by Joan Smith
Coffen ladled five or six spoons of sugar and a healthy dollop of cream into his coffee, blew noisily on it, and took a sip before beginning. “Well sir, if Fogg was carrying on with a lady, he certainly kept it dark amongst his fellow workers. Not a whiff of her. In fact, he didn’t chum around with any of them except a fellow called Harry Morrison, who was about the last one you’d expect him to take to. Not quite as high in society as the others, but they seemed to get along all right. Fogg thought he was too good for most of them since being taken up by Prinney, from what I could pick up. Only showed up for work two or three times a week, and then he only stayed for as long as it pleased him.
“The fellow he worked for, if you can call it work, says he was only paid two hundred per annum, but he lived pretty high on the hog. Dressed up like a duke and had a new curricle and team. Joined a few expensive clubs, gambled. How did he afford that? It takes money to lose money. You mind Townsend said he wasn’t getting along with his folks. I wonder if his papa gave him enough allowance to cover all that high living.”
Prance listened, then said, “Probably living on tick. Is it possible his debtors got him?”
“That wouldn’t account for the missing ring and lock of hair Townsend told us about,” Coffen pointed out. “My thinking is, if he was gambling and living the high life, he was likely involved with women as well.”
“If he was such a gent about town, it’s odd none of us ever ran into him,” Prance said.
“No, it ain’t,” Coffen said. “He ran with Prinney’s set.”
“Surely not. Prinney’s set is ancient,” Corinne objected. “A young fellow just down from university wouldn’t be comfortable with them. Townsend said he was artistic. I wonder what particular field he was interested in. Was it painting, drama, literature?”
“I’ll have a word with Byron,” Prance said. “He would know if Fogg had any literary reputation.”
“Yes, that’d make a decent excuse to call on him again,” Coffen said. Prance gave him a blistering look. “Never mind puffing up like a frog, Reg. Byron attracts people like a magnet attracts flies.”
Prance sneered. “You speak the King’s English as badly as the old king himself. He, at least, has the excuse of being a German.”
Coffen said, “Eh?” in an angry way, but didn’t take time to argue. “Since Fogg’s folks live fairly close to London, I plan to trot down there tomorrow,” he continued. “They have a place in Kent. Highgrove, it’s called. They grow hops. They ought to have some good beer, eh?”
“Excellent!” Luten said.
“You’re familiar with it?” Coffen asked, surprised.
“With what? No, no. I mean it’s an excellent notion to go to Highgrove.”
“Will you actually call on the Foggs?” Corinne asked.
“I thought I’d toddle along for the funeral, as the saying goes.”
“What saying is that?” Prance asked.
“What I just said. Going to the funeral.”
“That’s not a saying.”
“Yes, it is. I just said it. I’ll let on I was a chum. Who’s to call me a liar when Henry is dead? I’ll see who’s there. It’s tomorrow, according to the fellows at Somerset House. None of them are going, except perhaps Harry Morrison, which tells you they had no good opinion of him there.”
“I wonder if I would not be a more likely candidate for that job?” Prance said.
“I see you’re dressed for it. You’re welcome to tag along,” Coffen said, with a steely shot from his blue eyes that said he didn’t mean to be left out. “And meanwhile, since you’re rigged out like a peacock in half mourning—”
“I am not in half mourning! Can’t a man wear anything but black or blue without causing comment?”
“If it didn’t cause comment, you wouldn’t wear it,” Coffen charged. “Just looking for a rule you can be an exception to, as usual. Why don’t you do something useful and run down to some of them artistic places to see if you can get a line on Fogg?”
“What artistic places?” Prance asked, ignoring but not forgetting the slur on his toilette. He consoled himself by remembering one had always to consider the source of a compliment or insult.
“Wherever you arty lads hang about. How would I know?”
After a moment’s frowning pause. Prance said, “Henshaw is rehearsing a production of Twelfth Night to raise money for his mama’s charity. He invited me to participate. He's hired Denver Hall for the rehearsals. I could drop in on him there. I hope the production is well along, or he’ll try to nag me into taking the role of Viola.”
