Murder on Charing Cross Road

by Joan Smith

  “I don’t know why you bother keeping a carriage. Or to be more precise, why you keep Fitz.”

  “He means well,” Coffen said. “He’s just not much good at finding places. I’m the same myself. Anyhow, I’ll tell Luten tonight what I found out and let you know what we plan to do.”

  “Why do you all act as though I’m some sort of helpless invalid?” Reg asked, in well-simulated annoyance.

  “Because you are,” Coffen said. “You won’t want to go about looking like some sort of a bruiser. You have your reputation as a dandy to consider.”

  It was precisely the look Prance was striving for, and he was thrilled with it. “If you can go about looking like an unmade bed, I can go about looking like a bruiser.”

  “He’ll only be going to our place,” Corinne said to Coffen. “No one will see him. Has there been any word from Black?”

  “I haven’t been home. He was to keep in touch. I’ll dash home and see. I’ll be back.”

  He left, and to save time, Prance ordered sandwiches and coffee while he was gone. Naturally Coffen would want to be fed. In his role as Baron Wolfried, Prance also ordered one of his footmen to go to Arthur’s, gave him a description of Morgrave and ordered him to follow Morgrave when he came out

  Corinne said, “If Black has found the Frenchies Morgrave was working with, the case will be solved. We’ll just have to follow Morgrave and catch him red-handed. I do feel sorry for Samantha.”

  “Aye, if she’s not in it with him,” Prance said with a cynical little laugh.

  Coffen returned before the sandwiches arrived, carrying with him a note. “Black’s had no luck. No good luck, that is. He got friendly with a bar maid and found out there was a group of Frenchies staying at the Sheepwalk, and they were meeting up with the fellow that sounds like Morgrave, but they all checked out last night. Looks like they feared Bolton’s death might get connected to them and have gone into hiding. Black asks what he should do. I’ll ask Luten tonight. He might want him to stay another day in case they come back.”

  “Black is actually putting up at the inn?” Reg asked.

  “Easier to find out what’s going on that way,” Coffen explained. “Really no need for him to stay there now, though. Luten will likely have a job for him here, tailing Morgrave. Black could just nip out to the inn from time to time to check up.”

  “Yes, meanwhile I have set one of my men to keep a sharp eye on Morgrave,” Prance said.

  “One of what men?” Coffen asked.

  “He means one of his footmen,” Corinne translated.

  “Ah, right. Well done, Reg.”

  “Morgrave is obviously the one to watch. Perhaps I’ll drop in at Arthur’s tonight,” Prance said. “If Morgrave’s still there, I’ll ask him for a game.”

  “See if you can get him bosky,” Coffen suggested. “He might let something slip if he’s in his cups. And we’ll follow him when he leaves. I’ll go with you.”

  With a memory of the awful attack at Long Acre, Prance made no objection to this. He had dispensed with the notion of hiring a bodyguard. It would be beneath Wolfried’s dignity. He knew from past experience that Coffen was brave as a lion in a fight. The sandwiches arrived and were soon consumed. Coffen and Corinne left together.

  As he accompanied her home, he said, “Did you notice Prance wasn’t acting like himself today? He actually nibbled a ham sandwich. You know he never eats pig. Says once he smelled a pig sty it put him off pork.”

  “Yes, and it wasn’t like him to belittle his wounds either.”

  “That eye patch — I didn’t notice his eye being red last night. I believe he’s taken on a new role. I wonder what it is.”

  “It will soon become clear, I expect.”

  “I hope it gets rid of them dashed grey curtains in his saloon, and the cape and funny looking hat.”

  These same matters were troubling Reggie as he sat in his saloon, trying to figure out how master spy, Baron Wolfried, would dress, and how he would furnish his home. He was having no luck with planning a new gothic novel. He had never cared for the genre. It was his visit to Newstead Abbey that had inspired him. There was really only one plot — a young, innocent maiden menaced by a villain. He had done that, done the definitive version, to quote one astute reviewer.

