by Joan Smith
“So what do we do next?” Coffen asked Luten.
“I’d best go have a word with Bolton,” he replied. “Would you happen to have his address, Prance?”
“Yes, he told me. Let me think, now. He said he has a flat on Shaftesbury Avenue. He mentioned that big building, just on the corner of Charing Cross Road.”
“I know the place,” Coffen said, “Mind if I tag along?”
“Yes, go with him,” Corinne said at once. “There’s no telling what those wretched men may do. Be careful, Luten.”
“We will,” Coffen assured her, and they left.
As Black could not go home with her, the next best thing was to follow Luten. With luck he might run into trouble and require a rescuer. He whistled for a hackney and wasn’t a block behind Luten’s rig as it rattled through town.
Chapter Six
Black’s hackney had trouble keeping pace with Luten’s prime goers. Traffic was heavy along Piccadilly on a fine April morning, but he managed to spot the carriage at the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and saw where it drew to a stop, just at the corner of Charing Cross Road. Black made careful note of the address in case he wanted to check it out later. The size and unadorned architecture of the building told him it was a block of flats. Not a tonish building, but not a slum either. He dismissed the cab and loitered about outside, half hoping he’d hear sounds of a scuffle and have to rescue Luten and Pattle.
When he tired of pacing back and forth he made a detour around the building, taking careful note of the windows and doors. He found a back door unlocked and took a peek inside, into a dark, dusty hallway with a staircase running both abovestairs and below. This set of back stairs would be used by deliverymen, cleaners and such. Nothing to stop an unwelcome caller, like a murderer, from using it either. Black was eager to weasel his way into the Berkeley Brigade, and such knowledge as this was his wedge. His ultimate aim was to join Luten’s household in some manner but he knew the chance of replacing Evans as butler was negligible. A senior footman was the best he could hope for. That would at least put him in a position to watch over Lady Luten, as deCoventry had asked him to.
Luten found Bolton’s apartment number and hastened up the stairs to knock on the door. When there was no answer after three tries, he looked over his shoulder at Coffen, who was just puffing up the stairs behind him. Coffen reached out and turned the doorknob. As the door swung inward, he experienced an eerily familiar sense of foreboding. It had been his experience on more than one occasion that when a door was unlocked and no one answered, the reason was that the occupant was dead. He was relieved that no sprawled body greeted them upon entering.
A modest living room held the usual grate, sofa, a few chairs and tables. The kitchen was to the right, with a corner set off as a dining area. It was clean and tidy, but for the few dishes in the sink. Apparently Harry didn’t have any servants.
They hastened on to the bedroom. That’s where they found what remained of Harry Bolton. He had been stabbed in the neck as he sat at his desk, his jacket off. The stiff body was slumped forward with one bloodied hand resting on a sheet of paper. Blood had gushed down his chest and left arm, soaking his white shirt. The red liquid had darkened and dried to a dull brown.
For a moment neither of them spoke, then Coffen touched the outstretched arm and said, “He ain’t rigor mortified. He’s been dead a while. They stiffen up at first, then loosen up again."
Luten drew a deep breath, gulped and said, “We’d best have a look about.” The papers scattered over the desk and floor told them the desk had been rifled. “No sign of a fight. He was taken by surprise.”
“Someone he knew and trusted took a sudden lunge at him,” Coffen said. “Or someone he was letting on he trusted. We’d best get looking for clues. I’ll go through the jackets in his closet.”
Luten quickly searched through the scattered papers. Nothing but personal letters and bills. He stifled a grimace as he reached to ease open the centre drawer beneath Bolton’s chest. It held only stationery and a couple of books. He flipped through them in case they held a paper, but he found nothing to indicate that Bolton worked for Sir Edgar Hopley, who was in charge of gathering information relating to the war with Bonaparte.
