by Joan Smith
“I hope so, Black,” Coffen said, wiping crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. “Have you given any more thought to the limper? You know a lot of havey-cavey people, thieves and such. No offence.”
“None taken, Mr. Pattle.”
“Good. I don’t know how you know them, and I ain’t asking. We now have a name for the limping fellow, at least a name, the one he was using in London. Stokes he called himself. A friend of Russell’s. I don’t have to remind you who Russell is.” Black’s eavesdropping was no secret.
“Miss Fenwick’s fiancé what was murdered.”
“That’s him. It’s beginning to look like the limper might be the one did Russell in.” He reviewed what he knew, about their being together in Bedford, their hasty departure without paying their bills, and the hat put in Cooper’s room. Black nodded throughout, happy to have his memory jogged. “They were still on friendly terms a week or so ago. They met up at a card game with some friend of Byron’s, but they’re not Captain Sharps. That’s not their lay.”
Black’s forehead pleated in a frown as he ran his various acquaintances, past and present, through his mind. “Then it can’t be Eddie the Gimp,” he said. “He’s a long drink of water. Nor it’s not Red Roger either, though he’s the right height. An ankle-biter, but he’s a carrot top. Course he could’ve dyed his hair but I doubt it. He’s proud of his red curls. And besides he don’t limp. Louie’s the right size and color and does drag his foot a little due to breaking some bones when a carriage ran over it, but he’s doing twenty years for killing his wife’s brother. I haven’t heard he’s broke out.” He assumed a noble expression and said, “I don’t keep in close touch with my old associates. I’ll have to ask around, Mr. Pattle.”
A coin moved almost invisibly from Coffen’s hand to Black’s. “I’d appreciate it if you’d do that, Black. The sooner the better.”
“I’ll get on it this very night, Mr. Pattle.”
“Good lad.” Coffen picked up the last biscuit and left, strewing his waistcoat and the carpet with crumbs as he went to retrieve his coat and hat.
Black remained at his post at the window, and when Corinne came downstairs dressed for the evening in a mint green gown that took Lord Blackwell’s breath away, he was able to tell her, “He’s back from the House, but there’s a gent with him. A young fellow I haven’t seen before. He landed in ten minutes after his lordship.”
“It’s probably politics,” Corinne said with a sigh. She hoped it didn’t mean some new crisis required his presence at the House after dinner.
“It wasn’t the little fellow from the House that usually brings the messages.” This familiar trouble-maker was known to carry papers of a sensitive nature for Luten’s perusal.
“Good!”
He brought her a glass of wine and modestly inquired if she would mind if he took a few hours off this evening, as she was going out. “Of course not, Black,” she said, smiling. “Stay as late as you wish. Luten will see I get in safely.”
He bowed and left. She glanced over the Observer while waiting for Luten. The antics of Princess Caroline, the Prince Regent’s estranged wife, were always amusing. They were truly under the microscope now, with a daughter to marry off. There was also a rumor floating about that the Prince wanted to divorce his wife. Poor Prinney! That’s what happened when one was forced into a marriage of so-called convenience. He had visibly paled and fled when first he laid eyes on the Princess chosen as his wife. Really the lady was too farouche to grace the throne of England. Pity the Whigs had to support her, since Prinney was a Tory this season. Ten minutes later Black stuck his head in at the door to say, “The lad’s gone.” Another fifteen minutes passed before Luten arrived, dressed for the evening.
Like Black, he was impressed by Corinne’s beauty. “I wish we weren’t going out,” he said, placing a light kiss on her cheek.
“We’ll leave early,” she said as he offered her his hand to help her rise. “There’s a nasty rumor afoot that Lady Castlereagh has hired an Italian tenor.”
“My head aches just thinking about it.”
“Black tells me you had a caller.”
“Yes, I’ll tell you about it on the way. We’d best be going. We’re already late.”
Black placed her wrap around her shoulders and held the door. Luten had called his carriage and led her out to it. “My caller was a Mr. Collins, one of our young M.P.’s,” he said. “He’s from Manchester, knew Miss Fenwick’s father. I asked him to call on her and see what he could find out. She confirmed that she and Russell were planning to buy a house together. His excuse for asking her to help pay was that his money was tied up in other business ventures. No specific steps had been taken yet. They both rather liked Grosvenor Square.”
