by Joan Smith
He returned to the front room and reported on the gun. “Nothing suspicious in that,” Black decreed, considering the other occupants of the house. “He might very well need it if he went walking within a street or two of here, as he would have to do to get anywhere. Odd he didn’t take it with him, though.”
“There’s nothing to be found here,” Coffen said.
“Just finding out how Luten’s place is guarded wouldn’t leave any clues. What we should be looking into is Miss Lipman’s rooms,” Prance said, before anyone could mention Vance.
“You’re right,” Black said, “but she has rooms with the Sheltons, a genteel family. It wouldn’t be easy getting in there unseen. And she’s been staying at Berkeley Square all along, until today.”
“Did anyone search her room when she left?” Prance asked.
“Lady Luten did,” Black said. “She found nothing. It’s still early. We might as well go back and report to Luten.”
They found him with his hat in his hand, pacing in the hallway.
“We didn’t find a thing, Luten,” Coffen said, as soon as they entered. He stopped and noticed the others were staring at Luten. Then he saw what they were staring at. None of them was so foolish as to think Luten’s grim expression had to do with their no news. “What is it?” Coffen demanded.
“The footman who was following Miss Lipman just reported. She went to visit Corbett and came out screaming. He’s dead. Murdered.”
Prance reeled back and was only prevented from falling by Black’s arms, that reached out and grabbed him. “A spot of brandy for Sir Reginald,” he said.
Luten called, “Evans!” Evans, who had been listening from the half open doorway of the butler’s room came running. “Brandy for Sir Reginald.”
Prance was led to the nearest room with a seat, which happened to be a small parlour where visitors of no particular account were asked to wait to see his lordship. After a few gulps of brandy and a deal of shuddering, Prance recovered sufficiently to gasp in a quavering voice, “I knew that woman was at the bottom of this. She killed him.”
“Use your noggin, Prance,” Coffen said. “She wouldn’t have gone screaming into the street if she’d killed him. She’d have snuck off out the back door as quiet as she could.”
“She wouldn’t have gone in a cab and asked it to return in two hours either,” Luten added, “which is what she did, according to the footman who was watching her. No, she didn’t kill him. She wasn’t in the house a minute — just long enough to see the body and run. I was just about to go over there. I waited a moment to see if you came back, and hear what you had to say.”
Prance stiffened his resolve and asked. “Have you informed Bow Street?”
“I didn’t have to. Harry, the footman who followed her there, tells me a little crowd collected when Miss Lipman came screaming out, and someone sent for an officer.”
Prance shook his head. “Poor Vance,” he said. “Just when his long struggle for recognition — fame — was within his grasp, for this to happen. And where are we to find another Maldive to equal him? He was perfect in the role.”
“It don’t take much acting for a villain to play a villain,” Coffen said. “He was a good enough actor to con you anyhow. It’s plain as the pikestaff on your face he was in league with the Maccles, or whatever gang did the thieving. They killed him so he couldn’t squeal on them.”
“That’s it, Mr. Pattle,” Black said. “He must have told them we were questioning him.”
“We’re wasting time,” Coffen said. “Let’s get over there and look for clues.”
Luten cast a sympathetic but withal impatient eye on Prance and said, “Are you up to it, Prance, or would you rather we call Villier to take you home?”
Prance straightened his shoulders and said in his bravest voice, “I’ll be all right. I’d like to go with you. But I hope they’ve removed Vance’s body or at least covered his face. I couldn’t bear to see him, dead. How was it done?”
“We don’t know yet. Harry didn’t actually go inside,” Luten said. “He turned Miss Lipman over to one of the women who was there and came racing back here to report.”
Prance arose, took a deep breath and said, “My carriage is outside. Let us go.”
It was Black, ever mindful of his beloved, who asked, “Does her ladyship know?”
“No, she had retired for the night before Harry arrived,” Luten said. “I didn’t want to trouble her.”
