by Joan Smith
Coffen said. “I’m waiting to ask her if she happened to have a plaster about the house as well. I cut my hand last night, and we don’t have any at home.”
Reg rolled his eyes. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me, I wonder.”
“Might have happened to anyone,” Coffen pointed out. “Broken glass, dark — a recipe for cutting yourself.”
“I was referring to the lack of basic supplies at your house, actually. What are you doing tonight, Coffen?”
“Depends on what we find out about the hat, whether Russell had one when he was found. If he didn’t, I’ll find out if young Mickey was holding out on me and give him a piece of my mind. I want to find out if any of the other whisters were sweet on Miss Fenwick as well, and hear what Mrs. Ballard has to say. I’ll be working on different angles. Have you written to Keswick yet?”
“Of course I have,” Prance replied, offended. “Why don’t you go have a word with Mrs. Ballard now, Corinne? Ask her about other jealous men in her whist club, and ask what she knows about a Miss Barker. I got the notion from Fenwick that she had her hopes pinned to Russell before Fenwick snatched him up.”
“Now that’s interesting,” Coffen said. “Cooper let that name slip as well, as one of the ladies hot after Russell. Get her address, Corrie.”
“I’ll have Black call Mrs. Ballard,” Corinne said, and rang for him.
“How are you coming along with that picture of Russell, Reg?” Coffen asked.
“I’ve finished it and returned the original to Miss Fenwick. I was up till two this morning working at it. It turned out rather well, I think.”
“You might have told us,” Coffen scolded. “Let’s see it.”
“I’ll bring it this evening. I didn’t think to bring it with me.”
Coffen just shook his head at such an oversight. When Black entered, he took one look at Coffen’s cut hand, spoke in dire terms of infection, gangrene and amputation if it weren’t properly looked after, and ushered him to the kitchen to have it washed and properly bandaged. Corinne, knowing Mrs. Ballard’s dislike of an audience, spoke to her while he was gone.
“I’ve never seen the hat,” Mrs. Ballard said firmly. “I can’t believe it belonged to Russell. He was a natty dresser.” She stated firmly that the other gentlemen in the group with the exception of Cooper were all clerics, mostly retired, and not the sort to be at all interested in Miss Fenwick. And the hat was not Cooper’s either. She was sure of that. When asked about Miss Barker, she waffled.
“Miss Barker never actually said anything about being fond of Russell, although she certainly laughed louder than anyone else at any of his little jokes. I believe she did once have tea with him, and wouldn’t have said no if he’d asked her out of an evening. It’s true she took to wearing her pearl necklace and curling her hair after he joined our group, but I personally don’t believe she began rouging her cheeks, although they did seem a little pinker after he joined. She may very well have had some other reason for calling Miss Fenwick a bit forward. I wouldn’t like to speak ill of the lady.”
“I see,” said Corinne, who saw very well that Miss Barker had been trotting after Russell as fast as her legs would carry her, and was jealous as a green cow of the interloper. She didn’t think, however, that she would have taken her revenge against Russell. Surely it would have been Miss Fenwick who had been shot. But really she couldn’t even imagine any of Mrs. Ballard’s crones sinking to murder.
When Coffen returned with a neat bandage on his hand, she told him the results of her conversation with Mrs. Ballard.
“Definitely not Russell’s hat, then. And Mrs. Ballard doesn’t think it was Cooper’s and none of the other fellows than Cooper was after Fenwick. Well, it looks like we’ve come across our first red herring. But Cooper must have put the hat there for a reason, and I’m going to see if I can find out why. You haven’t heard back from Luten?”
“Not yet.”
Black, listening at the door as usual, stepped into the room and handed her ladyship a note, folded, not sealed. “It’ll be from himself,” he informed her, knowing full well not only who it was from, but that a curled beaver had accompanied Russell’s corpse to the morgue. She read it and handed it to Coffen.
“Right,” he said, after glancing at it and handing it to Reg. “Do you mind if I take the hat with me? I’ll take care not to lose it.”
“We would be charmed to be rid of it,” Prance assured him. “I trust you’re not harboring any notion of adding it to your own sparse wardrobe.”
