[Berkeley Brigade 10] - Shadow of Murder

by Joan Smith

  He managed to convince Corinne to stay at home.

  “I will,” she said, “because I’m afraid they’ll come after the jewelry in the safe while you’re all away.”

  This gave Luten a moment of alarm, but with the doors locked and the house full of servants, she convinced him she and the jewelry were safe. The only one who remained calm through all the preliminaries was Mrs. Ballard. She stayed in her room plying her Psalter, which she was finding more bracing than the Bible on this occasion. “The Lord is a shield for me,” Psalm III. What could be clearer than that?

  Luten suggested that he and Prance not enter the carriage at the house in case it was being watched. Pelkey would pick them up a few blocks farther along. As the note had not expressly forbidden her sharing the carriage, Mrs. Ballard had no objection to this arrangement.

  Black went out at eleven and paid a driver an inordinate sum to borrow his carriage and hat for a few hours. Rain, wind, snow and sun gave a cab driver’s hat a distinctive air of decrepitude that was difficult to duplicate on the spur of the moment. At eleven-twenty Black drove the cab up to the house, Mrs. Ballard carried the case holding the ten thousand pounds out to the carriage and got in. Luten and Prance waited at the corner of Berkeley and Piccadilly, looking about to see they weren’t watched. The cab slowed down, they hopped in and the long drive to the Union Chapel began.

  The procedure they were to follow had been thoroughly thrashed out before they left, so there was little to say along the way. Luten noticed that Mrs. Ballard’s lips moved in silent prayer, while her hands held on to the leather case with an iron grip. Long before they reached their destination she suggested that Luten and Prance should “Bend down now, lest you be seen.” They reluctantly did so, to keep her calm.

  Coffen Pattle had a little luck while he was waiting for midnight. He didn’t see any link-boys, but he met a reeling drunkard called Alfie and joined him. It was easy to lead him to within sight of the Union Chapel and keep him there. He seemed a good-natured drunk, but selfish. He refused to share his bottle. And it was maraschino too, Coffen’s favorite tipple. This drink had an air of prestige for Coffen as he had discovered it at a do at Carlton House, where Prinney himself was drinking it. Like Coffen, the drunk called it Masherino.

  At five minutes to twelve, Coffen heard the rattle of the cab’s wheels and steered Alfie closer to the chapel. “Tha’s a cab,” Alfie said in a voice of wonder, staring at the approaching hackney as if it were a gilded chariot drawn by six white horses.

  “I believe you’re right. I wonder who’s going to church at this hour. Ah, a nun,” he said, as the door opened and Mrs. Ballard, outfitted in her usual black, got out.

  “None such,” Alfie said, and pulling a cosh from his pocket, he landed Coffen a stunning blow on the back of the head and took to his heels.

  Luten and Prance, still crouched down to hide that they were in the cab, didn’t see Coffen’s plight, and Mrs. Ballard’s gaze was concentrated on the chapel. Coffen lay on the ground, unconscious, while she, clutching the black case, approached the door of the chapel at a stately pace. Slowly, the door opened. A disembodied voice — low, gruff — said, “Open the bag and let me see the money.”

  She gasped and nearly dropped the precious bag. A pistol, held in a large, rough hand, advanced an inch through the slit of open door. “Open it, now,” the voice demanded.

  With trembling fingers she opened it and held it closer to the door. He peered inside and gave a grunt of satisfaction. “Leave the bag on the doorstep, Mother, and get rid of the cab. You stay there,” he ordered. She stared, and saw the muzzle of the pistol pointing at her heart. She obediently set the bag down, but before returning to the cab recovered enough courage to say, “You were to give me a map.”

  “It’s at Luten’s house.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “I told you, didn’t I? It’s there. Now git!”

  Without another word she turned and hastened back to the waiting cab, half expecting a bullet to hit her spine. Black, watching her from the driver’s perch, wasn’t quite sure he had seen the chapel door open a crack, but he certainly saw Mrs. Ballard wasn’t carrying the case when she bolted back to the carriage.