They all went out to the waiting carriage and Black directed Pelkey to the destination. All was silent within the carriage as it sped back to the tall old house on Keeley Street. Three of the passengers were running this new development through their minds, trying to fit it into what they knew of the case. They all concluded that Vance had been working on the inside for the gang and been killed when they learned he was under suspicion, in case he identified them.
Prance came to the same reluctant conclusion. His admiration for Vance’s acting ability remained undiminished, but his pity was gone. Truth to tell, he never really cared for Vance in the least. He seemed destined to become one of the leading actors of his generation, however, and it would have been fine to be on close terms with such a star. His death wouldn’t delay the production of the play, but it left them with the problem of finding a new villain. That actor who had played Iago last autumn — now what was his name? Something Parker, wasn’t it? He wasn’t engaged at the moment, so far as he could recall.
* * *
Chapter 17
The Berkeley Brigade had often worked with Townsend, the top Bow Street Officer. It was generally understood that he had taken more criminals than the rest of the force put together. He was the officer that dukes and even princes called when they were hosting balls whose guests would be wearing their finest jewels.
Luten decided it was time to seek his help in finding the stolen auction items. It was not Townsend who met them at Corbett’s door, however, but a bumptious young red-haired officer called Mr. Healey. “No admittance, folks. I’ve got a murder on my hands here.”
“We’re the next of kin,” Coffen said.
“The lot of you? Yes, and I’m his grandma.”
He was about to shut the door on them when he realized that behind the tousled fellow who had spoken were greater personages. These were no commoners he was turning off. The proud, wealthy look of them, the jackets fitting like second skins, the carriage and team on the road behind them all spoke of money, and that meant power. It didn’t do to be brusque with such types, who might very well put up a reward.
From what he’d seen inside, the case didn’t look like a money-maker. The officers worked on commission. Luten introduced himself and explained that Corbett had been working for his friend, Sir Reginald Prance. Healey, impressed by the ‘lord’ and ‘sir’, adopted a more ingratiating tone.
“Indeed! Now you wouldn’t be the gentlemen from the Berkeley Brigade?” he asked archly.
“Just so, good friends of Mr. Townsend,” Luten assured him.
“Well then,” Healey said, and opened the door wide. “As the ‘next of kin’ perhaps you can identify the corpse for us, not that there’s much doubt. This way, gentlemen, right this way.” He cast a leery eye at Coffen and Black, but allowed them all to troop in.
The body lay on the sofa, covered by the paisley shawl last seen draped over the sofa. Healey drew the shawl back from the face. Prance, nudged forward by Luten, firmed himself to make the identification. He stared, reeled back and looked in confusion at Luten. “But that’s not him!” he said, in a high, unnatural voice.
Luten had seen Corbett often enough as he was at the house five days a week for rehearsals. When he looked down at the dead man’s face, he knew it wasn’t the rather handsome, proud-looking actor. “Good God! You’re right.”
Black edged forward, thinking he would recognize him if he was a well-known crook. He stared at the swarthy, full face of a dark-haired man in his late forties. He had a large, ill-shaped
nose and a large square jaw. After some consideration, Black decided he didn’t know the man. Coffen also came forward to have a look. Black drew the shawl down over the wide shoulders to discover the cause of death, winced at the splotch of blood on the blue broadcloth jacket, and fought the urge to rifle the pockets for a calling card. He took a closer look at the site of the wound to assure himself it was a bullet and not a knife that had made that neat hole.
“Not Corbett!” Healey cried. “Then who the deuce is it?”
They all shook their heads and declared they had never seen the man before.
“Now there’s a fine how de do,” Healey said, massaging his chin, and sadly watching his commission fly out the door.
“What position was the body in when you arrived?” Luten asked.
“It was slumped over, right here on the sofa. All I did was lift up his legs and make him comfortable.”
“Was he alive when you got here? Did he say anything?”
“Dead as a doornail, your lordship. He’d been sitting right there on the sofa when he caught the bullet. The body was slumped forward with his head on the table. It would have hit the floor if it wasn’t for the table. I just laid him out to look more comfortable, if you see what I mean.”