“It don’t fit,” Coffen said. “I already tried. It’s too big.”
“Thank goodness for small mercies, and small heads.”
“You mean big heads. I said it’s too big for me.”
“Which means your head is small.”
“No, it isn’t. It’s as big as yours.”
They left, squabbling over this irrelevancy.
Chapter Nine
Until Sir Reginald learned whether Byron had been invited to Lady Dunn’s rout, he was only annoyed that the morning’s post brought him no card. His pique wouldn’t reach a climax unless Byron was attending. He didn’t really want to attend the do as he had not been particularly impressed by the dame. Lord Grafton was a rich earl and a force in the Cabinet to be sure but he was an older man, not at all interested in the arts, or even fashionable. Still, being left out bothered him so that he could not devote his best effort to rescuing Lady Lorraine from the villainous faux Lord Malvain, usurper of St. Justin’s Abbey, who was menacing her. He was in reality the evil nephew of Lord Malvain, whose name and title he had usurped after murdering his uncle in France.
Until Corinne and Luten decided when and where their much-delayed wedding was to take place, he could not amuse himself by arranging that do.
Naturally Ireland demanded a much different gown and scenario than London, or Southcote Abbey, Luten’s estate near Sherwood Forest, which had also been mentioned. Luten was becoming so impatient he wouldn’t put it a pace past him to decide on an elopement to Gretna Green to be married over the anvil like a pair of young runaways. Wouldn’t that shock London! He almost wished they would do it.
He decided to call on Coffen to see what he planned to do with that abominable hat he had taken home. February was really an impossible month, when one came down to it. One was utterly bored with winter, which, like a poor relation, hung about long after one’s charitable impulse had expired. The shortest month of the year, yet seemingly the longest. And still the wretched March winds to look forward to before any hope of a warm breeze or flowers or shedding one’s winter wardrobe.
Coffen would very likely be chasing after the link-boy called Mickey, and Green Park in February held no charms for Reg. What could one do on such a day but peruse the shops and see the latest gewgaws? He’d send for his carriage and drive to Bond Street. Some little toy — a new vase or a little statue, or perhaps a minor jeweled stud for his cravat might cheer him up. Something different — an onyx stud, for instance, would look stunning against a snow-white cravat for mourning occasions, or a large pearl in a black stock for funerals. February was bound to kill off someone he knew. He sent for his carriage. When it arrived Coffen was just coming out of his house, carrying the abominable hat.
Reg called him over to his carriage. “Where are you off to, and why are you on foot? Don’t tell me you’re afraid to send a footman for your carriage.”
“Course not. It happens Fitz ain’t up to it this morning.”
“Been at your wine again, no doubt.”
Coffen didn’t bother to deny it. “I suppose you’re chasing after Byron,” he said in retaliation.
“Certainly not!”
“Good, then if you were just planning to cruise Bond Street, you can give me a lift.”
“Where are you going?”
“To see Miss Barker.”
“Where does she live?”
“On Grosvenor Square, with some cousin or aunt.”
“
Oh very well. Hop in.” Lady Dunn lived on Grosvenor Square. Perhaps he would run into her ... A mention that he hoped to see her at some ton do this evening — Lady Middleton’s musical soiree was this evening — and she might invite him to her do. He needn’t go if Byron wasn’t. Pity he was with Coffen. The fellow looked as if he’d hopped out of the ragbag. The hat on his head was hardly better than the one he was carrying. Reg had no intention of wasting a half hour calling on a Miss Barker, although the house, when Coffen pointed it out, was really rather impressive. A fine brick house with pillars and a pedimented doorway, right next door to Lord Falkner’s. Hardly the residence one imagined for Mrs. Ballard’s friend. Miss Barker might be worth knowing after all.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to step in with me?” Coffen said.
“Why not? I have nothing in particular to do.” His post boy, like all his servants, was as well trained as a Guardsman . He was down from his perch with the door open and the steps let down before Coffen got his gloves picked up off the floor where he’d dropped them. Prance noticed he’d stepped on them, smearing the York tan leather with mud. “Is she expecting you?” he asked.
“No, but the whole whist club crowd know we’re on the case, so she’ll let us in.”
