by Joan Smith
“And self defence is no crime, even if you did pull the trigger,” Townsend informed him. “No sane man would condemn you for that. You’ll have to give testimony at the trial, but that sort of notoriety will do you the world of good. Folks like a little scandal in their actors. Look at Mrs. Jordan — a dozen or so by-blows with the Duke of Clarence and folks love her.”
After a frowning pause, Luten said, “I’m curious why they only took one mount. Why stint on hiring another horse with such a prize in sight?”
Townsend shook his head. “That came out in their squabbling. It seems Chloe convinced Sean she can’t ride. Don’t care for horses at all. Never ridden one in her life.”
“She rides like a jockey,” Corbett said.
“Yes, it makes you wonder whether she didn’t intend to gallop off with the prize and leave him empty-handed all along,” Townsend said, nodding. “A stunt worthy of her dad.”
“But they were engaged!” Corbett exclaimed.
“That’s not to say she ever intended to marry him,” Townsend said, and chuckled at such sinful innocence. “She only took up with him after Dan got himself mixed up with Mother Maccles. Once Dan was killed —”
He gave a shrug. “I believe she always felt she was a few rungs above them. Dan had managed to get her into a decent school for young ladies to teach her some manners. P’raps she figured with the haul from the two robberies she could do better than hitch herself to one of the Maccles lads. Mind you, I learned by setting a sharp-eared eavesdropper in a cell next to Maccles where they’ve stashed her ladyship’s ten thousand and mean to go after it.”
“Well, congratulations, Corbett. Good work,” Luten said, shaking his hand. He turned to Townsend. “And congratulations to you, Townsend,” he added with somewhat less enthusiasm.
“All in a day’s work,” Townsend said. “I have the lot that were in that first carriage under lock and key as well. My lads went after them. The Maccles family, or most of them anyhow. They were all in it together. Chloe didn’t figure she could pull it off alone after her Da was killed, so she called on Sean’s folks. The Maccles family will be joining Father in gaol. We’ll have to start counting the tin spoons.”
“What about the little boy? Was he one of them as well?” Coffen asked.
“No, just a street urchin who makes a living throwing himself in front of carriages. He knows how and when to fall without hurting himself much. He’s too young to arrest, but we took him home and gave him a warning and his ma gave him a good licking. Now, shall we go back to the ball, gentlemen?”
“Did it come out why they used that chapel in Surrey for getting the ransom money?” Luten asked. “Was it just so we wouldn’t look for the auction goods closer to home?”
“That must be it. Dan had some connection with the place and was trying to sign up the Maccles. Mother helped out with the kind of church work the women folks do.”
“Then she was probably the one who got a copy of the key. One of them was in the church the night we gave them the ransom.”
“That could be it.”
“And it was a Maccles that led me astray that night,” Coffen said. “The same one that took the wagon to the stable, making us think the goods weren’t right in our own backyard the whole time. Was one of them in the carriage a big, dark fellow. Possibly wearing a big black hat.”
“That description fits one of them to a T, Mr. Pattle.”
“There’s one other thing I’m not clear about,” Coffen said, turning to Corbett. “What about the icon?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The icon found in your flat the night Dan was killed. Did Dan take it to give you?”
“Why no. I didn’t see anything like an icon. That’s one of those little pictures from Russia, is it not? Sir Reginald mentioned he was donating one to the auction.”
“That’s the one. If he didn’t offer it to you, then he took it on purpose to leave behind to tie you to the robbery. Since we already had our eye on you because of the Chinese horse, you know. No offence. A red herring horse is what that was. Either Chloe or Sean pocketed it, making you look guilty early on, then put it back when Prance told them they couldn’t sell it.”
“I rue the day I ever touched that T’ang horse!”
“Hindsight,” Coffen nodded, satisfied that he had it all straight now. “Where would we be without it? Well, all’s well that ends well, as William says. That’s Reg’s friend, Shakespeare.”