“That agrees with what we already knew, then.”
“Yes, but the more important item is that she knew Russell had more than a passing acquaintance with a small, dark-haired fellow who limped.”
“Was his name Stokes?” she asked.
“No, why do you say that?” he asked, surprised.
“Because Byron found out that the same small, limping man met Russell at that card game with Grimsby. He was calling himself Stokes at that time. As Byron said, it probably wasn’t his real name.”
Luten’s ears perked up at the mention of Byron. “Oh, when were you speaking to Byron?” he asked, trying to quell the sharp edge to his voice.
“When I arrived home from shopping this afternoon. Lady Dunn called on me. She knows a French modiste who is making her trousseau.”
“Oh yes. But about Byron — did he call on you?”
“Of course not,” she said, half angry at the charge and half flattered at his jealousy. “I dropped in to see what Reg was up to. Byron was there.”
“I daresay he walked you home?”
“No, Luten. Coffen walked me home.”
His hackles lowered at the mention of Coffen’s name. Somehow, he felt nothing irregular would happen when Coffen was there, and she didn’t enlighten him that Coffen had arrived some time after her.
He could now turn his mind to business. “So he was calling himself Stokes. That is odd,” he said. “The name Miss Fenwick gave Collins is Morton. Russell said he was a neighbor from Keswick. Miss Fenwick, whom we know is a bit of a snob, was not pleased with this friend, so we can assume he wasn’t quite a gentleman. Russell explained that Morton had worked for his family — not a servant, exactly, but a sort of clerk who handled the selling of wool.”
“The papa was supposed to be a vicar. How did he come to be selling wool?”
“It was the grandpapa who raised sheep. Russell spent his vacations with him.”
“I see. Your Mr. Collins certainly did a good job of digging out details.”
“Yes, he’s handsome, and single. The lady welcomed a shoulder to cry on.”
“Did Russell tell her what Stokes or Morton or whoever he is was doing in London? I mean was he supposed to be visiting on some wool-selling venture, or does he live here?”
“He said he lives here now, does clerical work for some firm. She wasn’t interested enough to find out, or remember if she ever knew.”
“I wonder how she came to meet him. I mean did Russell introduce him, bring him to call...”
“No, nothing so innocent. Morton accosted them once on Bond Street. That was the afternoon of the evening he had Russell called from the whist game. And on two other occasions she saw him, had the feeling he was following them. She pointed it out to Russell. He went back and had a word with Morton. Russell told her Morton was late on his rent and wanted to borrow money. In fact on that occasion she saw Russell give him money.”
“I suppose it could be true,” she said doubtfully.
“From what happened in Bedford, we know he did work for or with Russell. He was the errand boy who gave the check for the hat, you recall. Bearing in mind that Stokes/Morton is our chief suspect in the murder, the money Fenwick saw Russell give him was more
likely a payoff for some other illegal act on Russell’s behalf.”
“If Morton was getting money from Russell, though, he wouldn’t be eager to kill the goose who’s laying the golden eggs,” she said. “Russell must have been some sort of threat to Stokes/Morton.”
“Or perhaps it was just a falling out among thieves. If Fenwick disapproved of Morton, Russell might have been trying to get rid of him. That could lead to hard feelings, threats perhaps. If Russell was the brains of the pair, using Morton as his tool to actually perform the illegal acts, he might have threatened Morton with exposure, though it’s hard to see how he could expose Morton without involving himself.”
“Yes, Russell’s the one who actually wrote that bad cheque in Bedford. Morton might be simple-minded, I suppose. Someone like that could easily be imposed on.”
“We’ll have a meeting with our colleagues in the morning to figure out how to find this limping man. And now we shall put murder and mayhem out of our minds for a few hours and try to enjoy ourselves. Did I tell you you look ravishing this evening?”
The dinner party was uneventful and they escaped before the musical entertainment began.
Chapter Seventeen
Coffen did not have to be summoned to the meeting the next morning. He was at his cousin’s house bright and early and hungry, as usual.
