by Joan Smith
Villier listened and found his master was right. “You must hire a bruiser to guard you when you go out,” he said. He was rewarded for this excellent notion by a warm smile.
“You are a positive mind reader, Villier. The same thought had occurred to me. Having failed last night, they might very well assault me again. I’ll hire the biggest bruiser I can find, and I shall arm my staff here at home as well. How does it come they got in last night, by the way? Why did no one hear them? Did they break a window?”
“I fear in the dreadful confusion last night after you arrived home, the back door got left unlocked when Pelkey returned. It seems André is the culprit.” André was Prance’s French chef, and a great favorite of his master. Lady Cowper had favourably compared André to the great Carême.
“That doesn’t sound like André. Perhaps a gentle reprimand.”
“Really one can hardly blame him. We were all so upset, and he had to make tea and sandwiches for everyone before he went to bed. It was very late by then. They stayed up till all hours talking about it. I expect André had a little nip of something to help him sleep. I know I did.”
“Quite understandable. I must go belowstairs and see the damage.”
“The doctor ordered bed rest for a few days.”
“Rest? How am I expected to rest with my whole house and even my life under siege? I must be up and doing, Villier; and you must help me. Bring me the sturdiest walking stick I possess, help me into my dressing gown, and lend me an arm to go below. The blue brocade gown and my Japanese slippers.”
“After you’ve eaten. I’ve made you a nice coddled egg.”
They both laughed at this prime jest. Prance wouldn’t touch an egg with a pair of tongs, unless it was well disguised in a soufflé or meringue. He did finish his cocoa and nibble a few bites of toast, which was as much breakfast as he ever ate.
“Shall I prepare your shave?” Villier asked. He stood back and examined his master. “I must say you do look rather dashing with that little whiskery shadow on your chin and your nose all mushey. Here, let me get you a hand mirror.”
Prance examined his face and had to agree that the whiskers became him. “I can’t wait to make a toilette. I’m too eager to go below. And besides my whole face aches. I can’t subject it to a blade.”
Villier fetched the walking stick, got him into his navy brocade dressing gown with the crested pocket and fringed belt and helped him downstairs. Prance was much gratified to find Soames, the butler, and André waiting to make their apologies, while a bevy of maids and footmen hovered behind, looking anxiously apologetic.
Prance graciously forgave them all, with a little reminder that there might be more trouble ahead, and they must all be on the qui vive. Soames was to see to the distribution of pistols for the men. The rooms were as Villier had described them. He had ordered the maids not to touch them until he spoke to Sir Reginald.
Prance limped about, examining things, picking up small objects and shaking his head, complaining about spines of books being broken, scratches on table tops and a broken lock on his latest acquisition, an Italian desk which he called an escrivata.
He was about to return to his bed when Soames announced, “Mr. Pattle.”
Coffen wandered in, took one look at Prance’s discoloured face and swollen nose and said, “Good God! What happened to you? Did you fall downstairs?”
“Nothing so tame, Pattle. I was set upon by a brace of vicious footpads last night, beaten and robbed.”
“That explains it. I wondered why you didn’t show up at Jergen’s do. Everyone was asking about you.”
Prance was highly gratified to hear this but decided a recital of his ordeal would be more exciting. He eased his aching body into a soft chair and made a good story of the attack.
“Got your watch and purse, eh? That’s a pity,” Coffen said. He looked around the drawing room and added, “I’m surprised to see you rearranging your room when you look as if you ought to be in bed. I came over to tell you what happened to me, but your story puts mine in the shade entirely.”
“I am not rearranging the furniture,” Prance said. “Did I forget to mention the little detail that my house was broken into last night?”
“So the ken smashers got you as well! I came to tell you they broke into my place. Any clues?” Coffen dearly loved a clue, by which he meant something tangible he could pick up and hopefully associate with the criminal. He found these clues useful in solving the various cases in which the Berkeley Brigade became involved.