Corbett, unaware of Coffen’s way of speaking, said, “I see,” in a stunned voice. Then he turned to Luten, “Do you think Sir Reginald would mind if I call on him tomorrow?”
“He would be very disappointed if you didn’t,” Luten said. “He speaks very highly of your abilities. He’s regretted a dozen times that you wouldn’t be acting in his play. You might call on Miss Lipman as well. My wife tells me she is very worried about you.”
Corbett gave a shy smile, thanked them and left on his fine hired mount.
“Funny, he didn’t seem so proud tonight, when he had some reason to be,” Coffen said.
“Yes, I expect it was just insecurity and wanting recognition that made him bluster before. Prance will be thrilled that he’s innocent.”
“A dashed hero,” Coffen said. “Miss Lipman will be happy too.”
“We’ll tell her.”
They didn’t have an opportunity to do it right away, however. By the time they got back to Elgin Hall, the auction had begun.
* * *
Chapter 33
Lady Cowper had used her considerable charms to flirt and flatter Lord Alvanley into playing auctioneer for the ball. This popular dandy, bon vivant and reigning wit at the clubs, guaranteed that the event would be not only amusing but highly profitable. He knew all the rich and famous, and did his best to beguile them into spending freely.
“What am I offered for this tureen?” he said, holding up a Wedgewood tureen. “But not just Papa Tureen — we also have a dozen sweet little tureenettes.” He pointed to a table where an entire service for a dozen was laid out, including twelve soup bowls.
“I don’t see a Mama Tureen. It seems the poor fellow is a widower with a dozen tots to support. Won’t one of you kind ladies have pity on him and take him home? He won’t be any bother — he comes with his own staff. Cups, saucers, dinner plates, the whole set. We’ll start with the ridiculously low bid of a hundred pounds.” He scanned the audience, and spotted a hand.
“Lady Jersey, one hundred pounds. One can always count on you to speak up.” A polite titter ran through the hall. Lady Jersey bore the nickname Silence, due to her running tongue.
“Now Lady Sefton, you aren’t going to let her steal this out from under your nose. Your turtle soup we all enjoy so much would turn to ambrosia in this tureen.” A laughing Lady Sefton nodded. “One hundred and twenty-five it is,” he said. Alvanley continued joking and flattering until he got much more than the set was worth.
Paintings, statues, vases, jewelry were all knocked down at more than their value. Alvanley held up an emerald brooch and said it was obviously intended for an Irish lady, preferably one with green eyes. Now who could that be? Why, the Incomparable, Lady Luten, of course. Luten bought the brooch.
Alvanley selected Prance as the new owner of a small bronze statue of a tiger. “It is said this ferocious feline saved a young lady’s life. What was the lady’s name, Sir Reginald? You were there at the time, according to a certain book I read — and enjoyed — recently, and shall soon have the pleasure of seeing enacted on the stage.” Prance was so thrilled with this public advertisement for Shadows on the Wall that he outbid Lord Petersham by fifty pounds.
Coffen was called on the carpet for dragging his feet. The other members of the Berkeley Brigade had done their duty by the orphans. Did he not want to add this charming Chinese vase to his decor? He bought the Chinese vase he didn’t much like or want, as he knew he had to buy something.
Black made an offer on a small diamond tie
pin and was relieved when someone outbid him. He could get a bigger one for a quarter of the price from a friend who handled jewelry of doubtful provenance. Mrs. Ballard stood at the back of the hall listening and enjoying but not bidding.
The highlight of the auction, of course, was the Clare diamond necklace. For that item, Alvanley left off joking and made a polite reference to the late Lord Clare, who had originated the notion of an auction, and of his mother’s wish to honour him by this generous donation.
“A fine diamond parure, holding in all fifty carats,” he said, dangling the necklace. It caught the light, sending prisms sparkling as he moved it lightly to and fro. “I’m asking for an opening bid of four thousand. You’d pay five at Love and Wirgams.” Lord Melbourne raised his hand. “Four thousand,” Alvanley announced. “Do I hear forty-five hundred?”