“Her ladyship is still at breakfast, Mr. Pattle,” Black told him when he arrived.
“No word yet on the matter we discussed yesterday, Black?”
“I have my feelers out, Mr. Pattle. You may expect word soon. Why don’t I just show you to the table?”
“No need to bother yourself, Black. I can find my way.”
“My pleasure.” Undeterred, Black got a step ahead of him. He was not about to miss out on another chance to see her, even if the old malkin was with her. This was his unflattering term for Mrs. Ballard. The two never could rub along peacefully but kept their enmity at a safe simmer.
Coffen was welcomed by both ladies. Even Mrs. Ballard liked him. He didn’t need a second invitation to “just help yourself from the sideboard," where gammon, eggs and potatoes were being kept warm.
While he was eating, Corinne mentioned that Luten wanted a conference before going to work. “He knew — er, thought you would be here and said he would let Prance know,” she said. “Prance will realize he must come early as Luten will have to go on to the House. Were you with Reg last night, Coffen?”
“No, I haven’t seen him since yesterday. He was likely out with Byron buying more tin goo-gaws and animal hides for his drawing room.”
Black returned a little later and peeked his head in at the door. “Sir Reginald is waiting in the drawing room, milady. He said he’d prefer to wait there.” He added with a smirk, “Seems the smell of gammon in the morning makes him ill.”
“I’m done. Let’s go,” Coffen said, pushing away from the table and brushing crumbs from his jacket to the floor.
Corinne said, “Bring the coffee into the drawing room, Black. And a cup for Lord Luten as well. Will you join us, Mrs. Ballard?”
“If you think it would help,” she said, and arose reluctantly to go along.
Luten was soon at the door. Black didn’t interrupt his trip to the drawing room with the coffee tray. He knew Luten would let himself in, as he did. Talk about running tame at a lady’s house! Prance decided he could manage “just a demitasse of coffee, no cream or sugar,” and the meeting was soon underway.
Luten outlined what Mr. Collins had discovered about the limping man, Stokes/Morton. Coffen nodded and explained that Black was giving them a hand there.
“What have you been up to, Prance?” Luten asked.
Prance disliked to admit he had spent the evening re-arranging his drawing room and sorting through his wardrobe with Villier to decide what new jackets and waistcoats would be required for spring.
He handed a letter to Luten. “I’ve finally had an answer from Keswick. Russell is unknown in the area. There never was a vicar called Russell there. We weren’t aware of this Stokes/Morton at the time. I can write auntie and make enquiries about him, if you think it worthwhile.”
“Might as well cover all bases,” Luten said, “but I doubt we’ll learn anything new. I’m not surprised Russell lied. I wonder if he might have been there under another name, though. If necessary we could use his picture and ask around. He’s covered his tracks with so many stories he’s got to be hiding something.”
“And we know what,” Corinne pointed out. “He’s a common crook, moving about from place to place, skipping out without paying his bills. I don’t see that it matters where he’s from. Surely it’s the limping man we must find. You can’t help us there, Mrs. Ballard?”
“Just what I told you. He showed up at the door one evening when we were at cards and Russell went out and spoke to him. No cripple ever sat down to cards with us,” she said. “It’s true Mr. People’s gout was bothering him last winter, but no one could call him small, and his hair is snow white.”
“Yes, I think we can eliminate Mr. Peoples,” Luten said with a quelling stare at Prance, who was rolling his eyes in derision.
After a good deal of fairly fruitless discussion, it was decided that Luten would speak to Townsend, the most famous of the Bow Street Runners, to see if he could get a line on Stokes/Morton, Prance would write to Keswick to enquire about a man of Russell’s description and a friend of small stature who limped. Coffen would work with Black. Although no job was assigned to Lady deCoventry, Prance noticed there was no hint that she was not carrying her weight.
“I’ll pop along to Grosvenor Square and see if Miss Barker has had any luck as well,” Coffen volunteered.
“She was to notify me if she spotted him,” Reg reminded him.
“Devil a bit of it, Prance, it’s the lady Russell was speaking to that she’s keeping an eye peeled for. I’ll let her know we’re looking for the limper as well. She may have seen him. No harm to ask anyhow.”
