Shadow of Murder

by Joan Smith

  “Since you have already invited Lady Mary Winters to accompany you, Prance, you can hardly desert her. It will look less suspicious if you and Corinne and I just go on to the ball, as if nothing unusual were happening.”

  Prance managed to conceal his relief at his modest part and said, “I had hoped for a more active role, but then I ought not to disappoint Lady Mary.”

  “We’ll meet again tomorrow morning,” Luten said. “You all think over the plan and let me know if you have any objection or questions.”

  “I’ll need to get hold of the proper groom’s outfit,” Black said. “Then change into my own evening clothes for the ball after we get there.” He didn’t intend to miss the ball, or go wearing some groom’s outfit either. He had bought a ticket, insisted on paying for it too, though her ladyship wanted to give it to him.

  “Yes, that’s the sort of detail we have to arrange,” Luten said. “It shouldn’t be a problem. Lady Clare will supply the outfit. It would be best if you go home after to change. There’s no room at the Hall where you could do it in privacy.”

  After discussing a few more details, the meeting broke up. Corinne had a private word with Luten, he stared, then laughed, then she hurried to catch up with Mrs. Ballard.

  “I dislike to ask any more favours of you, Mrs. Ballard,” she said. “But I wonder if you would mind coming with Luten and me to the ball. There will be a dozen little details once the auction begins. Keeping track of everything. Miss Lipman will be there, but really we could use another pair of hands.”

  Mrs. Ballard gasped and turned white with fright, then bright pink with joy. “Oh milady! Me, at a ball! Whatever would I wear?”

  “Oh, your best gown, and that lovely little string of pearls your late husband gave you for a wedding present would be fine.”

  “I’ll look a fright,” she said, actually tittering. It was the first time Corinne had ever heard her laugh. “But then, consider the lilies of the field. Oh dear, that cannot be the proper allusion. I am so excited. I must get my velvet cape out and steam it. It has some swansdown trim. I haven’t worn it in decades.”

  “It sounds lovely. We plan to have dinner a little early and leave immediately after. Can you be ready to come with us?”

  “Oh my! Such a lot to do.” Her hand flew to her hair. “But I shall still find time to help you dress, milady.”

  “For this one occasion, I’ll ask the upstairs maid to help me. Jenny has some experience as a dresser. And my gown, you know, is hanging ready to put on.”

  “I won’t have to dance, will I?”

  “Only if the Prince Regent asks you. It wouldn’t do to refuse him.”

  “Oh milady! I do hope you jest.”

  “Yes, I was fooling. Prinney, you know, prefers elderly, portly ladies. You are much too young and slender for him.”

  Mrs. Ballard’s fingers flew to her lips to suppress a laughing gasp. It seemed dreadfully wrong to make fun of one’s reigning monarch. But then Prince George was a byword for extravagance and lechery. With her mind reeling, she darted abovestairs to haul her velvet mantle out of the back of the clothespress, remove the dust sheet covering it and observe that, though sadly creased, a good steaming would bring it around again. Then there were slippers and gloves and a little handbag to worry about.

  Oh my! It felt like a dream. Could this really be happening to her?

  * * *

  Chapter 30

  Evans was delegated to oversee preparation of the auction goods for removal to Elgin Hall. He was thrilled with the honour, having feared it would go to Black. Fragile goods were protected by plenty of insulation. Each box was marked, noting the contents. He checked every item against her ladyship’s list to confirm that all donations were included.

  On the morning of the removal, Townsend called on Lady Luten to receive the jewelry items she had kept in Luten’s safe. She watched, drawing a great sigh of relief as the carriage lumbered off, accompanied by Townsend and his men. Luten and Coffen rode alongside the wagon with the guards.

  The sun beaming in an azure sky promised continuing good weather for the ball. Corinne had called for her carriage and drove on ahead to be there when the goods arrived and to see to their placement. They were taken in the back door and stored in a room with guards outside. Then the ladies from the committee oversaw the unpacking.

