[Berkeley Brigade 10] - Shadow of Murder

by Joan Smith

  He reached into a drawer. “Speaking of pleasure, Mr. Greene, could I interest you in a wee nip?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to a drop,” Black answered readily.

  Glasses followed the bottle out of the drawer and Calvert poured two generous glasses of sherry. Not Black’s favorite tipple, but it was at least a good sherry and went down easily while they discussed in what way Mr. Greene might be of service to the Lord.

  “I was an elder of the chapel back home,” Black said. “I helped with looking after the chapel, had my men see to repairs and improvements, you know. Raising money for heating and such things.”

  “I expect a successful businessman like yourself would know about raising money. Always a problem with small outfits like ours. Our parishioners aren’t wealthy, but we have a few generous subscribers.” He cast a hopeful eye at Mr. Greene.

  “Those of us who have owe it to the less fortunate to give them a hand. We see what happened in France if we don’t.”

  “Just so. Truer words were never spoken.”

  “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d like to have a look around the chapel.” To ensure agreement, he added, “See what needs doing, you might say, and how I might help. I have connections in various lines of trade.”

  “I’d be happy to accompany you.”

  “Nay, I can see you’re busy. I’d hate to take a man away from the Lord’s work. I’ll just wander about on my own.”

  “No trouble, I assure you.”

  “I won’t disturb you. I’ll just make myself at home.”

  “Just as you like. We’ll get together for a good chat soon, Mr. Greene. I’m very happy to have met you. Let me see, now.” He pulled out a book in which he kept appointments. “Tomorrow evening, for dinner?” he suggested hopefully.

  “Ah, tomorrow I’m dining with some business associates in the city. Let us make it next week.”

  “Where are you staying, Mr. Greene? You mentioned you were planning to move into this area.”

  “In London. I always put up at the Clarendon when I’m in London,” Black replied, naming one of the most expensive hotels in town. “You can get in touch with me there. I’m pretty well tied up with business matters till next week. I’ll let you know. You wouldn’t mind meeting me at my hotel? I’ll send my carriage for you, of course. The Clarendon’s the only place in London you can get a decent French meal. A little dear, but you won’t have to worry about that.”

  “I look forward to it,” Calvert said, smiling and rising to shake Black’s hand. Black was surprised to see he wasn’t an inch over five feet, a regular little ankle-biter. “Very happy to have met you, Mr. Greene. You might want to take a look at the kneeling benches while you’re looking around. They’re unpadded. Some of our followers complain of sore knees.”

  “That’s the very way I hope to be of help, Doctor. I daresay my upholsterers could do a job like that in their spare time.” With a polite bow, Black escaped to begin, like Coffen, searching for clues.

  He took no more than a glance into the chapel proper, and was surprised to see the pulpit in the centre of the church. Did Calvert rotate as he spoke, or did the half of his parishioners have a view of his back? Without so much as a glance at the unpadded kneeling benches he hurried back to the rear quarters and soon found the little room where the chapel’s records were kept, resting on top of a table.

  He opened the blue book to see if he recognized any of the names. The chapel had only been in business for a dozen years, but details of the parish families were listed. He flipped through the pages, looking for Maccles, Dumbrille, Corbett and for good measure, Chalmers and Everett. They might go under various names, of course.

  He found no sign of the Maccles, the first name he looked for. He thought he might recognize them even under a different name, as not too many families had five sons and no daughters. None in the records had. What surprised him greatly was to see the name Daniel James Dumbrille there, big as life, along with his wife Marjorie, deceased a dozen years ago, and one daughter, Elizabeth Marjorie, born 1795. That’d be the tyke who used to throw herself under a carriage to facilitate snatching the passenger’s jewelry. She’d be eighteen now.

  He looked about for records to see who did the physical work about the place. They were the ones who would have access to the key. Before he found what he was looking for, a tall fair-haired man whose broadcloth jacket gave him the air of a junior clerk came into the room. He looked surprised to see Black there. Black immediately introduced himself and mentioned that he was new to the parish, and wanted to help. Doctor Calvert had invited him to look around.