  He needed a new plot, and it had been handed to him on a platter. He would write a novel about a dashing spy working to combat the evil genius of a master French agent. Man against man, with the fate of two outstanding nations hanging in the balance. What would such a hero wear? Not the cape and slouch hat, which tended to garner attention. He would want to be as close to invisible as a handsome, dashing lord who was simultaneously the cynosure of all eyes could be.

  Being invisible went sorely against the grain for Sir Reginald. He would have his hero pose as a rough, devil-may-care rogue, afraid of nothing, skilled with pistol, sword and fists, while still being a clever strategist. Also a dashing lover — the ladies in particular had praised the romantic aspect of his gothic. He would be a sort of superior English counterpart of Byron’s Corsair only with a Germanic name. In private he would be a scholar and connoisseur of the arts — that part wouldn’t require much swatting up at least. But there still remained the question What would he wear? What costume must he and Villier contrive for Wolfried?

  “Soames, ask Villier to step down,” he said, and sat frowning at his saloon. How had he lived with this gloomy mess for a whole month? It was depressing. No wonder his muse had abandoned him. But she sat on his shoulder now, urging him on to new heights.

  Chapter Eleven

  A hasty, unscheduled meeting of the Berkeley Brigade took place in Luten’s smaller, more intimate rose salon that evening before dinner. The little group would have been lost in the large gold salon that was only used for formal occasions.

  Luten hardly had time to remove his greatcoat before Coffen was at the door. When Prance was informed by his ever-alert Soames that Coffen had gone in, he decided to throw courtesy to the wind, for in the usual way he would not be so gauche as to visit so soon before dinner, and join them. After a careful perusal of the street to see it was safe, he went out alone. After all, a spy had to take some chances. Villier stood on guard at the window with his pistol cocked to see he made it next door to Luten’s unmolested.

  His arrival made a very satisfactory stir. Corinne’s “Reggie, you shouldn’t be out, mingled with Luten’s, “What — you here, Reg?” Coffen just stared in confusion. What the devil had got into Reggie? He was certainly playing some new role. That purple nose and limp and eye patch should have kept him out of circulation for a week at least. And he should be moaning and groaning, instead of trying to smile and pretend he wasn’t aching all over.

  “Can’t let a little bump on the nose put me out of commission, eh?” Prance said in a hearty way. He did, however, allow Corrine to lead him to a well-upholstered chair. “So, what are our plans for this evening?” he asked. “As I mentioned to Pattle, I plan to visit Arthur’s and keep an eye on Morgrave, see just how deep he’s plunging at the gaming table.”

  “Do you really think you’re up to it, Reg?” Luten asked, blinking in astonishment.

  “Of course I am,” he replied with a carefree laugh. “I’m injured, not dead!”

  “I planned to go with him,” Coffen added, “unless you think there’s something else I ought to be doing, Luten.”

  “Corinne thinks the Morgraves will attend Lady Harley’s rout party. We plan to go there. What we must do is have someone watch his flat and see that he does go to Harley’s, and where he goes when he leaves.”

  Sitting in a cold carriage just watching the flat was no job for an ace spy. “I have one of my men there at the moment,” Prance said. “He’ll have to be relieved soon.”

  “I’ll send a footman in my hunting carriage to replace him,” Luten said. This was a black, unmarked carriage used on those occasions when anonymity was required for surveillance. It was Corinne who had christened i
t the hunting carriage during that period when she and Luten were at odds. In a fit of jealousy, she had claimed Luten used it when he was out hunting for females, and the name stuck.

  “Meanwhile I’ve heard from Black,” Luten continued. “He says the Frenchies have deserted the Sheepwalk, which likely means they’ve found a new headquarters. We’ve got to discover their new meeting place. I’ve sent word for Black to return and see if he can find the new spot. I expect following Morgrave is the best way to go about it.”

  “Pity he didn’t get a look at the Frenchies,” Prance said.

  “He got a description from one of the maids,” Luten said, smiling. “Trust Black not to miss a trick.”

  Not only did the estimable Black not miss a trick, he didn’t waste a minute either. As soon as he received Luten’s note, he packed up his bag, hired a hackney and headed for Berkeley Square. In his best dark suit and white cravat, he might almost have been mistaken for a gentleman when he was shown into Luten’s salon by Evans.

