indicating a wish to leave. Prance was not tardy to oblige him.
Chapter Seven
Coffen’s work that night took him back to Green Park searching for more clues concerning Russell’s murder. Mickey had told him which part of the park was Jerry’s territory and he directed the driver there. A shiver scuttled down his spine as he alit from the hired carriage and gazed up at the dark sky. He wasn’t sure whether it was the blast of frigid wind that caused it or the sight of those ragged, straggling clouds chasing after the moon -- and even the moon looked cold — small and white and far above. Bony, black trees swayed and creaked in the wind, soughing and moaning as if in their death throes. It was downright spooky, even before that owl came silently swooping out of one of the trees.
A light in the distance was rapidly advancing towards him. Jerry! There was one stroke of luck, but his good luck ended there. “No, I couldn’t see which way he went,” he said, when Coffen explained what he was after.