“Call him out if he does,” Coffen grumbled. “I’ll act your second.”
“It’s hardly an insult!” Prance objected. “Quite an honor, actually.”
“Dash it, Reg! Viola’s a girl’s name, ain’t it?”
“To be sure, but it’s an all male production, as we used to perform at Cambridge. And anyhow she’s dressed as a man for half the play.”
“They ought to be ashamed of themselves,” Coffen muttered.
“And will be, no doubt, to judge by Henshaw’s last effort,” Prance said with satisfaction. “His Coriolanus was a disaster. Fear not, I shall not accept any role. I’ll be too busy working on my wedding.”
Coffen stuck his finger in his ear and reamed it out. “Eh? Who are you marrying?”
“No one, Coffen. I refer to my arrangements for Luten and Corinne’s nuptials.”
“Then why do you call it your wedding?”
“Our wedding, if you prefer,” Prance said, rolling his eyes ceilingward.
“Corinne’s and Luten’s wedding is what it is, if anything,” Coffen said. Catching an angry sparkle in Corinne’s eyes, he went on to make it worse. “If you ever get around to it, is what I mean, Coz. Not implying that you can’t bring Luten up to scratch. Well, you already have. You have witnesses.”
“We all know what you mean,” she said, with a thin smile. To change this prickly subject, Luten hurried on to other matters.
“If Prance has no luck tonight, you might try to find out at the funeral tomorrow just what artistic field Fogg was involved in, Coffen.”
“I intend to. But mainly I want to find out who it was that cut off his hair and took the ring. I mean to say, either she or whoever she talked into doing it for her is the murderer. That’s pretty clear, I think.”
“Certainly prima facie evidence,” Prance agreed.
Caught off guard with a foreign phrase, Coffen replied with one of the few bits of Latin with which he was familiar. “Kooey bono,” he said, nodding.
“That’s something we haven’t looked into,” Luten said. “Does anybody make gain on Fogg’s death? If there’s family property involved and he’s the oldest son, that might have something to do with it. Actually Lady Hertford could tell us all that sort of thing.” When no one volunteered to visit her, he added, “Or Townsend, perhaps ?”
“Send for Townsend,” Coffen said.
Prance volunteered to call on Townsend on his way to visit Henshaw. After he left, the others discussed the case until Townsend arrived. He hadn’t changed into evening clothes, nor did he apologize for the lack.
“Have you learned anything, milord?” he asked eagerly.
“Actually we’ve invited you here to pick your brains,” Luten replied.
“Pick away. You’ll not learn much. I have been run off my feet. Lady Blanchard’s daughter has foolishly turned a diamond necklace over to a gazetted fortune hunter who was to hawk it to rent a carriage for their elopement. He’s vanished with the sparklers, leaving the lady behind. And as if that weren’t enough, there’s a new set of footpads terrorizing the theater district.”
Townsend could not answer all their questions, but he had asked Lady Hertford the same questions and told them what he knew. Fogg’s reputation for artistic talent appeared to reside in the fact that he read poetry, liked attending plays, exhibitions and concerts. Such a passive interest left little room for investigation. As
to anyone profiting from his death, he was actually a younger son, with no expectations except five thousand pounds, which was but a drop in the bucket to the heir.
Coffen told Townsend about Fogg’s one friend at Somerset House, and that he and Prance were attending the funeral. He promised to inform him if he discovered anything. Townsend had a glass of sherry and left, to resume the search for Miss Blanchard’s diamonds.
“Well, it looks like we are no forwarder,” Coffen said. “I’ll drop in at a few clubs and see if I can pick up any gossip about Fogg.”
“You might try the green rooms of the theaters,” Luten suggested. “His interest in the theater could include a fondness for actresses. You have some acquaintances amongst them, Pattle.”
Coffen felt more at home with actresses than with ladies of his own class and was a regular visitor to the green rooms. “I will. I wonder I didn’t think of it myself. I am off, then.”