  “You’d be one of the fellows who help Calvert take care of the place, I take it?” Black said.

  The man immediately put out his hand. “John Mason,” he said. “I’ve been with the doctor from the beginning. He’s doing a fine job here. We’ll be happy for another helping hand.” He judged by Black’s elegant suit and the carriage parked out front that Black was a gentleman of considerable means.

  “I noticed a name here I recognize,” Black said, fingering the record book. “This Dumbrille — it wouldn’t be Donald Dumbrille, from Kent? He was a wonderful worker for us.”

  “No, it’s Daniel Dumbrille.”

  Black glanced at the register again. “So it is, Daniel Dumbrille. I misread it.”

  “Daniel was a good contributor and attended services pretty regular,” Mr. Mason said, “but didn’t involve himself in the more practical side of the work.”

  Black adopted a surprised look. “Was, you say. Moved away, or deceased?”

  “Shot to death in London just a few days ago.” Mason announced with an air almost of pride at such exciting goings-on.

  “Really! That’s a caution. Do they know who did it?”

  “Some actor,” Martin said, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine what Daniel was doing with a fellow like that. Mind you, I’m not saying I don’t have my suspicions. The wife tells me, though I can’t be sponsor for the truth of it, that he was seeing some widow woman who was no better than she should be, as the saying goes. She wasn’t from our parish.”

  “A man gets lonesome, I daresay.”

  “She hadn’t that excuse! Half a dozen or so sons to keep her company. The wife saw her about with different young men. Well, she called them her sons, but who knows?”

  “Where was all this?”

  “Once getting off the coach from London, and once right here having a meal at the cafe.”

  “I see here Dumbrille has a daughter. She wouldn’t be pleased at his taking up with such a woman. Or does she live here at all?”

  “No, Daniel had her schooled in London, making a proper lady of her. She must be out of school by now, but she never moved back with Daniel. I hope she don’t come to harm. We haven’t been able to find her to tell her of her father’s death, but very likely she knows. It was in all the journals.”

  Black judged he had learned what he came for and didn’t want to quiz Mason any further, in case he became suspicious. He adopted his business air and said, “Now, what sort of work do you do around the place yourself, Mr. Mason?”

  “Not to put a fancy name on it, you might say I’m the caretaker,” he said, laughing at such a paltry description of his labours. “I don’t sweep the floors, but I see they get swept and the fires going in winter. Doctor Calvert calls on me when anything needs doing. I’m in and out two or three times a week.”

  Black indicated a large key ring hanging from Mason’s pocket and said, “Sort of a doorkeeper along with the rest, eh?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Any trouble with break-ins, people using the chapel for other than religious purposes? The reason I ask, we had a little trouble that way in Kent. We blamed it on the temporary help that comes at harvest time. A great place for fruit, Kent. The garden of England.”

  “No, we have no trouble that way,” Mason assured him. “There’s really not much in the chapel to steal. Not like a
Papist church with all the gold vessels and statues and so on. I did worry a few days ago, when my key ring disappeared, but I found it on one of the seats. I must have dropped it and one of the cleaning women picked it up.”

  “That was fortunate. They were cleaning at the time then?”

  “That’s right. I unlocked the door to let them in. ‘Twas last Tuesday. We had three or four of them here dusting and polishing. Wonderful workers they are.”

  “Older housewives, like we have in Kent, I daresay?”

  “That’s the way of it. The younger ones don’t seem interested. But then I wasn’t much interested in church myself when I was young. I find you don’t take to religion till you reach a certain age, and suddenly realize you’re not going to live forever.”

  “That’s just how it struck me,” Black said, and picked up his gloves.

  “Well, it’s been nice chatting to you, Mr. Greene. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you at Sunday’s service.”

  “If I can make it, Mr. Mason,” Black said, and gave the man’s hand a shake before leaving.