  “Drive on, Black,” she said in a trembling voice. “I am to remain here. He has a gun and I believe will shoot me if we don’t do as he says.” Luten had the window open and heard her.

  “Did you get the map?” Black asked.

  “He said it’s at home.”

  “How will you get home?” Black asked her.

  “Perhaps you could wait for me a few blocks farther on, the way we came.” She looked back at the chapel door. “You’d best do as he says, Black. The door’s still open and he has a gun.”

  While they talked, Luten opened the door away from the chapel and leapt out, pulling Prance out after him. They darted across the street into the shadows before the carriage drove off, leaving Mrs. Ballard alone in the darkness. Luten looked all around to assure himself no one was making a run for it with the money. Then he said, “The back, Prance. He’s sneaking out the back way.”

  Mrs. Ballard noticed a man lying in the street and wondered if she should go to his assistance. Charity told her she must, but some residual sense of self preservation and common sense held her back. After all, what could she do to help him, whereas he probably had a gun and could kill her? Was it all part of a vicious plot, was he going to shoot her? While she stood, waffling, the man sat up and she recognized Mr. Pattle. She ran forward then.

  “Mr. Pattle! Are you all right?”

  “Did you get the map?” was his answer.

  “No, but he assured me it’s at Luten’s house. Black has the carriage waiting a few blocks away.”

  “He? You mean you met someone?”

  “Not met, exactly. He just opened the door a crack to show me the gun and told me what to do. I left the money and sent Black away. Those were his orders.”

  “He didn’t come out the front door?”

  “I think not. I would have seen him.”

  Coffen dragged himself up. “Then he’s out the back way,” he said, and ran off around to the back of the chapel. This area of damp ground was undeveloped. There wasn’t so much as a lighted window to guide him. Just straggling bushes and an occasional stunted tree. He was too late, the bounder had got away with the money.

  Coffen was just in time to hear hoofbeats in the distance, moving away at a great clip. Not a chance of catching him on foot. He heard running footsteps and his heart thumped wildly. That was more than one man making that kind of racket. Uncertain whether to run or hide or pull out his pistol and confront them, he reached for his pistol. To his vast relief, it was Luten who came running forward, followed by Prance.

  “He got away on horseback,” Coffen informed them. The curses that left Luten’s lips surprised him and absolutely stunned Prance. He hadn’t heard language like that since he left university. And from Luten, of all people!

  They all returned to Mrs. Ballard, who rushed forward to greet them. “I was worried about you when I saw you on the ground, Mr. Pattle. What happened to you? Did you trip?” she asked.

  “No, I was coshed by a drunkard who wasn’t drunk,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “I met up with a fellow called Alfie and wandered about with him, to keep near the chapel without looking suspicious.”

  “Shouldn’t we go after them?” Prance said.

  “Too late. They’re on horseback. The fait is accompli’d” He saw the maraschino bottle on the ground and picked it up. He sniffed, then poured out the liquid. “Water,” he said. “I’ve been gulled. He was no more bosky than I was. I thought I was watching him and he was watching me the whole time, knew all along why I was here.” He turned to Luten. “They’ve outwitted us, Luten. Got clean away with the money.”

  “That drunk who coshed you, what did he look like?” Luten asked. “How old was he?”

  “Between twenty-five or six and up, but it
wasn’t Corbett, if that’s what you’re thinking. A big, burly good-natured fellow. I didn’t get much of a look at his face really. It was dark and he was wearing a big black hat.” He stopped and blinked. “Here, that sounds like the lad who brought the wagon back to Newman’s stable.”

  “So it does,” Luten agreed. “We might as well go home and see if the map’s there.”

  “And if it ain’t,” Coffen said, “they’ve got clean away with the loot and the money.”

  “He assured me the map would be waiting at home,” Mrs. Ballard said, and wondered why they were all looking at her in such a strange way, almost as if they didn’t believe her. “I don’t think he would lie,” she said. “He called me mother.”

  “Maccles!” Coffen growled.

  She shook her head firmly. “No, I’m sure he said mother.”