  The whole building was bustling with activity. The decorating committee were overseeing the arrangement of flowers. Servants were laying cloths, crystal and cutlery on the long tables in the dining room where supper would be served at midnight. Gunter’s were bringing in trays of sweets, blocks of ice were carted to the kitchen to keep the lobsters fresh, various caterers were rushing about, bumping into each other. Miss Lipman was there and approached Corinne.

  “Have you heard anything of Vance?” she asked.

  “No, nothing. You?”

  She shook her head. “I see the stolen goods have been recovered. I am so glad. I hope you don’t think Vance had anything to do with their disappearance. I’m sure he didn’t.”

  “We don’t believe he stole them,” Corinne said. And it now seemed that he was not the one who had informed the gang about the safety precautions either. In her own mind at least, she blamed Chloe for that. But why then had Diamond Dan visited Vance, carrying the icon? He must have gone with a gun to kill Vance. Why would he do that if Vance were not involved?

  “Let me know if you hear from him,” she said to Miss Lipman. Before more could be said, Mrs. Middleton called for Miss Lipman, and she left.

  As everything seemed to be going smoothly at the Hall, Corinne went home at noon to begin her own preparations. Rouland, the French emigre coiffeur who was the latest rage with the ladies, had vacated his shop in St. James’s Street and come to her house to arrange her hair that afternoon for the ball. She was wearing it in the tousled Victime do, though not with the red ribbon around her neck to imitate the work of the guillotine.

  While he was there, Mrs. Ballard came to her dressing room, where he was performing his magic, to ask whether her ladyship thought she should wear her hair up, or in its usual bun with small feathers for ornament. She carried with her a couple of wilted white egret feathers rescued from a bonnet Corinne had discarded half a decade ago.

  Monsieur Rouland glanced up at Mrs. Ballard and said, “Ah non, madame. For you, Rouland prescribes the turban.”

  She looked at him, blinked, and said to Corinne, “Sorry, milady, I didn’t know you were busy. I’ll come back later.”

  “That’s all right. We’re finished.” She looked in her mirror and was satisfied that the do suited her. “Thank you, Rouland. It looks just as I hoped.” Then she looked at Mrs. Ballard. “I believe Rouland is right. A turban would suit you, Mrs. Ballard. Very elegant, and you won’t have to worry about your hair.”

  “I don’t have a turban,” she said, as if it were a diamond necklace or a fur coat.

  “Madame has the écharpe?” he asked Corinne.

  “Yes, I have plenty of scarves.” She went to her dresser, wondering which one would suit. Mrs. Ballard would be wearing her best black gown, so really any colour would do. She wouldn’t like anything too bright. In fact, she would prefer black, but a soft violet for half mourning might appeal to her.

  She handed the violet scarf to Rouland, who already had Mrs. Ballard sitting in front of the mirror, where she looked as terrified as if she were having a tooth drawn. “Try this, Rouland,” she said.

  He wrapped it around Mrs. Ballard’s head, and with some sleight of hand soon had it arranged into a very stylish turban. “A brooch in front would be elegant,” he said. Corinne rifled through her box of everyday jewelry and brought him a pearl and faux diamond pin. Rouland fastened it on the front of the turban and stood back. “Voila!” he said, smiling in approval at his creation.

  Mrs. Ballard looked in the mirror, blinked and said only, “Oh my!” but she said it in such a voice that Corinne and Rouland knew she was thrilled.


  “Très élégant,” Rouland complimented.

  “It looks very chic,” Corinne added.

  “I’ll never be able to get my gown on over it,” Mrs. Ballard said, lifting a hand to touch the construction, as if making sure it was really there.

  “It comes off,” Corinne assured her. “We’ll put it back on after you’re dressed for the evening.”

  “I, Rouland, shall arrange,” he said. “You have the needle and thread, Madame?” Mrs. Ballard darted off and was back with her sewing basket. With a few stitches Rouland had formed the scarf into a permanent turban that could be put on and off like a hat.

  “But it’s your good scarf, milady,” Mrs. Ballard said.

  “A small present, for all your help,” Corinne said. “And keep the brooch. It’s only paste.”

  “Oh my. I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you both.”