Lady Spencer nodded, and the bidding went on. At five thousand, the Prince raised a ring-laden finger, smiling at his mistress, Lady Hertford.
No sooner had Avanley announced, “Five thousand,” than The Duke of Devonshire said loudly, “Six thousand.”
An excited whisper rippled through the hall. Who did Devonshire plan to give it to? He wasn’t married, or even engaged.
“Seven thousand,” came out loud and clear from the Prince.
The Duke of Devonshire had one of the largest fortunes in the land. He didn’t want the necklace, but upon hearing that Lady Hertford wanted it, he decided to get a good price out of it for the orphans. To add to the fun, he had placed a bet at his club that the necklace would go for not a penny less than ten thousand. His friends thought he was mad, and gladly took up the bet. “Seventy-five hundred,” he said.
The Prince glared across the hall at him. “Eight thousand,” he said. Devonshire’s bid of nine thousand followed quickly.
The excited whispers and ripples of laughter fell still. A dead silence fell over the hall. It felt as if the very room held its breath. Into the silence Prinney thundered, “Ten thousand!” and glared across the hall at the duke.
A wave of excited gasps and chatter broke out. Every eye turned to the Duke of Devonshire. The Duke, smiling, bowed to his Prince and went no higher. He figured that overall he had made ten thousand for the wee orphans without buying a thing. Five more than the sparklers were worth, and another five on his bets. He planned to donate that as well.
“Sold to his Royal Highness, Prince George,” Alvanley announced.
Wild clapping and foot stamping filled the room. The Prince bowed to his applauding audience. It was almost worth the ghastly sum to be publicly applauded, after the rough ride he had been receiving from his loyal subjects recently.
The stunning success of the auction put everyone in a truly joyful mood as they went in for supper. The story of Devonshire’s trick ran through the hall, reaching every ear except the Prince’s. He didn’t find out until the next day, when his brother Clarence told him.
“I am very happy for the orphans,” Prinney said, with a face that revealed little of his joy. But Lady Hertford had her dear heart set on it. It had been a mistake to show it to her. Ah well, what difference did another ten thousand make to his mountain of debt?
The ball did not break up until three. As the Berkeley Brigade gathered at the door of Elgin Hall, Coffen said, “Can me and Black get a lift home with you, Luten? I don’t have my carriage.”
“Mrs. Ballard is with them,” Black said. “We can’t go five in a carriage.”
“We’ll squeeze in,” Corinne said.
Prance joined them. “Are we meeting to discuss the case?” he asked. “I can get Lady Mary home in a trice and join you. I don’t want to miss the roundup. But as it’s already after three ...”
“Three already?” Coffen said, stifling a yawn. “Too late to go to bed and too early to get up.”
Luten looked to Corinne. “I’m too excited to sleep,” she said.
“I’m too tired to go to bed,” Coffen said.
“Then we’ll have a short meeting at home. It will help us unwind,” Luten said. He gathered up Mrs. Ballard and they left. Strangely, she did not feel in the least uncomfortable in the crowded carriage with three gentlemen and two ladies that night. Nor did she rush upstairs when they reached Berkeley Square, but went with the others into the rose salon.
Even Coffen didn’t expect food after the magnificent supper served at the ball. He accepted a glass of wine, stretched out his legs and said, “We didn’t do too bad for a case with no real clues except the danglers from Sean’s boot.”
“The auction was such a roaring success the committee is going to make it an annual affair,” Corinne said. Luten looked at her in alarm. “Don’t worry, Luten. I politely but firmly declined the honour of being in charge of it.”
They were soon joined by Prance, carrying his tiger statuette. “A very enjoyable evening,” he said, lifting his coattails as he took a seat and set the tiger on his lap. “Where is your vase, Coffen? I’d like to get a look at it.”
Coffen looked all around. “Daresay I left it at Elgin Hall.” Prance rolled up his eyes in disbelief.
“I brought it home,” Black said. “It’s on Luten’s table in the front hall, where the horse used to be.”