  So that’s how the gang got into the chapel last night. One of the old women snitched Mason’s keychain and got a copy made. Would it be Mother Maccles, he wondered. She wasn’t listed as a member of the sect, but she was the only older woman involved, so far as they knew. And Dumbrille was on the books as well. A pillar of the church. Strange, but he wasn’t the first sinner to bend his knee to the Lord on Sunday. Some of them did it to give them an air of propriety, and some of them convinced themselves they were Christians. Even prayed for success in their crimes. Scarlet as Black’s past was, he had never prayed for success in his crimes. Not a hypocrite at least.

  And the daughter — was she calling herself Chloe these days? Chloe Chalmers must be about eighteen years old and living in London. If she was Dan’s daughter and Mother Maccles was his woman, Chloe could be connected to the Maccles via her mama’s liaison with her papa, Diamond Daniel Dumbrille. These gleanings must be taken to Luten at once. Mr. Pattle may have come up with something as well. He was a rare one for sniffing out a clue. An odd talent for a man who never knew where he’d hung his hat or how much money he had in his pocket. But let him get the scent of a crime and he was a regular bulldog. Everybody was good for something.

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  Townsend, though happy enough to hear the auction goods had been returned, would have been happier if he had found them himself and earned the reward. But there were still a few pickings to be had in the matter. He kindly agreed to make time in his busy schedule to escort the delivery of the auction goods to Elgin Hall.

  “I don’t think myself they’ll tackle a second raid on the same goods,” he told Luten, “but when they’re on the road they’re most at risk. I’ll have three or four armed guards along, in case.” He tapped the side of his nose and added, “What I see as a more likely target is Lady Clare’s diamonds.”

  “Lady Luten is arranging for Lady Clare to make the delivery to the Hall herself in secret. But in any case, with Diamond Dan gone, the diamonds shouldn’t be at much risk.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Townsend said. “I’ve been pursuing investigations into the matter and hear Dan’s daughter is just such another as himself. She’s worked with her da since she was knee-high to a cricket. When Dan had fingered a carriage where a lady was wearing her fancy jewels to a party, he used to have Missy throw herself in front of the carriage and lay on the ground bawling and screeching as if she was dying. The lady would get out of the carriage, Dan would snatch the ice and the two of them would take off, clean as a whistle.”

  “I’ve heard of children being used in that way. Still, with Dan gone, I shouldn’t think a young girl would tackle the job alone.”

  “Not using that old ruse of falling in front of the carriage, but that was some years ago. Missy is no longer a child. I know that Dan was accompanied by what the victim called a young lad on a few cases. My own feeling is that the lad was Missy, rigged out in trousers, for Dan never worked with anyone but her, so far as I could find out.”

  “He seems to have worked with someone — the Maccles we believe, on the theft of the auction goods.”

  “He may have given them advice, and we know he was the one went to kill Corbett, likely as a favour to Mother. He’d not have used the Maccles in one of his own jobs. It’d be like yoking up oxen with a race horse.”

  “I still think it unlikely that a girl will tackle the job alone, but she might have her fellow help her. I’ll suggest to Lady Clare that she make use of your services for the delivery.”

  “You do that, Luten. Better safe than sorry.”

  “What does Dan’s daughter look like?”

  “I wouldn’t know her if she walked through the door and kicked me, but the word I have from my sources is that she’s a bold, brass-faced chit, hair black as soot, small and pretty, which tells me she took after her ma, for Dan had a phiz would frighten a dragon. Well, you’ve seen him. As a corpse I mean. He wasn’t any prettier when he was alive.”

  Luten nodded. “You haven’t had any word on Corbett?”

  “I’ve not. It’s uphill work catching actors. They can change their looks so their own mother wouldn’t know them. He might be walking the streets dressed up like an old lady, or limping along with a cane and green glasses, making out he’s a blind beggar. He’s not gone next or nigh his own little cottage. That I do know. I’ve had a man on it and no one’s gone in.”

