Murder on Charing Cross Road

by Joan Smith

“What’s up?” Coffen asked.

  “We’ve been asked to take on the case,” Luten said. “Did you find out anything?”

  “Not till I know what I’m looking for. I didn’t see anyone suspicious about the place. Black was there. He didn’t spot anything either.”

  “At Hopley’s request, I notified Townsend about Bolton’s murder. It’s to be treated as an ordinary murder, and the Berkeley Brigade is to take an interest.”

  Coffen’s wordless smile spoke volumes. “Anything I can do to help?”

  Luten outlined what Hopley had told him. “The first step is to get a man to pay a few visits to the Sheepwalk tavern in Portland Town, in St. John’s Wood. Someone they won’t recognize.”

  “That lets you out,” Coffen said. “It’ll have to be someone eunonymous, like me.” Unlike Prance, Luten never bothered correcting Coffen’s linguistic errors.

  “You’re a known member of our little Brigade. I was thinking Black might be the man for the job. He’s certainly awake on all suits. The only setback is that he wouldn’t understand if they spoke French.”

  “No more would I,” Coffen said. “Reggie’s the only one of us other than yourself that speaks the lingo, and he’s horse de combat, as you might say. Black would give his eyeteeth to do it. He’s bored to flinders since he can’t be spying for Corrie. Mind you, he does know a few words of the bongjaw, recognize it if he heard it being spoken at least, and he’d certainly do a good job of following any likely suspect. Did the fellow you visited — Hopley did you say? — have any notion who the mor might be, the letters poor Bolton wrote with his last blood?”

  “Unfortunately, no. If Bolton had discovered the man’s identity, he hadn’t yet told Hopley. He gave him a description at least,” he said, and gave Coffen the details. “If we could pinpoint such a man at the Sheepwalk, follow him home and discover his name starts with mor, we’d pretty well have the case solved.”

  “Right, I’ll get straight on to Black. Have you heard from Prance?”

  “No, I’m afraid Prance is completely out of it for the present.”

  “Can I tell him what’s afoot?”

  “It’s a case for the Brigade. He’ll be in high dudgeon if we don’t keep him informed. He knows how to keep a secret. And he might have an idea who the mor person could be. He has a wide circle of friends and acquaintances in the right age group.”

  “Then I’ll drop in on him after I see Black. How about Corrie?”

  “I don’t see how she can put herself at any risk with this case. I’ll let her know we’re working on Bolton’s death, but not the involvement with Hopley.”

  “That should satisfy her. I’ll let you know how it goes with Black, but I can tell you right now he’ll be in alt to help. He’s lonesome as a lobster, sitting alone in that house.”

  Luten opened his desk drawer and handed Coffen a jingle of coins. “This is to defray his expenses for rides and ale at the tavern.”

  “I planned to do that myself, but if you like —” He took the money and nipped across the street. Black, on guard as usual, had the door open for him. They went into the little room that served as the butler’s lookout.

  “I have a job for you, Black,” he said, and told him the plan, with all the details as to the man he was looking for, and what to do if he spotted him. Black couldn’t have been more thrilled if he’d won the lottery. He was back in the game! There would be meetings at Luten’s place, she’d be there. Like Coffen, he also relished the mystery for its own sake. He missed the danger and excitement of his former life. When Coffen handed him the money, he felt like a king. Enough guineas there to let him go in style.

  “About the Sheepwalk,” Black said. “I know the place. It’s more than a tavern, it’s an inn. I could book a room there for a couple of days. You learn more if you’re staying there. Carry on with the maids and so on. Since you didn’t give a clue whether the meetings take place in the day time or at night — I mean a fellow can’t spend twenty-fours in the tap room without folks wondering.”

  “True. And you’d end up drunk as a lord.”

  “Not when I’m working,” Black said, rising and throwing out his chest.

  “No offence, Black, but even you must have your limits. You might try your hand at sweet-talking one of the maids into letting you into a suspect’s room.”

  Black picked up the coins and jingled them in his palm. “Here’s the kind of sweet-talk that works every time.

  “I’ve noticed that,” Coffen said.