It was well known there were French spies operating in London and the countryside. Hopley had his regulars scattered throughout England, but it was London that was the centre of activities. Luten was not one of his regulars. He had been recruited for a few special jobs that required the entrée into polite society.
“Nothing here,” Luten said.
“Nothing in the closet or dresser either,” Coffen said, going to view the body again. “Best go through his trouser pockets, eh?”
Luten steeled himself to what had to be done. “Nothing here,” he said a moment later.
Coffen, meanwhile, had been scanning the surface of the desk for clues. “Take a look at this, Luten,” he said, pointing to the paper on which Bolton’s hand was resting. “Looks like he was trying to write something — in his own blood,” he said with a shudder. “That’s the bravest thing I ever saw.”
Luten carefully drew the paper out and frowned at the few blurred, wobbly letters, that were already dried to that familiar rusty brown. “You’re right, but he didn’t get very far. It looks like m o r. I wonder what he was trying to write.”
Such a substantial clue was like caviar to Coffen, who snatched up the paper. “It must be important, eh? Mean to say, wrote it with his dying blood.”
“I’ll see what I can find out at headquarters.”
Coffen furrowed his brow at Luten. “It’s true then, you are a spy?”
“No, no, I just lend a hand when and where I can.”
“Right, it’s a secret. I won’t tell her. No point getting her worried.” The her in question didn’t have to be named. “I wondered why you was keeping such odd hours lately.”
“I dislike to worry her, but secrecy is of the utmost importance. I don’t have to tell you that. I’ll speak to Reg as well.”
“Do, but I shouldn’t worry too much about him. He’s so wrapped up in being a success that he never thinks of anything else. And he won’t go out till his face settles down. I’ll stay here a while, nose around, see what I can find out about who called on Bolton and so on. You never know, I might come across a mor. You know, like what he was trying to write. Stands to reason it’s a name, don’t you think?”
“Very likely. Be careful, Coffen. These lads are dangerous.”
“I can see that,” he said, gazing at what remained of Bolton. “How about Bow Street?”
“I’ll ask Hopley about that. He’s my contact. Bolton’s death can hardly be kept a secret. Better to make it appear as a case of murder while confronting a ken smasher, or over a game of cards gone wrong. You can catch a hackney home all right?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
Luten left and directed his coachman to Whitehall. Sir Edgar Hopley occupied a modest oak-lined office that gave no indication of his importance. Those who knew him thought he performed some minor clerical function. He discouraged his men from calling on him unless absolutely necessary.
For ordinary business, a discreetly worded message could be left with his secretary, who was ostensibly employed by an under-secretary of Lord Bathurst. Each assignment had a code name that was to be included in the message. When he had need of a new recruit, he made the contact at a club or a party. His men were not known to each other. In that manner, if one was captured he couldn’t pass on any other names.
He was a jolly-looking little gnome with a fringe of white hair around his face. Like Coffen, his blue eyes were the only clue to his intelligence. He was not smiling, however, as Luten entered. He directed a scowling, blue stare at him.
“Something has happened!” Hopley said, rising from his chair. “I trust it is a matter of importance, as you have done me the honour of calling here.”
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t seen.”
“I
deduce from that frown that you have some unpleasant news for me.”
“A fellow called Bolton sent me a note last night. I didn’t receive it until this morning as I was out.”
“Bolton!” Hopley said, stiffening to attention. “What had he to say?”
“Very little, actually, just a few lines scratched down in a hurry and stuck in an envelope he must have had in his pocket. ‘Tell uncle I was right,’ is all it says.” He handed Hopley the envelope containing the note. “It doesn’t mean much to me. I assume he meant me to pass it along to you. He made a point of using the name Lady Hastings when he asked my friend to pass the note to me. Since I don’t know any Lady Hastings, I thought it might be his code word.”
“Yes, quite, but Bolton, is he — ?”
“Dead,” Luten said grimly. “In his flat with a knife hole in his throat.”