“Yes, I see.”
“If he ain’t the fellow who lives here, I’d best go door knocking and see if anyone hereabouts knows the man. He’s no pauper, I’ll tell you that. A decent jacket, a fine gold watch in his pocket and a ring with a red stone on his finger, which tells me it wasn’t a robbery.”
“Could we see the watch and ring?” Coffen asked, hoping for a clue.
“I doubt the corpse will object,” Healey said, risking a little smile, and lifted the man’s left hand with fingers like sausages, the third finger decorated with a fine ruby ring. He had already taken possession of the watch and drew it from his own pocket, where Black had no doubt he had meant to keep it. That was why he laid the fellow out, to get at his pockets! He probably couldn’t pry the ring off that fat finger. The timepiece was a good, gold, old-fashioned turnip watch. It went back into Healey’s own pocket after they had examined it.
“Any money in his wallet?” Black asked with a knowing look.
“He had no purse on him, and no calling card,” Healey said with such an air of annoyance that Black believed him. “Otherwise I’d of known he wasn’t Corbett. I figure whoever shot him stole it, though I wouldn’t call it a simple case of housebreaking. You’ll find in cases of that sort the house has been rifled, and if anyone gets kilt, it’s usually the occupant. A falling out among friends is what it looks like, if this ain’t the occupant.”
“No glasses on the table,” Black mentioned. “They hadn’t been having a drink, as friends might do.”
“No, they’d not been drinking,” Healey agreed.
“Or having a cheroot,” Coffen added, thinking of the three cigar butts in Sean’s flat
“Just chatting, it seems,” Healey agreed.
“No cigars in his pockets?” Black asked, thinking along the same lines as Mr. Pattle.
“Nossir. Is it important, seeing as you seemed to expect cigars are involved.”
“Not really,” Black said.
While the others continued talking, Coffen slipped quietly away and roved about the room, searching for clues. He found nothing but a hat that had a lower crown than the hat Corbett usually wore. No hatter’s name was printed on the sweatband. It was just an ordinary curled beaver, not new, not old enough to be called shabby. Very likely the corpse’s hat.
After a little more talk, Luten’s party took their leave. “Make a stop at Bow Street,” Luten said to Pelkey, and added to the others, “I want to see Townsend. If he’s there I’ll invite him back to Berkeley Square.”
While the carriage wended its way to Bow Street, they discussed the strange discovery at Keeley Street. “This doesn’t really change things much,” Luten said. “It just confirms what we suspected. One of the gang went to kill Corbett to prevent his talking. He was ready for them and killed the man sent to kill him.”
“But where is he?” Prance cried. “Where would he go in such a case as this? Oh dear, you don’t think he’ll come running to me.”
“We won’t be that lucky,” Luten scowled. “I wager you’ve seen the last of him, Prance. But if he does go to you, call us at once. Leave word with Soames that if he shows up, he’s to run to me. And try to find out who he was working for. If you frighten him off, follow him, or have him followed.”
Pelkey drew the carriage to a stop outside the Bow Street station and Luten darted inside. He was back out in a moment. “He’s not there. I sent a Runner off to the Brown Bear coffee shop where he often meets up with his men, and left a message for him at his office as well.”
They returned to Berkeley Square. Corinne, unable to sleep, had slipped downstairs to join Luten. When she learned from Evans that he was out with the other members of the Brigade, she immediately ran upstairs and scrambled into a gown.
Evans explained that the footman had told Luten something that upset him. She called for Harry. As Corinne had already retired, Luten had not taken the precaution of warning the footman not to tell her what had happened at Keeley Street. When he told her ladyship she immediately asked Evans to send for her carriage. Before it arrived the others returned.
She ran to her husband. “Luten, tell me all about it. Who killed Corbett?”
“I thought you were asleep,” he said with a scowl. “Who told you?”
“How can I sleep with all this going on? And what does it matter who told me? I want to know who killed Corbett?”
“He hasn’t been killed,” he said.