The butler who answered their knock looked so fine he made Coffen nervous, and sent Reg’s hope soaring. “I wonder if we might have a word with Miss Barker,” Coffen said.
The butler lifted an eyebrow, but before he could utter the setdown his expression hinted at, Reginald stepped forward, handed him a card and said in his iciest manner, “Sir Reginald Prance and Mr. Coffen, with regard to the matter Lord Luten is looking into for Miss Barker and her friends.”
“Ah, the Berkeley Brigade!” the butler said, and actually smiled. “Right this way, gentlemen.” He bowed and gestured them in with a wave of his hand. Reginald’s chest swelled in pleasure, as it always did when he was recognized by strangers.
Their coats and hats were taken, they were shown into a fine, lofty saloon whose only fault was a surfeit of age-dimmed gilt. They were given a glass of wine while awaiting Miss Barker. Very good wine too. His interest in Miss Barker rose higher.
“Pretty good set-up, eh?” Coffen said. “I wonder what she’s like.”
Before Reg could reply, a lady came trotting into the room. She seemed completely out of place amidst all this grandeur. Racking his brain for a simile, Reg mentally likened her to a dairymaid in a drawing room. He felt she would have been more at home in the establishment’s kitchen, perhaps baking bread, or sweeping the floor. But he arose, like the gentleman he was. Coffen also struggled to his feet.
She wasn’t actually wearing an apron or mobcap, but she wasn’t wearing silk either. An exceedingly plain navy blue woolen gown with a white collar held in place by a cameo brooch suggested an upper class servant. Housekeeper, perhaps. But no mistress would tolerate that mop of hair on a housekeeper. It wafted about her head, like a black cloud blown by a stiff breeze. The face beneath it was noticeably plump and rosy, with a pair of blue eyes that sparkled in excitement.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed in a rustic accent. “I had no idea you’d be calling on me! Mrs. Ballard told me Lord Luten would look into the matter for us, but — Oh my, this is a thrill. Just wait till I tell the others. Sit down, do.” They resumed their seats and after a few more exclamations of pleasure and the sorting out of their names, she too found a seat. “Now what is it you want to talk about?”
“Anything you can tell us about Mr. Russell,” Coffen said. He held out the hat. “This, for instance. Ever seen it on Russell?”
She took it and looked at in confusion. “Oh no, this isn’t the sort of hat Mr. Russell wore. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a hat like this. Where does it come from, and what’s it got to do with murder?”
“It was found in Russell’s flat,” Coffen said. “We didn’t think it was his, actually. We’re curious to learn whose hat it is. Did any of the other men in your group wear a hat like this?”
“Well, it’s not really a bad hat, is it?” she said, turning it around in her fingers. “It’s like a hat any gentleman might wear, but just worn and a bit out of shape. It’s not Mr. Cooper’s. He doesn’t use grease on his hair, and I see this one’s greasy along the band. Cooper’s hat is smaller, lower in the crown, I mean. This is higher, like Russell wears, only not nice enough. Mind you, he did use some sort of oil on his hair. Reverend Cousens and all the vicars always wear black. No, I can’t say as I’ve ever seen this hat before.” She handed it back to him.
“That’s all right,” Coffen said. “What can you tell us about Mr. Russell? Just your impression of him in general.”
She pursed her lips and made the necessary demur, “One doesn’t like to speak ill of the dead,” before getting down to business. “He was a smart lad, a good looker, but not quite — not a real gentleman, if you know what I mean. A real gent doesn’t broadcast his financial affairs. Mind you, he had me fooled at first. That’s all I can say,” she finished with a spirited nod that sent her hair reeling.
“Bit of a goer, was he?” Coffen asked. “With the ladies, I mean?”
“With one lady, at any rate,” she said, again nodding her head to emphasize her meaning. “I’ve given this a good deal of thought since he was shot, and what I think is, he was after Miss Fenwick’s money! There! I shouldn’t ought to say it, but it’s what I think, and that’s what you asked me. The first night he sat down for a hand with us, he insisted on accompanying me home. Miss Fenwick wasn’t there that night. She had one of her spells of the megrims. He seemed pretty impressed with Aunt Jane’s house when he saw where I lived. It is a grand place, isn’t it?” she said, gazing all around. “Then he took me out to tea the next day, and sent me a little bouquet of flowers.