Hopley paced back and forth a moment, his face grim. “Tell me everything. How did he come to send the note to you? He didn’t know you were working for me.”
“I have no idea. He met Sir Reginald Prance, a friend from school, on Bond Street and asked him to give it to me. He used the word urgent.”
“Ah, the Berkeley Brigade,” Hopley said. “That explains it. He once suggested to me that you chaps might be useful. He knew, at least, that you would have the sense to realize the matter was important when you heard of his murder. It was a precaution. If he had managed to escape, then the note was unnecessary.”
“I feared he might be in danger and darted over to his place as soon as I read the note.” He went on to explain the delay in the note’s delivery, the attack on Prance, the subsequent search of his and Coffen’s houses, finally describing what he had found at Bolton’s flat. “What’s it all about, Hopley?”
Hopley sat down, shook his head sadly and sighed. “What is it ever all about, Luten?” he asked, in a rhetorical spirit. “Another leak at the Horse Guards. York and his crew of dipsomaniacs are hatching plans to save the world. You know the situation. Bonaparte back from Russia and recruiting men and boys in Paris. Our estimate is 350,000 new conscripts, and 27,000 horses.”
“But with Russia and Prussia now against him —"
“It’s our chance to finish him off once and for all! What we don’t want the Frenchies to find out is Wellington’s plans. And you may be sure that is what the French spies are trying to find out. It seems there is a leak. Bolton’s mission was to discover the source. We don’t think for a moment the information was leaked intentionally. It was ferreted out due to the extremely lax standards practised at the Horse Guards; You know the sort of thing — leaving documents untended on a desk — or a copy tossed into a wastebasket. Or possibly discussing private matters in a public place. They might as well print their plans in the Observer.
“Bolton was working on it from the receiving end. He had been keeping an eye on a bunch of Frenchies we have reason to suspect and was following them to find out who their English informant was. From what you’ve told me, I suspect he had discovered the informant — and vice versa, unfortunately, which is why he was killed.”
“You’ve no idea who the suspect is, his name?”
“He didn’t know it when last I spoke to him. He’d been following the Frenchies to a tavern, the Sheepwalk, in Portland Town. It’s in St. John’s Wood, just across from the burial ground of St. John’s Chapel. That’s where he got a line on a suspect. On two occasions he saw an Englishman meet up with the Frenchies. Once may have been by chance, but twice? He gave me a description of the man — a good-looking, well-born young fellow.”
“Do you have a more detailed description of the suspect?”
“Tallish, darkish, handsomish. Could be yourself, or any one of a hundred other gentlemen. I deduce the fellow knew or suspected that Bolton was on to him and was following him, or having him followed. Bolton saw he was being pursued and, in fear of his life, passed this note along to Prance.
“This note is verification that the man he’d been following is indeed the leak. If Bolton had headed here with that note, he would never have made it, so he wrote to you, trying to lead his pursuers off, giving the notion the note was just some social matter. I expect he saw whoever was following him take off after Prance, then he went directly home, thinking he had escaped, and planning to inform me as soon as safely possible. Since Bolton had been found out, I’d have to put a different man on the case.”
“I wonder if there was a third man,” Luten said. “Two followed Prance home, one set off after Bolton and killed him.”
“The chief could have been using his minions to follow Bolton. When they reported the business of that note, the chief feared it identified him. He made an effort to recover it before it was delivered to me. First searched Prance and his carriage, then his house, and the house of the man he was with that afternoon. And when that failed, he didn’t know for sure what was in the note, so he killed Bolton, just on the chance that he hadn’t yet reported that important identity to me. Pity he didn’t.”
He shook his head sadly.
“We shall miss young Bolton, a good man. I wonder what he had discovered. I wonder, now, as he sent the note to you if he was concentrating his efforts in your social circle.”
“You mentioned he notified me because of the Berkeley Brigade,” Luten reminded him.