  “Evening all,” he said, bowing. “I thought I might as well get along home in case there was any other little thing I could do to help out.”

  “You can begin by describing the Frenchies to us,” Luten said. As the meeting was taking longer than he had anticipated, he served wine. Black was back where he longed to be, with her, and with the Brigade, being treated like one of them. Evans gave him a wink as he poured Black’s wine, and made sure to fill the glass to the brim.

  Black began his report. “There was three of them, according to a lass called Bess and confirmed by the lad who runs the tavern. I made out I was after buying a keg of brandy to give an excuse for asking about the Frenchies. I asked Fletcher, the tavern fellow, to let me know if he heard from them, giving an address of a friend so’s they wouldn’t connect Berkeley Square with the query. Did I mention they do supply a whole string of inns with smuggled brandy?”

  “You think of everything, Black,” Lady Luten said with a smile that would warm his evening hours.

  “As to their description,” he said, shaking his head in dissatisfaction, “They say they look like typical Frenchies — dark hair, on the swarthy side, two of them youngish, small and wiry, one fat and bald. He’s the ringleader. The small ones are called Guy and Henri, the fat one’s called Alphonse. He smokes cigars that stunk up the whole taproom. The place still reeked of it. I fancy I’d know that smell again if I met it. Awful, it was.”

  “Did they speak English at all?” Luten asked.

  “Enough to order a meal, but French between themselves. The fat one, Alphonse, had a fair bit of English. I’ve been thinking, what I ought to do tonight is have a word with that friend at the address I gave, in case they try to contact me about the brandy.”

  “That’s excellent work, Black,” Luten said, and outlined their evening plans. Black could hardly believe the wonderful turn his fate was taking. He was in, for this case at least. “We’ll be needing someone to keep an eye on Morgrave. I was going to send a footman but you’d do a better job, if you’re interested, Black. You’d best take my unmarked carriage in case you have to follow his rig. You couldn’t keep up with him on foot”

  “I’m always eager to help you in any way I can in all in your work, milord,” Black said, thrilled with the notion of the carriage.

  “I’ll send for my carriage. You’d best go have a word with that friend whose address you gave for word on the brandy first,” Luten said.

  “I’ll let you know at once if I hear from him. Mind you, I consider that only a shot in the dark.”

  No discovery of interest to the case was made that evening. Prance’s footman reported that the Morgraves attended Lady Harley’s very dull rout party, stayed until after midnight, at which time Luten and Corinne also left and followed them home. Black reported that Morgrave did not leave the house again that night. Prance and Coffen visited all the clubs in the west end of town in case Morgrave had slipped the marital leash and gone clubbing.

  They went from Arthur’s to Brookes’s to White’s Club in search of Morgrave. They were not actually members of White’s, the prestigious Tory stronghold where fortunes were made and lost on a roll of the dice, but were allowed to “just have a peek in to see if a friend, Lord Almquist,” was there. They had no luck there, or at Boodle’s or Wattiers’s, then went on to check out the less distinguished Graham’s and finally back to Arthur’s.

  There Coffen met McRaney, and had a few words with him while Prance went to order a bottle of wine. “Are you having any luck in finding Bolton’s killer, Mr. Pattle?” McRaney asked.

  “Not what you could call luck, but we’re keeping our eye on Morgrave. You haven’t thought of any other mor that might be involved?”

  “I’ve racked my brain, but Morgrave’s the only one I can think of.”

  “Have you ever seen him in here? I hear he’s a bit of a gambler.”

  “I wouldn’t know him to see him,” McRaney said, “I just heard the name from Harry. I could ask around, if you like. Is it important?”

  “I don’t know. Best not to go rousing too much interest by making queries.”

  “Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be more than willing. Awful what they did to poor Harry. I must be off now.”

  When Prance returned, Coffen told him about the meeting with McRaney. “He’s told us all he knows. If Morgrave’s gambling tonight, it must be at a private party,” Coffen decided.