Corinne said, “Mrs. Ballard tells me the whist group is meeting this afternoon. Some of the ladies are a little nervous of going out in the evening since the murder.” She turned to her companion. “Perhaps you could ask if any of them have seen this limping man about, Mrs. Ballard.”
“Certainly I shall. Miss Fenwick is not attending, however. She is still in mourning.” Then she screwed up her courage and added, “I — indeed we all — are most grateful for your help in this awful matter. Very sorry for all the bother...”
“Not at all, Mrs. Ballard,” Luten said. “It’s in everyone’s interest to see that criminals are brought to justice. Especially murderers.”
“An eye for an eye,” Mrs. Ballard said, nodding her head in agreement.
The group parted to go their separate ways. Corinne received a note from Lady Dunn inviting her to accompany her on a visit to her modiste. She offered to take her in the tilbury. As Corinne had no particular part in the case that day, she agreed. She made a point of wearing a warmer pelisse, however.
Coffen learned something surprising from Miss Barker. She hadn’t seen the dark-haired lady again, and couldn’t recall ever seeing a limping man with Russell, but she had seen Cooper talking to him one evening as they were leaving their whist game. This was not the occasion when Mrs. Ballard had offered Miss Barker a ride home in Lady deCoventry’s carriage — so kind of her — and she hadn’t noticed if the two men left together, but she just happened to notice a man waiting across the street, and when Cooper saw him, he began to cross the street. At the same time the other man, a smallish fellow, went forward as if to meet him, and Miss Barker noticed he seemed to “dragging one foot behind him.”
Then Mr. Peoples joined them and asked if Mrs. Ballard would mind dropping him off, and of course Mrs. Ballard agreed. She was always very kind about giving rides home, as long as it wouldn’t take the carriage much out of its way. No, she’d never seen the limping man before or since, or ever asked Cooper about him. Had never given him a though
t, but she had definitely seen him once, about three weeks ago it was. Well she could look up her diary and tell him exactly, but it was that really freezing cold night before the snow storm.
Prance dashed off his letter to Keswick, then spent the rest of the morning giving the villain of his gothic novel a limp. To the cognoscenti, the physical deformity would be symbolic of a character flaw. Oh dear! That wouldn’t do! Not with Byron writing the introduction, as he had graciously agreed to do. He’d have to change the limp to a stiff arm. Or perhaps a one-armed man? No, better! A one-eyed man, who covered the empty eye socket with a black patch, that well-known symbol of piracy. Stealing a lady’s inheritance was a sort of piracy.
* * * *
After much discussion and holding various lengths of silk up to check the effect, Corinne ordered a length of rose silk and a pattern to be trimmed around the bottom with white rosettes. As they drove home, Lady Dunn offered to give her a few driving lessons in her tilbury, but Corinne declined. Her new friend’s style of driving was too dangerous for her. Her eye wasn’t sharp enough or her nerve steely enough to steer the carriage through a space that hardly left an inch on either side. It was frightening enough to be a passenger. When this bid for friendship failed, Lady Dunn suggested they might get together for a game of cards one evening when their fiancés were busy.
Corinne felt this was rushing the friendship forward too quickly. “I must confess I don’t much care for cards,” she replied. Lady Dunn didn’t make any other suggestions at that time. She was too busy squeaking past a landau.
“You have nerves of steel, Lady Dunn,” Corinne said, laughing nervously.
“That’s what you need in this world, Lady — Oh, let us call each other by name. I’m Mavis.”
“Corinne.”
Corinne hadn’t been presented as a deb in London and didn’t have a wide circle of female friends her own age. Her regular companions were all males — the Berkeley Brigade — and her female friends the relatives of Luten’s political colleagues, mostly older ladies. It was nice to have a young lady friend to talk to about clothes and coiffures, and gossip and things that men weren’t interested in. Except for Prance, of course, but he was impossible to please. Mavis seemed eager to befriend her, and Corinne felt she had been a bit abrupt in turning down those two friendly overtures. When they returned to Berkeley Square, she invited Mavis in for tea.