  “I’d best go and pack a few things. The sooner I get started, the better. I’ll keep in close touch, Mr. Pattle. Should I contact yourself or his lordship?”

  “Both. Just me if it’s not important, but if you can finger the lad, let us both know pronto. Or as pronto as you can, bearing in mind you have to follow him when he leaves. And keep a sharp eye out for your own safety, Black. If they should get on to you — well, you know what happened to Bolton.”

  “Forewarned is forearmed.”

  “Right. I’ll nip across to see how Prance is doing.”

  To his amazement, Prance’s house was already so neat you’d never know it had been messed up. Prance sat in his bijou drawing room, brooding. Not long ago the room had been transmogrified by a litter of eastern trappings due to his being enamored of Lord Byron. Leather ottoman, brass ornaments here and there, and a tiger skin thrown down on top of the Aubusson carpet.

  Now it had been turned into a gloomy, gothic monstrosity. Where the deuce had he got hold of grey curtains that looked like cobwebs? And why didn’t he at least open them to let the sun in? The pretty little Murano vases were gone from the tabletop, along with his collection of Sevrès boxes. They had been replaced by dusty old falling apart books and a few bottles that looked as if he’d raided a mad scientist’s laboratory. It was enough to make you miss the tiger skin and brass knick-knacks.

  “How are you doing, Reggie?” he asked.

  “Recovering — slowly.”

  “It might cheer you up if you let some sunlight into the place.” But as he looked around, he had to add, “Or not.”

  “The light bothers my left eye.” This was by way of introduction to the eye patch he planned to wear when he went out.

  “You ought to have Knighton take a look at it. We’ve been over to Bolton’s place. He’s been murdered. Stuck in the throat with a knife or dagger. Something pointy is what I mean. No sign of the weapon, but a big gash in his throat and blood all over the place.”

  “Good God!” Prance gasped. “No more details, if you please. I shall have nightmares as it is. Imagine, I was talking to him just yesterday. Do you know who did it?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to find out. Anyhow your beating and the break-ins had nothing to do with someone stealing your next book, so you can stop worrying you’ll be plagued — You know, that thing where somebody steals your work.”

  “Plagiarized.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. It won’t happen.” He outlined the situation to Prance.

  Though relieved, Prance wasn’t entirely happy to have the limelight removed from him so soon. After some consideration he found an excuse to hire his bodyguard. “These spies obviously think I’m in the thick of it, working with Bolton. They’ll be after me next.”

  “We won’t be that lucky.”

  “Thank you very much,” Prance snipped.

  “Nothing personal, Reg. It’s just that if they followed you, we could follow them and catch them.”

  “Preferably before they plunged a dagger into my throat.”

  “Keep your shirt on. You won’t be going out for a week or so yet, so you’re safe. Black is going to put up at the Sheepwalk and try to find out who’s responsible.”

  During the morning Prance had been wondering how to exploit the attack on him to maximum advantage. He had decided that with a black patch over his eye, he really looked rather dashing. He wouldn’t attend parties, but he would hire a bodyguard and attend to some imagi
nary highly important business on Bond Street during the safer daylight hours, accompanied by a bruiser. And with his throat well muffled up.

  “Actually I do have a few important calls to make. My publisher, you know,” he said vaguely.

  “I suggest you ask Murray to come here,” Coffen said.

  “I wouldn’t go unattended,” Prance said, to introduce the subject of a bodyguard.

  “I daresay I could go with you, but you’d have to arrange your visits around the case. Naturally that comes first.”

  “Oh I shan’t bother you, Coffen,” he said. “I’ll arrange something.”

  “Good. I’m going to go back to Bolton’s place. I could let on I want to hire rooms. P’raps I’ll be able to find out who his pals were. Pick their brains, see what he’d been up to recently. But before I go, we were wondering if you could help us with a clue. The only clue we have is mor.”

  “More what?”

  “More nothing. That’s all Bolton had time for — mor. The letters m - o - r, written in his own blood.” He drew out the paper, now well-creased and dog-eared.

  Prance looked at it and shuddered. “Put it away. It’s part of a name, obviously of his assassin.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. Do you know any Mors?”

  “Dozens,” Prance said with a wave of his hand. “Is Mor the first or last name?”