“At this point, it is all surmise. It would be an inestimable help if we knew what Bolton had been up to the last days of his life. X — we’ll call the murderer X until we can put a name to him — knew somehow that Bolton was closing in on him.” He directed a long, meaningful gaze on Luten. “Someone who is known to be interested in murders not related to spy activities could investigate without alerting X that we suspect him.”
“Someone like the Berkeley Brigade, in fact?”
“Just so. I do like a man who doesn’t have to have all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed. So England may depend on you to do your duty, Luten?”
“When you put it that way, Ed ... How about the letters mor that Bolton had tried to write. That must be a clue to X.”
“Let me think, now.” He sat a moment with his face wrinkled in deep thought. After a moment he said, “I’m afraid nothing comes to mind.”
“Since you plan to pretend this has nothing to do with you, do we call in Bow Street?”
“Oh yes, you’ll have to do that. The death must appear to have nothing to do with my work. You’ll take care of it? I doubt you’ll fool Townsend for a minute, the wily old scoundrel. No matter, he’s safe as a church. You know we don’t encourage frequent visits to my little nest here. Very few folks even in Whitehall know what I do. But if I can be of help, or if you discover something you deem vitally important, you know how I may be reached. We may bump into one another here and there as well. I do occasionally visit society of an evening when the occasion warrants. But you are clever, Luten. Use your judgment. It has been sound in the past. I look forward to hearing from you when you have discovered the identity of X.”
“I’ll see what I can discover,” Luten said, and left.
Chapter Seven
It wasn’t long before Coffen and Black ran into each other outside the block of flats. “Black, what the deuce are you doing here?” Coffen demanded.
“Same as yourself, Mr. Pattle, keeping an eye out for trouble.”
“I fear we’re too late. You wouldn’t have heard the news. Bolton’s dead,” he said, sorrow and anger vying with less negative emotions, for there was little dearer to Coffen’s heart than a murder to investigate.
Black felt a rush of similar emotions. “I’m sorry to hear it. I take it you’re not talking about natural causes?”
“The most brutal murder I’ve seen in a while. Stabbed through the throat. Blood all over him.” He gave a shudder as he remembered the sight.
“Then no one would have heard a shot,” was Black’s comment. “A knife’s nice and quiet. It’s all part and parcel of that message Bolton gave Sir Reginald to deliver then, and the brea
k-ins?”
“It looks that way.”
“Any evidence left behind at all?” Black asked.
“One clue,” Coffen replied, and showed him the paper Bolton had marked with his blood. He described what they had seen in Bolton’s room. “Have you had any luck here?”
“I’ve seen nothing you could call out of the way. I don’t really know what I’m looking for, Mr. Pattle. I’ve spotted an unlocked back door into the place.”
“You’d best show me,” Coffen said, and Black led him around to the door. He gave the place a thorough scrutiny but found no tell-tale trace of the murderer. As they returned to the street he said, “You never know. This door might turn out to be a clue. Till we have a word with Luten, we don’t know what or who might be suspicious. Might as well ankle along home. Could you rustle us up a cab?”
Black, always ready for any emergency, drew a whistle from his pocket and gave it a blast. A hackney soon came around the corner and they got in. “I’ll have a word with Luten and let you know,” Coffen said when they reached Berkeley Square.
“I’d appreciate it, Mr. Pattle. Always glad to help. I’ve nothing but time now, so don’t hesitate. I’d be thankful for any little job,” he said with a wistful sigh, and peered to see if he had touched Pattle’s heart. Pattle was already halfway across the street.
Luten was at home when Coffen called. “He’s in his study,” Corinne said. She was with Mrs. Ballard, sorting through the items brought over from her own house to see what might be used here, and to decide what to do with the rest. Mrs. Ballard was having a hay-day snatching up well-worn linens and well used household items for her various charities. “Or did you come to see me?”
“Him,” Coffen said and darted off before she could pester him with troublesome questions. He found Luten at his desk, studying a map of London.