  “We might as well go home,” Luten said, and they went off to find the carriage.

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  Tension was high in the carriage as it wended its way through the night back to Berkeley Square. It was not just the crowded condition, although Mrs. Ballard was uncomfortable having to sit so close to Lord Luten all the way home, her knees within an inch of Sir Reginald’s and Mr. Pattle’s, on the opposite banquette.

  At least Black was on the perch, so that she avoided having to share the carriage with him. It occurred to her, somewhat belatedly, that the map might not be waiting for them when they arrived home. What it came down to was that she had placed her faith in a gang of thieves. She feared from the rough voice of the fellow she had given the money to that he might not live up to his word.

  Then what would she do? She couldn’t repay her ladyship the ten thousand pounds, not in a lifetime. No, what she would have to do is stop taking any more favours from her. Her duties as a companion were no longer necessary now that Lady Luten was married. She was kept on because they were too kind to turn her off. She would have to remove herself from Berkeley Square in disgrace, in other words. She hadn’t the accomplishments of a governess. No French, no music or art. Too old for physical labour, she would end up in one of those miserable homes for the relicts of clergymen.

  She had been seduced by the fleshpots of hedonism, and this was her just punishment. She admitted that she would sorely miss the luxury of her own bedroom and sitting room, of leisure time and servants and fine food and a pot of tea any time she wished. And those delightful shopping trips to Bond Street, with a drive through the park in fine weather! She would also miss the excitement of living with the Lutens, though she had deplored it at first. They were unconventional to be sure, but really good people at heart, so kind.

  Only look how Lady Luten had worked so hard for the poor orphans, and Luten slaving away in some incomprehensible manner at the House. The cases the Berkeley Brigade took on were always for a good cause. Oh dear, if only there were some way she could help them!

  Her companions in the carriage cared nothing for being a little crowded. What bothered them all was that the map might not be waiting for them when they got home. They all stared to see a man who was quite obviously not a gentleman pacing to and fro in front of Luten’s house when they reached Berkeley Square.

  “I wager that’s the lad with the map,” Coffen said in excitement, as Black leapt down from the driver’s perch. “We’ll get the map and nab him.”

  Black stuck his head in the window and said, “That’s Bert, here to pick up this carriage I borrowed.” He went to meet Bert and gave him back his hat while the occupants of the cab alit. Bert nodded civilly in their general direction, resumed his perch and drove off.

  They entered Luten’s house with very mixed feelings — eagerness to learn whether the map was there, and dread that it was not. Corinne rushed to the door to meet them. Strangely, Luten couldn’t tell from her expression whether the map had arrived. Surely she would be smiling if it had? As she didn’t know the map was to be there, however, she wouldn’t be disappointed if it weren’t. But she should be looking eager, anxious to hear what they had to say, pelting them with a dozen questions. But she didn’t ask them anything. Nor was she wearing the expected expression. She looked — what? Almost sheepish. And angry.

  “You’ll never guess what, Luten,” she said, as soon as they entered the front door.

  “Did you receive a map?” he asked, as they all trooped into the rose salon.

  “Map? No, why?”

  Mrs. Ballard emitted a sad moan. It was as she had feared. The lord, disgusted with her fall into the wanton trap of luxury, had deserted her. Prance, Coffen and Black sighed in unison. Luten felt as if a mountain had fallen on him. They’d not only failed to recover the loot, but thrown away ten thousand pounds besides.

  Before he could explain, Corinne rushed on. “Luten, the stolen goods have been here the whole time!”

  He stared, wondering if her mind had become deranged with all her troubles. Her colour was unusually high, and her eyes held a strange gleam.

  “Have a glass of wine, my dear,” he said, pouring her a glass which she ignored. “Here all the time, you say?”

  “Yes, right in my house.”

  The four gentlemen exchanged a worried look. Mrs. Ballard sank on to a sofa, as close to a swoon as made no difference.

  “Here, in this house?” Luten asked. His voice was strangely high.