  “We don’t know. We have no more. Just mor. So let’s have them, the ones you know. Just the tallish, darkish, handsome-ish ones, mind.”

  “That certainly limits the list. Let me see, there’s Morton — No, he barely tops five feet. Now Henry Morgan is tall — oh but he’s far from handsome, poor fellow. Looks like a frog. And Morley Farland is a blond. The only one I can think of is John Morgrave, the Honourable John Morgrave, Lord Norval’s younger son. And he would hardly be working with the French. The family have been staunch royalists forever. Although being a younger son, I daresay he could use the money.”

  “John Morgrave, right. Where would I find him?”

  “In a charming flat on Brook Street, where he lives with his beautiful wife, Samantha. They’re very good ton, Coffen. You mustn’t bother them with this unsavoury business.”

  “Whoever’s leaking our secrets must be someone with an in in high places, or how would he be filching our secrets?”

  “I see your point, but don’t tell him I gave you his name,” Prance said with a weary sigh.

  “I won’t be telling him anything. I’ll just be watching him.” He arose, said, “Thankee for the clue, Prance. I’m off. Oh, and you might try to remember some more mor’s, in case this one don’t work out.”

  “Do keep me informed how things are going.”

  “I will,” he said, and let himself out.

  Chapter Eight

  Coffen darted across the street and informed Luten what he had learned from Prance. “The Honourable John Morgrave is the only name I could get out of Prance. Do you know him?”

  “I know his older brother, Viscount Sifton. He’s Lord Norval’s heir. I find it hard to believe any of that family would be mixed up in something like this, but it must be checked out, certainly."

  “The wife’s name is Samantha. Any chance Corrie would know her?”

  “I believe they’re both on the committee for the Orphans’ Ball,” he said, unhappy to hear his wife being dragged into it. But it would surely come to nothing. The Morgraves were tip of the ton.

  “I thought I’d head over to Bolton’s place, sniff around, see if he was friendly with anyone there that might know what he’d been doing lately, or had any callers that fit the description of mor.”

  “Do that, but be discreet. Don’t mention Morgrave’s name.”

  “I’m just an old friend, looking Bolton up, have no idea he’s dead."

  “That should be safe. Let me know what you discover. I saw Black head out carrying some sort of case. What is he up to?”

  “He’s going to put up at the Sheepwalk for a few days. It’s an inn as well as a tavern. He’s as good as a bloodhound for sniffing out trouble. He’ll keep in touch.”

  “That’s fine. And I’ll speak to Corinne about Samantha Morgrave. She could make some inquiry about the Orphans’ Ball. Perhaps I’ll accompany her on the call to Samantha.”

  “I’ll let you know what I discover. We’ll beat this thing, Luten.”

  “We better! How’s Prance?”

  “Pretty blue, and no wonder, the way he’s rigged his place out like a dungeon. Gives me the blue megrims just to visit him.”

  “The gothic influence. That won’t last long,” Luten said with a grin.

  Coffen took a cab to Bolton's flat. Fitz would never find it and he didn’t want his carriage standing about since he didn’t know how long he’d be inside.

  He decided his first inquiry would be of the caretaker of the block of flats. The notice board indicated that his rooms were situated in the basement. Coffen went down a narrow flight of stairs and tapped on the door. It was immediately opened by a small but wiry sharp-eyed man of middle years with rusty-grey hair and a protruding chin that gave him a pugnacious air.

  “Yessir,” the man said. “I’m Tobin, I look after the place. What can I do for you?”

  “I was looking for an old friend, Harry Bolton. There was no answer at his place. Any idea where I could find him?”

  “You won’t find him. Not alive. He was kilt last night.”

  “Harry, dead!” Coffen said, with an effort to sound shocked. “What happened?”

  “That’s what Bow Street and the rest of my occupants would like to know. Stabbed to death in his own little flat. A nice, quiet lad, the last one I’d expect to give me this kind of trouble. I’ll be lucky if I don’t lose occupants over this. Already I’ve had three threatening to leave, and old Mrs. Runciman wanting a new lock on her door.”

  “Folks are like that,” Coffen said in a supportive way. “You didn’t happen to see anyone calling on Bolton yesterday?”