“Good place for it. It’ll keep the horse company.”
“The horse is now abovestairs,” Corinne told him.
“Then the jug can replace it.”
Mrs. Ballard’s hand flew to her lips. “You paid a good deal for that vase, Mr. Pattle.”
“Orphans,” Coffen said. “You look very stylish tonight, Mrs. Ballard. I hardly recognized you. A new hairdo, is it?”
“Oh Mr. Pattle! This is not my hair! It’s called a turban.”
“Very nice. Stylish — not like you at all.”
Prance added more discreet praise. “I was wondering who the new beauty was when you came in with Luten and Corrine.”
For the second time that day, she gave a vocal titter. After this depravity she declined a second glass of wine.
Prance turned to Luten. “You got a decent price for the little Watteau painting you donated, Luten, though it’s a moot point whether it wasn’t worth more.”
“Your icon did well too,” Luten replied. “I was afraid it would be held as evidence and not allowed to be sold. Townsend arranged it.”
“I thought it would bring more than a hundred,” Prance said. “I paid that for it, and most of the objects went for more than they were worth. If the Russian ambassador had made a bid Alvanley would have got twice that. I noticed Lady deLieven shaking her head at her husband. Skint.”
“About the icon,” Coffen said, and told them what he had learned from Corbett “A red herring,” he said, “left there at Corbett’s place to fool us, which it did. I miscounted — that makes two red herrings.”
“I’m happy Corbett’s name has been cleared,” Prance said. “I wonder if he’s still interested in playing Maldive.”
“You can ask him tomorrow when he calls,” Luten said. “He asked if we thought you’d mind if he called. I assumed you would want to see him.”
“Lovely! He’ll certainly play the role at Drury Lane, and I shan’t have to put up with his little snits, for I don’t intend to continue the rehearsals. I have decided not to write the script for the play after all. I shall be too busy designing etchings for my new book.” He looked around to see if this caused a stir. Seeing only vague nods, he added, “The drawing holds no terrors for me, but it will be hard work, learning the intricacies of engraving. I plan to do the engraving myself.” And still no excitement!
“I believe Corbett’s over his snits,” Coffen said. “Seemed quite normal tonight. Almost modest. Well, another case solved. I wonder what our next one will be.”
“Before we undertake any more cases,” Corinne said, “Luten and I mean to have a nice quiet holiday at Brighton to recover from this one.”
“Amen,” said Luten, who had been happy to be saved the long haul to the Lake District. “We can all do
with a little holiday.”
“I wouldn’t mind spending a while there myself,” Coffen said. “I have my eye on a curricle. Best to learn to drive it out of London traffic.”
“I had thought of joining you, till I heard that,” Prance said. “I would feel safer in London if you plan to be tearing around Brighton at sixteen miles an hour.”
“I’m not familiar with Brighton at all,” Black said. “Never been there but once, and that before the Prince built his castle. I’d like to see it.”
“Never seen the pavilion!” Prance exclaimed. “Oh you must, Black. It’s famous. Or do I mean infamous? It keeps growing by the year, like his debts.”
“Let’s all go to Brighton,” Corinne said. “You could do your sketches there as well as here, Reg.”
Reg felt a warm surge of pleasure at receiving a special invitation. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said.
“We’ll all go and just have a nice, lazy holiday,” Luten said, with no notion of the ghastly murder awaiting them there.
About the Author
Joan Smith is a graduate of Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, and the Ontario College of Education. She has taught French and English in high school and English in college. When she began writing, her interest in Jane Austen and Lord Byron led to her first choice of genre, the Regency, which she especially liked for its wit and humor.
She is the author of over a hundred books, including Regencies, many with a background of mystery, for Fawcett and Walker, contemporary mysteries for Berkley, historical mysteries for Fawcett and St. Martin's, romances for Silhouette, along with a few historicals and gothics. She has had books in the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild, had one book condensed in a magazine, and has been on Walden's Bestseller list.