“You mean your house was broken into last night too?” Prance was disappointed at this sharing of the drama. It made him wonder, too, whether it was the imaginary outline for his next novel that had been the aim of his assault and the break-in.
“Torn apart,” Coffen said.
“How could you tell?”
Coffen's took no offence at this facer. “Books scattered about the floor in the library. No one reads at my house. Bills and invoices all over the floor in the study. Nothing actually broken. I’m pretty sure that red vase I use for a waste basket was already cracked. Odd they didn’t take anything.”
“How did they get in?” Prance asked.
“P’raps some door was left unlocked,” Coffen said vaguely. This was nothing new in his appalling household. “The question is, how the deuce did they get into your place? You keep it locked up like a bank.”
“It seems André left the back door unlocked amidst all the confusion last night."
“Did you send for Bow Street?”
“No, did you?”
“Not yet. They’ll never find who did it, and since nothing’s been stolen, I didn’t bother. Are any of your treasures missing?”
“Nothing I have spotted so far,” Prance said. “I removed most of the smaller pieces when I redecorated.”
Coffen looked around at the gloomy room. “Ah, is that what you call it? And it’s too late to hope to find the footpads that beat you up, of course. Well, I believe I’ll ankle over and tell Corrie and Luten the news. I wonder if Luten’s house was hit as well. That’s where they’d make a haul worth taking. I can understand they didn’t find anything valuable at my place, but I would have thought some of your art stuff was worth their while.”
“When you go to Luten's, ask them if they would be kind enough to come here, as I obviously can’t go out.”
“I’m on my way,” Coffen said, and left without even hinting for a cup of coffee and something to eat, which was half the reason he had come.
Chapter Five
Luten and Corinne were still in the morning parlour enjoying a last cup of coffee when Coffen was announced. “Coffen, you’ve come for the tablecloth,” his cousin said. “Do join us for coffee. Have you had breakfast?”
“No, but that ain’t why I’m here this time, nor the table cloth neither. There’s big news. Prance was beat up and robbed by footpads last night.”
“Good gracious! Is he all right?” Corinne asked. “I wondered why he wasn’t at Lady Jergen’s party.”
“His nose looks like a squashed beet and his face is all pink and purple. He’s hobbling about with a walking stick and I don’t think it’s just play-acting either. He didn’t even bother to shave this morning. Daresay his whole face hurts. And that’s just the start of it.”
“How awful,” Corinne said. “He must be miserable.”
Even Luten looked alarmed. “You mean there’s more! I hope he isn’t involved in a duel.”
“Reg? He’s a fool but not that big a fool. No, his house was broken into last night, and mine as well. I see yours wasn’t hit. Odd the ken smashers wouldn’t come here, the richest house in the square.”
Luten blinked in astonishment, then said, “I’m sure Evans would have mentioned it if we had been robbed.”
“And that’s another odd thing,” Coffen continued. “We weren’t robbed, except the footpads got Reggie’s watch and purse, but nothing was taken from either house. Just broken into, the place me
ssed up, and not a single thing stolen, with all the valuable pictures and what not Prance has littering his walls.”
“Did you call Bow Street?” Luten asked.
“Not yet. We weren’t sure it was worthwhile. Mean to say, not a hope of catching the footpads after all this time, and nothing actually stolen from either house.”
“I’d let Townsend know all the same,” Luten said. “It may be some new rig being run.” After a frowning pause, he added, “Though I can’t see what it would be with nothing taken.”
“Me neither,” Coffen said, shaking his head in confusion.
“Would they have been looking for some specific thing which they may or may not have found?” Luten asked.
"There's an idea! Come on over to Prance’s place. We’ll all talk it over together. He can’t come here. He’s a mess.”
"Yes, certainly. I was about to suggest it,” Luten said, and set down his cup.
Corrine had no intention of being left out of these interesting doings and joined them without donning her pelisse and bonnet. Prance lived one house down from Luten’s on the same side of the street. They went together and didn't bother knocking but just went inside. Prance was sitting in his drawing room with one leg propped up on a footstool and a journal in his hands, which he was scanning to see if his name appeared in any of the social reports.