While he was still in the hall, Corinne ran after him to remind him to change before going to the clubs. There was no counting on him to do it. When she returned to the drawing room, Luten was standing without his crutches, but when he tried to take a step, he grimaced and sank back on to the chair, rubbing his ankle.
“I feel so demmed useless!” he growled. “This case is so important, and here I sit, shackled to my chair, unable to leave the house.”
“The rest of us will do whatever needs doing. Is your ankle bothering you very much?” she asked, when she noticed he was wincing as he rubbed it.
“It aches like the devil. I shouldn’t have put my weight on it. I believe the bandage wants tightening. It’s supposed to give support. It seems loose. I hope that means the swelling is going down.”
This unromantic speech was very satisfying to Corinne. It was the first time Luten had made personal complaints of this sort in front of her. In the past, he had kept his complaints to himself. He disliked to show any weakness in public. Did this mean he had finally accepted her as someone especially close to him?
“Why don’t I call Evans and ask him to bring some headache powders? They’ll ease the pain in your ankle.”
“Thank you, my dear. Sorry to be such a troublesome host.”
“It’s no trouble.”
She saw the signs of fatigue about his eyes. As he had not been exerting himself physically, she knew they were caused by worry and pain. It would mean so much to him if he could solve this case, and the prince brought the Whigs into power. It had been Luten’s dream for as long as she had known him.
It was not just personal ambition that drove him either. He was deeply committed to the improvements he strove for—better care for the poor, enlarging the franchise to give some power to the less wealthy, religious freedom for Ireland. All worthy causes. And here she was only worried about the delay to her wedding.
She went to him and bent over to place a kiss on his cheek.
He took her hand and held it against his warm cheek. “What was that for?” he asked, surprised. “Not that I’m complaining!”
“That’s for being—you. When Evans comes, you should ask him to have your doctor call tomorrow to see if the bandage wants tightening. I’m going home now and let you get some rest. Goodnight, Luten.”
“Come tomorrow morning.”
“I will. Goodnight.”
Evans had his orders to see that she was accompanied home by a footman, though it was only a step across the street. Touched by her concern, Luten hobbled to the window to see that she made it safely to her door. For a moment there, he had seen something in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. Something beautiful and fiercely tender. It brought a lump to his throat. Odd she should behave so now, when he felt less a man because of his condition. The voice, too, had been softer. Was this a new stage in their romance? How did one respond to that sort of—love? Not by asking “What was that for?” like a schoolboy.
He’d make it up to her tomorrow.
* * *
Chapter 6
Luten looked forward to continuing the past night’s new era of tenderness when Corinne came to call in the morning. He had a pretty speech planned, telling her how much he appreciated her and thanking her for her help, especially during this difficult time for him. With the typical perversity of fate, Corinne was not in a mood for romance when she called that morning. She didn’t even ask about his ankle. Determined to add her mite to finding Fogg’s murderer, she had bent her mind to the puzzle and had a suggestion.
“We overlooked one important point yesterday, Luten,” she said, after placing a somewhat careless kiss on his cheek. They met in the cozy breakfast parlor. The oak paneling caught the sunlight filtering through the window, adding visual warmth to the heat from the fireplace. The welcome aroma of coffee hung on the air. Luten poured her a cup and she sat down beside him. “We should have gone to Fogg’s apartment and searched it for clues,” she said.
This obviously wasn’t the optimum moment to open his heart to her. He reluctantly adjusted his mood to business. “Townsend had already been there, you recall.”
“Yes, but he only found what wasn’t there. The ring and lock of hair, I mean. There must have been other things that were there. The sort of lady who cuts off a lock of her lover’s hair is the same sort who would shower her beau with billets doux and keepsakes and very likely a lock of her own hair, tied up in a pink satin ribbon. I wonder Coffen didn’t think of it, he’s so fond of clues.”
Luten felt a wince of regret that his and Corinne’s romance was not of that ardent type, at least in this brief pre-marital period. He said, “You’re right! I should have thought of it, since all I’m good for is thinking. I’ve been giving most of my attention to politics. All that is a mere will o’ the wisp if we don’t find Fogg’s murderer.”