“I admit my head was turned. I never had what you might call a gentleman friend. My father was a vicar in a small country parish. I have five sisters, so you can imagine we weren’t exactly high in the stirrups. When I got an offer to come here two years ago, I snapped at it. I’m Mrs. Armstrong’s companion. She’s some kind of cousin on my mother’s side, a widow now, and a lovely woman. I landed in the honey pot for sure. Mr. Russell asked me all about myself and Aunt Jane. I call her Aunt Jane, though she isn’t really an aunt. I figure he was angling to find out if I was her heir. When I told him she had three sons, he soon lost interest. Switched his attentions to Miss Fenwick the minute she showed up. She has money of her own. Still, that’s no excuse for Mr. Cooper to go and kill him.”
The callers had been listening closely to her story. At her outright accusation, they exchanged a startled look. “You think Cooper killed him?” Prance asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Who else? That was never woman’s work, shooting a man. The only other men in our group are retired clerics, and if you think any of them would know a gun from a gosling, you’re mistaken. No, if the deed was done by anyone in our group, it had to be Cooper. He was after Miss Fenwick as well. He had no more hope of winning her than winning the lottery but he couldn’t see that. Blinded by love. He really did care for her, I think.”
“You have no real reason to think Cooper did it?” Coffen asked. “Nothing in the way of a clue?”
“No, nothing like that. A fellow like Russell, there’s no saying who might have had a grudge against him. The only people I know who knew him are the ones in our whist group, you see, so I’ve been thinking along those lines. And of our group, Cooper’s the only one who might’ve done it.”
Prance gave her a coy smile. “Methinks you weren’t very fond of him yourself, Miss Barker.”
She blinked in astonishment. “Me! Don’t be daft. I got over my little crush long ago, when I figured out what he was after. What I know about the fellow for sure is that he had an eye for the ladies. Rich ladies, I mean. I ran into him once on Bond Street when I was out buying a birthday present for Aunt Jane — a little perfume bottle it was, ever so fine. She loved it. He was trying to ch
at up some lady who was making short shrift of him I can tell you. He was trying to make out he knew her, but she just said, 'I’m afraid you’re mistaken, my good man.' She gave him a look that would scald a cat and walked on.
“He saw me then, and looked as if he’d like to crown me. He couldn’t have realized I overheard her, for he called after her, ‘Fine, we’ll talk later, Polly.’ She didn’t even bother to turn around, but just walked on, stiff as a poker.”
“What did she look like?” Coffen asked.
“A proud looking lady. Very stylish. Quite pretty. Good figure too.”
“What age?”
“Oh, that age that’s still trying to look young. You know. On the sunny side of forty, I’d say at a guess. Maybe thirty-five. Black hair. I’ve seen her about before a few times but I have no idea who she is.”
“Where have you seen her before?” Coffen asked.
Reginald, becoming bored with it all, said, “Does this really matter, Coffen? It was just some lady he accosted on the street.”
“I was thinking it could be the lady that called on him at his flat. You remember the landlady called her a proud lady and mentioned the good figure.”
Miss Barker slapped her knee and cried, “You never mean it! He had a lady calling on him at his flat? I wager Miss Fenwick doesn’t know about that!”
“So where have you seen her before?” Coffen repeated. “You mentioned you’d seen her a couple of times.”
“Oh lord, I don’t really remember. She’s never been to call on Aunt Jane and I don’t go out to the kind of places a lady like that would go. It must have been on Bond Street, or maybe here on Grosvenor Square. I sometimes go out for a walk in the fine weather.”
Coffen sat, digesting this. “If you see her again, it would be a real help if you could follow her, see where she goes.”
Miss Barker looked a little leery at this idea. “I suppose I could try,” she said.
“That’d be grand. I’ll leave my card. If you could just drop me a line.” He rooted through his pockets but no card was forthcoming among the assortment of coins, string, a rabbit’s foot and three dusty peppermint drops that he drew forth.