  She went back to her room and went to her mirror. She hardly recognized herself. The turban gave her a proud look. She had to lift her chin and straighten her shoulders to go with the turban. Why, she was actually rather — no, not pretty. She had never been pretty, but attractive for an older lady. The turban lent her what people called ‘countenance.’ Wouldn’t old Black stare to see her rigged up like a duchess!

  The other members of the Brigade were busy as well. Prance sent Villier out for flowers and created a corsage for Lady Mary, then the two of them spent an hour or so trying different arrangements of the cravat. Now that Prance was losing interest in writing the script for his play, he was tired of being a bohemian and decided to have his hair cut. Villier always performed this chore for him, and did it better than a professional in their shared opinion.

  Black’s groom’s outfit and a suit of Lady Clare’s livery for Coffen arrived and had to be tried on. Raven was scolded into laying out Mr. Pattle’s and Black’s clothes for the evening and ordered to be on hand to help them make a quick change for the ball when they returned. It was understood that Raven served as valet to them both now.

  Then Black and Mr. Pattle drove along the route the paste necklace would take to familiarize themselves with possible trouble spots. They drove from Curzon Street to Elgin Hall with many trips down the side streets to find likely lurking spots for the thieves. This was dry work, and required a few stops to wet their whistles.

  To encourage the attack on the carriage, it had been decided that Lady Clare’s departure would occur after dark. At twilight they changed into the clothes for the first part of the evening, whistled for a cab and headed to Curzon Street, where the group were to meet up.

  The kitchen door opened and they were beckoned inside. The kitchen was obviously not being used to prepare dinner. No cook, no maids, no boiling pots on the stove, but just one scowling lady outfitted elegantly in a ball gown. Roger Rich’s disguise was so good that Coffen scraped a leg and said, “Evening, Lady Clare,” and was shocked when the ‘lady’ reached out and gave him a swat that nearly sent him reeling.

  “Watch yer bleedin’ gob,” the swatter said. “Bad enough I got to wear skirts, without the likes of you chaffing me. It’s a favour to Robin Redbreast, see.” This was a common name for the the Bow Street Runners, who wore red waistcoats.

  “No offence,” Coffen said. “I’ll be with you in the carriage. Pattle’s the name, and you’d be Roger Rich. Dandy show, Astley’s. Tell me, how do you do that stunt hopping from one moving horse to t’other without falling and splitting your noggin open?”

  Appeased by this praise, Roger became friendly. “The trick is balance, see? You got to forget that the prads are moving, but they both got to be moving side by side and at the same pace or you’ll land on your arse.”

  “Sounds tricky.”

  “I don’t recommend it for amatoors.”

  “No, I wouldn’t try it myself. This gent is Mr. Black. He’ll be playing John Groom tonight. Where’s Phillips?”

  “Gone to the mews to see all’s ready there.”

  They sat down and discussed what they would do if they were attacked. “I hear it’s a girl as may come after us,” Roger said. “I’d like to meet her. Sounds a game chick. Townsend don’t think she’ll have more than one man with her. I figure the lot of us can handle one female, eh?”

  At the appointed hour Black went to the mews to bring Lady Clare’s carriage around. Townsend’s Runner, George Phillips, dressed in the Clare livery, greeted him. “All’s well here. I checked that they hadn’t got at the carriage to make it break down.”

  “I’ll just mount the box and see they remembered to put a gun under the seat,” Black said. “I have my own pistol in my pocket.”

  “Charged and ready to go, is it?”

  Black just stared at such insolence. “I usually charge my pistol before I fire it,” he said, “Hop up on your perch and look lively. It’s time to go.”

  At Curzon Street, Roger Rich, accompanied by Coffen, came out the front door when the carriage arrived. Phillips, acting as post boy, hopped down and held the carriage door wide. They all got in and the carriage was off.

  * * *

  Chapter 31

  Black had a good view from the box as he drove up Park Lane but he couldn’t keep as close an eye on what was going on as he would have liked. This elegant roadway, though well illuminated, was so busy that handling the frisky team took most of his attention.

  It seemed a group of young bucks were having a curricle race. They were careering down the road at a wicked pace, and kept passing each other, so that Black had to keep his eyes on the road. Then, too, a few mounted riders galloped past, each causing a lurch of apprehension. Inside the carriage, Roger and Coffen kept a hand on their pistols as they peered out the window.