  “Of course not here. In my house, across the street, where I lived until I married you. You know it has been empty for some months now, while I look for the proper tenant. Ten minutes ago Evans found this note pushed under the front door, like the other note.” She handed him a dog-eared note scrawled on an edge of newsprint. Not the plain white paper and well-formed writing of the other notes.

  “The goods are in the attic in Lady Lutens house acrost the street,” he read aloud.

  “And they are!” she said.

  Mrs. Ballard’s trembling fingers flew to her heart, that was throbbing painfully in her chest. She soon recovered sufficiently to gasp, “I am so relieved, milady.”

  “So am I,” Corinne said, patting her hand. “Evans and I ran over immediately, and everything’s there. I have Evans and a couple of footmen guarding the house with pistols.”

  The note was passed around and the others read with astonishment that the goods had been stored right across the road while they had been searching the countryside for the hiding place, and driven over to Union Chapel tonight.

  “Yes, it was obviously scrawled in a hurry,” Prance said, frowning at the few errors.

  “One of the gang must have ridden to bring the directions as soon as they received the money,” Luten said. “Thank God for that at least.”

  After some confused rejoicing, Prance said, “But the wagon parked around the corner the night of the robbery —”

  “To keep us from looking closer to home,” Black said. “If there’d been no wagon, we might have looked nearer home and saved ten thousand pounds.”

  “Extraordinarily clever of them,” Prance said. “Like something the wily Odysseus would come up with. Or do I mean Euripedes? I’m not sure this isn’t the stuff of comedy.”

  “Well, if you think comedy is funny!” Coffen charged, “throwing away ten thousand pounds.”

  “Are you by any chance related to Mrs. Malaprop?” Prance asked, glinting one of his sly smiles at Coffen.

  “I never heard of her. What’s she got to do with it?”

  “You were just born with that facility to mangle the King’s English, were you?”

  “At least I wasn’t born with a silver knife in my tongue, like some I could mention. What I was about to say, how did they know Corrie owned that house, and that there’s nobody living in it since the housekeeper left last month?” he asked.

  “That’s no secret,” Prance said. “Everyone knows the Berkeley Brigade all live here, on the square. They would have no trouble discovering Corinne used to live across the street, and that the place is now empty.”

  “How did they ge
t into the house?” Black asked. “Was the door forced?”

  “No, and it didn’t look as if the lock had been worked on either,” she said. “We’ll go over in daylight tomorrow for a closer look, and check for broken windows. But is it not strange?” They all agreed it was indeed strange. “Did you say something about a map when you came in, Luten?” she asked.

  “Let us have some wine and I’ll tell you what befell us,” he said. With Evans off duty, she had elevated Robert to butler and called to him to bring wine and the food Cook had prepared for their return.

  Luten told the story, omitting nothing. Corinne first sympathized with Mrs. Ballard, then with Coffen. “Another blow on the head,” she said. “Would you like a cold compress for it?”

  “This’ll do fine, thankee” he said, lifting his glass.

  “Well I don’t know whether we’re celebrating or grieving,” she said, “but in any case, I propose a toast to you all. I have the auction goods back, and I’m willing to pay for them.” She turned to Luten. “Out of my own money! You are handling my investments now, Luten. You take care of it. And I shall check the statements to see you do as I say.”

  “I do believe this is our strangest case yet,” Prance said, and took an olive from the dish. Then he set it aside on his plate. The salt would not agree with the excellent chambertin they were drinking. A good choice. They usually celebrated with champagne, but this was not precisely a celebration.

  After several glasses and a deal of general discussion Coffen said, “So what’s our next step? We can’t let the bounders get away with it.”

  “It seems to me they have done just that,” Prance said. “Outwitted us at every turn.”

  “Rubbish,” Coffen scoffed. “There’s more than one way to skin a rat.”

  “Cat,” Prance corrected with a weary air.

  “Cats don’t skin rats,” Coffen said in the same way. “May maul them a little, don’t skin them. Anyhow the Brigade don’t give up that easy. We’ll go over every inch of Corinne’s house with a fine-tooth bone for clues tomorrow for starters.”