“Not killed! But Harry said —”
“There was a corpse there, at his cottage. That must be what set Miss Lipman off, but it wasn’t Corbett. We don’t know yet who the man was. You knew your Miss Lipman was there?”
“Yes, Harry told me all about that.”
There seemed no sense in trying to keep anything secret in this house, so they held their meeting in the rose parlour instead of the more private study. It was the tradition that wine and sandwiches were served at these meetings as Mr. Pattle was always hungry. When they were comfortably ensconced and the wine passed, Luten called the meeting to order.
First Corinne had to hear every detail of what had happened that night. She came to the same conclusion as Luten. “This only means that Corbett killed the man who came to kill him. He’s still the one who was passing information along to the gang. We have to find out who the victim is. He’s obviously one of the gang.”
“Well he’s not Father Maccles,” Luten said. “He’s locked up, and he’s too old to be one of the sons. Let us hope Townsend will recognize him.”
She turned to Black, the other one familiar with criminals. “You didn’t recognize him, Black?”
“I’m sorry to say I never saw his ugly phiz before, your ladyship, but I’ll have a word with Nappy tomorrow. If anyone of note’s been done in, he’ll soon hear of it. There’s no point going tonight. He wouldn’t know yet.”
She turned to Prance. “You wouldn’t know where Corbett might go, now that he has to hide from the police?”
“I have no idea, but Chloe or Sean might know. I’ll ask them tomorrow when they come. They won’t know Corbett’s dead, so they’ll be expecting a rehearsal.”
“Is it possible he’ll be in touch with Miss Lipman?” was her next idea. When the others seemed to think this possible, she undertook to call on Miss Lipman in the morning and pry loose anything she might know about Corbett and his friends.
Black listened, then gave his opinion. “I found it interesting that the victim didn’t have no purse on him. Of course Healey might have pocketed it as he did the fellow’s watch, but I don’t think so. Besides looking a tad angry that he hadn’t found no blunt, he’d of known from the calling cards that the corpse wasn’t Corbett. What I’m thinking is that Corbett lifted it after he killed the
man. The dead man looked pretty well inlaid. The money in his purse would give Corbett the means to get entirely away from London. That would be his first aim if he’s not a fool.”
“But that would mean the end of his career,” Prance said. “If he only shot the man in self-defense — well, that isn’t a crime.”
“But there’s the reason why he was shot, Sir Reginald,” Black reminded him. “He was working with the gang. And besides the law being after him, the gang will be out to get him stronger than before for killing one of their members. Unless his career’s more important to him than his life, I wager he’s long gone from here.”
“Let us hope Miss Lipman can give us an idea where he might run to,” Corinne said. “If he has family in the countryside, he might have gone home. Did he ever mention where he’s from, Reg?”
“He said he came from an orphanage in Devon.”
“He did,” Coffen confirmed. “He had the papers in his cottage to prove it.”
“As he hadn’t a good word to say about it, I doubt he’d go there,” Prance said.
By midnight the sandwiches were gone, the case all talked out and still no sign of Townsend. “No point waiting any longer,” Luten said “He’ll come tomorrow. I’ll let you know if he has any news.”
The group dispersed and Corinne went up to bed. Luten was just having a word with Evans when the door knocker sounded and a fat little fellow wearing a white wig bounced in. He was not wearing the formal evening attire he wore when guarding balls. On this occasion he wore his blue straight-cut coat, kerseymere breeches and a broad-brimmed white hat.
“I just got your message, Luten. I was out chasing a pair of footpads. They’ve taken to working in pairs, and even in groups. I had a tip and managed to catch them in the very act of relieving a gent of his watch and wallet. Now what was it you wanted to see me about? No trouble with the goods for auction, I trust? I’ve been worried about them.”
“You knew they were here, did you? We’ve been trying to keep it quiet.”
Townsend threw up his two hands and laughed. “Keep it quiet with a fancy carriage drawing up at your door ten times a day and silver and what not brought in? You might as well try to hide the rain.”