  “Where do you figure they’ll strike?” Coffen asked.

  “Not on Park Lane,” Roger said with the air of one who knows. “Too busy. Where they’ll come at us is on Oxford, either from Old Quebec or a block farther on, the north side of Portman Street. Good hiding either of them places and not too well lit.”

  “Not well lit, eh? I didn’t realize that this afternoon when I was checking the route. I believe you’re right.”

  “Course I am. Common sense. Then they’ll head west to Hyde Park, only a skip and jump away. If they make it that far, we’ve lost them, my friend. Like looking for a black cat in the dark. If we didn’t want to be robbed, we’d of took a different route.”

  “That makes sense,” Coffen agreed.

  Roger sat forward and peered out the window. “Here, look lively. We’re making the turn.”

  The turn required all Black’s attention. Fortunately the racing bucks turned left into Hyde Park to continue their race. Once Black was on Oxford Street the traffic lessened. In fact, there were no carriages in front of them, and none close enough behind to worry about. The nearly empty road, lit with lamps at intervals, had dark stretches between. Like Roger, he figured the attack would come not far from Hyde Park. He looked sharp as a carriage pulled out in front of him at Quebec Street, but it seemed harmless. The robbers wouldn’t be driving a carriage.

  He drew a breath and steeled himself as they approached Portman. Also like Roger, he was looking to the north, expecting at every second to see a mounted rider come dashing out from Portman Street.

  When the excitement began, it came from a different direction. The carriage in front of him drew to an abrupt stop. Black hauled on the reins to prevent running into it, the team reared up, jerking the carriage so hard that Phillips was left clinging to his perch with both hands. Coffen and Roger were knocked off their seats on to the carriage floor. Roger fell on top of Coffen. In the confusion, their pistols flew out of their hands.

  Roger twisted his neck up and looked out the window. “The stupid buggers stopped the wrong carriage!” he said, laughing.

  “Best look lively,” Coffen warned as he scrabbled around the floor for his pistol. “We can still get them.”

  “For what? They ain’t trying to rob us. Gorblimey, I’ve busted
me arm.”

  While he was flexing his arm and Coffen was still trying to scramble out from under him, a mounted rider, accompanied by a young man on foot, approached. Both wore black masks and wide-brimmed hats. The carriage door opened as if by magic. A masked man, or at least someone with a man’s voice, called down from his mount, “Stand and deliver, Lady Clare. The necklace, and you won’t get hurt.”

  It was the masks as much as the pistols aimed at them that lent the robbery that chilling air of danger. Coffen felt that if he could see that it was just Chloe and Sean, it wouldn’t have seemed so scary. He was pretty sure the one who spoke was a man, not Chloe. Well, the shoulders were too big for one thing. Next he looked at the mount — it looked black in the dim light with a white mark on the nose, a fine gelding but not an Arab. He noticed the boots in the stirrups had little dangling chains. He couldn’t make out whether they were yellow or silver. Then he noticed the masked boy standing beside the horse.

  The boy had a hand on the door handle. The man dismounted and pointed a pistol into the carriage. “Throw out your pistols,” he said in a low voice that might have been a girl’s trying to sound like a man’s. They had no choice but to do it. They felt around the carriage floor and tossed the guns out.

  Impatient, the mounted one ordered, “The necklace. Now!”

  Roger adopted a woman’s voice — certainly not a lady’s — and screeched, “Oh laucks. Don’t shoot me. Here, take it.” Still on the floor, he reached up and felt about the seat for the box containing the paste necklace. Townsend wanted him to hand over the necklace, so he could call it a proper robbery.

  The smaller attacker reached out a gloved hand, snatched the velvet box, opened it, to see the necklace was there, and deposited it in a pocket.

  * * *

  Black’s attention was all on the carriage ahead. Like Roger, he thought the robbers had stopped the wrong carriage, but he might still catch them. While Lady Clare’s carriage was being approached by the robbers, he leapt down, ordered Phillips to take over the reins, and ran to the other carriage.