Corrine rushed forward when she saw him. “Reggie! We’re so sorry to hear about your troubles,” she said. “Oh my, you look dreadful! Have you seen a doctor? Were you hurt very badly?”
“Knighton is attending me. My ribs are broken — it’s agony to even breathe. I was positively pummeled, even after they’d taken my purse and watch. And incidentally made a total wreck of my carriage. I shall require a new one."
“You didn’t tell me about the carriage,” Coffen muttered.
“Tell us the whole thing, from the beginning,” Luten said, and they all drew up chairs to listen to the sad tale.
“Odd you didn’t notice it wasn’t Pelkey on the box,” Coffen said, when he was finished.
“He was wearing Pelkey’s coat and hat. In the dark, you know, and with other things on my mind,” Prance said vaguely. “One sees what one expects to see.”
“Did Pelkey get a look at the fellows?” Luten asked.
“No, I questioned him this morning. All he saw was their general size. One large man, one smaller. They wore masks, as I mentioned.”
“The oddest thing is your two houses being broken into and nothing taken,” Luten said, rubbing his chin and frowning.
“I have an idea there,” Prance said, and gave them his theory that they were after the outline to his new novel. “Some writer manqué trying to steal my latest plot, you see.” When he saw Luten wasn’t convinced, he repeated the footpad’s demand for the mysterious “it”, even after he had the purse and watch.
“It seems an unlikely way to go about getting a story,” Luten said, still far from convinced.
“Can you think of any other reason?”
“But why search Coffen’s house?” Luten asked.
Prance was having trouble with this detail himself. “We’re friends. We were together yesterday afternoon. In fact I noticed someone watching me when I was having a word with an old friend, Harry Bolton, and Coffen was in my rig, waiting for me. It’s possible I was having Coffen look over my outline. He gave me the idea of the tiger in my gothic, you recall. I told several people about it.”
“True,” Coffen said. “I remember, it was when we were haring after Russell, the fellow who was blackmailing Lady Dunn. Speaking of Harry Bolton, did you get the invitation, Luten? Black was to take it to you.”
“Invitation? I heard nothing about it,” he said, glancing to his wife.
“Evans mentioned it,” Corinne said. “Black brought it over last night after we had left for dinner. We went on to Jergen’s party and I didn’t get it until this morning. It’s with the rest of the mail. I haven’t opened it yet.”
“I asked you to deliver it,” Prance said to Coffen. “Harry said it was urgent.”
“And I asked Black to take it,” Coffen said.
Luten's brow wrinkled as he listened to their explanations. “Where does Bolton come into all this?” he demanded.
“He gave Prance the invite yesterday afternoon, said it was urgent since the party was that same night. Last night. Prance gave it to me. I knew you were going to Jergen’s do and didn’t figure it was important. I was visiting Black and he offered to deliver it, which he did. He figured you’d be home between dinner and going to Jergen’s do and wanted to deliver it in person.”
“Bolton said it was urgent?” Luten asked.
“He thought so,” Prance said, “but it was just an invite to some do his aunt, Lady Hastings, was having. Forgot to send you an invite and felt bad about it.”
“I don’t recognize the name. Do we know a Lady Hastings?” Corinne asked Luten.
Luten didn’t answer her question, but said, “I’d best go home and have a look at the — er, invitation.”
He darted next door, studied the message for several minutes, frowning at it, then went back to Prance’s house. Luten said, in a worried tone, “You said someone was watching when Bolton gave you this envelope, Reg. What did this fellow do when you and Coffen left? I’m wondering if he followed Bolton — or you.”
“I didn’t really notice,” Prance said.
“Me neither,” Coffen said. “I didn’t notice anyone at all.”
“Can you describe him, Reg?” Luten asked.