  “No, I wouldn’t see him from down here. I heard footsteps, but that’d be my people coming home from work and going out for the night.”

  “Anyone in the place he was friends with? I’d like to talk about it with someone who knew him. Find out about the funeral.”

  “He was a quiet lad, out and about a good deal of the time. Kept pretty much to hisself when he was in.”

  “No friends at all? That don’t sound like Harry.”

  “As I just told you, he was out most of the time. I’ve seen him having a word with young McRaney a few times. He’s in 302.”

  “Would he be in now, or is he a working man?”

  “You might get lucky. He don’t seem to keep regular hours. He’s out often in the evenings.”

  “Before I go, could I have a look at your list of occupants? I might know someone.” As he spoke, he put his hand in his pocket and jingled some coins to indicate he’d make it worth Tobin’s while.

  A smile creased Tobin’s saturnine face. “No harm in that surely,” he said, and went to ferret around a desk for the list. Coffen scanned it, looking for a familiar name or a ‘mor’, although he had no reason to believe Mor might be living in the building. He found no familiar name, and no 'Mor.' He gave Tobin a pourboire, thanked him and headed to the third floor.

  He tapped on 302. The door was opened right away by a tall man about his own age. He had the air of what folks called a Corinthian — hair cut short and brushed forward in the Brutus do. A good jacket of blue Bath cloth, but not the cut of a Weston. Nossir, that nipped waist and padded shoulders was the work of Stultz. Reg wouldn’t like it. Not a bad looking fellow, barring the sharp look in his eyes.

  The man looked Coffen up and down and was not impressed by what he saw. “Can I help you?” he asked in a cold voice.

  “You’re McRaney?”

  A pair of brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. “That’s what it says on the door. What do you want?”

  “I came looking for a friend, Harry Bolton,
and Tobin told me the sad news. Shocking! Tobin mentioned you knew Harry. Any idea what happened?”

  “I didn’t catch your name, Mr. — “

  “Pattle, Coffen Pattle.”

  “No, we have no idea what happened,” McRaney said. “Bow Street is looking into it. Townsend mentioned the Berkeley Brigade is interested. You wouldn’t be the Pattle that was involved in that Berkeley Brigade case involving Lady Dunn!” Before Coffen could reply, the man’s whole demeanour changed. He smiled widely and said, “You’re with the Brigade!”

  “I am,” Coffen said modestly. “Just doing a bit of digging around for Lord Luten.”

  “Come in, come in. Sorry if I seemed a bit abrupt before. With a murder in the building a fellow gets a tad suspicious of strangers. I’d be happy to do anything I can to help.”

  He led Coffen into a little drawing room that was similar to Bolton’s, but neater and showed him to the sofa. He sat down on a chair opposite, leaned forward and asked in a conspiratorial tone, “Why is the Berkeley Brigade taking an interest in the murder? Bolton wasn’t an important man, like most of your cases. Was he mixed up in something big?”

  “We’re just getting started,” Coffen said. “The only clue we have so far is the letters mor. Bolton was trying to write something just before he died. What I was hoping to find out is if you knew any of his friends or people he knew with the name starting with mor. Morgan or Morton or Morgr — ” He stopped. Luten said not to mention Morgrave’s name. “Morgreen,” he finished.

  McRaney sat, rubbing his chin and frowning. “I believe he did mention a fellow called Morgreen the other evening. Sir something, I believe. Or maybe it was an honourable. No, it wasn’t Morgreen either. Morgraine, perhaps. I can’t recall but I have the notion it wasn’t just a plain mister. I don’t know this Morgraine fellow myself. That’s the only one I can think of.”

  “That’s dandy!” Coffen said. “I know who you mean. Matter of fact, and just between you and me and the bedpost, that name has come up before.”

  “Really! You folks in the Berkeley Brigade work fast! It must be an important case.”

  Coffen had no intention of revealing just how important it was. “It’s personal,” he said, in a confiding way. “Harry was some connection to Luten. One of them half cousins twice removed, or some such thing. You wouldn’t know the connection between Bolton and Morgrave?” The name slipped out before he could prevent it, but it was no matter. McRaney had as well as said it himself.