  As they left, Prance asked the doorman if Morgrave was a frequent visitor. “He often drops in during the afternoon,” the man replied. “He’s newlywed, you know, and has to dance attendance on his good lady in the evening.”

  “A deep player, is he?”

  “They don’t play for large sums here, especially during the day. It’s more just to pass the time with friends. The place to lose big money is White’s or Brookes’s. The lads don’t come here to lose their inheritance, but to have a drink and friendly game.”

  Coffen made a mental note of this for further investigation.

  Prance enjoyed himself immensely, despite the lack of success in spying. He was greeted with commiseration and astonishment everywhere he went, and had a lovely time making little of the violent attack and his limp and eye patch.

  Black, determined to outdo himself, made short work of informing a pick-pocket and former associate called Fingers Freddy that he might be receiving a note addressed to Black, and where to forward it. Fingers was given a guinea and told he’d receive another when and if a note was forwarded to him. Awake on all suits, he refused to name the possible sender of the note, lest Fingers forge a note himself to get the other guinea.

  After his meeting with Fingers Freddy, Black had the coachman keep driving around the block while he took up a position in the shadows across the street from Morgrave’s flat. He was standing guard when they returned from the rout. He uttered a wistful sigh to catch a glimpse of her head as Luten’s carriage passed by, shortly behind Morgrave’s. He was able to inform Luten the next morning that Morgrave did not leave the flat again, unless it was after four a.m.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Brigade met in Luten’s rose salon the next morning to discuss their findings and make plans. When Black, who saw Prance and Coffen heading to Luten’s house, picked up his hat and ran across the street to join them, he was welcomed quite as a matter of course.

  Coffen was the first to report. He described to Luten the evening he and Prance had spent, reporting that Morgrave wasn’t at Arthur’s, but often went there in the afternoons. “Not a heavy gambler, is what we heard,” Coffen said. “Seems he doesn’t go there in the evening, when the deep players meet. I ran into McRaney there. He don’t know Morgrave himself. He mostly goes at night, but he’s willing to help us if he can.”

  “We’ll keep the investigation amongst ourselves,” Luten said. “McRaney had nothing else to tell you?”

  “No, just what I told you.”

  It was Black’s turn. “I notified my
friend about the letter I might be getting re the brandy. No problem there, he’ll forward it pronto.”

  Prance said in the cynical tone of Baron Wolfried, “You’re sure you can trust this associate, Black?”

  “Former associate. Not as far as I could throw him, Sir Reginald, which is why I didn’t give him Fletcher’s name. He don’t get his other guinea unless he notifies me I’ve had word from Fletcher.”

  “Well done,” Prance said, and even managed a smile.

  “We could all take lessons from you, Black,” Coffen added, shaking his head in wonder.

  Black acknowledged these tributes with a nod of his head and continued his report. “I can tell you Morgrave didn’t leave his flat last night. I was there till near dawn and no one came or went.”

  After considering this, Luten said, “He’s meeting up with his French friends somewhere and at some time. We have to keep a close eye on him. I doubt he would have left home this early.”

  “I’m not busy,” Black volunteered at once.

  “You’ll need a little sleep,” Luten said. “We can’t just post a man at his door or he’ll notice. If he often visits Arthur’s in the afternoon, we could send someone there. Meanwhile I’ll have a footman dress up like a tinker and patrol the street.”

  “Since I’m a member, Arthur’s sounds like a job for me,” Prance volunteered. Byron was a member of this club, which is why Prance had joined.

  “I’ll go with you,” Coffen added. “We’ll chat up the members, see if we can find out anything. And when he leaves, we’ll follow him.”

  “Someone lurking about outside his flat wouldn’t be noticed after dark,” Black said. “It’ll call for a hackney to follow him when he leaves. Drive by from time to time, and park at one or the other corner in between.”

  “Take my hunting carriage,” Luten said, nodding. “It’s faster than a hackney and perfectly anonymous. “It won’t look out of place in that neighborhood.”

  Black could hardly have been more thrilled if he’d been told to take Luten’s carriage with the noble crest on the panel. “You’ll notify your stable?” Black said, as if speaking to an equal.