  “One man can’t watch two doors at once,” Luten said, lifting an eyebrow in question.

  Townsend looked at him as if he were a moonling. “He’s stationed inside, Luten, with his ears cocked for any sound. If he was sitting on the doorstep, it just might put Corbett off if he did come.”

  “I always learn something useful from you, Townsend.” Luten said, with a chuckle, and rose to leave.

  “Glad to hear it. You can have that tip for free.”

  When Coffen left Prance he went across the street to get Miss Lipman’s address from Corinne. He was surprised to see Robert on the door, until he remembered Evans had been up all night guarding the restored goods.

  “Any news?” Corinne asked him, when he was shown into the rose salon. This was the usual question when they were working on a case. He showed her the bauble from the boot and learned that she’d never seen it. He told her where he’d found it, and that Villier thought perhaps it was Corbett’s.

  “That would mean he helped take the goods to the attic!”

  “Exactly, which is why I want a word with Miss Lipman, in case she’s heard from him. So where does she live?”

  “She’s not at home. She’ll be at Mrs. Middleton’s, working on the accounts.”

  “Where would I find Middleton’s place?”

  She shook her head. “Where it’s always been, on Brook Street, Coffen. You’ve been there dozens of times.”

  “Oh, right, that house with the green ballroom, where they water the wine. What are you doing this morning, Coz?”

  “Waiting, worrying.”

  “Why don’t you come along with me? Black’s got my carriage. We could take yours.”

  She was happy enough for the diversion and sent for her carriage. At Brook Street the butler showed them into a small waiting room where Miss Lipman sat working over her figures. She seemed happy for the reprieve.

  “Lady Luten, and Mr. Pattle,” she said, smiling. “Nice of you to call. Do have a seat.” There was only one other chair in the room. Corinne took it. Coffen refused the offer of bringing in another chair and remained standing.

  “We won’t be staying long,” he said.

  “How are you making out, Miss Lipman?” Corinne asked.

  “The tickets are selling well. Mrs. Middleton keeps me busy with other little jobs as well. Have you heard any word of Vance?”

  “Not a whisper,” Coffen said. “We were hoping you could tell us something.”

  “No, I haven’t heard f
rom him,” she said with a sad shake of her head.

  He pulled the little gilt pendant from the boot out and laid it on the desk. “I was wondering if you’d ever seen this before,” he said.

  She picked it up and looked at it, shook it till the chains danced and looked a question at him. “I don’t believe so, but then one of these little boot ornaments looks much like another.”

  “What I’m getting at is, did Corbett wear them?”

  “No, he didn’t,” she said quite firmly. “He thought they were gaudy. Where did you get it?”

  “It turned up,” he said vaguely. “Did you happen to notice if Sean Everett wore this sort of thing?”

  “I never noticed,” she said, “but if, as I suspect, you found it some place that suggests it belongs to the thief, you’re wasting your time harping on Vance. He felt that Sean and Chloe were up to no good, if you want the truth. She was always buttering up Mrs. Ballard, asking her questions about the house and laughing at her behind her back. Why was she doing that? I thought she just wanted to soften her up so she’d have an excuse to call at Berkeley Square, and perhaps work her way into your good graces, Lady Luten. Now I wonder if that is what she was up to, or something worse.”

  “You think she might be the one who found about how the auction goods were stored?” Corinne said.

  “Why not?”

  “But it was Corbett’s house where the icon was found,” Coffen reminded her. “And Corbett who killed Dan Dumbrille.”

  “We don’t know that,” she shot back. “We only know his body was found in Vance’s cottage.”

  “And Corbett hightailed it out of there pretty quick.”

  “He might have been frightened,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about it a great deal, and if Vance saw whoever shot that Dan person, then he’d be afraid the killer would be after him.”

  Coffen and Corinne both listened to this new interpretation of events with interest. “That’s true,” Corinne said. “I never thought of that.”

  “If that’s the way of it, why wouldn’t he have gone to the police, or been in touch with you or someone who could help him?” Coffen said.