“A pity Coffen and Prance are both going to the funeral today. But they’ll be home before dark and can search the apartment then.”
“Actually there’s no need for them both to attend the funeral. As Prance said, he is the likelier one to be a friend of an artistic fellow like Fogg. I daresay Coffen will agree to miss it when he hears what we want him to do.”
“I plan to go to Fogg’s place with him. No, don’t bother scowling at me, Luten. I will go. A lady has a sharper eye for details. I have some interest in solving this murder too, you know. “
“I do know,” he said, with a warm smile, squeezing her fingers.
He was about to embark on some tenderness when she said, “Oh! I didn’t think to ask how your ankle is this morning. Did you send for the doctor?”
“The ankle is much better. Simon tightened the bandage for me. My valet is perfectly capable. I dislike to have Knighton poking about. I’ll send a footman over to Pattle’s place before he and Prance leave.”
She laughed. “You cannot be such a flat as to think Coffen will leave without calling to cadge breakfast from you! You know his servants always burn his toast and drink up all his cream, and he dislikes black coffee.”
Within minutes, the expected knock was heard at the front door, and Coffen was shown in. He had added a black stock and arm band to his usual toilette. A crumpled black ribbon hung from the hat he had handed to Evans. Other than these tokens of mourning, he wore his usual jacket and a pair of topboots that were virtual strangers to polish.
“G’day,” he said, bobbing an abbreviated bow, while his sharp blue eyes searched the table for food and drink. He took a seat and said, “Sorry to interrupt your meal. I was sure you’d be finished breakfast by now. How did it get so early? I thought I would just pop in before I leave and let you know what I learned last night, which is pretty much nothing.”
Corinne poured him a cup of coffee. He said, “Why thankee,” and fixed it to his taste before continuing.
“Folks at the clubs had heard of Fogg, knew of him as some connection to Lady Hertford. He had been there a few times—came and left alone. He was no hand at cards. Lost pretty regularly but never played very deep and paid up all right and tight
. Quite a few of them had met him, but no one really seemed to know him, or would admit it anyhow. He’s a complete stranger to the green rooms. None of the actresses had ever heard of him.”
“How very odd,” Corinne said, wrinkling her brow.
“Aye, and there’s something odder still. I managed to get into his rooms at Albany with a dandy little passe-partout Fitz got hold of for me.” Fitz was his groom. “I thought it best not to ask where he got it. Illegal, I daresay. Anyhow, I had a look about the place for clues.”
Corinne and Luten exchanged a look. “We were just saying you should go there,” Corinne said.
“I should have gone sooner,” he continued. “The whole place had been rifled, and none too carefully either. Letters and bills and paper strewn all over the place. I examined them, of course, but it was clear as a pikestaff anything interesting was gone.”
“I wonder when that was done,” Luten said.
“It was certainly after Townsend left yesterday, or he’d have mentioned it. It wasn’t done much before I got there, in fact, for the embers in the grate was still warm. I could see where papers had been burned. You know the kind of ashes they leave, all thin and wavery. Quite different from wood. It was no robbery. There were some bits of jewelry in the bedroom. Some pretty nice bits, actually. A fair sized diamond cravat pin and a good watch. I figure whoever shot him ran off in a panic after he’d done it, then remembered the clues he’d left behind and went back for them last night.”
Luten listened closely, then said, “You mentioned using a master key to get in. The door was locked?”
“It was, and no windows open or broken.”
“Then how did the fellow get in? Townsend would certainly have locked the door when he left yesterday. The man must have a key.”
“Maybe one of the sort Fitz got for me,” Coffen suggested.
“Possibly,” Luten said, “but if not, then he must have had a key to the door. Fogg wouldn’t have given that to just anyone.”
“Fogg might have given his lady love one,” Corinne suggested. “I wonder if she killed him. I mean—she would have to be awfully certain of the man she got to do the job for her, wouldn’t she? There’s no reason a woman couldn’t shoot a pistol. It’s not as if there had been a brawl in the apartment.”