Prance wracked his brain, but all he had noticed was that someone — a man — no. It was two men were loitering about, watching them.
“Ask Black,” Coffen suggested. “He’d have been at the window. He’d know if Prance and me were followed.”
“A good idea,” Luten said, and sent a footman off to fetch him.
Black was simply delighted to receive an invitation to join the Brigade at Prance’s house and hastened across the street at once. He had seen all the darting back and forth and was on thorns to know what was going on. He assumed it had to do with Prance’s beating last night and fervently hoped he was about to be consulted. Perhaps it all had to do with some new case they were involved in. One look at Sir Reginald’s dismantled drawing room and he felt his prayer had been answered. He was invited to sit down, which was as good as saying they needed his help. A butler was not usually invited to sit down with his employer.
Luten said, “Did you happen to notice Sir Reginald and Pattle when they arrived home yesterday afternoon, Black?”
“I did,” Black said at once. “Sir Reginald went into his house and Mr. Pattle crossed the street to his own place. Might I ask why it’s important?”
“That is what we’re trying to determine. Did you noticed if anyone seemed to be following them?”
“Happens I did,” Black was happy to reply. “A hackney wasn’t far behind them. When Sir Reginald’s rig stopped, the hackney drew up two houses behind them but no one got out. It stayed there a while, then drove off.”
“I suppose you couldn’t see who was in it?”
“I'm sorry to say I couldn’t. I figured when it stopped at Griffin’s place that someone was calling on them, but no one got out. I couldn’t get much of a look at who was inside. Looked like two heads at the window. Has it something to do with this mess here?” he asked, indicating Reggie’s upset drawing room.
“Probably. As you can see, Prance’s house was broken into last night,” Luten said, frowning and rubbing his chin, which told Corinne he was worried.
“Did they get away with much?” Black asked.
“They didn’t take anything,” Luten replied.
“There’s a new twist,” Black said, dumbfounded.
“You think the man in that carriage is responsible for the break-ins?” Corinne asked.
Black didn’t miss a word. “Break-ins?” he exclaimed. “You never mean Lord Luten’s place was broke into as well!”
“No; mine,” Coffen said. “Of course it was the fellows, following us that did it. Plain as the nose on your face. And it wasn’t no invitation from some lady you never heard of to a party that Bolton wanted delivered either. What’s up, Luten? You’re going to want our help before it’s over, so you might as well tell us now.”
“You’re right, Coffen,” Luten said. “It wasn’t an invitation. It was a rather important message from — well, never mind that. The way the evening worked out suggests to me that the man or men who were watching Bolton give Prance that envelope followed Prance and Coffen home. They made a try to get it by taking over Prance’s carriage and attacking him. No doubt they thought he was on his way to deliver it. When they didn’t find it, they assumed it was still in his house, and searched here last night.”
“But why search Coffen’s?” Corinne asked.
“Because they didn’t find it here, in Reg’s house. Coffen had been with him. It was possible Prance had noticed he was being followed and passed it on to Coffen to deliver.”
“Prance did give me the card from Bolton, but I couldn’t say whether they saw him do it, parked so far away,” Coffen said. “A good thing they didn’t see me go to visit Black, or your place would have been wrecked as well, Corrie. They must have left before I called on you.”
“They did,” Black confirmed. “They left as soon as you went into your own house.”
“That’s it then,” Coffen said. “There’s your answer to what they were looking for, Reg, when they said ‘Where is it?’ One good thing, they didn’t get it. Can you give us a hint what was in that message, Luten?”
“I can tell you this much — it was vitally important. If those thugs had got it, it might have cost many lives.”
Coffen nodded. “To do with the war, then. Have they conscripted you for a spy?”
Luten batted this suggestion aside, but no one believed him. Coffen was satisfied that they’d solved the mystery of the ‘invitation’ and Prance’s attack and the break-ins. Corinne was worried for her husband’s safety. Prance was jealous as a green cow, and Black was trying to figure out how he could worm his way into this case.
